Steven Havill: Bag Limit

Toby Gordan managed a “mmmph” through his tears and loose teeth, but the girl in back, Jessie Montoya, nodded.

“Where’d you guys get all the beer? Did Victor Sanchez sell it to you?” Torrez asked, but Jessie just looked down at the floor mats. Sanchez owned the Broken Spur Saloon on State 56 where the chase had started, and he knew better. Torrez sighed and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “I just caught a glimpse of him, but it looked like our runner was wearing a T-shirt and jeans,” Torrez said. “No coat.”

“That’s it,” I said.

Torrez leaned away from the car and looked up into the night. The scrub oak leaves were fitful against a clear and star-studded sky. The moon had slipped behind the bulk of Santa Lucia. The kid would be running by feel and by guess. As drunk as he was, he wouldn’t have much luck with either one.

“It’s not going to freeze tonight,” Torrez said. “He’ll be all right as long as he doesn’t trip and break his neck.”

“Which he’s apt to do,” I said. “You’ve been down this road?” I realized that it was a dumb question before the words were out of my mouth.

“Lots of times,” Torrez said. His passion was hunting, and wherever anything with fur or feathers went, there went Robert. “It dead-ends about two miles to the east, along this ridge. If he makes it that far, he’ll have to run another three miles cross-country to reach the power-line access road over the top. He ain’t going to do that. Not at night.” He looked at the sky again. “Well,” he said, and glanced at me. “I’m going to stroll on after him a little bit, just in case he discovers some sense out there and changes his mind.” He shifted his handheld radio on his belt a bit, fiddling with one of the knobs. “I’m on channel three.”

The two kids in the car seemed content to sit and snuffle in relative silence, so I made constructive use of the time to fill in most of the blanks on the Uniform Traffic Incident report. I had almost finished when another patrol car, followed by the ambulance, added their light show.

Deputy Thomas Pasquale and two EMTs hustled into the glare of headlights. I looked up at the deputy from where I sat behind the wheel of 310. “And here I was, parked in the middle of everywhere, minding my own business,” I said.

“Are you all right, sir?” Pasquale asked, and before I said, “Fine,” the two paramedics had found the blood in the other vehicle. Despite their gentle, professional ministrations, we were treated to a pathetic series of yelps, groans, and whines as they got the kid out of the car and strapped to the gurney for the trip back to Posadas General.

I got out of the car and tossed the clipboard and report on the seat. “She’s going to need a ride,” I said to Thomas. “Let’s see what she wants to do.”

What Jessie Montoya wanted to do, no doubt, was slink out into the woods somewhere and wait until the world went away. She was the picture of absolute humiliation, cringing away from the young female paramedic who was ready to crawl inside the car if need be for the answers she wanted. Finally satisfied that the girl was unharmed, the EMT backed out of the car.

“She’s all right,” the paramedic said, and glanced at the front of the vehicle. “Not much of an impact. If the kid up front had had his seat belt on, he probably wouldn’t have smacked his face.” She grinned. “You have a good night, Sheriff.”

“Thanks,” I said, and the EMT stepped out of my way. I bent down with one hand on the roof for balance, keeping the flashlight beam out of Jessie Montoya’s face. The harsh headlight beams through the back window haloed the hair around her head, hiding her eyes. The smell of urine had overpowered the beer.

“Jessie, why don’t you step out of the car.” I tried to sound as if she had a choice. “Let’s make sure everything still works, okay?”

She murmured something that I couldn’t hear. I held out my hand. “Come on.” She turned a bit sideways, swinging one blue jean-clad leg out of the car. “Are your folks home?” She didn’t respond, still struggling with the humiliation of being caught with soiled pants. “If they are, we need to give them a call.”

“I’ll find my way home. Just let me go,” she said, and there was a quiver to the petulance.

Tom Pasquale appeared at my elbow. “Here’s the number, sir,” he said, and handed me his notebook. I shined the light on the page and could have imagined that there was writing there. Jessie Montoya shrank back on the seat, out of Deputy Pasquale’s view.

“Tell me what it is,” I said to Tom, and dug the small cell phone off my belt. Before I dialed, I said to Jessie, “What time were your folks expecting you home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do they know that you’re with Matt and Toby?”

That brought a little shake of the head.

“What stops did you make before the Broken Spur?”

“Before the what?”

“The saloon down in the valley. Your last stop before this mess here.”

“We were just like…around, you know? I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember any specific place?”

“No.”

“Who had the booze?”

No matter how she answered that, Jessie Montoya could see trouble on the horizon, so she ignored the question and turned her attention instead to the task of getting out of the mangled little car. She stood with her back to Tom Pasquale.

I dialed the number, and in a moment, a pleasant contralto voice answered the phone. “Donna?” I said. “Bill Gastner here. How are you folks doing tonight?” I didn’t bother apologizing for the late hour. Young Jessie could do the apologizing later. I tried to keep my tone light, and apparently succeeded. Maybe Donna Montoya thought it was a last-minute, midnight campaign solicitation.

“Sheriff! So nice to hear from you. We don’t see much of you anymore.”

“Busy, busy, Donna. Look, the reason I called. Jessie’s going to need a ride home, and I just wanted to make sure one of you was going to be there when we drop her off. We should be back in Posadas in another half an hour or so.”

A dead silence followed. “Jessie? What do you mean?”

“Jessie, your daughter. She’s here with me.”

“With you? How’s that possible? She’s in her bedroom, sound asleep, Sheriff.”

“Take a minute and go check, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll hold.” She did so, and I glanced at Tom. “The old ‘out the window’ trick,” I said to him, and Jessie ducked her head and slumped her shoulders another notch.

In less than a minute, Donna Montoya was back on the line, this time with considerable urgency in her voice. “Sheriff, where are you? What’s going on?”

“Jessie is fine, Donna. She was out with a couple of other kids, and they managed to bang their car up a bit.”

“Oh, my God. You’re kidding.”

“No, ma’am. We’re about half a mile from Regal Pass on Fifty-six.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you’re sure she’s all right?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s fine.” Describing Jessie Montoya just then as “fine” was a bit of a stretch.

“Do you want us to come down to get her? I mean, who was she with? Are they all right?”

“She was a backseat passenger in a vehicle operated by Matt Baca, ma’am. Toby Gordan was also in the vehicle, riding up front. And no, it won’t be necessary to come get Jessie. I’ll just have Deputy Pasquale drop her off on his way back to the office. He’s about ready to leave now. You might keep a watch out the window. It should be about twenty minutes.”

“Let me talk to her, please,” Mrs. Montoya said, and I could hear the coiled cat-o’-nine-tails in her tone.