Steven Havill - Prolonged Exposure

Naranjo flashed teeth. “That’s enough to fix one of these trucks,” he said. “I don’t know about the other.” He reached out and patted a torn and battered fender.

I straightened up and turned to Estelle. “Let’s get this creep back to town.”

It took the rest of the morning to clean up the mess. Despite the shattered fence and 640 yards of clear southbound tire tracks, Capt. Tomas Naranjo, still amused, remained adamant that no one had trespassed on Mexican soil.

Torrez, Estelle, and I elected to ride back to the church in the Kodiak. Considering the circumstances, returning one of the three vehicles wasn’t too bad. The others piled into the federales’ Toyota and the accompanying Suburban, to be chauffeured back to the formal border crossing at Regal.

Eddie Mitchell volunteered to stay behind and wait for the Posadas County wreckers to arrive and pull Matt Tierney’s trucks back. I think he looked forward to the stationary peace and quiet.

We rumbled into Regal about ten minutes after the others, and Camille waved a greeting and broke away from the crowd.

“Just another normal Posadas morning,” she said as I stepped down out of the truck. “And they’ve got Tiffany Cole and the boy. They’re both all right.”

Estelle let out a deep sigh.

“Where were they?” I asked.

“Sitting on the step of the RV, at the spring, where you thought they might be.” She turned and gestured toward one of the patrol cars. “They were trying to raise you on the radio.”

“I had it turned off,” I said.

“So I gathered. Apparently, Tiffany decided just to sit and wait it out until someone came and got her.”

“But the child’s all right?”

Camille grimaced. “As good as he’s going to be, I guess. Physically, anyway.” She reached out and touched my arm. “I talked to Gayle on the cell phone. Tiffany Cole told one of the deputies that they would have made it across the border if they hadn’t been slowed down by having to drag the kid along.”

“Wonderful people,” I said.

Holman approached. “You heard?”

I nodded. “Did someone call the wreckers?”

“On the way,” Holman said. “Good work, folks. We’ll wrap this up and then head on back to Posadas to face the music.”

I smiled at his worried expression. “I’m sure Posadas Electric has insurance. Or we do.”

“I don’t mean about the wrecked trucks,” Holman said. “I just talked with the office. Stanley Willit’s been sitting in my office for the past two hours.”

“Well, that’s a nice way to spend the rest of your day,” I said.

“He’s going to want some answers. Do you want to talk with him?” Holman asked.

I looked at him sideways. “I leave it entirely in your capable hands, Sheriff. You don’t need me to figure out who hit whom with a shovel. Your investigators will have that sorted out by nightfall.”

Camille heard that and understood my intentions perfectly. She hooked her arm through mine. “Do you think I can get you to come home now, Dad?”

“Yes, you can,” I said.