Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Maybe. We don’t know if they’re armed or not. We don’t know if they’re just sitting there chatting with Emilio, or robbing him, or what.”

“So let’s go find out,” Torrez said. He turned and grinned at Estelle. “You up for helping an old peg leg?”

“Sure,” she said. “What do you have in mind?”

“Have Bill take your unit,” Torrez said. “If he stays right here, that’ll cover us if they manage to make a run up the hill. Mike can cover the village, and Tom will stay loose on the highway.”

A fleeting expression of impatience crossed Pasquale’s face, but he didn’t argue. He was in uniform, and neither Estelle nor the sheriff were.

In a moment, with the vehicle swap completed and Estelle’s unmarked sedan parked on the water tank road with Bill Gastner at the wheel, Estelle and Bob Torrez drove sedately down the state highway in Torrez’s unmarked Expedition.

Going on ahead, Mike Sisneros turned onto Sanchez Road, the dirt thoroughfare that was Regál’s main street. In a moment, his county vehicle had disappeared in the labyrinth of corrals, barns, sheds, and dwellings. Tom Pasquale drove directly toward the border crossing and the parking lot there.

“What’s the word on Chief Martinez?” Estelle asked as they neared the church.

“I don’t know,” Torrez said simply. “I got called away on this before I had a chance to find out. When they took him into the ER, he was still alive. That’s all I know.” He swung the unmarked vehicle into the church’s broad parking lot, nosing upward toward the knoll on which Nuestra Señora had been built. At the same time, he reached over and turned off the radio.

The chief’s brown Buick was parked away from the doorway, snuggled tight against the church, invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look. Torrez regarded the Buick for a moment. He then parked on the other side of the church, letting the dark bulk of the building hide the various non-civilian features of the Expedition should someone open the front door of the church and peer outside for a closer look.

“You suppose some bonehead from Indiana knows how much that car’s worth down south?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Estelle said. She unclipped her badge from her belt and slipped it in her pocket, then leaned forward and slid her automatic as far rearward as it would go, well hidden under her jacket.

“No stealth now,” Torrez said. He managed a grin, and Estelle saw that the crow’s feet around his eyes had grown a bit more etched during the last month or two-and not from laughter. “We’re supposed to be parishioners stopping by to see if anyone remembered to bring the fruitcake. And right about now, I wish this damn place had a back door we could just slip in.”

He opened the car door and slid slowly down until his feet touched the ground, then pulled his cane loose from its position between the seats.

Estelle had just enough room between the vehicle and the building to slip through the open door, which she then slammed with vigor. “You park close enough to the building?” she said loudly.

“ Hago todo lo possible ,” the sheriff said, and his Spanish startled Estelle. He took his time with the two narrow steps up to the church door, and grasped the wrought-iron handle. He partially opened the door inward, and stopped, turning to look at Estelle. “Did Geraldo remember about tonight?” he asked, and Estelle shook her head.

“He didn’t say anything to me,” she said. Looking beyond Torrez’s wide shoulders, she saw Emilio Contreras standing in front of the stove, hands casually behind his back as he toasted his arthritic fingers.

“Hola, Emilio!” she called, and with her left hand held the door until Torrez had passed clear. The old man beamed widely at them, and Estelle felt a wash of relief. One of the two men was standing directly in front of the altar, as if he had been examining the ornate cross overhead. His ponytail reached almost to his waist, and he had twisted to see who had entered the church. His welding cap was scrunched in his right hand. The other man sat sideways on the pew directly in front of the stove’s alcove, one arm lying on the high wooden back, the other blocked from Estelle’s view by the pew in front of him.

“We stopped by early to see if there’s anything else you need, Father,” Estelle said, and she closed the door, making sure the wooden latch fell into place.

“Hey, Bobby-you know what you were supposed to bring this afternoon,” Emilio said. He stepped away from the stove, one hand rubbing his hot corduroy trousers against his butt.

“What’s that?” Torrez said.

“Remember that load of firewood? You know,” and he indicated the deep wood box off to his right. “I got what’s in here, and maybe one or two more loads, and that’s it. You going to bring some down?”

Torrez grimaced at his poor memory as he made his way down the center aisle. “Ah…we’ll get it down here. I got too many things goin’.”

“How you been?” Emilio said to Estelle as she approached. “The hijos? ”

“They’re fine,” Estelle said.

“I enjoyed seeing your mother again,” Emilio said. “She and your aunt were here at the early service. I was looking for you guys.” His nod included both Estelle and the sheriff. His eyes were watchful, but Estelle felt a surge of relief that he was keeping perfect composure-either a tribute to his skill as an actor, or because the two car thieves had done nothing to arouse his suspicion.

“That’s the way it is,” Estelle said. She shied away from the stove. “ Caramba , you have that old thing stoked up.” By retreating away from the heat, she was able to step past the pew where the man sat. Medium age, medium build, heavy work boots, blue jeans and brown work jacket, no weapon visible, both hands in sight. His legs were crossed, and his right hand rested lightly on one boot.

“Nasty night,” Emilio said.

“Yes, it is,” Estelle agreed. “How are you doing?” she said to the man, her smile broad and warm. The big man with the ponytail glanced first at his partner, then at Estelle, then at Robert Torrez. The sheriff was making his way with painful steps toward the front of the church, his right hand running along the plastered wall for additional support. The big man rested his weight against the communion rail, arms crossed over his chest. If he carried a weapon, there was no sign. It certainly didn’t appear as if Torrez was advancing on him… perhaps just making his way to the sacristy of the church to check on who knew what.

“These are some traveling friends from…” Emilio paused, standing near the wood box. “Where did you say you was from?”

“Over Oklahoma way,” the man in the pew said. “We’re just passin’ through.” He smiled engagingly at Estelle. “Nice place you folks have here.”

“Yes, it is,” Estelle said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Torrez was two pews from the front of the church, within fifteen feet of the big man with the ponytail. The sheriff’s hand pulled away from the windowsill at that point, and Estelle knew exactly what he intended.

She swept her hand behind her, and the automatic appeared in her hand in one fluid motion. The man in the pew startled backward, almost losing his balance.

“Both hands on top of your head,” Estelle snapped.

“You too, buckaroo,” she heard Torrez bellow in a tone that left nothing to the imagination. His own.45 had appeared in his right hand, the cane now abandoned against the wall.

“Hey, we don’t…”

“Hands on top of your head,” Estelle barked, and she motioned with the automatic. Emilio had moved away, and he now stood well off to one side, both hands on the back of one of the pews.