Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

The inside of the church was warm and inviting, and both Jakes and Wardell relaxed, chatting with the ancient man who kept the fire stoked. Had the scene not been interrupted so rudely a few minutes later by the young man and woman who, it turned out, were far more than just a young couple, Wardell and Jakes might have been invited over to the old caretaker’s house after church services for some holiday cheer.

Fifteen minutes after midnight on Christmas morning, Estelle Reyes-Guzman finished the preliminary paperwork and recorded the requisite message on District Attorney Dan Schroeder’s voice mail. She cranked out a brief press release for Frank Dayan, publisher of the Posadas Register , knowing that the release would prompt a flood of additional questions that she either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer.

The fugitives were in separate cells in the Public Safety Building lockup, no doubt staring sleeplessly at the ceiling and thinking that this was turning out to be one of their least merry Christmases. Confirmation of their story had already arrived from the Hickory Grove, Indiana, police department.

Stopping at the small newspaper office just long enough to slip the release through the mail slot, Estelle then continued on to the hospital, where she found that the extended Martinez family had pitched camp, taking over the small waiting room beside the intensive care unit. Father Bertrand Anselmo had stayed with them.

Estelle spent half an hour with the family after looking in on the chief. Eduardo Martinez remained unresponsive amid the welter of tubes and sighing machinery. His body was there, but he was clearly no longer in residence. Having done as much as he could, Dr. Francis Guzman had gone home, leaving the ICU in the efficient care of the unit nurse.

Shortly after 1:00 a.m., Estelle left the hospital as well. The rain had stopped. She drove slowly with her window down, savoring the sharp wind from the southwest that carried a bouquet of aromas from the wet desert. She could see a scattering of stars breaking through the scud over the San Cristóbals.

Turning south on Twelfth Street, she saw that her husband’s SUV was pulled into their driveway, tucked in close to the neighbor’s fence so that Estelle would have plenty of space to park her county car.

Sofía Tournál’s Mercedes was parked at the curb in front of the house as if poised for a swift getaway, but in truth, Francis Guzman’s aunt would have reveled in the opportunity to spend a long evening with Estelle’s sometimes acerbic mother and the two little boys.

If not feeling actually cheated or jealous, Estelle did feel a pang of regret that she had passed Christmas Eve investigating the exploits of two misfits from Indiana, her mood driven further into melancholy by Eduardo Martinez’s illness.

She punched off the headlights as she nosed the car into the driveway. As she got out, she saw that besides the porch light, a single light burned in the living room. She pushed the car door closed with her knee so that the latch made no more than a quiet click. Standing still for a moment, she inhaled the tang of the sharp, damp air. The antiseptic smells of the hospital still clung to her, the same smells that lingered on her husband’s clothing as a sort of permanent trademark.

The front door opened, and Sofía Tournál stood framed by the porch light.

“Qué noche,” she said as Estelle approached the step, then switched to her elegantly accented English. “The good doctor came home about an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry all of this came up,” Estelle said.

“Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry about, querida .” Sofía deftly held open the storm door with her hip and hugged Estelle at the same time. “We all have our jobs to do.” She peered out toward the street. “I half expected the good Señor Noctámbulo to be with you.”

Estelle laughed at Sofía’s reference to Bill Gastner, Mr. Night Owl. “No, he went home. I think we wore him out. Either that, or he got hungry and went to find something to eat.”

“Ah, we have plenty here,” Sofía said.

“It smells wonderful.” Estelle closed the door and slipped off her coat, draping it over the back of the nearest chair. “But Padrino is more like the old tejón . He comes out for a while, but then he needs to find a dark corner somewhere, away from everybody.”

“Such an interesting fellow,” Sofía mused. “I am very fond of this old badger, as you call him. That’s most appropriate. But…,” and she waved her hands in a flourish to change the subject. “What can I fix you?”

“A cup of tea would be nice.”

Sofía looked askance at her nephew’s wife. “Tea? Just tea, after such a night? Don’t be ridiculous. Let me fix you a little something.”

“No, really,” Estelle said, holding up a hand. “I need to let my stomach settle a little. It’s too late to eat now.”

“Ah,” Sofía said. “An ugly night, no?”

“Just depressing,” Estelle said. She lowered herself into one of the straight chairs at the dining table with a sigh. “Sometimes I think that people lie awake nights thinking of stupid things to do.”

“Ah,” Sofía said again. “Well, we both know that to be true.” She half-filled a saucepan with water and set it on the stove, and Estelle watched as the older woman methodically double-checked that she was turning on the correct burner. “Do I know Mr. Martinez?”

Estelle rested her head on her hand with half-closed eyes. It felt good not to move. “I think you met him the night we had the big retirement banquet for Padrino a couple of years ago. Short, quite heavy, a very gentle man in every way.”

“His wife is Essie?”

“Yes. I wish I had your memory, Sofía.”

The older woman chuckled. “I remember only things that don’t really matter, querida . But I remember her. We had a nice talk that night, I remember. She was so glad that Arturo…is it Arturo?”

“Eduardo.”

“Ah. She was pleased that Eduardo had retired the year before.” She leaned her hip against the counter and watched the water. “I remember that she was a little bit worried about Padrino …that maybe he’d have a hard time with retirement.” A wistful expression touched her face. “That maybe he wouldn’t find enough to do.”

“Not likely,” Estelle said. “I think Padrino is every bit as busy now as he ever was.”

“I think so, too. But the good doctor doesn’t think it will go so well for Mr. Martinez now.” The “good doctor” was her standard reference to her nephew, Estelle’s husband.

“No.”

“Lo siento,” Sofía said. Estelle watched her husband’s aunt contemplate the steaming water. The lines in Sofía’s face were etched a little deeper, her square shoulders a little more rounded than Estelle remembered. She knew that Sofía Tournál had enjoyed a long and distinguished career in the complex legal and political world of Veracruz by being intelligent, tough, and cool under pressure. Sofía had buried two husbands and, childless herself, had focused her attention over the years on the myriad nieces and nephews in her extended family, in particular her favorite, Dr. Francis Guzman.

The quiet worry that Estelle saw now wasn’t because a man whom Sofía had met only once had suffered a heart attack…or even because she might be worried that retired sheriff William Gastner might not be finding enough to keep him busy.

“These things are always so sad,” Sofía said finally. She glanced at Estelle. “But we had a nice evening. You know…,” and she stopped in midsentence, busy with selecting just the right mug from a cabinet beside the refrigerator. With economy of motion, she filled the tea strainer with bulk green tea, then poured the boiling water. She turned off the burner and carried the cup to the table.