Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Here’s what you need to do, sweetheart,” he said after a moment. “You know that filing cabinet in my study?”

“Sure.”

“The top drawer, first section, includes all the current stuff I’m working on. It isn’t much, and I don’t think you’ll find a damn thing. But maybe it’ll give you a name or two. I haven’t gotten crosswise with anyone in a long, long time. Anyway, do that. And it wouldn’t hurt to put Janet Tripp’s background under glass, either. As many years as she lived in town, you’d think I’d be able to come up with something in the old memory. But it’s blank. I don’t know her, I don’t know her folks.” He waved a hand in disgust. “The minute Bobby gets home, drop this whole thing in his lap. Give him something to do. The more good minds we have working on this, the better. In the meantime,” and he folded his hands again, composing himself corpse-like, “I’m going to lie here and think great thoughts. If I come up with something, I’ll give you a call.”

“That would be good.”

“Don’t be a stranger.” He hadn’t bothered to open his eyes, and his speech had taken on something of a slur. She sat quietly and watched him. After a few moments, she saw his lower lip sag just a little as sleep finally came. She patted the back of his hand, rose, and collected her vest. As her hand touched the door, his voice caught up with her. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

“You too, sir.”

“Put that on. It doesn’t do any good draped over your arm.”

“Yes, sir.” As she shut the door, she almost collided with Tabitha Escudero. The nurse held a small tray of tiny paper cups filled with medications.

“Is he going to need something to help him sleep?” she asked.

Estelle shook her head. “I don’t think so, Tabitha. I wore him out.”

Estelle awoke to bright light bouncing off the tile floor as sun streamed in through the bedroom window. As if at a great distance, she heard the incredibly soft, gentle piano music, and for a moment she lay without breathing, listening.

By moving her head a fraction, she could see the clock on the night stand. She had finally given up at 3:00 a.m. that Sunday morning, stumbling into bed and falling asleep so quickly that her husband had never stirred. Perhaps she had only dreamed of his rising at six, perhaps she had actually drifted close to consciousness when he brushed her cheek with his lips.

For five blissful hours, the phone hadn’t rung-or if it had, she hadn’t heard it. She watched the clock flick its little digital window over to 8:04 a.m.-five hours more security for Janet Tripp’s killer and for the would-be killer who’d dented Bill Gastner’s head. If they had left town, those five hours would have put another 375 miles between their back bumpers and Posadas, New Mexico.

Combine those minutes and miles with the hours immediately after the crime, until the time Estelle had finally gone to bed exhausted with frustration, and they could be crossing the Mississippi or dabbling their toes in the Pacific…or be speaking Spanish somewhere south of the border.

She knew perfectly well that the county was patrolled as well as it could be-State Police, her own deputies (including at least two who were working double shifts), the Border Patrol, even the New Mexico Department of Game and Fish. Every badge and agency within five states, and beyond by computer entry, knew that Posadas County was looking for a killer…or two.

Estelle groaned with a mixture of fatigue and irritation that she’d slept away too many hours.

From the front of the house, she heard Sofía say something to Francisco, the older woman’s voice little more than a whisper. In response, the little boy spent ten seconds trilling two notes, a soft tinkling sound, some small adjustment in this magical world he had discovered. And clearly, Sofía Tournál knew exactly which entry keys were the ones to help the little boy continue opening one door after another.

Estelle turned onto her stomach and buried her face into the heart of her pillow, leaving both ears above the surface.

“You wake?” She could feel the butterfly of her youngest son’s breath on her arm.

“Yes,” she said without moving.

“Do we get to go see Padrino today?”

“Maybe, hijo. ” She turned her head and was eye-to-eye with the four-year-old. “Would you like to do that?”

He nodded. “ Papá said somebody hit him on the head,” he said soberly.

“That’s right. Somebody did.”

“Why did they do that?”

“I don’t know, hijo. ”

“Are you going to catch ’em?”

“If I can get out of bed.”

“Okay.” At least there was no doubt in his mind, Estelle thought. Carlos grabbed the blanket and backed away, pulling it half off the bed. She reached down and yanked it back, and a tug-of-war ensued that ended up with Carlos on the floor, wrapped in the blanket like a mummy. Estelle picked him up and dumped him on the bed and piled the pillows on top of him.

In response to the shrieks and giggles from Carlos, the volume of music out in the living room increased, reached a crescendo, then abruptly ceased.

“Ay,” Estelle said to the squirming mummy. “Reinforcements.” By the time the war was finished five minutes later, both boys lay trussed on the bed like cocoons. One foot, already plenty large for a six-year-old, stuck out unprotected, and Estelle sat down on the bed, grabbed Francisco’s ankle, and played spider on the bottom of his foot, holding him firmly against his laughing convulsions.

After a moment she stopped, and helped the two of them out of the wadded bedding without ever releasing her grasp on her eldest son’s ankle.

“You’re too strong, Mamá, ” Francisco gasped. He tried to pry her fingers loose.

“Way too strong for you, mi corazón. What were you playing?”

“ Tía gave it to me yesterday for Christmas,” he said. “It’s by Bach.” He exaggerated the guttural ch of the composer’s name. “He’s a grump.”

Christmas. What was that? “A grump?”

“Un gruñón,” Carlos chirped.

Estelle looked over at the little boy in surprise. “Where did you hear that funny word?”

“ Tía said he was.”

“Ah. Tía said. Bach the gruñón .”

“You want to hear?” Francisco asked.

“Of course I want to hear. Then I have to get dressed.”

She wrapped herself in a white terry-cloth robe and followed the two out to the living room. Teresa Reyes already had taken up court in her large rocker, and she held a small mug of coffee in both hands, looking expectant. Sofía Tournál looked up from the kitchen sink as Estelle appeared.

“Finally, you get some rest,” she said. She held up a peach, impaled on a small paring knife. “These are no good this time of year, but we’ll make do. You have time for some breakfast?”

“Sure. First I promised to listen to el gruñón .”

“Ah, that.” Sofía waved the knife toward the living room. “Hijo!” she called, and somehow Francisco knew exactly which hijo was under orders. He slipped from the piano bench and trotted to the kitchen.

Sofía held up a bent index finger. “Give them time to talk,” she said, and then fluttered her fingers together in the universal sign of people jabbering. “ Están parloteando, mi hombre. Let them have their say. Let’s see how well you can do it now.”

Francisco nodded and made a face as he returned to the piano. Apparently this was serious, since Carlos didn’t slide onto the piano bench with him, but instead took up a post on the sofa nearest his grandmother. Francisco sat for a moment, regarding the piano keys, and Estelle leaned against the right arm of her mother’s chair.