Steven Havill - Convenient Disposal

“It could be,” Estelle whispered. The display in Mary Anne Bustamonte’s Great Notions shop included hat pins that ranged from three to six inches-and teenagers would lean toward excess. Estelle rose to her feet and moved out of the way as two EMTs brought the spinal board into the small bedroom. Working quickly, she snapped half a dozen photos of the girl, including close-ups with the hat pin in place, all the while sidestepping the frantic bustle of the rescue crew. She glanced up to see Sheriff Torrez’s towering figure appear in the bedroom doorway.

“Did someone notify Carmen’s mother?” Estelle asked, and the sheriff nodded.

“She’s on the way.”

Estelle stepped across the room and took Torrez by the arm, steering him back out of the bedroom. “Someone needs to ride in the ambulance with Carmen,” she said. “We’re going to need her clothing, for one thing.” Chief Eddie Mitchell joined them.

“I’ll arrange that,” Mitchell said. “Is there anything in particular that you’re after?”

“Just all her clothing, Eddie. If there’s blood evidence, I don’t want that going in the incinerator. And if they cut off her jeans, make sure they don’t disturb the inseam.” She ran a hand down the inside of her own leg.

Mitchell frowned. “Related to the school business this morning, you think?”

“I don’t know yet. But I don’t like coincidence.”

“It don’t look like we’re going to get a statement from her,” Torrez said. “Everything we can find is going to count for something.” He lowered his voice. “You want me to swing around and pick up the Hurtado girl?”

“Not yet,” Estelle whispered. “That looks like the same sort of hat pin that I confiscated this morning, but there’s no doubt in my mind that there are others in town.” She shook her head. “Six inches of hat pin.”

“Christ,” Mitchell muttered.

“She’ll almost certainly be airlifted to Albuquerque if she survives the transfer out of here.” She glanced back inside the room. Now five in number, the EMTs were tackling the challenge of moving Carmen’s limp body from facedown on the bed to face-down on the spinal board without changing the position of her head relative to the rest of her body. Nina Burns was on the radio. Estelle recognized her husband’s voice as the EMT fired information to the physician and received instructions in return.

“No,” one of the EMTs said, and took the oxygen mask from Cliff Gates. “You’ve got to stay away from the ear.” Estelle felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. “Get me an ear cup,” Nina said. In a moment they had secured the padded plastic cup-nothing more than half of a set of inexpensive earphones-over Carmen’s left ear, sheltering the handle and stem of the pin from contact. With that taped securely in place, they lifted Carmen off the bed in slow motion, ten hands working in concert so that the position of her body didn’t shift.

Padded, strapped, and taped, with IVs dripping and rich oxygen flooding her injured brain, Carmen Acosta started her long ride to Posadas General Hospital.

As the EMTs orchestrated their way through the narrow bedroom door with the spinal board and its passenger, Nina Burns caught Estelle’s eye. “Dr. Guzman has arranged air transport to Albuquerque,” Nina said. “The air ambulance just left Las Cruces, so it shouldn’t be long.”

They crossed the small living room, and Village Officer Mike Sisneros appeared in the doorway just as they reached it. He immediately backtracked out of the way. Estelle saw Juanita Acosta behind Sisneros, rushing up the sidewalk toward the house. The village officer caught Juanita by the arm. He transferred his grip to a shoulder hug, keeping her out of the EMTs’ path.

Someone had released her husband Freddy from the back-seat of Mitchell’s patrol car, and he now stood in the dirt beside the sidewalk, hands thrust in his pockets, looking as if he wanted to punch someone.

Juanita’s heavy-featured face reflected fury more than anything else, perhaps through long years of practice. But her hands told a different story, clasped tightly together between her breasts as the EMTs approached carrying her motionless daughter.

“Por Dios,” she said. “Now what?” Estelle had a fleeting image of the heavy, powerful woman lunging forward, knocking the carefully balanced EMTs and their burden in six different directions.

“Mrs. Acosta,” the undersheriff said, and she reached out a hand to grip Juanita’s right wrist. Sisneros didn’t release his hug, and the two of them guided the woman out of the way. “Juanita, we don’t know what happened yet, but they’re taking Carmen to the hospital. She’ll be transferred by air ambulance to Albuquerque as soon as she’s stabilized. It’s important that you go with her.”

“Por Dios,” Juanita said again, and she turned toward Freddy as if he were responsible.

“You can ride right in the ambulance with us, ma’am,” Nina Burns added as she passed. “There’s lots of room.”

“Mrs. Acosta, I’ll go with you,” Chief Mitchell said, and he replaced Sisneros at the woman’s elbow.

A school bus nosed into Candelaria and eased to a stop, the driver facing the sea of flashing emergency lights. Estelle released Juanita’s arm with a final pat and crossed the scruffy grass toward Freddy.

“Sir, I need your help,” she said. The man nodded absently, eyes locked on his daughter’s silent form as it was whisked toward the yawning doors of the ambulance. “Sir?” She touched his shoulder.

“I just don’t know what happened,” he said, voice distant. “I came home, and there she was…”

“Mr. Acosta, are the other kids on that bus?”

He looked up quickly. “Oh. Yes. Lucinda and Josie.” Another Sheriff’s Department vehicle had swung into the street from MacArthur, blocking the bus’ path so the driver wouldn’t inadvertently block the ambulance. Deputy Dennis Collins got out of the Bronco and advanced on the bus, and Estelle saw the door flick open. Immediately behind Collins’ unit, Linda Real arrived. The Sheriff’s Department photographer weaved her small Honda around the bus and patrol unit, then accelerated quickly down the block, parking directly behind Estelle’s car.

“Here’s what I need you to do, Mr. Acosta,” Estelle said. She moved in front of Freddy, forcing herself into his line of vision. “Do you have somewhere that you and the kids can stay tonight?”

“Stay?”

“For tonight. You can’t stay here.”

Sheriff Torrez appeared behind her. “Freddy, take the kids on over to Armand’s.” It didn’t surprise Estelle that the sheriff knew the Acostas’ relatives; he may have shared a few of them. “Where are Mauro and Tony?”

“There are the girls now,” Freddy said, taking a step forward. Five backpack-toting youngsters had stepped off the bus. Deputy Collins ushered them as a group to the sidewalk, talked to them briefly, and ushered three of them around the corner to the first house on MacArthur. The other two children waited with the deputy.

Torrez keyed his handheld radio. “Dennis, keep the kids right there for a little bit,” he said. “Mr. Acosta will be up there in a minute.”

The sheriff pointed the stubby radio antenna at Freddy Acosta. “Freddy…where are Mauro and Tony? We got to know,” he asked again.

Apprehension buckled Freddy Acosta’s eyebrows together as if he had just remembered that he had two older boys to consider as well. “They don’t ride the bus,” he said.

“No shit,” Torrez said. “They have their own car?”

“Oh, no,” Freddy said quickly. “No…they usually ride with somebody, or walk. You know, when you cut right across, it’s not very far.”