Steven Havill - Before She Dies

Bob parked behind his aunt’s house on MacArthur, pushed up the hood of the pickup, and settled down to enjoy the clear, thousand-yard view of the dealership’s two driveways.

Tony Abeyta took 306 and began regular patrol of the county. When he reached the end of a shift at four that afternoon, Tom Mears would relieve him. At midnight, Howard Bishop would take over. All three were instructed to avoid getting themselves tangled in something that couldn’t be dropped at an instant’s notice. All three were told to stay central in the county; to make no effort to avoid State Highway 56, but to give the highway no special attention.

And Gayle Sedillos, caught in the trap of being efficient, smart, and quick-witted, planned to camp out for the duration at dispatch. She kept tabs on the deputies as the day wore on, making sure that their location in the county at any given time was no mystery.

If Carlos Sanchez made any kind of move, he’d know as well as I did exactly where the working deputies were. And that’s what I wanted.

At 5:05, Carlos Sanchez left the dealership driving old man Esquibel’s truck. He drove directly to his apartment at 131 MacArthur Terrace, a short cul-de-sac off the main street. He drove right by Carmine Torrez’s house on MacArthur Street, and if he’d looked to his right, he would have seen Bob Torrez under the hood of the old Chevy, portable radio propped up on one fender, grease up to his elbows.

At five-thirty, I heard the moan of Jim Bergin’s Beech Baron as it circled the village and lined up for final approach. I was at the airport waiting, and I hustled Patrick Torrance into one of the small pilot’s conference rooms in the FBO Building. Without giving either his mind or his stomach time to stop spinning from the trip, I spread out a series of photographs on the table. Several of the photos were meaningless, dug out of files at random.

One photo was a clipping of Nick Chavez’s Christmas advertisement, with all the employees of the dealership gathered in front of the showroom, holding a large wreath.

“Take your time,” I said to the youth. “Examine the faces.”

Patrick sat down, taking each photograph in turn. He hesitated quite a while at one picture taken of Sheriff Martin Holman on the capitol steps with one of our state’s senators. Eventually he put that photo down and picked up the group shot of Nick Chavez’s gang. His forehead furrowed.

“I have a magnifying glass out in the car if you need it,” I said. At the same time I placed my small cassette recorder on the table in front of him and switched it on.

Patrick shook his head. “No.” He drew the photo up close to his nose, squinting. “That’s him, right there.” He picked up a pencil and pointed with the tip. Carlos Sanchez was in front, kneeling at one side of the wreath, looking pleasant and professional.

For the benefit of the tape recorder, I said, “Patrick, you’re pointing at Carlos Sanchez. Are you sure that’s the man that you saw in the pickup truck Monday with Tammy Woodruff?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“You’ll testify to that?”

Patrick’s eyes opened wider, but he didn’t protest. He nodded slightly and looked back at the photograph. “I’m sure that’s him.”

I reached over and turned off the recorder. “Then that’s all we need, son. I’d like to ask that you go home and stay there until I call you.”

Patrick nodded, and then said, “Do you want me to call my dad?”

“From here? There’s no need. Just go on home.”

He smiled for what I guessed was the first time in many days. “Sir, my truck is in Wyoming. It’s a long walk out to the ranch.”

“Ah,” I said. “I’ll drop you off. When you take the bus back to Gillette to get your truck, save the bills. The county will reimburse you.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Bus, Patrick. Baggage class.”

I didn’t take time to chat when I left Patrick at the driveway of the Torrance ranch. It was already dark when I pulled back out onto the state highway and headed my old Blazer south toward Regal. I was after one final piece of the puzzle, and I knew exactly where to look.

From the pass above Regal, I could count the lights, a sparse scattering of a dozen spots of yellow. Farther to the south and east, I could see the bright glare of the sodium-vapor lights at the border crossing. The gate would be locked, the officers gone for the day.

With the windows down, I drove through the narrow dirt lanes, keeping a sedate speed neither too fast nor too slow to attract attention. A single bulb burned somewhere in the bowels of Mateo Esquibel’s little house, the light faded to little more than a candle’s worth by the time it washed up against the lace curtains.

No lights were on at the ancient building next door. More than sixty feet long and only twelve or fourteen feet wide, it might have been a mercantile or feed store at one time. A portion of the roof had collapsed, and the three elm trees in the yard were dead. I stopped the Blazer near the end of the building, pushed off the lights, switched off the engine, and got out.

For February, the night was mild with just the faintest breeze stirring the tall grass along the old building’s foundation. But I wasn’t interested in history. I pushed the truck’s door closed just enough to turn off the dome light and skirted the old store, heading toward the back of Mateo Esquibel’s property.

If the old man had a dog, it was inside. I moved slowly, keeping my flashlight off. I didn’t remember any fences in my path, just an open side yard strewn with rocks and cacti.

I reached the trailer where the old man kept his wood supply, and bent down to look at the hitch that rested on a stout chunk of rail-road tie. If it had been used recently, fresh steel-against-steel contact marks would show on the bottom of the housing that covered the ball. I was about to attempt an impossible position so that I could see the hitch when the dog began barking.

From inside the house came the insistent, rhythmic yapping and I froze in place, flashlight switched off. For the better part of five minutes I stood there while the mutt ran through its entire repertoire of canine noises. No one came to either door or window, and eventually the dog gave up. For another five minutes I stood still, giving the animal time to lose interest.

Moving cautiously, I backed up and made my way around the back side of the trailer, and then to the back wall of the garage. A side window had been boarded up years ago, the nails rusting and sending streaks of black down the wooden walls.

At the front corner I hesitated, listening for the dog. Then I eased around to the doorway. It was secured with an old iron hasp and an enormous brass padlock. Any shine the brass may have had when it was new had given way to a dull patina decades before. By placing a single finger between the two sides, I tried to pry the doors open. They didn’t move a fraction of an inch. Whoever had hung the door had been an expert.

I made my way around the east side of the garage. Another window was covered, this time with a combination of boards and cardboard. One of the eight panes of glass had been hit in the corner with a small projectile-no doubt a neighbor kid’s rock from a slingshot. The pane hadn’t shattered, but by working my pocketknife into the hole I could pry loose a small wedge of glass.

I did so, and then pushed the cardboard that had covered the inside of the window to one side-just an inch or less, but enough for the beam of the flashlight to lance into the garage. I squinted and sucked in my breath. The beam bounced off chrome and fancy paint.

With care, I went to work with the pocketknife again, enlarging the hole by prying out another sliver of glass.