Steven Havill - Before She Dies

Carlos Sanchez had to know as well as I did that other deputies waited outside. I was counting on him understanding that shooting one old fat officer wouldn’t do him any good.

The doorknob turned and I pushed open the front door. The light came from a little burlap-shaded lamp that sat on a low table on the west wall, two paces from the woodstove. A doorway led to the back of the house, where I supposed the kitchen and bathroom to be. Mateo Esquibel was sitting in a deep, old chair. The blanket that covered it had long shed its color and was now soft from dust and dog hair.

Mateo looked at me as I stood a pace away from the door on the stoop. His face was expressionless, heavy-lidded eyes just watching. The dog sat in his lap, and yapped once more before falling silent.

Behind the old man’s chair stood Carlos Sanchez, his back to the thick, impregnable adobe wall. He held a short pump shotgun, and rested the weight of the gun on the wing of the chair. The muzzle looked as big as a howitzer.

“Can I come in?” I asked.

Carlos raised his head a fraction, twitching his jaw. “Drop your gun outside,” he said softly.

“No,” I said genially. “You’re holding that thing, and my gun’s buried under my coat. I’m no quick-draw artist. Just relax.”

A loud thump came from behind the house and Sanchez’s eyes flickered.

“Can I walk over to the doorway there? I’ll tell ’em to back off.”

Sanchez nodded, and the shotgun muzzle followed me as I walked past them to the doorway leading to bed and bath.

“Robert!” I shouted. “Forget it. Go round front and keep Howard company. Everything’s fine in here.”

I turned and looked at Sanchez. He was smaller than I had remembered, slender and dark, with none of the bulk or coarseness of his father.

“You see? It’s easy. Now, what do you want?”

“Over there,” he said, and motioned to the still open front door.

“All right,” I said affably. I kept my hands in plain view. “You want me to close it?” I did so without waiting for a response.

The old man raised a hand and rubbed the left side of his face. He was missing three fingers, probably lost half a century before Carlos Sanchez was born.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“He’s fine,” Sanchez snapped.

“Then what do you want?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“What do you think is going to happen to you once you’re across the border?”

“I’ll take my chances with that,” Sanchez said.

“Well, we’re not going to let you do that,” I said. “The best thing you can do for all concerned is put that damn shotgun down before anyone else gets hurt.” Sanchez’s eyes darted to one side, toward the side window. He shifted position slightly, putting the old man squarely between himself and the opening. “You had quite a deal going for yourself,” I said, but he ignored me. Carlos Sanchez wasn’t about to lapse into a long session of storytelling or explanation.

“Back outside,” he said, and hefted the shotgun. With the other hand, he grasped Mateo Esquibel by the elbow and urged him to his feet. The old man looked confused and frowned.

When he looked at me, I said slowly and distinctly, “Do exactly what he asks.” If he read lips, he read Spanish, not English. He glanced at Carlos Sanchez, and the younger man said something in Spanish. The old man nodded.

Sanchez escorted the old man across the floor toward the front door. “You go back outside. Tell them to back off. Way off. Leave your truck.”

“The keys are in it,” I said. “But this isn’t going to work, Carlos. You’ve got to know that.”

“It’ll work if you use your head, sheriff. Now do like I said.”

I didn’t move for a long moment. If Sanchez did make it to a border crossing, either by way of crashing through the fence or bribing the right person, I had no guarantee that Tomas Naranjo and his troops would feel especially motivated to fight our war for us. Sanchez had committed no crime in Mexico, beyond the sale of a few stolen vehicles-and that was damn near a national pastime across the border.

Much as I wanted the son of a bitch, I didn’t want the old man hurt. If he had known what Carlos Sanchez had been up to, he was technically as guilty as the man who held the shotgun. But I found his complicity unlikely. He was going to be a sad old man now, knowing that Sanchez hadn’t been visiting him out of respect for the aging.

I backed up, filling the doorway. “Carlos…” I started to say, but he interrupted me with an impatient wave of the shotgun.

“Call them off.”

With a deep breath, I turned to shout at Torrez, who crouched behind the bulk of the truck.

Behind him, I saw more lights turned on as the tiny village gradually awoke to the ruckus in Mateo Esquibel’s front yard. The old man’s dog ran out of the house and made a beeline for Bob Torrez, stopping a dozen feet from the deputy to bark frantically.

I heard the guttural squelch of Howard Bishop’s radio, and then the deputy slithered out of the car and crouched by the front fender. “Sir!” he shouted. “Mears just let Victor Sanchez through. He’s coming in.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked to the east, toward the main road. A vehicle was just pulling into Regal, going much too fast and fishtailing in the dirt.

Turning to Carlos, I said, “Is this the rescue you were hoping for?”

But to my surprise, he jerked Mateo Esquibel closer and rested the muzzle of the shotgun on the old man’s shoulder. “Get him out of here.” The urgency in Sanchez’s voice surprised me. I waited, framed in the doorway, knowing that more confusion might work in our favor, providing a safe opening.

If Carlos Sanchez let down his guard for an instant, I could grab the barrel of the pump shotgun, wresting it away from the old man’s head. Failing that, I knew exactly how Sergeant Robert Torrez operated. Even as he moved into position behind the Suburban, I’d caught the glint of light off the barrel of his.308 deer rifle. One opening was all he would need.

Victor Sanchez’s fat pale-green Continental slithered into the yard, almost taking off the door of Howard Bishop’s county car.

He jerked open the door and stalked toward us, reaching the back of the Suburban before Torrez blocked his way.

“Let him come through,” I shouted, and I saw Carlos Sanchez duck his head. He fidgeted and backed around the old man until their two heads merged as one. He pulled Mateo Esquibel a step back into the living room. When Victor Sanchez reached the stoop, I held up a hand.

“You’d better stop there,” I said.

“I don’t have to talk to you!” Carlos shouted at his father, and for the first time there was a crack in the younger man’s voice.

Victor’s face bulged with fury as he looked at me. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he whispered.

“Your son’s holding Mr. Esquibel, Victor. That Suburban’s stolen. He was trying to slip across the border.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. When he spoke, he had to force the words out through clenched teeth.

“Carlos! Get out here!”

“Be careful,” I said. “He’s got a shotgun.”

Victor’s head snapped around like I’d jerked it with a chain. “He’s wanted in connection with two murders, Victor. Deputy Encinos and Tammy Woodruff. He’s not just going to let you walk in there.”

I turned slightly in the doorway so Victor could see past me.

Carlos saw his father and shouted, “Get him out of here! I mean it.”

“Carlos, don’t do anything stupid,” I said. Victor Sanchez started to push past me, but I blocked the doorway with one arm. Without taking his eyes off his son, Sanchez said, “Get out of my way.” He stood patiently, waiting for me to weigh the options. Finally I dropped my arm. Victor stepped forward into the living room, standing between me and his son.