Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“This is a goddamned mess,” Tate said and found himself a chair. He looked sideways at Guzman. “Did the transfer to Presbyterian go without a hitch?”

Guzman nodded. “She was losing it, though. Dr. Bailey rode down in the ambulance with her.”

“The girl’s not gonna make it?”

“No, I don’t think so. Short of a miracle.”

“That’s what Estelle said up on the hill.” Tate sat forward on the very edge of the chair, one hand on each knee. He lifted one hand to rub his whiskers. “Estelle said she thinks it was murder.”

I looked at Francis Guzman and wondered how Estelle had jumped to that conclusion without the medical evidence her husband had gathered.

“That’s why she called me up here before the roosters. Hell, otherwise it’s just another car-pedestrian accident, and in Indian country they’re every other day.”

“Had Burgess been drinking?” I asked Guzman.

“Not enough to smell,” he said. “I’m sure the medical examiner will order a full workup, though.”

“Well then,” I said, “the deputy isn’t alone in seeing this one as murder. So does the doc here. Tell them what you told me.”

Guzman ran through his findings without wasting a word, and Tate listened without interruption.

When Guzman finished, Tate asked to see the X rays. “Huh,” he said, standing in front of the lighted viewer. “That’s the sort of damage you’d get in a car wreck, where your knee is slammed up against the dashboard, isn’t it? The big leg bone drives backward and smashes the hip joint all to hell.”

“Exactly,” Guzman said. He shot Tate a look that said he was impressed as hell at the sheriff’s acumen. “Or from a very bad fall. Rock climbers, for instance.”

“Estelle!” Tate called. He turned to one of the deputies. “She’s out front. Get her in here, will you?” He turned back to the X ray. “Knee damage?”

Guzman traced a faint line with his finger. “Fractured patella. Some torsion injury. Lacerations.”

“That’s consistent, then.”

“With a fall,” I said. “Not with being hit by a car.”

“Right.”

Estelle came in, coffee in one hand, cookie in the other. “These are out front if you want some,” she said, but Tate’s mind wasn’t on breakfast yet. “Look at this X ray,” he said. “Look at that leg.”

Estelle did so, then turned to her husband. “Were the neck scratches consistent with fingernails?”

“Yes. I’d say so.”

“And I started thinking about the way her clothing was torn,” Estelle said.

“What do you mean?” Tate asked.

“A fall down a slope doesn’t tear underclothing or the neck of a blouse. Not like that.”

“All the girl’s clothing went to Albuquerque?” Tate asked Guzman, and the young doctor nodded. To Estelle, Tate said, “You might give the M.E. a buzz and put him on the alert. It might help him find what you need. Make sure he doesn’t miss anything.” Tate looked out the door.

I could see the other officers clustered around the coffeepot. The trooper was standing in the hall, his back to us.

Tate said, “This mess happened on Forest Service turf, so you keep them informed.” He took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes at Estelle. “I’m going to dump this one in your lap, for a couple reasons. Most important, I’m not sure a small, closemouthed community like this one is going to react positively if a whole brigade of lawmen descends on them, tearing the place up and sticking their noses where they maybe don’t belong. It’s a hell of a lot easier just to shrug and say, ‘No se,’ than to cooperate with the government. Do you see it that way, Bill?”

“Every time,” I said. “And if you get about four agencies trying to work together, forget it.”

Tate grunted agreement. “If you need anything, just call. I’m going to assign Paul Garcia to you for a few days. He needs experience, and you can work in plainclothes.” He pointed a stubby finger directly between Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s dark eyes and added, “And don’t you decide to get heroic on me. When it comes time for an arrest, you call me first. Do you hear me?”

“Of course, sir,” Estelle said quietly.

“Good.” Tate turned around and grinned at me. “How long are you staying up in these parts?”

“I’ll probably drive back tomorrow or the next day.”

“You mean you’re not going to stick around and see the action?”

I grimaced. “Come on, Sheriff. Estelle doesn’t need any help from me. And I’m on vacation, remember? The last thing I need is a busman’s holiday. There’s already been too much excitement around here for me. All I want is the home-cooked dinner I was promised, and then I’m on my way.”

Tate glanced at Estelle as if to say, “You cook, too?” but had the good grace not to. Instead he turned, extended a hand to Guzman, and said, “Doc, can we buy you some breakfast?”

Guzman shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Tate then took me by the arm like a comrade of old and ushered me toward the door. “Let’s give the man his office back and find us some breakfast burritos. Then I need to get back to the city. Estelle, you need to show Paul your plush office and get him set up.”

I should have been flattered that Pat Tate wanted my company, but I knew damn well that breakfast with the sheriff was going to be reminiscing-one war story after another until we’d both drunk enough coffee to ruin a kidney. By then half the morning would be shot.

That was an agonizing thought, because I’d been watching Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s face during the past few minutes and wanted more than anything else to hear what was on her mind.

“Do you feel like taking a short walk?” Estelle Reyes-Guzman asked and I groaned.

“Sure. Why not.” There were several good reasons why not. Sheriff Pat Tate had finally taken leave around 10:30 that morning, and I was still bloated from the coffee and raw-mouthed from too many cigarettes. When Tate left, I had remained at Bobby’s Cafe.

Earlier I had made arrangements to meet Estelle there when she’d finished her errands. The cramped, dimly lighted eatery was across the street from Garcia’s Trading Post, and it had been interesting to watch the traffic come and go. In a common enough display of poor sense, when noon rolled around I’d ordered a “Burrito Grande” special for lunch.

I had just finished eating when Estelle’s county car swung into the cafe’s parking lot and pulled to a stop beside my Blazer.

As she entered the small dining room, I waved her to a seat. That’s when she hit me with the invitation for exercise.

“Where are we walking to?” I asked.

Estelle looked at the big plate in front of me and the scattered remains of the lunch. “What was that?”

“It was too much, that’s what it was. Burrito Grande I think they call it. And you’re as evasive as ever. Where are we walking to?”

“I’d like to hike up to the hot springs camp.”

“To talk with Cecilia Burgess’s boyfriend?”

“You heard about him?”

I nodded and looked at the bill for lunch. If food that good had been that cheap down in Posadas, I would have weighed 700 pounds. I fished out a tip. “Your hubby knew about him. I asked Francis if the Burgess girl had any other romantic flames besides the hippie. He didn’t know.”

Estelle nodded vigorously. “She does. Or did. I talked with Mary Vallo…Francis’s nurse?”

“I met her.” I tucked the tip under the plate and stood up. “Tell me on the way. If I sit here any longer, I’ll go sound asleep.”

“Mary’s born and raised here. She knows every living soul, I think. Anyway, there were some rumors going around that really upset some of the older folks. They’d talk with Mary at the clinic. Apparently Cecilia Burgess was spending some time with Father Nolan Parris. That’s what the solteronas told Mary.”