Easy Errors Page 12

A gigantic, clumsy-looking RV was parked near the church, a family of five stretching their legs and gawking. I pulled into the graveled parking lot behind the Customs office and parked beside a dark blue three-quarter-ton Ford pickup that I recognized and another Crown Vic with government plates.

  The pickup belonged to Todd Barnes, who had worked for us for ten years or so before joining the Feds. Life at the Regál border crossing had its moments—anywhere along the border could be a hornet’s nest. A constant flow of illegals crossed the border daily, and some took pains to avoid spots convenient for the Border Patrol. Others, more hopeful, even camped out in the church, which was never locked.

  As I got out of the car, one of the Mexican officers whistled loudly to gain my attention. I knew him, too. Pablo “Chucky” Montaño had never worked for us, but since he and his growing brood lived in the tiny village of Tres Santos, I saw them frequently when they drove north to Posadas on shopping excursions. From time to time, Officer Montaño stopped at the sheriff’s office to sample our free coffee. I figured it was only a matter of time before the officer saw the paradise that Posadas could be, and applied for a job at our Sheriff’s Department, his pathway to bigger and grander things.

  I waved a greeting, and Todd Barnes met me at the door. The office air conditioner was on full blast and I cringed.

  “Coffee, Sheriff?”

  “You betcha,” I said. “Thanks.” Their coffee was as bad as ours, most of the time not quite hot enough, with an aging oil slick on top. “Has Reuben been through today?”

  “Oh, yes.” Barnes grinned from the eyes down, an expression that I was sure worked well with nervous tourists. “He’s workin’ down at the church in Tres Santos. I think they’re building some sort of retaining wall to try and train that creek.”

  The Rio Plegado didn’t accept training well. Most of the time a dry gravel bed that was a grand playground for neighborhood kids, the river could run bank to bank with a ferocious roar during one of the legendary cloudbursts. A favorite effort at erosion-control was the placement of old car and truck carcasses, and the Plegado seemed to take pleasure in rearranging those efforts, moving most manmade things downstream. On more than one occasion, it had moved people downstream, too—sometimes their bodies were found, sometimes not.

  Built with more faith than common sense, the little chapel of the three saints perched on a graceful bend of the Plegado where the occasional raging waters eroded the bank. The line of collapse was creeping ever closer to the church foundation.

  “He hasn’t come back through yet, though?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “I think I’ll just wait, then. He’ll be along before long.”

  “You’re welcome to wait in here.”

  I raised the cup in salute as I elbowed the door open. “Thanks, but your air conditioner will freeze my bones. You know, I was thinking of a nice spot over in the shade beside the church.” The Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, white-washed until it hurt the eyes in bright sun, had adobe walls fortress-thick. Its interior would rival the climate of the air-conditioned Border Patrol office. The heavy shade on the north side of the church would be a nice compromise.

  I nodded at the sheriff’s radio beside their own console. “If you see him, give a shout to wake me up.”

  “I’ll just throw a rock,” Barnes said.

  “Whatever works. You folks have been busy today?”

  Barnes snorted in amusement. “You’ve got to be kidding. Middle of the week like this? It’s to a point that we’re inventing things to do. Hell of a night you folks had, though.” He frowned over my shoulder and raised his voice. “You got ID, Bud?”

  I turned and prepared to have my hand crushed by Officer Montaño’s ebullient greeting.

  “Look at this guy,” Barnes scoffed. “He just walks across the border like he owns the place.”

  “Are you after somebody in particular, Señor Sheriff?” The Mexican agent carried himself fit and sharp in his uniform, with his close-cropped ginger hair and startling blue eyes looking more like those of a transplanted Irishman. The lilt of his speech gave him away, though.

  I retrieved my hand and turned my Marine Corps ring a bit so it wouldn’t gouge an even deeper divot in my finger. “When Reuben Fuentes comes through, if it’s not too late. No big deal. I just need to chat with him for a minute.”

  “Ah. The man with the railroad ties,” Montaño said. “He’s building a retaining wall down at the church. I tell you what, he needs a bigger truck.” He held his hand spread, angled sharply. “That old Toyota squats like a lowrider when he comes through. He can only carry six at a time.” A billow of dust rising from the road to Janos drew his attention, and he thrust out his hand for another round of crush. “Let me get back to my side. I got a newbie workin’ with me today, and he gets nervous being by himself.”

  I held out a hand for the crush. “Any interesting traffic through early this morning?”

  “And you’re looking for what?” Barnes asked.

  “I wish we knew. We had an incident last night that most likely involved several shooters—at least with four different guns. Up on Herb Torrance’s ranch. They blew hell out of a water tank and windmill.” I don’t know why I didn’t mention Darlene Spencer’s misfortune…maybe it was just as simple as “need to know.”

  Montaño laughed. “Not unless they were sticking arrows in it. We got three guys who talked a pig permit out of the lieutenant. But they’re way over outside of Rio Mancos, over in that canyon area. They got a fancy collection of bows, Señor. No firearms.”

  “They were out of Albuquerque, or what?”

  “All out-of-state. Like Kansas…I think it was from Nebraska. Snowbirds looking for something to do. If you need their truck’s tag number, I have it in my log. And the names, too, if you like. You’re welcome to it.”

  With a cheerful wave, Montaño walked back across the border just as the second Mexican officer, clipboard in hand, approached the driver’s window of an aging Chevy pickup carrying Chihuahuan plates.

  Remembering Miracle’s message, I said to Barnes, “I would like to use your telephone for just a minute.”

  “You go right ahead. You know where it is.”

  I didn’t bother to watch the transaction at the border gate, but in a moment the Chevy rumbled through, detained for nothing more than a wave of the hand from Barnes.

  TC Trujillo, the second officer on duty, looked up from his small computer and flashed me a wide grin. I pointed at the phone, and Trujillo rose from his seat, a powerful, compact man who needed a mustache to put some age on his round, cherubic face.

  “You need some privacy, Sheriff?”

  “No. I’ll just be a minute.”

  The first hurdle was reaching Dr. Perrone at all, but the operator at the hospital apparently knew exactly where he was. In a moment, his silky, quiet voice greeted me.

  “There’s both good news and bad news, Sheriff,” he said. “First of all, Darlene Spencer wasn’t assaulted. Not a mark on her body, except the one wound in her eye. No defense wounds, nothing under her fingernails…nothing. No sign of sexual activity, recent or otherwise. Traces we’re finding on her legs are consistent with urine—and I’m willing to bet that it’s her own.”

  “Is that the good or the bad?” I asked. The girl was still dead.

  “Well, that’s the good. Sure enough, she died, but she didn’t go down fighting. She wasn’t assaulted. What I really wanted you to know is that I did recover a single, large fragment of a projectile from the deep tissue behind her orbit, in the anterior of the cerebrum. The projectile’s path was downward, and the fragment sliced open two of the major arteries in that area. Right where the ophthalmic artery branches off the interior carotid? The fragment sliced both of them wide open.”

  “So brain injury, and massive bleeding.”

  “It would appea
r so. The sad part is that the wound wouldn’t have been immediately fatal. Had she had prompt medical care, there would have been a better than even chance.”

  “So she lay there all night.”

  “It would appear so,” Perrone said again. “Tumbled around a little, maybe managed to crawl a few feet. That’s all.”

  “So she would have been conscious? At least part of the time?”

  “It’s impossible for me to say. Maybe. In and out, maybe. There was some brain damage, but it’s impossible for me to tell, right now, at least, what circuits might have been shut down.”

  “Huh.” That was about as intelligent a comment as I could come up with. If Darlene had been with the other three youngsters when she was hurt, why hadn’t they bundled her into the Suburban and sought help? At the very least there was a handy telephone up at the Torrances’. The simple answer was that nothing much rational happens in moments of panic.

  “You recovered the fragment?”

  “Yes. It’s a pretty good chunk, and there are some rifling marks on it. A single track that’s pretty clear. The FBI lab would be interested.”

  “Okay. Look, we’re going to do some Luminol photos there in a little bit when it gets dark. That might tell us something.”

  “It might. If I had to conjure a scenario, I’d guess that the girl found herself a private spot to urinate, and was in the process when the fragment struck her. She took a tumble, but didn’t go far. And there she lay.”

  “And there she lay,” I muttered. “If she’d been conscious, she might have heard the Suburban drive off. She would have known she was alone.”

  “Maybe. The eye area is damn tender, though. The wound would have hurt like a son of a bitch when the initial shock wore off. No telling what she experienced.”

  I repeated my earlier thoughts to the physician, maybe in the silly hope that he would have an easy answer. “Why didn’t they just scoot someone up to Torrances’…let them call for assistance? One of the others could have stayed with her.”

  “Who knows?” Perrone said with uncharacteristic frustration. “Remember that the Torrez youngster was getting ready to have himself a major asthma attack, if he wasn’t in the throes already. Then pile this on top of it? I can understand their panic.” He sighed. “You heard about Willis Browning?”

  “Yep.”

  “Aortic aneurysm right at the cardiac juncture. Gone just like that.”

  Just like that. Except Willis Browning had spent a night in his own agony, trying to make sense of his crumbling world. He probably hadn’t been able to distinguish between the heartache of losing his only son and the discomfort as his aorta ballooned.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time I pulled in beside the church, the tourists in the RV had gone beyond the gawking stage. Some adventurous member of the traveling family had tried the door latch, found it unlocked, and the whole family had ushered themselves inside. Indirect afternoon light streamed through the five narrow, tall windows on the south side, while a hard bar of sunlight worked its way up the white wall at the front of the church.

  The oldest son, maybe twelve, saw me when I appeared in the doorway. He had been leafing through the visitors’ journal, reading names and places.

  “Hóla,” he said fearlessly. Their RV license said Pennsylvania. No doubt he’d had fun with his middle-school Spanish down south.

  “Good afternoon, folks.” I surveyed the five—Dad, looking like a pro football player just a season or two out of shape; Mom, with a build like a well-fed seal; a five- or six-year-old boy with an old-fashioned flat-top heavy with the grease on the front stalks; the guestbook-reading kid who hadn’t started filling out his large-boned frame yet; and a teenaged girl trying her best to look oh, so bored. Compared to the world of her purple hair, I suppose we all were pretty boring.

  “I hope it’s all right to be in here,” Dad said. He took three big strides and offered a hand. Even his grip was coach-like. “Pastor Wade Tomlinson.” He swept a hand across his family. “Wife, Gladi; daughter, Trisha; son, Benny; and son, Tommy.”

  “Undersheriff Bill Gastner,” I said. “And, yes, it’s perfectly all right for you all to be in here.”

  “Pictures allowed?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “You know, these are really charming places. We stopped by the Iglesia de Tres Santos, just a hop skip south of here? In Old Mexico? Another charmer. They’re working on the riverbank near there, and we watched ’em for a little bit. Real artisans.”

  “Indeed, they are. You’ve been on the road for a while?”

  He looked heavenward. “Oh, my. Can you believe all the way to Vera Cruz?” He flashed gorgeous teeth. “Now that’s a haul, and we discovered that our faithful rig doesn’t much care for Mexican gas.”

  “Yes, it is, and I’m not surprised.”

  “Way too far,” Mom opined. She managed a warm smile anyway. The daughter looked heavenward.

  “Got a brother working for one of the missions down there. I’ve been promising to visit before he finishes his tour, and we decided no time like the present. But now we’re back home.”

  “Not quite,” Mom added.

  “Well, we’re on the right side of the fence, anyway,” Pastor Tomlinson said. “Another five days, and it’ll be good to sleep in our own beds.” He swept a hand to include the church’s interior. “Just so simple,” he said. “I was looking for a light switch, but I didn’t find one.”

  “And you won’t.” I smiled affably. “An available light challenge.”

  He frowned. “You know, another thing. I noticed that there isn’t any kind of lock, or even a provision for one, on the door, there.”

  “Nope. They’re more interested in folks coming in than in keeping them out.”

  “Oh, I hear ya there. Any troubles with vandalism, that sort of thing?”

  “Not yet. But the world will catch up with us eventually, I suppose.”

  “We can always hope not.” He started to add something, but the sharp whoop of a siren—a single yelp impossible to ignore—interrupted us.

  “Excuse me. You folks have a good remainder of your trip.” Outside, the sun was bright enough to make me wince. Sure enough, Reuben Fuentes’ battered Toyota was stopped on the Mexico side of the crossing, the gate arm still lowered just in front of the little truck’s grill. Agent Montaño was laughing about something, and he patted the windowsill beside Reuben’s elbow good naturedly, then pointed in my direction. He stepped back, the security barrier rose, and the Toyota rattled ahead.

  The gate on the U.S. side was already up, and Reuben earned a two-fingered salute from Todd Barnes without being stopped.

  Reuben pulled into the tight space between my car and the side of the church. I surveyed the back of the Toyota while the old man worked at getting out. A nice heavy-framed wheelbarrow almost filled the bed, along with a much-used collection of shovels and mattocks, and a wooden toolbox that might bring a fair price during an antiques auction. The remaining space carried an inch or so of sand leftover from a previous trip, and two unopened bags of Portland cement.

  “Reuben, how’s the river project going?”

  He stood still for a moment, watching the border crossing, obviously deep in thought. “What’s that old joke, Sheriff?” He pronounced the title as if it rhymed with Omar’s last name. He turned to survey the big RV, and then grinned at me. “The viejo goes through the border gate every day, pushing a wheelbarrow of manure.” He shook his head. “The guards, they can’t figure out what he’s smuggling, you know. Each day, they dig through the manure, trying to find the contraband.” His accent caressed each syllable of the word, and then he laughed silently. “But they got to let him go, because they find nothing. Who wants to confiscate manure, you know?” Reuben made his way around the truck and extended his hand. He shook my hand warmly, without brui
sing either set of knuckles.

  “And then what?” I prompted. I’d heard the joke many times before, most often from Reuben. But I liked to hear him end it.

  Reuben shrugged and kept a straight face. “Years later, they find out that the man was stealing wheelbarrows.” He shifted the position of his cap as his powerful little body shook with laughter. “Stealing wheelbarrows,” he added reflectively, perhaps contemplating a new career. “It’s going pretty good, you know. Anything works as long as there’s no water in the Plegado. They should never have built the church there. I keep telling them that, and they keep not listening.”

  “I suppose not. How’s Teresa doing?”

  “She’s Teresa, you know.” A little expressive shrug left the rest to the imagination. I knew Teresa Reyes, Reuben’s niece, well enough to imagine the now-retired teacher at the worksite, making useful suggestions.

  “Did Estelle enjoy school in Posadas this year?” Seventeen years before, niece Teresa, recently widowed and without children of her own, had adopted a local orphaned child—no one seemed sure of the circumstances, but the hints were that one of the Plegado’s rampages was to blame.

  Now bright, gorgeous, and startlingly well-mannered, the youngster was spending her last two years of high school at Posadas High. During the school year, she left Tres Santos and lived with her great uncle across the border, and there was no quieter spot on Earth for concentrating on homework than Reuben Fuentes’ little stone house. To accommodate her, Reuben had built a tidy addition to the stonework, including both bed and bath.

  Reuben swept his hand in a sideways chopping motion. “Everything straight A’s. The calculus, the chemistry, everything.” He shook with another chuckle. “She even takes the Spanish, you know? I don’t think she has to study too hard for that one.” He shrugged and looked wistful. “You know the hardest part? It’s when she goes home on weekends, and now for the summer.”

  I urged him over into the narrow slice of shade beside the back of his truck.

  “You were home last night?”