Double Prey pc-17 Read online

  “It was okay.” He sounded grateful for the change of subject.

  “You still don’t like Mr. Reynolds?”

  “He’s okay. He wastes a lot of time.”

  Estelle kept a straight face. The concept of a nine-year-old who might be concerned with wasted time was something that would challenge first-year teacher Marv Reynolds, she suspected.

  The drive back to Twelfth Street took only a moment, and as she pulled up to the curb in front of her own home, she saw Tata Romero on her hands and knees in the front yard two doors down the street, the sun hot on her back, grubbing around a spectacular bed of red hot pokers, the tall, homely flowers that thrived under the blistering sun. The house across the street had blocked her view of the field beyond. She had no inkling of the episode.

  “Take the trimmer, hijo. ” Estelle touched the remote trunk release. “And then you go keep your brother company until I come home. And hijo, ” she added, and waited until he was looking at her, “you stay in the yard when you get home.”

  He nodded soberly, and set off down the rough sidewalk with the trimmer. Estelle followed. Tata Romero saw them coming and eased out of the flower bed.

  “Butch and I borrowed this, Mrs. Romero,” Francisco said. “Do you want me to put it back in the shed?”

  “Well, hi, hijo, ” Tata said. “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” She stood up and brushed her knees. “Estelle, how are you these days? Here we live two doors down, and we never get to see much of you. The boys have been doing yard work for you?” She dusted her gardening gloves together.

  “I wish that were the case, Tata. Butch and my son were over in the field by the arroyo. They were teasing a rattlesnake with the Weed Whacker.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Tata exclaimed, and it was clear that her assumption was that some sort of mild delinquency was afoot…neither of the Romero boys, Butch or his older brother Freddy, were strangers to that. And then she realized that neither son was part of the equation here. She craned her neck, looking down the street. “And now where is the young man?” she asked sternly.

  “Tata, the EMTs took him to the hospital. He suffered an eye injury.”

  “Oh, my gosh. The snake bit him?” Her face drained of color, and she looked after Francisco’s retreating figure as the little boy trudged back toward his own home. “What has he gotten into now…”

  “The trimmer line struck the snake in the head. I think that maybe a piece of fang, or maybe a piece of jaw bone…something… something struck Butch in the right eye. They’ll do a preliminary assessment here and administer the anti-venom if they have to, but the EMTs tell me that it’s likely they’ll want to fly him to University Hospital in Albuquerque if there is significant damage to the eye.”

  Tata raised a hand to cover her mouth.

  “Let me drive you to the hospital,” Estelle said. “Then I’ll stop by the dealership and have George come down to be with you.”

  “I need my purse.” Tata turned toward the house. She stopped. “Will he lose the eye?”

  “I don’t know, Tata. They’ll have news for us at the hospital.”

  The woman nodded and hurried into the house. Estelle waited on the sidewalk, and then escorted Tata back to the county car.

  “How did you find out?” Tata settled into the car, looking apprehensively at the racked shotgun, the computer that invaded her knee space, the radios, all the other clutter of Estelle’s mobile office.

  “One of the neighbors saw the two boys playing out by the arroyo and was worried that they had cornered a snake. She was watching them through binoculars. She called me to check.”

  “Oh, my. These boys.” These boys, Estelle thought, and she could inventory all the toys and gadgets that the two Romero brothers, cherished in their pursuit of their own adrenaline rushes. The Romeros’ fleet grew by the season-motorcycles, four wheelers, even now a powered skateboard that enchanted her sons. The idea of a cocoon around her own two little boys grew more appealing with every week. Estelle relished the beginning of school, when the day’s activities separated the three boys, Francisco now in fourth grade, Butch a freshman, Freddy a senior.

  “The caller saw Butch fall to his hands and knees, so she knew that he was hurt. By then I was just up here on Bustos. The EMTs were right behind me.”

  Tata heaved a great, shuddering sigh. “Oh, these kids. Francisco is all right?”

  “Yes. He’s fine. Scared, but fine.” In a moment they swung into the driveway leading to the emergency room of Posadas General Hospital. Inside she handed Tata off to one of the ER nurses. “I’ll send your husband over,” she said. “And then I’ll be right back.” She squeezed the woman’s hand.

  Posadas Chrysler-Jeep was three minutes away, and Estelle made her way through the cluttered service area to where George Romero stood gazing at a diagnostic computer screen as if he didn’t believe what it was telling him about the fancy sedan on the rack. He listened to Estelle, keeping an eye on the computer at the same time, then shook his head. “Christ,” he said, obviously vexed. He finally looked directly at the undersheriff but said nothing, as if waiting for her to break the rest of the news.

  “I dropped Tata at the hospital,” Estelle said.

  “Well, I’ll see if I can break away,” George said. “Is Freddy with her?”

  “I haven’t seen him, sir.”

  “Well, he’s probably out burnin’ up more gas,” Romero said, and let it go at that. Without any further questions, he turned and stalked off toward the service manager’s counter, adding over his shoulder, “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  Estelle wanted nothing so much as to go home, but that would have to wait. Irma Sedillos, nana to the boys and a dear friend, would hear Francisco’s version of events, and Estelle trusted Irma’s instincts to say and do the right things. The Romeros, however, did not need to face a hospital staff without answers to their questions.

  In another few minutes, she walked around the large ambulance that was parked near the emergency room entrance, its diesel engine rumbling gently.

  Inside, she passed the small cubicle where the admission clerks worked.

  “Mrs. Romero?”

  One of the clerks looked up from the computer screen. “Oh, she’s in the ER, sheriff.”

  A large hand on her shoulder startled her. Dr. Francis Guzman had padded up behind her without a sound.

  “Airlift,” her husband said, and Estelle groaned. “It left Cruces about five minutes ago, so we’re getting him prepped for transfer here in a minute.”

  “How is he, oso?”

  “Por diós, ” Francis said. “If Butch didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any at all.” He held up his right hand, index finger and thumb about half an inch apart. “He’s got a fragment of rattlesnake fang like that, pegged right through his eyelid and into the cornea. And that’s just the start. He got his grimy little hands into the act. Had to hurt like hell.”

  “Will they be able to save the eye?”

  Francis shrugged. “I’m not a betting man, querida. They’ll give it a shot. By the time we get up there, they’ll have a team ready. They’ll do what they can.”

  “You’re flying up?”

  “I don’t think I need to. They have a good flight crew, and to tell the truth, there isn’t a hell of a lot that I can do now. He’s stable and sedated. The anti-toxin will either work or it won’t. Matty said it was a Western Diamondback?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lots of venom there, even when the delivery system is hacked up. No way to tell how much the boy actually got in his system. Maybe some, maybe none. But that’s a dangerous place to be bitten.”

  Estelle felt the air pressure change, and turned to see George Romero slip through the automatic doors. The mechanic thrust his hands in his pockets, perhaps feeling out of place in this antiseptic setting with its hushed tones and air of medical authority. He shook hands with Dr. Guzman and nodded at Estelle.

  “So what’s
the story?” A burly man, his pleasant face now looked as if he wanted to backhand someone-a wayward son, perhaps.

  “We’re about to transfer him to University Hospital in Albuquerque,” Francis said. “There’s a team waiting for him there.”

  “That’s a six hour drive,” Romero said.

  “He’ll be flying Medivac. We’re about to take him out to the airport now. The plane will be here shortly.”

  “Jesus. So what’s the deal, then? Estelle was saying that the boys were playing with a rattlesnake or something like that?”

  “There’s what looks like a fragment of the snake’s fang embedded in the eyeball,” Francis said. “That and other matter from the snake’s mouth. It’s a mess.”

  “So why can’t you just pull it out? The fang, I mean.”

  Estelle shuddered at that thought.

  “Well, it’s not that simple,” Francis said. “The fang is curved, for one thing, and we’re not sure what damage it did on entrance. We don’t know how much venom was involved, if any. And it must have hurt like hell, George.” The physician made a fist and mimicked grinding it into his own eye. “Something like that happens, it’s hard to leave it alone, so there’s ancillary damage to consider as well. We flushed the hell out of it, but we’ll let the ophthalmologists put it all together.”

  “Tata’s going with him? On the airplane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’ll be okay, then. Can I talk to him?”

  “He won’t make much sense, George. We’ve pumped him full of enough sedative to keep him quiet. But I’ll take you in. Let’s see how he’s doing before they pack him up for transfer.”

  George stopped just shy of the ER door and looked at Estelle. “What were they doing with the snake?”

  “Teasing it with a Weed Whacker.”

  “Well, that’s a new one,” he said in wonder. “Freddy got his bare foot caught up in the big gas trimmer once. Just about skinned his toes down to bare bone. Blood and bits of stuff all over the inside of the garage. But an eye…now that’s not so good.”

  “No sir, that’s not so good.” Estelle reached out and touched her husband on the sleeve. “I’ll be home if you need me.”

  “You bet.”

  George thrust out his hand. “Thanks, neighbor.” His grip was calloused and almost too hard. He turned and followed her husband into the ER.

  Chapter Three

  As if retreating to a more familiar, safe world, Francisco had settled at the piano. Estelle paused on the front step and listened. His scales sounded almost pensive as Francisco worked around the circle of key signatures. Not pushing for speed as he usually did, but working like a little human metronome set on adagio, he played through the sharps and then the flats, the minor and diminished keys, pushing each scale up and down through a full five octaves. The scales then blended into enormous chords that walked from one key signature to the next.

  He stopped as his mother opened the front door. “Carlos is out back,” he announced, apparently fearful that she would think he wasn’t paying attention. Estelle could see through the sliding door of the dining room that led out into the back yard. Sure enough, six-year-old Carlos was industriously excavating another tier in his open pit mine, the over-burdened Tonka truck carrying a load to the tailings pile. “And Irma’s making corn bread,” the pianist added.

  “That smells wonderful.”

  Francisco turned away from the keyboard. “Will Butch be okay?”

  “He’s going to Albuquerque, hijo. We’ll see.”

  Irma Sedillos, Gayle Torrez’s younger sister and the on-call nana for the two little boys, appeared around the foyer partition. “You’ve had a day, I hear,” she said.

  “Not me so much,” the undersheriff replied. “The mighty hunters met their match, though.”

  “Is papá going to Albuquerque on the plane?” Francisco asked.

  “No. He’ll be home in a bit.” She stepped into the kitchen. “What magic are you up to?” She hugged Irma’s shoulders.

  “Your mom wanted a chicken salad, so that’s what you get,” Irma replied. “By executive order, the salad has to be chilled, the chicken and green chile have to be hot.” She grinned at Estelle. “And a message from Padrino, ” she continued. “He has a question for you.” Irma frowned. “Is Butch going to be all right?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Nasty thing.” She pointed at her own right eye. “The trimmer shot a fang right into his eye.”

  “Ay!” Irma shivered.

  Estelle picked up the pile of mail along with the yellow Post-it note with Irma’s exquisite handwriting. “Padrino and jaguars, ” she read.

  “He has a question about jaguars. He said that he remembered your great uncle talking about them.”

  “Reubén and jaguars? Es muy curioso. Is Padrino coming over for salad?”

  “I told him that he should. But he grumbled something about health food.”

  “It has chile in it, though.”

  “I told him that. But you know how he is.”

  “Oh, sí. I know exactly how he is. I should call him and tell him not to be so fussy.”

  “He wondered if Bobby was coming back from Cruces this evening, and I told him that I thought so.”

  “Your brother-in-law won’t stay in the city any longer than he has to.” Estelle leafed through the rest of the mail, stopping at a fancy envelope with no stamp. She became aware that Irma was watching her.

  “I brought that over with me,” Irma said, and Estelle looked up, alerted by the quiet tone of the young woman’s voice. The envelope was the sort one would expect with an invitation, and Estelle instantly knew what it was…hints had been in the air for some months. Once again, she was jolted by an odd mix of emotions-a euphoria for Irma, a deep, almost selfish sadness for herself and the family.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Estelle asked. She held out her arms and encircled Irma in another hug, this one long and hard. “When?” Without releasing her hold, she slipped the invitation out of the envelope, reading it past Irma’s right ear. “October sixteenth,” she whispered. “Irma, that’s wonderful.”

  Releasing the hug, Estelle contemplated the engraved wedding invitation. For eight years, Irma had helped what she called the Guzman Corporación avoid going bonkers with their impossible schedules: Francis the busy physician, now in clinic partnership with Dr. Alan Perrone, and Estelle the Undersheriff of Posadas County, on-call 24/7. Irma had become more than a well-paid nana- a dear friend now to Estelle’s aging mother, to the little boys who had never known a household without her, and to the undersheriff herself.

  “It will be a grand occasion.” Estelle looked quickly at Irma, since the girl hadn’t yet had a chance to offer her plans.

  “Gayle is excited,” Irma said. “She wants to put together the wedding of the century.” She smiled wistfully. “Maybe something a little less grand than that, but Gary would like a nice traditional ceremony, and so would I. It’s a chance to kinda catch up on what we all missed when Gayle and Bobby got married.”

  “You do it the way you want to,” Estelle said. “No matter what, your mamá and papá would be very proud. And so are we. Anything I can do to help…”

  “Gayle and Bobby will give us away,” Irma said, then smiled. “Of course, Bobby doesn’t know that yet. It’ll be just like him to be the only one there who isn’t in a tux.”

  “He’ll behave.” Maybe Sheriff Robert Torrez would consent…maybe.

  Irma reached out and touched Estelle on the forearm. “If you’d be matron of honor?”

  “I’m honored. Of course.”

  “And I’d really like to borrow Carlos as the ring bearer. He’s the handsomest man in my life.”

  Estelle laughed. “He’ll take the responsibility very seriously.”

  Irma took a deep breath, obviously relieved to have the whole affair out in the open. Gary Herrera, Irma’s fiancé, would be relieved too, Estelle thought. His willingness to share his beloved w
ith the corporación over the past three years had bordered on the saintly.

  Out in the living room, Francisco had settled into Bach as the composer of choice for warm-ups. Irma stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Do you think he’d play for the wedding? May I ask him?”

  “Of course you may, querida. ” Estelle chuckled. “The real question is what he might play. You know how he is.” Play-on-demand had always been a concept that had escaped Francisco. “You’re as apt to get his famous Car Crash Composition as you are Schumann, Haydn, or Bach.”

  “I’ll work on him,” Irma said. “And…” She stopped, frowning at the cornbread. Nothing in the perfect pan of golden aromas warranted a frown-the crust was just so, neither too dark nor too light, only lightly fissured with small canyons to catch the melting butter. “Gary has been accepted into Stanford’s MFA program.”

  “¡Caramba! ” Estelle whispered in delight. She took her time pouring the tea water into her mug, unable not to think of all the ramifications of Stanford University…a long, long way from Posadas, New Mexico. “An MFA?”

  “What he really wants to do is write screenplays. Teleplays, really.”

  “That’s a side of him that I never realized,” Estelle said. Gary Herrera, a popular middle-school math teacher and basketball coach, did not fit her image of a playwright, working in smoke, caffeine, and alcohol-laced solitude. “You two are going to become Californians, then? Por dios, I can’t imagine.”

  Irma grimaced. “Well, for a while, anyway.”

  “When does he start at Stanford?”

  “We’re going out in June, right after school finishes. And you know the superintendent? Dr. Archer? He promised Gary an unlimited leave-of-absence. I’m so pleased about that. He’ll have a job waiting for him if he wants it.”

  “Dr. Archer would be foolish not to. Ay, what an adventure for you two. And what about you, querida? What new vistas for you in California?”

  “I would like to study Spanish,” Irma said quickly, as if she had expected the question. “Historical Spanish. I talk to your mother, and she knows so much. I could listen to her all day.” Estelle’s expression was so blank that Irma plunged on. “Like Spain, centuries ago? Not street Spanglish…that’s all I know.”