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  With an ambulance on the way, a clean compress holding Toby’s remaining teeth and lip in place, and the girl snuffling but otherwise behaving herself in the backseat, I said to Torrez, “What do you want to do about the driver?” I indicated the darkness into which he’d fled.

  “Like I said, I know where he lives,” Torrez said. He straightened up and rested a beefy arm on the roof of the car. “That’s Matt Baca, my uncle Sosimo’s oldest kid.” He ducked his head and looked in the car. “That’s who was driving, right?”

  Toby Gordan managed a “mmmph” through his tears and loose teeth, but the girl in back, Jessie Montoya, nodded.

  “Where’d you guys get all the beer? Did Victor Sanchez sell it to you?” Torrez asked, but Jessie just looked down at the floor mats. Sanchez owned the Broken Spur Saloon on State 56 where the chase had started, and he knew better. Torrez sighed and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “I just caught a glimpse of him, but it looked like our runner was wearing a T-shirt and jeans,” Torrez said. “No coat.”

  “That’s it,” I said.

  Torrez leaned away from the car and looked up into the night. The scrub oak leaves were fitful against a clear and star-studded sky. The moon had slipped behind the bulk of Santa Lucia. The kid would be running by feel and by guess. As drunk as he was, he wouldn’t have much luck with either one.

  “It’s not going to freeze tonight,” Torrez said. “He’ll be all right as long as he doesn’t trip and break his neck.”

  “Which he’s apt to do,” I said. “You’ve been down this road?” I realized that it was a dumb question before the words were out of my mouth.

  “Lots of times,” Torrez said. His passion was hunting, and wherever anything with fur or feathers went, there went Robert. “It dead-ends about two miles to the east, along this ridge. If he makes it that far, he’ll have to run another three miles cross-country to reach the power-line access road over the top. He ain’t going to do that. Not at night.” He looked at the sky again. “Well,” he said, and glanced at me. “I’m going to stroll on after him a little bit, just in case he discovers some sense out there and changes his mind.” He shifted his handheld radio on his belt a bit, fiddling with one of the knobs. “I’m on channel three.”

  The two kids in the car seemed content to sit and snuffle in relative silence, so I made constructive use of the time to fill in most of the blanks on the Uniform Traffic Incident report. I had almost finished when another patrol car, followed by the ambulance, added their light show.

  Deputy Thomas Pasquale and two EMTs hustled into the glare of headlights. I looked up at the deputy from where I sat behind the wheel of 310. “And here I was, parked in the middle of everywhere, minding my own business,” I said.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Pasquale asked, and before I said, “Fine,” the two paramedics had found the blood in the other vehicle. Despite their gentle, professional ministrations, we were treated to a pathetic series of yelps, groans, and whines as they got the kid out of the car and strapped to the gurney for the trip back to Posadas General.

  I got out of the car and tossed the clipboard and report on the seat. “She’s going to need a ride,” I said to Thomas. “Let’s see what she wants to do.”

  What Jessie Montoya wanted to do, no doubt, was slink out into the woods somewhere and wait until the world went away. She was the picture of absolute humiliation, cringing away from the young female paramedic who was ready to crawl inside the car if need be for the answers she wanted. Finally satisfied that the girl was unharmed, the EMT backed out of the car.

  “She’s all right,” the paramedic said, and glanced at the front of the vehicle. “Not much of an impact. If the kid up front had had his seat belt on, he probably wouldn’t have smacked his face.” She grinned. “You have a good night, Sheriff.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and the EMT stepped out of my way. I bent down with one hand on the roof for balance, keeping the flashlight beam out of Jessie Montoya’s face. The harsh headlight beams through the back window haloed the hair around her head, hiding her eyes. The smell of urine had overpowered the beer.

  “Jessie, why don’t you step out of the car.” I tried to sound as if she had a choice. “Let’s make sure everything still works, okay?”

  She murmured something that I couldn’t hear. I held out my hand. “Come on.” She turned a bit sideways, swinging one blue jean-clad leg out of the car. “Are your folks home?” She didn’t respond, still struggling with the humiliation of being caught with soiled pants. “If they are, we need to give them a call.”

  “I’ll find my way home. Just let me go,” she said, and there was a quiver to the petulance.

  Tom Pasquale appeared at my elbow. “Here’s the number, sir,” he said, and handed me his notebook. I shined the light on the page and could have imagined that there was writing there. Jessie Montoya shrank back on the seat, out of Deputy Pasquale’s view.

  “Tell me what it is,” I said to Tom, and dug the small cell phone off my belt. Before I dialed, I said to Jessie, “What time were your folks expecting you home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do they know that you’re with Matt and Toby?”

  That brought a little shake of the head.

  “What stops did you make before the Broken Spur?”

  “Before the what?”

  “The saloon down in the valley. Your last stop before this mess here.”

  “We were just like…around, you know? I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember any specific place?”

  “No.”

  “Who had the booze?”

  No matter how she answered that, Jessie Montoya could see trouble on the horizon, so she ignored the question and turned her attention instead to the task of getting out of the mangled little car. She stood with her back to Tom Pasquale.

  I dialed the number, and in a moment, a pleasant contralto voice answered the phone. “Donna?” I said. “Bill Gastner here. How are you folks doing tonight?” I didn’t bother apologizing for the late hour. Young Jessie could do the apologizing later. I tried to keep my tone light, and apparently succeeded. Maybe Donna Montoya thought it was a last-minute, midnight campaign solicitation.

  “Sheriff! So nice to hear from you. We don’t see much of you anymore.”

  “Busy, busy, Donna. Look, the reason I called. Jessie’s going to need a ride home, and I just wanted to make sure one of you was going to be there when we drop her off. We should be back in Posadas in another half an hour or so.”

  A dead silence followed. “Jessie? What do you mean?”

  “Jessie, your daughter. She’s here with me.”

  “With you? How’s that possible? She’s in her bedroom, sound asleep, Sheriff.”

  “Take a minute and go check, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll hold.” She did so, and I glanced at Tom. “The old ‘out the window’ trick,” I said to him, and Jessie ducked her head and slumped her shoulders another notch.

  In less than a minute, Donna Montoya was back on the line, this time with considerable urgency in her voice. “Sheriff, where are you? What’s going on?”

  “Jessie is fine, Donna. She was out with a couple of other kids, and they managed to bang their car up a bit.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re kidding.”

  “No, ma’am. We’re about half a mile from Regal Pass on Fifty-six.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you’re sure she’s all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s fine.” Describing Jessie Montoya just then as “fine” was a bit of a stretch.

  “Do you want us to come down to get her? I mean, who was she with? Are they all right?”

  “She was a backseat passenger in a vehicle operated by Matt Baca, ma’am. Toby Gordan was also in the vehicle, riding up front. And no, it won’t be necessary to come get Jessie. I’ll just have Deputy Pasquale drop her off on his way back to the office. He’s about rea
dy to leave now. You might keep a watch out the window. It should be about twenty minutes.”

  “Let me talk to her, please,” Mrs. Montoya said, and I could hear the coiled cat-o’-nine-tails in her tone.

  “Sure.” I extended the phone toward the girl. “Mom wants to talk to you,” I said. Jessie pushed away from the car, took the phone, and stepped away a couple of paces, her back to us.

  “Thomas,” I said, “make sure she rides in the backseat, and make sure the first thing you do is radio in time and odometer to dispatch. Do the same thing the instant you park in front of Montoya’s.”

  “Yes, sir.” The reminder was probably unnecessary. Circumstances were rare when we provided taxi service, and I wasn’t about to summon a matron all the way from Posadas to escort a fourteen-year-old drunk. We didn’t need a couple of distraught parents on the highway either, not when the deputy was headed in. But there was no point in taking chances. She could enjoy the ride behind the wire mesh with doors that had no handles or window cranks. Maybe it would make an impression.

  I stayed close to Jessie, but she didn’t have much to say to her mother. When she finally said, “Okay,” and handed the phone back to me, I took her by the elbow to steer her toward Pasquale’s car.

  “Here’s Bob,” the deputy said, and I turned to see Torrez strolling toward us, flashlight extinguished and by his side.

  “No luck, eh?” I said. He hadn’t been gone long enough to make more than a perfunctory effort, and even that was a waste of time.

  Torrez shook his head. “He could be anywhere,” he said. “But I guess he’ll turn up eventually. I’ll run on down to Regal and let his father know.” He rapped the back fender of 310 with his flashlight.

  “You want me to come back out and give it a try?” Pasquale asked, but I waved him off.

  “Take Jessie home. You might tell her mother when you get there that we’ll be wanting to talk to her again in the morning, after she sobers up.”

  The deputy escorted the youngster to the patrol car, with Bob Torrez walking behind them. As Pasquale’s unit pulled out of the narrow road, the undersheriff reached into his truck and turned off the light display, leaving us in comfortable darkness.

  “You’ll be all right until the wrecker arrives? I’ll probably be back before they get here,” he said. “We’ll run the tape before they move anything.”

  “Sure.” I swung my flashlight and looked at 310 again. The impact in front of the wheel had caved in the rear door. “It’ll probably make it back to town, once the wrecker pulls this other piece of junk out of the way. And if not”—I shrugged—“it’s a nice quiet night to watch the stars.”

  Chapter Three

  During the twenty minutes that Bob Torrez was gone, I leaned against the front fender of my car, listening to the mountain. I could hear the occasional car or truck miles away, and more than one dog’s yap floated on the night breeze. Other than that, the high country was quiet—just a faint whisper of moving air through the scrub oak and juniper.

  If Matt Baca was working his drunken way through the brush down the southwest slope of Santa Lucia Peak toward the tiny village of Regal, he was stepping quietly. I tried to picture how a staggering drunk might navigate at night through oak brush, over jagged and loose rock outcroppings, and around vast cactus beds. If he was depending on dumb luck, the pattern of the evening’s events thus far should have made him a bit uneasy—assuming that he had sobered enough to ponder such things.

  Just before Torrez arrived, I heard Deputy Thomas Pasquale inform dispatch that he was stopping at the Montoya residence to drop off his passenger. I wondered if, when they drove past the convenience store on the northeast corner of Bustos and Grande, Jessie Montoya had said, “You can just drop me off here. I’ll be all right.” It was going to be a long night for the young lady.

  The Expedition’s headlights swung through the trees, and I ambled down the dirt two-track a few steps to meet it. “I was hoping maybe he’d just stroll out of the woods along the roadside,” Torrez said as he climbed out of the truck.

  “Stagger, you mean.”

  “That, too,” the undersheriff said. “His father isn’t home. This hour of the night, he’s probably shacked up with somebody.”

  “Old Sosimo does that, does he?”

  Bob grunted in disgust. “That would be why Josie left him two years ago. You haven’t heard anything?”

  “Not a peep.”

  “Maybe Matt’s found himself a nice spot to sleep it off. And by the way, I talked to Pasquale a minute ago, right after he dropped off the girl. Apparently Matt drove his old man’s pickup into town, and then he and Toby linked up at the pizza place. It was Toby’s idea to talk Jessie into cruising around with them.”

  “So Toby’s sweet on Jessie,” I said. “What’d he take his mother’s car for? Dumping the girlfriend in the backseat while the guys ride up front is what passes for a date these days?”

  Torrez shrugged. “Sosimo’s pickup is so full of junk that three people can’t fit in the cab. And it stinks. He chews tobacco, and about half the time he doesn’t get it in the cup.”

  “Well, one or another of them will show up eventually,” I said. “The next question to ask Toby, as soon as the doctors cut his lips loose from his teeth, is why he let Matt drive.”

  “Probably because Toby doesn’t have a license yet,” Torrez said. “I haven’t checked, but I think he just turned fifteen. If I remember right, Matt’s going on nineteen. I don’t remember for sure.”

  “For all your relatives, you’d need a directory,” I said. “And I don’t guess that it’s too hard to find someone who’s willing to sell a kid a few six-packs without a background check.” I scanned the interior of the little car with the flashlight again, catching the glint of three open beer cans but no mother lode. “And it doesn’t look like they succeeded in buying anything from Victor Sanchez, either.”

  We heard a truck approaching, and as it slowed the undersheriff reached into the Expedition and turned on the red lights for a pulse or two so that the tow-truck driver would know where to pull off into the trees.

  In less than five minutes, Stubby Lopez had hooked up to the remains of the Nissan, and with that out of the way, I slid into 310 and started it up. It ran just fine, and since the bodywork hadn’t crushed into the wheel or tire, I saw no point in towing the car back.

  “I’d be happy to make a second trip,” Stubby said hopefully.

  “Not necessary,” I said. “But let me go on ahead of you, just in case.” I could have just stayed where I was, content to enjoy a second installment of pretending I was a wart on the side of the mountain, but the mood had been spoiled.

  I drove back to Posadas without incident and parked the battered 310 over behind the gas pumps. Both Torrez and Pasquale would be off duty just as soon as they cleaned up their paperwork. Jackie Taber was the only deputy scheduled for the midnight-to-eight slot that particular day. On a quiet November Saturday morning, one deputy would be adequate.

  September and October had been so slow that all of us had started to look at a routine speeding ticket as excitement. Bob Torrez had even managed to find the time to erect a handful of campaign signs around the county. That was the extent of his efforts.

  More than once I had suggested a couple of radio spots, or maybe a newspaper ad or two—or an appearance at the local Rotary Club luncheon. Each time, he shook his head and grimaced. Maybe he was right. Maybe no one was going to vote for Leona Spears, his only opponent. If all of Torrez’s relatives voted for him, the election would be a landslide.

  I finally came to the conclusion that it wasn’t that Robert Torrez didn’t want the sheriff’s job. He did—he’d spent the better part of fifteen years with the department, and he had his own ideas about how a tiny, broke county could finance the modern computer age of law enforcement. He just didn’t have any patience with the politics that went with it.

  After the sudden shot of adrenaline while having my car assa
ulted, I wasn’t the least bit tired when I walked into my office shortly after midnight. My desk was clear of projects. I knew that if I went home, I’d sit up and read most of the night, and I didn’t want to do that, either. If I remained in my office, odds were good that someone would want to talk to me, and I wasn’t in the mood to play father-confessor. Those were generally the only conversations to be had in the middle of the night.

  I suppose what I really was avoiding was having to answer the irritating question, “So, what are you planning to do with yourself now that you’re retiring?” I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to explain to anyone just then that I didn’t know, and have to listen to a list of suggestions that didn’t interest me. Somehow, people couldn’t bring themselves to believe that I didn’t mind not knowing.

  I took the unmarked car that the civil deputies often used during the day, and headed toward the Broken Spur Saloon on State 56. I knew that a chat with the owner, Victor Sanchez, was on Torrez’s short list. Sanchez would be closing the saloon in another hour or two, and maybe he’d loosen up a bit. Victor and I had crossed swords on several occasions, and I knew that he wouldn’t bubble with enthusiasm when he saw me walk through the door.

  I pulled into the saloon’s lot and parked between a red Jeep Cherokee with New Mexico plates and a Chevy Suburban with Arizona tags. Two or three other vehicles, all pickup trucks, were widely spaced across the gravel.

  The Broken Spur made up in darkness what it lacked in eye appeal. The small foyer was posh in wrinkled black velvet, a dark little hole to wait while the patrons decided which door to choose. To the left were the old-fashioned swinging half doors that led to the saloon. A gaping double doorway to the right opened into the small dining room.

  As my eyes adjusted, I could make out a young couple seated in the dining room, hunched toward each other, deep in conversation. A single candle flickering between them. I pegged them for the Arizona plates.