Patrick nodded, and then said, “Do you want me to call my dad?”
“From here? There’s no need. Just go on home.”
He smiled for what I guessed was the first time in many days. “Sir, my truck is in Wyoming. It’s a long walk out to the ranch.”
“Ah,” I said. “I’ll drop you off. When you take the bus back to Gillette to get your truck, save the bills. The county will reimburse you.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Bus, Patrick. Baggage class.”
I didn’t take time to chat when I left Patrick at the driveway of the Torrance ranch. It was already dark when I pulled back out onto the state highway and headed my old Blazer south toward Regal. I was after one final piece of the puzzle, and I knew exactly where to look.
Chapter 36
From the pass above Regal, I could count the lights, a sparse scattering of a dozen spots of yellow. Farther to the south and east, I could see the bright glare of the sodium-vapor lights at the border crossing. The gate would be locked, the officers gone for the day.
With the windows down, I drove through the narrow dirt lanes, keeping a sedate speed neither too fast nor too slow to attract attention. A single bulb burned somewhere in the bowels of Mateo Esquibel’s little house, the light faded to little more than a candle’s worth by the time it washed up against the lace curtains.
No lights were on at the ancient building next door. More than sixty feet long and only twelve or fourteen feet wide, it might have been a mercantile or feed store at one time. A portion of the roof had collapsed, and the three elm trees in the yard were dead. I stopped the Blazer near the end of the building, pushed off the lights, switched off the engine, and got out.
For February, the night was mild with just the faintest breeze stirring the tall grass along the old building’s foundation. But I wasn’t interested in history. I pushed the truck’s door closed just enough to turn off the dome light and skirted the old store, heading toward the back of Mateo Esquibel’s property.
If the old man had a dog, it was inside. I moved slowly, keeping my flashlight off. I didn’t remember any fences in my path, just an open side yard strewn with rocks and cacti.
I reached the trailer where the old man kept his wood supply, and bent down to look at the hitch that rested on a stout chunk of rail-road tie. If it had been used recently, fresh steel-against-steel contact marks would show on the bottom of the housing that covered the ball. I was about to attempt an impossible position so that I could see the hitch when the dog began barking.
From inside the house came the insistent, rhythmic yapping and I froze in place, flashlight switched off. For the better part of five minutes I stood there while the mutt ran through its entire repertoire of canine noises. No one came to either door or window, and eventually the dog gave up. For another five minutes I stood still, giving the animal time to lose interest.
Moving cautiously, I backed up and made my way around the back side of the trailer, and then to the back wall of the garage. A side window had been boarded up years ago, the nails rusting and sending streaks of black down the wooden walls.
At the front corner I hesitated, listening for the dog. Then I eased around to the doorway. It was secured with an old iron hasp and an enormous brass padlock. Any shine the brass may have had when it was new had given way to a dull patina decades before. By placing a single finger between the two sides, I tried to pry the doors open. They didn’t move a fraction of an inch. Whoever had hung the door had been an expert.
I made my way around the east side of the garage. Another window was covered, this time with a combination of boards and cardboard. One of the eight panes of glass had been hit in the corner with a small projectile-no doubt a neighbor kid’s rock from a slingshot. The pane hadn’t shattered, but by working my pocketknife into the hole I could pry loose a small wedge of glass.
I did so, and then pushed the cardboard that had covered the inside of the window to one side-just an inch or less, but enough for the beam of the flashlight to lance into the garage. I squinted and sucked in my breath. The beam bounced off chrome and fancy paint.
With care, I went to work with the pocketknife again, enlarging the hole by prying out another sliver of glass.
This time, when I looked, I could see the bright colors clearly, the trade name on the fender, and, as I swept the beam back, the fancy gas cap, air dam, and roof rack. The Weatherfords’ Suburban had survived its high-speed trip from Oklahoma no worse for wear.
I took a deep breath and snapped off the flashlight, standing quietly with my back to the garage.
Now that the pieces were drifting into place, it all made perfect sense. Carlos Sanchez had himself an effortless pipeline for prize vehicles, straight to Mexico. He could make copies of the keys at leisure; he could lift an extra temporary sticker and fill in appropriate names. It wouldn’t be hard to find willing drivers-both for the excitement and the money. And either explained how Tammy Woodruff had gotten sucked in.
A dozen questions still circled in my mind like hungry vultures over a carcass. It made no sense that Carlos Sanchez would let this vehicle sit in a garage a rifle shot from the border. No matter how innocent the garage appeared, every minute the stolen truck stayed on the U.S. side of the line, the risk increased. That meant that all we had to do was wait.
I made my way back to the Blazer, climbed in, and released the clutch, allowing the vehicle to roll forward down the slight incline. When the road forked, I turned left, started the engine, and drove out of the village as casually as if I lived there.
The last dirt road turned off the pavement just before the first switchback. I followed it, winding up the hillside toward the enormous white water-storage tank that had been installed with monies from a federal grant five years before. The tank provided ample and dependable storage, and its broad, smooth sides provided local spray-can artists with an open canvas.
I drove around the back side of the tank and parked under two-foot high letters that proclaimed Esmarelda y Paco, ’93. The bulk of the tank shaded me from the vapor light. From there, I commanded a view of the entire valley. I could clearly see the patch of black behind Mateo Esquibel’s house where the garage stood.
I turned the volume of the radio up just enough that I could hear the broadcasts, but kept the windows of the truck closed.
The night closed in, broken only by an occasional jet high overhead or a coyote somewhere in the hills behind me. Shortly after eight o’clock, a car engine started somewhere down in the village. A moment later headlights flicked on near a house a hundred yards west of Esquibel’s. I watched as the vehicle oozed out of one driveway, traveled down the road a stone’s throw, and pulled into another. A porch light went on, remained bright for a couple of minutes, and then went out.
The folks of Regal weren’t into rompin’ and stompin’, at least not on a Wednesday night. I looked across to the hillside on the east where the small church stood, but if the Catholics had planned a Wednesday night service, they hadn’t showed.
All evening long, I’d listened to Gayle Sedillos working dispatch, her voice caught by the repeater on Regal Peak. At 9:17, she came on the air, and I could hear a slight edge to her voice, a slight tremor of excitement.
“Three oh seven, PCS.”
“Three oh seven, go ahead.” Tommy Mears sounded bored. He was a good actor.
“Three oh seven, ten-twenty?” She had asked the deputy where he was less than twenty minutes before, and at that time he’d been at the airport, talking with manager Jim Bergin.
Now, he replied, “Three oh seven is two miles west, on the interstate.”
“Ten-four, three oh seven. If you get a chance, would you swing by the hospital and pick up a folder from Detective Reyes-Guzman? She said it’s at the information desk.”