Much as I wanted the son of a bitch, I didn’t want the old man hurt. If he had known what Carlos Sanchez had been up to, he was technically as guilty as the man who held the shotgun. But I found his complicity unlikely. He was going to be a sad old man now, knowing that Sanchez hadn’t been visiting him out of respect for the aging.
I backed up, filling the doorway. “Carlos…” I started to say, but he interrupted me with an impatient wave of the shotgun.
“Call them off.”
With a deep breath, I turned to shout at Torrez, who crouched behind the bulk of the truck.
Behind him, I saw more lights turned on as the tiny village gradually awoke to the ruckus in Mateo Esquibel’s front yard. The old man’s dog ran out of the house and made a beeline for Bob Torrez, stopping a dozen feet from the deputy to bark frantically.
I heard the guttural squelch of Howard Bishop’s radio, and then the deputy slithered out of the car and crouched by the front fender. “Sir!” he shouted. “Mears just let Victor Sanchez through. He’s coming in.”
I stopped in my tracks and looked to the east, toward the main road. A vehicle was just pulling into Regal, going much too fast and fishtailing in the dirt.
Turning to Carlos, I said, “Is this the rescue you were hoping for?”
But to my surprise, he jerked Mateo Esquibel closer and rested the muzzle of the shotgun on the old man’s shoulder. “Get him out of here.” The urgency in Sanchez’s voice surprised me. I waited, framed in the doorway, knowing that more confusion might work in our favor, providing a safe opening.
If Carlos Sanchez let down his guard for an instant, I could grab the barrel of the pump shotgun, wresting it away from the old man’s head. Failing that, I knew exactly how Sergeant Robert Torrez operated. Even as he moved into position behind the Suburban, I’d caught the glint of light off the barrel of his.308 deer rifle. One opening was all he would need.
Victor Sanchez’s fat pale-green Continental slithered into the yard, almost taking off the door of Howard Bishop’s county car.
He jerked open the door and stalked toward us, reaching the back of the Suburban before Torrez blocked his way.
“Let him come through,” I shouted, and I saw Carlos Sanchez duck his head. He fidgeted and backed around the old man until their two heads merged as one. He pulled Mateo Esquibel a step back into the living room. When Victor Sanchez reached the stoop, I held up a hand.
“You’d better stop there,” I said.
“I don’t have to talk to you!” Carlos shouted at his father, and for the first time there was a crack in the younger man’s voice.
Victor’s face bulged with fury as he looked at me. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he whispered.
“Your son’s holding Mr. Esquibel, Victor. That Suburban’s stolen. He was trying to slip across the border.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. When he spoke, he had to force the words out through clenched teeth.
“Carlos! Get out here!”
“Be careful,” I said. “He’s got a shotgun.”
Victor’s head snapped around like I’d jerked it with a chain. “He’s wanted in connection with two murders, Victor. Deputy Encinos and Tammy Woodruff. He’s not just going to let you walk in there.”
I turned slightly in the doorway so Victor could see past me.
Carlos saw his father and shouted, “Get him out of here! I mean it.”
“Carlos, don’t do anything stupid,” I said. Victor Sanchez started to push past me, but I blocked the doorway with one arm. Without taking his eyes off his son, Sanchez said, “Get out of my way.” He stood patiently, waiting for me to weigh the options. Finally I dropped my arm. Victor stepped forward into the living room, standing between me and his son.
I saw no weapon in Victor’s hands, and I was banking on Carlos being incapable of swinging the shotgun without having to twist away from the old man. That would give me room for a clear shot, and I edged my hand back toward my holstered revolver.
But Victor Sanchez had a different agenda. I don’t know what he knew, or what he had been able to piece together. But right then, his small, hard eyes were focused on the shotgun and the old man.
He stood facing his son, hands clenched at his sides.
“?Como podrias hacer este?” he whispered. “How could you do this?”
“Get out of my way, Papa,” Carlos snarled. His feet shifted and I could see the knuckles of his right hand turn white.
Victor stood stock-still, his eyes unblinking. “Is it true?”
Carlos’s feet danced another nervous little two-step, and the muzzle of the shotgun dipped.
“Is it true?” Victor said again, and the words were no louder than a soft puff of night air.
I edged farther into the room, two paces behind Victor’s broad back. Carlos saw me, and this time there was almost a note of pleading in his voice. “Get him out of here!”
Victor had read all the answer he needed in his son’s panic. “How could you do it?” he said again, this time in English. He shook his head slowly and spoke as if he were talking to himself. “Por nada…y con el viejo.?Por un poquito dinero, tu amagas tu abuelo propio? Your own grandfather?”
Carlos lifted the shotgun, almost resting it on the ancient man’s shoulder. Its black muzzle pointed directly at Victor Sanchez’s face.
“Dos personas,” Victor said. “?Y como podrias robar de me??Como podrias hacerlo?”
“Papa…” Carlos started to say, and he sounded like a child.
“No creo que…” Victor said, but it was his hand I was watching. His right hand had drifted around behind him, slipping under the bulky jacket he wore. Even as he pulled out the small revolver, he moved as quickly and gracefully as a dancer. Lashing out with his left hand, he pushed the shotgun muzzle away from the old man’s head, at the same time driving his right hand out like a prize-fighter.
The explosion of the revolver was loud in the confines of the room, and Carlos Sanchez staggered backward with a cry. Victor pushed after him, wresting the shotgun out of his grasp. The weapon thudded to the floor as Victor drove his son toward the back wall of the living room. Mateo Esquibel, looking puzzled, rubbed his face.
The two bodies crashed into the wall, and a small framed portrait of Christ dropped to the floor, its glass shattering.
Jerking the handcuffs off my belt, I lunged across the room to where Victor held his son against the wall. Carlos’s eyes drifted past the purple, enraged face of his father to my own.
“He shot me,” he said simply.
“Victor, give me the gun!” I shouted, and even as I did so, the revolver thudded to the floor.
“He shot me,” Carlos said again, and started to sag sideways. Victor held him by his jacket until the younger man’s weight was too much to support. Then he lowered his son to the dusty floor of the living room. I kicked the short-barreled.38 away and held up a hand to stop Torrez and Bishop as they charged up the front steps.
“Take care of him,” I said, pointing at Mateo Esquibel.
I knelt beside Victor Sanchez, and I could smell the onions, and the fried chicken, and the beer that he served at the Broken Spur Saloon. He said nothing, but his eyes were locked on his son’s face. The rage was gone, replaced by quiet desperation.
“I can’t…” Carlos Sanchez said clearly, and stopped.
“Lie still, son.” I turned to issue orders, but Deputy Bishop was ahead of me. He slipped out the door and I heard his boots thudding across the yard toward his car.
“Papa,” Carlos Sanchez whispered. “It hurts.” Blood was beginning to leak through the jacket, and Carlos made a strangled, choking sound, at the same time that he tried to push himself up to a sitting position. And then his eyes glazed and lost focus. “Papa,” he said one more time, and died.