“Now wait a minute,” Guy said. “If this affects me or my store-or my drugs-then I have every right to know.”
“Yes, you do, sir,” Estelle said, and pushed herself back to her feet. “We have evidence that histamine diphosphate was involved in an incident earlier. We’d like to know where the chemical came from.”
The pharmacist regarded Estelle without expression. “And?”
“And that’s all I can tell you at the moment, sir.”
“What kind of ‘incident’, sheriff?”
I wondered how Estelle was going to side-step that question, since I couldn’t imagine that she wanted to discuss George Payton’s death while the investigation was so preliminary.
“At any time in the past week or two, can you recollect anyone other than yourself or Mrs. Tomlinson back here?” she asked.
“No, I can’t.” Guy’s impatience grew. “That door,” and he pointed at the compounding room’s entrance, “is always closed unless I happen to be working back here. None of the clerks ever come in here. They have no need to. And you still haven’t answered my question. What prompts all this, anyway? What’s important enough to justify skulking about in the middle of the night? You mention an ‘incident’, and that’s all you can tell me?”
“We’re not skulking, Guy,” I said. “But you know the drill.”
“Well, in this case, I don’t know the drill, Bill. Somebody’s been in here, and it looks like they helped themselves to a dangerous chemical. My God, man, I don’t think I can impress on you enough just how lethal this stuff can be. I mean, it makes rattlesnake venom look like weak tea.”
“We understand that, sir,” Estelle said patiently. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. At the moment. We’re asking your cooperation and discretion in this.”
Guy looked across at me, then back at Estelle. “And if it turns out that I had a moment of brain fade and just shelved the chemical incorrectly?”
“Then I hope you’ll tell us immediately,” Estelle said. “And if you should find it, please let us know before you touch the bottle, sir.”
“Because?”
“Because we’ll be looking for fingerprints, sir.” She handed him one of her cards, but he waved it off.
“For heaven’s sakes, I know where you live, work, and even play,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, holding the card out until he took it with considerable impatience. “If something comes up, or you remember something else, please feel free to call that cell number any time, rather than going through dispatch.”
Guy Trombley scrutinized the card, slowly shaking his head. “Is this involving something going on over at the school?”
“We certainly hope not, sir.”
He huffed a sigh. “Well, I hope to God not. Teenagers today are a new breed to me.” I saw his jaw set a fraction, and his gaze wandered toward the front of the store. I supposed he was already indicting his counter help.
“We’ll get back with you, Guy,” I offered. “Give us some time.”
Chapter Twenty-two
I left the undersheriff at her office just as the clock flipped to one a.m. She didn’t need me hanging around, pretending I was still sheriff. And maybe with no distractions she’d be able to break away for home, where Irma Sedillos, the ever-patient nana, was tending the roost.
With a full cup of coffee from the Handiway, I headed south again. As I passed the county road that led toward Borracho Springs, I looked for Deputy Jackie Taber’s county unit, but didn’t see it. That didn’t surprise me. She would find a discreet spot and blend with the night shadows, hiding even the bright white paint of her Bronco.
A few minutes later, I followed the winding driveway through the scrub and the cacti to Herb Torrance’s H-Bar-T. The lights were on in the house, and the Chrysler was parked in the circular drive with Herb’s older Chevy pickup pulled in behind it.
A pair of cats streaked across the yard and disappeared through the fence. By the time I’d parked behind the pickup, Herb had appeared at the door and beckoned. Apparently sleep was eluding him, too.
“Jesus, Bill,” he said. “What a goddamn day.” Socks the cow dog tried to wedge his head through the rancher’s legs, and Herb pushed him back. “Git,” he snapped.
“How’s the boy?”
“Dale’s all right. You know,” and he held the door open wide for me, a boot still in the dog’s face. “When the sheriff called sayin’ that you’d found Patrick, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I guess I’ll stop by the hospital in the morning.” He looked sharply at me. “He’s all right, ain’t he?”
“We don’t know yet, Herb. Someone did for him, that’s for sure. It looks like a skull fracture, with some bleeding on the brain.” I shook my head wearily. “And you can save your drive to town. They airlifted him to Albuquerque.”
“Son of a bitch.” He reached out and took my cup, and I followed him into the kitchen. “Torrez said you found him over to Borracho Springs.”
“Yep. We need to locate his folks,” I said. “I thought you could help me with that.”
“Well, now, I think I can. Now I don’t have the phone number or nothing like that, but I know they work for the Martin farms over to Hatch. They were seasonal for ’em, but they went to full time here not long ago. Got their papers and such.” He poured my coffee carefully. “You want me to call ’em?”
“Actually, I think Estelle or Bobby should, Herb. They have all the details and can answer any questions that Pat’s folks might have. I’ll pass on the information about the Martins to them, and they can make it official.”
“I’m with ya on that,” Herb said, and the relief in his voice was obvious. “His folks will sure want to know.” He heaved a great sigh. “Well, shit.” He took a long pull of the coffee, looking out into the distance. “This is sure as hell a fix, ain’t it.”
“We’ll do what we can, Herb. We have a description, we know exactly when the thieves crossed the border with the truck, and we have a guess about where they might be headed. That’s a start.”
“I suppose,” he said. “Naranjo be any help, you think?”
“We’ll see.” There was no point in sounding mindlessly optimistic. How efficient the Mexican police would be was anyone’s guess, and Herb knew that. He also knew that our various agencies couldn’t just charge cross the border, taking the Mexican law into our own hands. The political line in the dirt didn’t mean diddly damn to the coyotes, cacti, or creosote bush, but the humans who lived along both sides of the border knew that the line sure as hell complicated their lives.
Even in their rural district, Captain Tomás Naranjo and his officers lived with a nightmare of drug cartel violence that made our incident seem like an unimportant blip on the statistical chart. But he’d do what he could, deft, politic, even subtle when he needed to be. The captain possessed an interesting sense of justice that wasn’t necessarily driven by the letter of the law-either Mexican law or ours. That’s what I was depending on in this case.
“You know…” Herb took his time lighting a cigarette. He regarded the blue heeler, who had settled in the living room, near the door. “I don’t give a shit about the truck.”
“I understand that.”
“I want those sons-a-bitches behind bars, Bill. Or buried out in the desert somewheres. Whoever hammered that boy? You know, Pat’s a good kid. A good kid. Been good for my Dale. Kind of steady, you know? Anything I can do to help, well, you just speak up.”
“You know I will.”
“Fill up?” He reached for my cup again, and I obliged. “Where are you headed at this hour, anyways?”
“I wanted to chat with Victor,” I replied.
Herb’s laugh turned into a racking cough, and he had to wipe his eyes. “Good luck with that,” he managed. “He can be just about the most goddamned unpleasant son-of-a-bitch I know.”