Steven F. Havill
Statute of Limitations
Chapter One
Estelle Reyes-Guzman scrunched down into the sofa, a large pillow clutched to her chest, face buried in the pillow’s soft corduroy to stifle her laughter. Across the room, her two small sons sat on the piano bench, elbow to elbow, creating a remarkable coordination of sound and story. The oldest, six-year-old Francisco, provided the music as his nimble fingers danced on the keyboard. Four-year-old Carlos narrated. He held a large children’s book open on his lap, and even though he couldn’t read the words, Carlos had heard the story so often that he knew it by heart, using the pictures as his cue.
In the story, a sweaty, dejected javalina-the ubiquitous wild pig of the southwest-shuffled across the bleak desert at high noon. Even the towering cacti provided no shade from the sun that blistered his tender hide. The plodding, monotonous bass notes of the piano accompanied the little pig as the scene unwound in Francisco’s head and through his brother’s narration.
The little pig looked up, squinting into the sun. As he did so, a triplet of high piano notes, as light and quick as the wink of sun reflecting from a discarded can, made him flinch. He wiped his brow with a colorful bandana and heaved a great sigh, and even as Carlos said the words, “I’m sooooo hot and tired,” Francisco’s fingers executed a weary glissando that wandered down the keyboard. Both boys giggled.
Their mother, the sole audience member for this particular performance, suppressed a laugh, not wanting to distract her sons even though they had performed this particular story so many times that everyone in the household knew it by heart. Still, each performance brought new discoveries. And this time, Posadas County Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman savored the moment for herself.
The Christmas season had brought a rare visit from her husband’s aunt, Sofía Tournál, from Veracruz, Mexico. Sofía was a favorite of the two little boys, perhaps because she was so skilled, in her own dignified, quiet way, at drawing them into lengthy conversations that challenged their agile little minds. Estelle loved her aunt dearly and treasured her visits.
After a day of nonstop visiting, baking, and cooking, often as a triumvirate with her mother and Sofía, Estelle was ready to draw into herself for a few minutes. Used to long moments by herself, in company only with her own thoughts, Estelle felt the constant onslaught of holiday cheer coaxing her toward dark, quiet corners. Ever perceptive, Sofía had whisked Estelle’s mother off to an early Christmas Eve church service, leaving Estelle alone with her husband and the two boys. With the children fully engaged, Dr. Francis Guzman had taken a few minutes to escape into the sanctuary of his office.
Estelle nestled on the sofa, shoes off, an afghan fluffed around her shoulders, absorbed in the remarkable mixing of story and soundtrack by her two sons. She was further lulled by the aromas that filled the house, especially from the large cauldron of posole on the kitchen range. The tangy chile and spices fought with the remnant fragrance of the final batch of tiny sugared pastries that Sofía had conjured.
There were no telephones in the desert world of the storybook javalinas that Christmas Eve. When the phone jangled, it wasn’t a sound effect. Estelle groaned and refused to move. By the second ring, six-year-old Francisco Guzman had interrupted the story flow, matched the telephone’s pitch on the piano, and mimicked the jangling telephone with a trill in unison.
“Telephone, Mamá,” he bellowed without missing a beat.
“Thanks, hijo,” Estelle sighed. She shifted around on the sofa, and by the time she reached across to the end table and picked up the telephone receiver, it had jangled twice more.
“Guzman,” she said, and watched as the two boys huddled in whispered collaboration over the book. Francisco’s hands curled together in his lap, trapped by the conscious effort not to touch the keys while his mother was on the telephone.
Estelle listened to a moment of silence-almost long enough for her to guess that it was a telephone solicitor calling-before a voice on the phone said hesitantly, “Is this Estelle?”
“Yes?”
“This is Eduardo,” the caller said, but Estelle had already recognized the husky, diffident voice of Eduardo Martinez, now several years retired after a long tenure as chief of police for the Village of Posadas. Eduardo had kept his school zones safe over the years, always happy to turn over any case more complex than shoplifting to the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. More than one village resident-including some of the Sheriff’s Department deputies-assumed that Eduardo was simply lazy. Estelle knew that was far from the truth. Eduardo had his own strong beliefs about what constituted law enforcement and had no trouble determining when his tiny department needed help.
“Well, Merry Christmas, sir. It’s good to hear from you,” Estelle said. She pushed herself out of the deep sofa, unwound the afghan, and walked toward the kitchen.
“Did I interrupt at a bad time?” the chief asked. In the background, Estelle could hear a television show, muffled conversation punctuated with bursts of canned laughter.
“Not at all.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was ten minutes before seven. Her mother and Sofía Tournál would be returning shortly from the early Christmas Eve service at the tiny mission in Regál, a stone’s throw from the Mexican border twenty-five miles southwest of Posadas. Her husband was working on some secret thing back in the master bedroom, away from the prying eyes of their two inquisitive sons.
“How’s Essie?” Estelle asked. Eduardo and his wife, Essie Martinez, were like two peas from the same pod-short, rotund, gentle folks, who had created a large brood of short, round children who had then produced classroomsful of grandchildren.
“Oh, she’s fine. She’s off at church, I think. We got the family here for the holiday, you know, and they all went.” He laughed weakly. “It’s quite a crowd, these days. Say-” and he hesitated “-is your husband home, do you think?”
Estelle heard something else in Eduardo’s soft voice that touched off an alarm. “Sure, he’s here. Are you all right?”
“Well, I think so,” and once more Estelle heard the hesitation. “But if he’s there, maybe…”
“Just a second.” She was at the master bedroom in five strides and rapped a knuckle on the door. “Querido? Eduardo Martinez is on the phone for you.”
“I’ll pick up in here,” Dr. Guzman replied. “Come on in.”
As Estelle swung the door open, her husband had already turned away from the large computer screen that dominated the desk in the corner. He picked up the telephone extension beside the bed.
“Eduardo?” he said into the phone. “What’s going on?” He listened, his fingers drumming a slow roll on the nightstand. After a moment, he reached out and picked up a pencil, then scooted a small note pad closer. “Okay.” He listened again, turning to look at Estelle. He shook his head slowly, then turned back to the pad. “Okay, Eduardo, this is what I think we’d better do. You’ve been taking the Coumaxium right along?”
What should have been a simple “yes” or “no” answer became a wandering dissertation, and Francis fidgeted, finally interrupting. “Okay. Look, where are you right now? It doesn’t sound like you’re home.”
Again Francis waited for the explanation, and Estelle saw her husband’s forehead pucker as his frown deepened. “I think you should just wait right there, then. You’re at the motel by yourself?”
Estelle sat down on the bed, intrigued. “Then this is what I think we’d better do, Eduardo,” Francis said. “I think we’d better bring you on over to the emergency room. That’s going to be the fastest.” As Dr. Guzman listened, he looked over at Estelle and then rolled his eyes heavenward.