As they crested Regál Pass, Estelle could see a scattering of lights off to the right, through the mist and light rain. The village of Regál nestled against the slope of the San Cristóbals, facing Mexico to the south. The land fell away to the flat, empty Mexican desert, a vista of endless stunted brush, cacti, and arroyos by day, a giant black hole at night.
A thousand yards southeast of the village, the Regál border crossing was harshly illuminated by a fleet of lights. In recent months, the fence had been upgraded, the chainlink and razor wire shining in the light of the sodium vapors.
There wasn’t enough traffic to operate the border crossing at night. As a concession, a large gravel-surfaced lot had been provided so that folks could park their RVs and grab a nap until the customs people arrived at 6:00 a.m. Or, they could walk a hundred yards to the church and find quiet comfort there. The iglesia was never locked-its mammoth, carved doors had never known a hasp.
“Nice night,” Gastner muttered. “You want to lay odds on what happened?”
“What do you think?” Estelle leaned forward, still picturing the church and its parking lot.
“I think that they decided not to take the interstate, and took the state road without knowing where the hell it went,” Gastner said. “I think they’re lost. The kind of genius who would steal a 1982 Dodge in Indiana as a getaway car would have trouble with a road map.”
“Maybe so.”
“Three oh two, ten twenty.” Sheriff Robert Torrez’s voice was barely audible, and Estelle reached down to turn the radio volume up.
“I’m on water tank road,” Deputy Pasquale replied. “Mike’s here with me.” The radio barked squelch twice as Torrez acknowledged by keying the microphone.
“There’s a midnight service planned?” Gastner asked.
“I think so,” Estelle said. “Father Anselmo does a service at seven over in María, and then comes back here for one at nine and then again at midnight. Someone will keep the fire going.”
“Emilio Contreras, probably,” Gastner said, and Estelle felt a pang of worry. No church enjoyed more tender, persistent maintenance than that provided to Nuestra Señora by Contreras, himself closing on eighty years old. The old man cleaned, painted, and patched, working all day, every day, except Sundays. Despite using an aluminum walker to support a bad hip, Contreras walked the three hundred yards from his home in Regál to the church.
Before the border fence upgrade, Regál had been a favorite resting spot for illegals, and the unlocked church had been a convenient hostel. Even a hard cottonwood pew made a welcome bed after a desert crossing on foot. Various law enforcement agencies had tried to convince Father Anselmo over the years that a locked door would be a small concession. Small concession or not, no lock had marred the finish since 1826, when the door had first been hung.
Tom Pasquale’s unit was parked on the gravel access road to the village water tank, high on the flank of the mountains behind Regál, with Deputy Mike Sisneros’s well off the highway’s shoulder. Sheriff Torrez turned into the narrow lane and stopped door-to-door with the deputy’s vehicle. Estelle pulled onto the shoulder behind Mike’s SUV and killed the lights. By the time she had shrugged into her slicker, Pasquale had gotten out. He rested an elbow comfortably on the spotlight housing of Torrez’s Expedition.
“Nothing going on that I can see,” he said. “The chief’s car was parked there when I cruised through. I didn’t even pull into the parking lot. Didn’t want to spook ’em. You want to use my glasses?” He reached into his vehicle and pulled the bulky, military-surplus night glasses out, offering them to Estelle, but she shook her head.
“That’s okay,” she said. “The thing that concerns me is Emilio Contreras.” She turned and looked down the hill. It was dark enough that she couldn’t see smoke from the church’s stovepipe, rainy enough that the faint glow from candles wouldn’t illuminate the windows. “They get this far, and now they find that the border’s closed.”
“Not the sharpest tools in the box,” Torrez said.
“Maybe they’re thinking about spending the night until the border opens,” Tom said.
“Maybe. We don’t know if they’re armed or not. We don’t know if they’re just sitting there chatting with Emilio, or robbing him, or what.”
“So let’s go find out,” Torrez said. He turned and grinned at Estelle. “You up for helping an old peg leg?”
“Sure,” she said. “What do you have in mind?”
“Have Bill take your unit,” Torrez said. “If he stays right here, that’ll cover us if they manage to make a run up the hill. Mike can cover the village, and Tom will stay loose on the highway.”
A fleeting expression of impatience crossed Pasquale’s face, but he didn’t argue. He was in uniform, and neither Estelle nor the sheriff were.
In a moment, with the vehicle swap completed and Estelle’s unmarked sedan parked on the water tank road with Bill Gastner at the wheel, Estelle and Bob Torrez drove sedately down the state highway in Torrez’s unmarked Expedition.
Going on ahead, Mike Sisneros turned onto Sanchez Road, the dirt thoroughfare that was Regál’s main street. In a moment, his county vehicle had disappeared in the labyrinth of corrals, barns, sheds, and dwellings. Tom Pasquale drove directly toward the border crossing and the parking lot there.
“What’s the word on Chief Martinez?” Estelle asked as they neared the church.
“I don’t know,” Torrez said simply. “I got called away on this before I had a chance to find out. When they took him into the ER, he was still alive. That’s all I know.” He swung the unmarked vehicle into the church’s broad parking lot, nosing upward toward the knoll on which Nuestra Señora had been built. At the same time, he reached over and turned off the radio.
The chief’s brown Buick was parked away from the doorway, snuggled tight against the church, invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look. Torrez regarded the Buick for a moment. He then parked on the other side of the church, letting the dark bulk of the building hide the various non-civilian features of the Expedition should someone open the front door of the church and peer outside for a closer look.
“You suppose some bonehead from Indiana knows how much that car’s worth down south?” he asked.
“I doubt it,” Estelle said. She unclipped her badge from her belt and slipped it in her pocket, then leaned forward and slid her automatic as far rearward as it would go, well hidden under her jacket.
“No stealth now,” Torrez said. He managed a grin, and Estelle saw that the crow’s feet around his eyes had grown a bit more etched during the last month or two-and not from laughter. “We’re supposed to be parishioners stopping by to see if anyone remembered to bring the fruitcake. And right about now, I wish this damn place had a back door we could just slip in.”
He opened the car door and slid slowly down until his feet touched the ground, then pulled his cane loose from its position between the seats.
Estelle had just enough room between the vehicle and the building to slip through the open door, which she then slammed with vigor. “You park close enough to the building?” she said loudly.
“Hago todo lo possible,” the sheriff said, and his Spanish startled Estelle. He took his time with the two narrow steps up to the church door, and grasped the wrought-iron handle. He partially opened the door inward, and stopped, turning to look at Estelle. “Did Geraldo remember about tonight?” he asked, and Estelle shook her head.