“He didn’t say anything to me,” she said. Looking beyond Torrez’s wide shoulders, she saw Emilio Contreras standing in front of the stove, hands casually behind his back as he toasted his arthritic fingers.
“Hola, Emilio!” she called, and with her left hand held the door until Torrez had passed clear. The old man beamed widely at them, and Estelle felt a wash of relief. One of the two men was standing directly in front of the altar, as if he had been examining the ornate cross overhead. His ponytail reached almost to his waist, and he had twisted to see who had entered the church. His welding cap was scrunched in his right hand. The other man sat sideways on the pew directly in front of the stove’s alcove, one arm lying on the high wooden back, the other blocked from Estelle’s view by the pew in front of him.
“We stopped by early to see if there’s anything else you need, Father,” Estelle said, and she closed the door, making sure the wooden latch fell into place.
“Hey, Bobby-you know what you were supposed to bring this afternoon,” Emilio said. He stepped away from the stove, one hand rubbing his hot corduroy trousers against his butt.
“What’s that?” Torrez said.
“Remember that load of firewood? You know,” and he indicated the deep wood box off to his right. “I got what’s in here, and maybe one or two more loads, and that’s it. You going to bring some down?”
Torrez grimaced at his poor memory as he made his way down the center aisle. “Ah…we’ll get it down here. I got too many things goin’.”
“How you been?” Emilio said to Estelle as she approached. “The hijos?”
“They’re fine,” Estelle said.
“I enjoyed seeing your mother again,” Emilio said. “She and your aunt were here at the early service. I was looking for you guys.” His nod included both Estelle and the sheriff. His eyes were watchful, but Estelle felt a surge of relief that he was keeping perfect composure-either a tribute to his skill as an actor, or because the two car thieves had done nothing to arouse his suspicion.
“That’s the way it is,” Estelle said. She shied away from the stove. “Caramba, you have that old thing stoked up.” By retreating away from the heat, she was able to step past the pew where the man sat. Medium age, medium build, heavy work boots, blue jeans and brown work jacket, no weapon visible, both hands in sight. His legs were crossed, and his right hand rested lightly on one boot.
“Nasty night,” Emilio said.
“Yes, it is,” Estelle agreed. “How are you doing?” she said to the man, her smile broad and warm. The big man with the ponytail glanced first at his partner, then at Estelle, then at Robert Torrez. The sheriff was making his way with painful steps toward the front of the church, his right hand running along the plastered wall for additional support. The big man rested his weight against the communion rail, arms crossed over his chest. If he carried a weapon, there was no sign. It certainly didn’t appear as if Torrez was advancing on him…perhaps just making his way to the sacristy of the church to check on who knew what.
“These are some traveling friends from…” Emilio paused, standing near the wood box. “Where did you say you was from?”
“Over Oklahoma way,” the man in the pew said. “We’re just passin’ through.” He smiled engagingly at Estelle. “Nice place you folks have here.”
“Yes, it is,” Estelle said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Torrez was two pews from the front of the church, within fifteen feet of the big man with the ponytail. The sheriff’s hand pulled away from the windowsill at that point, and Estelle knew exactly what he intended.
She swept her hand behind her, and the automatic appeared in her hand in one fluid motion. The man in the pew startled backward, almost losing his balance.
“Both hands on top of your head,” Estelle snapped.
“You too, buckaroo,” she heard Torrez bellow in a tone that left nothing to the imagination. His own.45 had appeared in his right hand, the cane now abandoned against the wall.
“Hey, we don’t…”
“Hands on top of your head,” Estelle barked, and she motioned with the automatic. Emilio had moved away, and he now stood well off to one side, both hands on the back of one of the pews.
As large as Ponytail was, he elected not to argue with Torrez. He belly-flopped onto the floor when told to do so, arms stretched out over his head.
The middle-aged man lifted both hands, but he hesitated.
“Hands on your head, fingers locked,” Estelle commanded, and snapped off her automatic’s thumb safety. The man’s startled expression had been replaced by wary assessment.
“I’m not armed,” he said, shaking his head. “Really…” He stood up slowly, and Estelle shifted position so that the end of the next pew was between her and the man.
Behind her, Estelle heard the sharp snick of handcuffs and knew that Ponytail had been neutralized. The middle-aged man heard the same sound and glanced to his right, toward Emilio Contreras. With a grunt, he moved with remarkable agility, springing first onto the pew and then vaulting the back, his heavy boots crashing on the wooden floor.
Even if Estelle, or Bob Torrez now limping up behind her, had wanted to fire if they saw the threat of a weapon, Emilio was in jeopardy. The man saw the opening and sprinted toward the door.
“Wardell!” shouted the big man on the floor, but his partner was headed south. His hand hit the door and grabbed the stout rope latch, but the weight of the door, even on hinges oiled to perfection, precluded snatching it open. Hard on his heels, Estelle hit the door just as it yawned open a foot. Her momentum knocked the man sideways against the small lectern that held the visitors’ book, and both lectern and man crashed to the floor.
Estelle grabbed the man’s right wrist and twisted, pinning his arm behind his back, at the same time driving her left knee into the base of his neck.
“Just shoot the son-of-a-bitch,” she heard Torrez shout, and beneath her, the man stopped struggling. Perhaps with the border so close, he had no idea what kind of barbed-wire justice awaited him. She remained motionless while the sheriff single-footed down the aisle, and an instant later she felt her handcuffs removed from the cuff case at the small of her back.
“Okay,” the sheriff said. The cuffs snapped into place. “You can stop grindin’ his face into the floor now.” He stepped back and watched as Estelle hauled the man to his feet. Over the car thief’s shoulder, she saw that the sheriff’s face was pasty white, the sweat standing on his forehead.
Palming her radio, she pushed the transmit. “Tom, get over here ASAP.” She pushed the man to the nearest pew. “Sit,” she ordered, then turned to Torrez. “You, too,” she said.
Chapter Six
Early Christmas morning, Everett Wardell and Bruce Jakes would be arraigned on charges of grand larceny auto theft, interstate transportation of stolen goods, conspiracy, and resisting arrest, as well as assault during the commission of a felony. Estelle had no intention of dragging Judge Lester Hobart out of bed before then.
Sour under any circumstances, Hobart’s reaction was predictable. He would dither with rage as he dealt with the ragged pair who had dared to assault one of his oldest friends on such an otherwise peaceful holiday.
Both Wardell and Jakes swore to the deputies that they had never laid a hand on retired Posadas Police Chief Eduardo Martinez back at the motel, but that would cut no ice with Judge Hobart. Whether Chief Martinez was ever going to have a chance to recite his version of the incident remained in question.
The young Las Cruces reporter, Todd Willis, whom Bill Gastner had dubbed “Joseph,” remained the only witness to some of the events outside the Posadas Inn that Christmas Eve. None of the motel’s other patrons interviewed by deputies had glanced out a window or strolled into the parking lot during the moments in question. And Willis was unwavering in his recollection. He had not seen the two Indiana men physically touch Chief Martinez.