“I like the sound of that,” Estelle whispered. For a long moment, they lay in each other’s arms, breath matching breath.
“It’s Christmas morning, you know. The boys will be up in a few minutes,” her husband said.
“Then we’d better not waste time,” she replied, snuggling deeper into the curve of his body.
Chapter Eight
When the telephone rang at 5:55 that Christmas morning, the two boys had indeed been up for many minutes. Estelle was in the kitchen, guiding an industrious Francisco through his second major passion in life, the manufacture of enormous pancakes whose batter he poured meticulously one cake’s worth at a time, dead center in the pan.
Without releasing her support of the heavy bowl, she reached across the counter and picked up the receiver.
“Guzman.”
“Estelle, I need to talk to Francis,” Dr. Alan Perrone said. His tone was clipped and brusque, and he didn’t waste time with the usually automatic apology for the early-hour disturbance on a holiday.
“He’s in the shower,” Estelle said. “Hang on just a second.” At the same time, Sofía Tournál rose from where she had been sitting in the living room with Carlos as the little boy narrated the photos from his latest treasure to her and his grandmother. He had received a Christmas gift book from Padrino that described the history and development of farm tractors…a book that Dr. Francis Guzman had joked would be set to music before the end of the day-Concerto in John Deere Flat.
Sofía smoothly segued into position as bowl handler as Estelle headed down the hall.
“You probably want to head down here, too,” Perrone said. “Someone’s going to want to hold Gayle’s hand.”
“Sure,” she said, without actually having heard what Dr. Perrone had said. When the phone rang, she had immediately thought about Chief Eduardo Martinez, and it was only as she entered the master bedroom that it registered. She stopped short and beckoned to her husband, who appeared shaggy and wet, a towel around his middle.
She handed him the phone. “It’s Alan.”
“Shit,” Francis said matter-of-factly. “What’s up?” he said into the phone, then frowned as he listened to his partner. At the same time, he reached out and touched Estelle on the shoulder as if to hold her in place. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Yes, I think we’re going to have to do that. He’s stable enough now?” Again, the room was silent as he listened. “Right. Okay, that’s good.” He nodded as if Alan Perrone could see him. “How long was he out?” He frowned and nodded, this time more slowly. “Okay. Give me ten minutes. Estelle will probably be there before that.”
He rang off. “Bob Torrez apparently had a pulmonary embolism early this morning.” He handed her the telephone. “Gayle drove him to the hospital about an hour ago. Alan wants to transport him to University in Albuquerque.”
“Ay,” Estelle whispered, but she was already turning toward the door. “I’ll head down,” she said. Francis nodded, and she left him to dress.
“We’ll be fine,” Sofía said when she saw Estelle’s face. “Just go and do whatever it is that you have to do.”
Without interrupting the process, Estelle bent over her industrious son and kissed him on the forehead, one hand cupping the side of his face while staying clear of the dripping ladle. “Perfecto,” she whispered to him, and he beamed at the huge pancake forming and bubbling. “Thanks, tía,” she said to Sofía. In the living room, she was met with a frown from her mother.
“You have to go at this hour?” Teresa observed, knowing perfectly well that the hour of the day or night didn’t matter.
“Mamá helps people,” Carlos said, and Estelle felt a twinge at his innocent defense. She clamped a hand on his small skull the way his father did, turning his face up so that she looked directly into his dark brown eyes, so rich and deep that she could become lost in them. Neither of them said a word, and after a moment she kissed him on the bridge of his nose, squarely between the eyes.
“The sheriff’s sick,” she said to her mother, taking her by the hand. “I’ll be back when I can.”
“Ay,” Teresa said, her expression softening. “I bet that stubborn one didn’t get his flu shot.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Estelle said.
A few minutes later, Estelle saw Sheriff Bob Torrez’s heavy-lidded eyes flicker with a touch of irritation as she rapped lightly on the freestanding partition. The sheriff lay in the hospital bed, the skimpy gown looking ridiculous on his large frame. He had kicked the sheet off, and his left leg was flexed with his foot propped up on the bed rail…a pathetic imitation of his habit of thumping a boot across the corner of his office desk.
The crowd around his bed-now grown to three people-surely was stretching Torrez’s patience. Dr. Alan Perrone stood near the sheriff’s left shoulder, regarding the screen that monitored the patient’s vital signs. Gayle Torrez flanked her husband on the other side of the bed.
“What are you doin’ here already?” Torrez asked ungraciously. His voice was husky, and he reached up and fiddled with the oxygen tube in his nostrils. An IV was taped to the back of each hand. “We were just about to wrap all this up.”
“Oh, sure,” the unflappable Dr. Perrone said. He smiled tightly at Estelle. “How are you doing, young lady?”
“I’m okay,” Estelle replied.
“Happy Holidays,” Perrone added. “Or maybe I said that last night…I’m losing track.”
“And Merry Christmas to all,” Estelle said. She rapped a knuckle on the bedframe as she stepped around to stand beside Gayle. “Hey,” she said, and rested a hand on Gayle’s shoulder.
“Some people will do anything to get out of a family gathering,” Gayle said, but she didn’t even try to smile. Christmas with the hugely extended Torrez family meant that Bob Torrez’s mother would host half a hundred people in her modest adobe home on McArthur…and the overflow would reach Bob and Gayle’s mobile home less than half a block away.
“Actually, it’s pretty simple, Estelle,” Perrone said, “We’re in the process of explaining to this guy that there are two easy ways to find what happened…to find where that embolism is and just how nasty it might be. We can do a postmortem, or Robert can let us do our jobs without all the macho fuss.”
His glance shifted to Gayle, who accepted the barb, made only partially in jest, with a nod of agreement. “We took X-rays,” the physician continued, “and they don’t show as much as I’d like. We’re going to get a CAT here in a few minutes, but I’m willing to bet that’ll be inconclusive, too. The best way to see what we’re dealing with is pulmonary angiography…put in a little tracer and watch where it goes.”
“I don’t need to be stuck full of dye,” Torrez grumbled.
“Better a little bit of dye than a gallon or two of embalming fluid,” Perrone said, and Estelle saw Gayle wince. “Anyway, I want all the cards in my hand when we do that, and that means that we cart you up to University Hospital in Albuquerque.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re lucky. The Med-Evac flight crew thought they might get to enjoy Christmas at home, and we were able to round them up in Las Cruces. The plane will be here in a few minutes.”
“I’m not flyin’ to no Albuquerque,” Torrez said, but the protest was without much conviction.
“Oh, yes you are,” Gayle said. “Don’t be so stupid.”
“We’ve already established that you haven’t been taking the meds that were prescribed,” Perrone said. “That didn’t take much detective work. And you haven’t shown your face at physical therapy for the past couple of weeks. Mr. Model Patient, here.” He snorted with impatience, reached out a hand, and patted Torrez on the arm. “We’ll find a blunt needle and fill him full of happy syrup. He won’t even know where he is when we’re done with him.”