“Like hell,” the sheriff said.
“Yep,” Perrone agreed. He beckoned Estelle out of the room, nodding in sympathy at Gayle as he did so. “We’ll be back in a minute. Talk some sense into your husband, okay? And you should plan to go with us, by the way.”
Out in the hall, Perrone walked away from the ICU. He dug in his pocket for a mint and offered one to Estelle. “Francis is on the way down?”
“He’ll be here in just a minute or two,” Estelle said. “What happened?”
“Well, like I told Gayle, I’m sure it’s a clot that broke loose and ended up in his lung. Pulmonary embolism,” Perrone said. “I’m sure of that. Gayle says that early this morning, Bobby woke up and couldn’t get his breath. His heartbeat went wild, and he fell on his face when he tried to climb out of bed. Scared the bejeepers out of her. He wouldn’t let her call an ambulance, and he’s goddamn lucky that stupid little decision didn’t kill him. She drove him down here herself.”
“That sounds like Bobby,” Estelle said.
Perrone leaned against the polished tile wall and regarded the grout between the tiles as if all the answers lay there. “None of this surprises me, I guess. All that surgery he had on his leg and hips, and then he doesn’t take care of himself and pay attention to physical therapy. If he’s not careful, he’s going to end up being forty-five years old and walking like an old man of eighty-five.”
“I thought he looked pretty bad last night,” Estelle said. “We had a little confrontation down in Regál, and even Bill Gastner said that Bobby looked terrible.”
“That sorry affair didn’t do the sheriff any good, I’m sure. He’s in no condition for scuffles.”
“Well, sort of a scuffle, Alan. But that was more me than him.”
“Ah.” Perrone took off his glasses, and Estelle felt his ice-blue eyes assessing her. “And you’re none the worse for wear?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Well, his nibs here isn’t. At the moment, we have him on rat poison and a handful of other things to thin his blood. We need to do a full rundown and see what the hell is going on.” Perrone patted his own right hip. “He’s got a hell of a bruise on his thigh, just above where the break was. Gayle says that somehow he managed to smack himself with the door of his truck yesterday or the day before.”
“He never said anything about that,” Estelle said. “But what else is new.” She glanced at her watch. In another few minutes, the shift at the Sheriff’s Department would cycle from graveyard to days, and Gayle Torrez, office manager and head dispatcher, had been scheduled for duty…the first Christmas tour she’d drawn in several years, thanks to the conspiring of root canals, flu, and various other complications among the small staff.
“So if he goes to Albuquerque, what are we talking about? How long?” Estelle asked.
“He is going to Albuquerque,” Perrone said. “He doesn’t have a choice there. And it all depends what we find. Unfortunately, clots tend not to be isolated events. We’ll just have to see. He’s going to be out of commission for a while…and I’m afraid it’s an indeterminate while just now. That’s the best I can tell you. He might be back on his feet in a day or two, or not.”
Estelle started to say something when her husband appeared around the corner by the Hospital Auxiliary’s coffee bar.
“Ah,” Perrone said. “Now we’re all set.”
Reaching out to take Perrone by the elbow, Estelle nodded toward the ward behind them. “How’s Eduardo?” Somehow, it seemed weeks ago that she had last seen Eduardo Martinez, pale and frail, in his ICU bed-not just hours. If his family was still maintaining a vigil, they were cloistered away somewhere, perhaps in the ICU waiting room down the hall.
“That’s the problem,” Perrone said. “I’m starting to think that it might be a good idea if one of us rides on the plane with Bobby, but maybe not. That’s what I wanted to discuss with Dr. Guzman,” and Perrone held up his hand like a traffic cop as Francis strode up to them. “One of us certainly needs to stay here and ride herd on the chief. And to answer your question, Estelle, he’s not good. He’s unresponsive, and the family is trying to decide what to do. He’s reached a point where the machines are breathing for him. Not good.” He nodded in resignation. “Like I said, Merry Christmas, eh?”
He stepped away, yielding his spot in the conversation to Estelle’s husband. “We’ll talk in a bit,” he said to Estelle, and then with a final pat to his associate’s shoulder, he hustled back to the ICU.
“Sofía said not to bother calling Irma,” Francis said, referring to Irma Sedillos, the Guzman boys’ nana and Gayle’s sister. “Everything is under control on the home front, querida.”
“That’s the least of my worries right now, oso,” Estelle said. “But Sofía is a sweetheart.” She glanced at her watch again. “I need to swing by the office for a little bit to make sure we’re covered, and then I’ll stick pretty close to here, I guess. If Essie Martinez needs anything…” Her cell phone chirped and she looked heavenward. “If you end up marooned in Albuquerque, let me know, okay? If you go up there on the plane? When things quiet down, maybe we can all take a drive up there to pick you up. Sofía mentioned that she’d like to do that one day while she’s here. A little vacation.”
“Vacation?” Francis said, puzzled. Then he grinned and kissed Estelle lightly, first on the lips, then the tip of her nose, and then squarely between the eyes, just as she’d done to Carlos. “Love you, querida. Be careful. No more heroics.”
Palming the tiny phone that insisted with a variety of chirps, she waved at her husband as he disappeared through the glass doors. “Guzman.”
“Estelle, this is Brent,” the graveyard-shift dispatcher said cheerfully. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother. What’s up?”
“Did you happen to hear from Gayle? I was kinda lookin’ for her.”
“I was just about to call,” Estelle said. “We’re all over here at the hospital. Gayle’s not going to be in today, Brent. Can you stay put until I have a chance to rearrange some things?”
Sutherland hesitated just long enough that Estelle knew he’d probably made plans that he was loath to break. “Sure. You mean like the whole shift?”
“It might come to that. We don’t know yet.”
“Well…okay, sure. Is everything all right?”
“The sheriff’s going to be going to Albuquerque for some treatment. Gayle will go with him.”
“Geez, that’s no good. What, for his leg, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. How’s the chief doing, by the way?”
“Not well.”
“Frank’s here, asking.”
“I can just imagine,” Estelle said. Frank Dayan, publisher and quasi-editor of the Posadas Register, matched anyone in town for long, irregular hours.
“You want to talk with him?”
“Sure.”
“Just a sec.”
When he came on the line, Frank’s voice was quiet and concerned. “Merry Christmas, Undersheriff,” he said. “You have your hands full over there?”
“Yes, we do, Frank. We’re imploding.”
“Look, I got your note about the arrests and about Eduardo. How’s he doing?”
“Critical,” Estelle said.
“But not directly because of assault, or anything like that?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Boy,” Dayan said. “If the chief didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all.” Estelle didn’t respond, and Dayan shifted gears. “Look, Estelle…did you get a copy of the short list for county manager? I was going to try and talk to you yesterday-or Pam was going to. We didn’t have the chance.”