“Be careful.”
“You got it. Love you, querida.”
“Y yo a ti,” she said, and rang off. Brent Sutherland had retreated back to his world of radios, phones, and computers, and Estelle stepped out of her office in time to see Deputy Jackie Taber heading toward the staff workroom.
“All quiet?” she called, and Taber stopped short.
“I think so,” the deputy said, and looked heavenward. “I escorted the ambulance over to the airport. They got off all right. I was thinkin’ that a good rap upside the head might make the sheriff a little easier to manage.” She patted the telescoping baton on her belt. “He’s a real trip.”
“He just prefers to be the one carrying the stretcher, rather than riding on it,” Estelle said.
“Can’t argue with that,” Jackie said. “Being pampered ruins his Mr. Indestructible image.”
Estelle laughed. “You’re going to do up a sympathy card?”
“You bet,” Jackie said with relish. An artist of considerable talent, the deputy enjoyed turning her pen and ink to caricatures of the department when the need arose. “Real sympathy. I started on it as soon as I heard.” She propped her briefcase on one knee and opened it, pulling out a drawing tablet. She swept the tablet cover back and offered it to Estelle.
The rough pencil sketch showed the sheriff in a hospital gown that was far too short, lying in bed amid an enormous tangle of hospital paraphernalia, with various roughed-out figures gathered around the bed. Estelle recognized Perrone’s slicked-back hair and large nose, as well as Gayle Torrez’s trademark ponytail. The figure on the bed was recoiling in horror from the apparition who was approaching the foot of the bed…a figure who was unmistakably Leona Spears. The large woman, her muumuu flowing, carried a hospital cafeteria tray. you just need some mothering, was printed in neat architectural block letters above Leona’s head. Her name tag included the tiny legend, county manager.
“You’re cruel,” Estelle said. “What a way to find out.”
“He doesn’t know about Leona yet? The rest of the world does.”
Estelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. He would have said something to me if he did.”
“You want me to hold off?”
Estelle thought for only a second. “Nah,” she said, and nodded at the artwork. “That’s delightful. He’ll treasure it, I’m sure.”
Jackie laughed as she slipped the drawing pad back in her briefcase. “Treasure it all the way to reassigning me to Siberia,” she said.
“To the day shift, more likely.”
The deputy looked up in mock horror. “Spare me, please.”
Chapter Ten
After the turmoil of Christmas Eve and the tense moments of early morning, Estelle savored the peace and quiet of Christmas afternoon. The skies were clear and the sun almost hot, toasting the dormant sage and yarrow underfoot as she sauntered along the narrow trail that ran along the rim of Escudero Arroyo west of Twelfth Street. She strolled with her arm linked through Sofía Tournál’s. They had no particular destination, no particular agenda. Every moment that the telephone in her jacket pocket didn’t ring, or the pager didn’t chirp, or the hand-held two-way radio clipped to her belt at the small of her back didn’t squawk, Estelle counted as a victory.
Dr. Francis Guzman had called to report that the sheriff was resting comfortably, although practicing a charming combination of groggy and cranky. The air ambulance was scheduled to return to Las Cruces that evening, and would swing by Posadas to bring Dr. Guzman home.
Word was less promising from Posadas General Hospital, where Eduardo Martinez still remained in a coma.
As Estelle and Sofía strolled and talked, the two children scampered here and there in general orbit around them, chattering like squirrels.
Teresa Reyes had suggested the walk, and Estelle knew why. Not only would the fresh, cool air be a balm for Estelle’s own nerves, but it would leave the house quiet and peaceful for a while…her mother’s nap time.
For a brief season, the desert was relatively safe for the two boys, the risks limited to being spiked occasionally by a withered cactus or snagged by the amazing thorns of the stunted acacia. Nights were cold enough that the various fanged creatures, or even the scuttling stinging ones, were holed up, well out of reach of curious little fingers until spring. Estelle found herself watching the children, comparing their mannerisms and interests.
Carlos spent much of his time squatting on his haunches, examining the fine details of the treasures he found. He seemed particularly intrigued with the stink beetles that he uncovered. He would have loved to have brought home a pocketful, but accepted with sober resignation the logic that the little beetles were happier remaining in their own homes.
Francisco seemed to enjoy the roll and sweep of the lay of the land itself. Perhaps because he knew it made his mother nervous, he skirted the very edge of the arroyo, defying the precarious, sandy overhangs that could so easily collapse under his feet. Once in a while, Sofía would gasp as the boy came too close to disaster, but Estelle remained philosophically quiet. She saw that the six-year-old had brought his music with him, the sounds inside his head providing a framework for what he saw out on the prairie.
“This is nice,” Estelle sighed at one point, and Sofía glanced at her with amusement. Estelle had stopped, and was watching Francisco, who had found an old cattle path that cut the rim. He didn’t race to the bottom twelve feet below. Rather, he stepped down the trail just enough so that his head was level with the rim. The grass-high view provided an interesting perspective of the arroyo as it swept away, cutting through the flat of the prairie.
Estelle watched as her son stood still and raised his arms for a moment, like Moses parting the waters, and she saw his head bob.
“We let ourselves become so busy that we forget what we’re missing,” Sofía said. The sound of a snarling motorcycle blossomed behind them, and Estelle turned to watch its approach up the arroyo from the southwest.
“Hijo,” she called to Francisco, and he retreated up the cow path toward them.
“That’s Butch,” he shouted. Fresh paint winking in the late afternoon sun, trailing a plume of blue smoke from its wailing two-stroke engine, the dirt bike catapulted up the narrow arroyo bottom, the rider fighting the loose sand.
As the biker flashed by, he attempted a wheelie, but the traction wasn’t there and he executed a wild fishtail instead, then raised a hand in greeting. The two boys waved back frantically, but the rider didn’t stop.
“Their time isn’t far off,” Sofía said, watching the bike disappear up the arroyo.
“Oh, yes it is,” Estelle replied quickly, and she laughed. “I’m going to be the original ogre mom when it comes to motorcycles.”
“You believe that, do you?”
“Oh, sí. I have a short list, you see. And motorcycles are right up there at the top.”
She watched Butch Romero careen northward, the new Christmas bike freshly shed of its red ribbons and already ingesting sand and dust. The Romero family lived two doors down the street from the Guzmans, and the parade of go-carts, old trucks, and tiny, dilapidated import cars trying to impersonate street rods were a constant source of entertainment for Francisco and Carlos.
“You may change your mind as he grows older,” Sofía said.
“Por supuesto,” Estelle replied. “I’m sure I will. When he’s forty-five, he can buy anything he wants, even a motorcycle.”
They walked for another ten minutes in companionable silence. The sun was still warm, but as it sank toward the San Cristóbal Mountains, the shadows jumped out in stark relief around each clump of prairie vegetation, creating a blanket of geometric patterns.