Blood Sweep (27 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

A nighttime air search was hopeless, and Torrez had chaffed at the wait for first light. He would have preferred to be by himself, on foot, with a good pair of binoculars. But urgency demanded a quick search.

Despite air support come dawn and, on the Mexican side of the border, more than fifty troops disturbing the desert dust, no sign of Benedicte Mazón was found—not a single track or discarded water bottle. New Mexico Route 56 reached Regál, and where the highway crossed the border and turned into the well-pounded dirt road leading to Tres Santos, soldiers and police sifted through the occasional small groups of people who had reason to be in that section of bleak desert, most heading either northeast toward Palomas, or south to Janos. Mazón was not among them.

On the American side of the border, Sheriff Robert Torrez kept the helicopter pilot, State Police Sergeant Paul Platt, busy avoiding crags and boulders that projected from the mountainous jumble as they flew westward, away from Regál. The “awful thing,” as Torrez had heard Estelle's mother refer to the monumental border fence on rare occasions, made the world safe until it arrived westbound in Regál. Westward, through the steep jumble of the San Cristóbals, the fence had not been completed. Locals figured that the towering rock palisades, sheer canyons, and nothing much better on the other side was deterrent enough.

On many occasions, Torrez had hunted the forbidding country, exploring the deeply shaded canyons and occasional wet spots where ancient water still seeped. Years before, he had caught a glimpse of a jaguar, but the big cat had seen him first, and allowed him no closer than a quarter mile…for just a few seconds.

Despite the impossible terrain, the remains of several mine operations still littered the wilderness, dried fragments of support beams like bleached bones among the rocks. In a few accessible places, the faintest scars of wagon tracks marked where iron and beams had been freighted in to staging stations. Higher up on the slopes, the slag piles were modest, testimony that in country where every pick or shovel or stick of dynamite had to be packed in by human mule, even the most ardent prospector gave up the dream after a while.

Even crusty old Reuben Fuentes, Teresa Reyes's uncle and Estelle Reyes' guardian when the teenaged girl had first come to the United States to continue her schooling, had talked about the vast reaches of the San Cristóbals and the riches that probably could be found there with enough effort and risk.

Those seeking an unguarded trail into the United States left behind occasional traces of their efforts—abandoned clothing, empty water jugs, useless personal items. As he hunted, Bob Torrez had often gazed at the forbidding Cristóbals above him, wondering if the bones of immigrants littered the upper crevices, crags, and canyons of their new, permanent home.

Torrez knew that the search for Benedicte Mazón was hopeless, barring a fantastic stroke of luck. There would be no easy capture of this man. Mazón would not panic and run, to be chased down like a weary coyote trying to hide in the stunted desert scrub. The mountains provided perfect cover, giving the fugitive time to think through his strategy for escaping across the prairie country below him.

The chopper announced itself from miles away. Mazón could make himself comfortable on any rock sofa and watch the search efforts, slipping back into shelter if the machine came too close—lessons learned from the jaguar himself. Although Torrez would never have admitted it—if he thought about it at all—the search was probably good politics. That three corpses had been found within the village limits within two days—and Frank Dayan's
Posadas Register
would remind readers lest they should forget—was cause enough for the county sheriff to take to the air in a massive manhunt. That the cooperation was now international was news in itself.

As the morning progressed, the breeze freshened, and with the air movement came first the rough chop as air currents bounced among the mountain's rocks. In the distance, Torrez could see the scud of dust lifting from the Mexican desert, and once in a while the wink of Mexican air support as they criss-crossed the rugged country.

The State Police chopper bucked and kicked against updrafts, and Torrez felt his stomach mixing the acid coffee and what little breakfast he'd grabbed on the way to the airport.

“About another five minutes, and we're out of here,” Platt said, his voice unnaturally loud through the headset. Even as he spoke, he rode the chopper up slope toward the ridge summit, reaching for smoother altitude. “If he's anywhere around here, he's laughin' at us.”

Torrez pointed at the deep cleft in the south slope. “Fly right down that, out where it fans into the desert.”

“We don't own the air out there,” the pilot said.

“Don't care,” Torrez replied. He remembered the country now below them from a decade before, when he'd bagged a sheep with a long shot and had the mortally wounded animal struggle through the border fence. At that moment, there hadn't been a Mexican cop within a hundred miles, and Torrez hadn't even considered the dim risks of hopping the fence to secure his trophy.

The game of border politics was different now. All Homeland Security really accomplished, Torrez firmly believed, was money wasted on paperwork and ugly fences.

The pilot compromised, heading south over American soil until they could see the barbed-wire border fence below. In a few places, a rough two-track tried to parallel the fence on both sides, enough room for a really ambitious, fearless Jeep driver to coax his vehicle. At that point, Platt reared the chopper to a hover, and spun slowly in place, giving them a 360-degree panorama.

The dirt road to Tres Santos was twelve miles east. Mexican police were swarming. Mazón's only chances were to beat them through the border barrier or relax and wait for them to lose interest.

Torrez looked at his watch for a moment. The evening before, Steward murdered first, then the auto ride to the Posadas Inn. Olveda had been stabbed and slashed to death shortly after nine p.m. And then, including the little diversion of turning north out of the motel's parking lot, the drive to Regál in Steward's car would take forty minutes at a deliberate speed, one that wouldn't run the risk of alerting a patrolling cop. Ten o'clock, maybe, as Mazón parked the Chevy in the village meadow. Estelle and Naranjo had found it shortly afterward, and by that time, Mazón could easily have breached the border. Not a wasted move. And now, he'd had all night.

“He's south now,” Torrez said with finality. Mazón could have spent the eight hours of darkness climbing up into the mountains, gaining secure cover. Or he could have crossed through the barbed-wire border fence and headed south. A steady pace, part fast walk and part jog, would net him three miles each hour—with the roll of desert and the plunge of arroyos, he could be ten or fifteen miles deep into Mexico at this moment.

Torrez assumed that Colonel Tomás Naranjo must be thinking the same thing. The dust from his ground search had moved farther and farther south, including the tiny village of Tres Santos, and onward toward Janos. One scruffy little man consumed by the desert—Mazón would take some confidence from that.

Torrez slid his headphones to one side and screwed the tiny ear bug from his cell phone into place. The speed select took him to his undersheriff's number, and he waited patiently while the towers bounced signals around.

“Guzman.” The undersheriff's voice sound as if she was crouched inside a fifty-five-gallon drum.

“We're wastin' a lot of jet fuel up here,” Torrez said. “He's either taken up residence somewhere up in the mountains, or he's skipped the circle. Naranjo's ground forces might have better luck.”

“Don't bet on it, Bobby.” The sheriff heard Naranjo's voice in the background, garbled by the static of aircraft radio traffic. Estelle added, “He just said that no one has seen a thing.”

“Didn't think so. Look, we'll be back at the airport in half an hour or so. Did Mears finish with Seward's car?”

“He did. Lots of prints, but I know what we'll find when we process them, and it won't be Mazón's. Also two guns, one Sig-Sauer .45 automatic in the glove box and an AR in the trunk, full magazine, ready to go. Both belonged to Steward. Mazón certainly had the opportunity.”

“There might have been others. He don't need a damn arsenal, after all. And guns don't seem his choice.”

“That's how it looks. And we just finished with Beuler, by the way. There was nothing much he could add, except he had some reservations about Steward's performance.”

“No shit.”

“It's looking like most of the principal players are out of the show.”

“Except Mazón.”

“Except him.”

“Meet us at the airport?”

“Yes, but you'll get there before I do. I'm just heading south on 14 now.”

“You planning to go to Mazatlán later today?”

“
Por dios,
I'd like to, Bobby. But I can't.
Padrino's
son would take me if I asked, and the good colonel has offered. He'd jump at the favor in a heartbeat. But I can't ask that. I'd like to keep pestering
hijo
every fifteen minutes on the phone, but I'm tough. It's actually been half an hour since I last called. He's fine.”

Torrez actually laughed. “So tough.”

“I have this nightmare of someone walking out on stage when Francisco is halfway through Beethoven, and handing him a cell phone. ‘It's your mother, Maestro.'”

“Audience would enjoy that.”

“I bet. See you in a bit, Bobby. I think you're right. It's all in the colonel's hands now. At least for the time being.”

“The time being? Means what? We ain't goin' down into Mexico.”

Estelle hesitated. “It's just that I can't imagine Benedicte Mazón going to all this trouble—following Francisco's career over the years, then finding me, then eliminating five from the other side and making a dangerous sidetrip to the states—
meeting
with me in a public place, risking arrest, then escaping jail. I can't imagine him doing all that and then just disappearing forever like a whiff of smoke.”

“So what's he going to do?”

“I wish I knew. But he has to know that we're looking for him. And we're not alone. Remember Quesada, Bobby. Someone gave him his orders, and he took a shot at you. And then Mazón killed
him.
And then he took out Quesada's associate, Olveda. Whoever those two were working for won't forget that. They're not going to let Mazón walk off scot-free. Somebody's plans got jinxed, and he'll be the target.”

“Huh. Okay then. You don't need to walk into the middle of a turf war.”

Sergeant Platt turned the chopper away from the border, away from the mountains, and headed in a beeline for Posadas Municipal Airport. At one point, Bobby relaxed with his head against the plexi-glass, watching the landscape slide by. As State 56 stretched away toward the village of Posadas, he looked for the white dash that would be his undersheriff's car. The road was empty.

By the time they touched down, the wind was kicking dust in savage little bursts. Sheriff Torrez slid out of the machine, ducking instinctively under the rotors even though they were two feet over his head. Sergeant Jackie Taber walked out on the hot tarmac to meet him.

“Nothing,” Torrez grumbled, and the young woman nodded at his one word flight and search report.

“Estelle received a phone call from the Román Diaz family,” she said. “Actually, a Mr. Juan Guerrero? She didn't explain. She was having a hard time copying your transmissions from the chopper, so she relayed to me.”

Torrez stopped in his tracks, frowning at his sergeant.

“Sir?” Taber prompted.

“You're sure it was
Román
Diaz?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. She said you'd know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Torrez had already started walking toward his truck, but stopped and turned, looking at Taber but clearly thinking about something else. “She headed that way?”

“
That way,
sir?”

“Román Diaz lives next door to where Teresa Reyes lived in Tres Santos. He's the one with a phone. Probably the only one in town. Did Estelle say she was headed down there?”

“She didn't say, sir.”

Torrez spun on his heal and strode back to his truck, dialing his own phone as he did so. Again, he stopped before he reached his destination.

“Sarge, how much head start does she have?”

Taber glanced at her watch. “She called me when she was just outside of Regál, sir. About fifteen minutes ago. Maybe twenty.” The sheriff didn't acknowledge the information, and the county Expedition was already in motion before he bothered to slam the driver's door shut.

Chapter Thirty-five

The phone call had come as Estelle Reyes-Guzman idled the car down County Road 14, away from
NightZone
, leaving behind the noise of the development with its own symphony of diesel machinery working in a dozen places at once. Her pulse leaped, assuming even as she flipped open her phone that the caller was her elder son, reporting that all was well in Mazatlán. Instead, an international call code was displayed—Colonel Tomás Naranjo, no doubt.

“Guzman.” Her greeting was answered by first silence, and then voices in the background. She distinctly heard the Spanish, someone being urged to
“take it. Talk with her.”

More silence, then a strong voice broke in. “Estelle? This is Román. Román Diaz.”

Estelle switched mental gears to Spanish. “What a wonderful surprise, Román! I hope you and yours are well?”

“We are. We are. You know, it's been too long since you've been down to see us. How is Teresa?”

“Actually, she's fine, Román. She's enjoying the experience of being ninety-nine, we hope. How about that.”

“This woman will live forever.” Román's voice softened. “In our hearts, at the very least. And the family?”

“Fine as can be. Francisco is in Mazatlán this weekend, with concerts.”

“I heard about that.
Magnifico.
What a son this young man must be to you.”

How did you hear about the concert?
Estelle wondered. Román Diaz, father to a now-scattered brood of eight, founder of a successful wood-carving venture in Tres Santos, and for a lifetime a neighbor a stone's throw away from Teresa Reyes' home near the Río Plegado and its ever changing personality. Many connections.

“But listen,” and Román spoke now in his heavily accented English. “I have a neighbor who wishes to speak with you.” He laughed. “I think this is his first time in a decade with the telephone, so be patient. You remember Juan Guerrero?”

“Of course I do.” Did she? The name, yes. But she hadn't seen Juan Guerrero in thirty years, perhaps more. Benedicte Mazón had forced the memory.

Guerrero's voice was soft and husky, and she heard Román say, “No, hold this part close to your mouth.”

“Estelita? Is that you?”

“Juan, it is so good to hear your voice! And Esperanza…is she well?” That was always a tricky question when she hadn't heard from a family for decades, especially in rural Mexico, where the most routine health care was a difficult proposition at best.

“Such a woman,” Juan Guerrero said. “I am to tell you that you must visit with us.”

“I will do that.”

“No…I mean soon.”

She hesitated. “Are you well,
Señor
Guerrero?” Perhaps the formality would open a door.

“Oh, yes,” and he sounded impatient. “I think the police are now looking for your uncle.”

She hesitated. “Benedicte Mazón?”

“Ah, then you know.”

“Are the police there now?”

“No. We saw a helicopter a few moments ago, but it left. There were two trucks with troops in town, too. But they did not come here. It is very strange.”

Her stomach clenched uneasily. “You've seen him? This man who claims to be an uncle of mine?”

“Yes. And you know, it's been a long, long time. He is who he says he is. That night…” His voice trailed off as if the memory was too elusive.

Estelle realized with a start that her car had rolled to a stop. One of the gigantic black and red prairie wasps, what ranchers called a “cow killer,” was inspecting the tray that surrounded the windshield wipers.

“You will come down?”

“Did someone ask you to call me, Juan?”

“Yes.”

Of course he had,
she thought. “Mazón asked this of you?”

“You know, I haven't seen this one since that day. That day when he stood beside the Plegado with me, and we watched it destroy so much. Just a little boy then. And I was there, too.”
He cannot bring himself to talk about the family,
Estelle thought.

This one.
“Where is Mazón now, don Guerrero?”

“He is at my house, Estelita. I think he is safe there.”
He
is safe? There was a lengthy list of people for whom she cared more about than Benedicte Mazón. If he was in Tres Santos, then every one of them was at risk.

“And he told you to call me?”

“Yes. He said, ‘I want her to know why I did what I did.'” That in itself was some relief. When Guerrero had mentioned that the troops had arrived, then pulled back, her first thought was that Colonel Naranjo was playing games. But, if he knew the fugitive was holed up at Guerrero's, then he was providing a portal for Estelle. There was no reason for Mazón to talk with police—even on the remote chance that they would
give
him such an opportunity.

“You'll wait with Román for me, Juan. Don't go back to your home.”

“I cannot do that, Estelita. Esperanza is there, you know. I do not see any danger.”

“Your wife is keeping
Señor
Mazón company?”

“Yes. There is much to talk about. The old days, you know.”

“All right. Then go join them. Keep him talking. I'm on my way. Perhaps twenty minutes.”

“All right. My neighbor wants to talk with you.”

Román Diaz came back on the line, and Estelle had already kicked the Charger into motion down County Road 14, dust rising high.

“Estelle, are the police really looking for this man? There's an army of them around.”

“Yes.” A natural enough assumption, given the now departed police chopper and trucks laden with troops. But the government interest had vanished as quickly as it had arrived. Reaching the pavement, she turned right, south-bound, and the Charger quickly shed a layer of dust as it worked its way up to triple digits.

“Juan will be safe with him?” Román asked. “Perhaps I should accompany him back to the house.”

“No need,” Estelle said. “Please don't do that. The police will do nothing until Colonel Naranjo orders it, and he will talk with me first.”
I hope.

“Ah. Juan did not mention him. But that's good. He is a man we can trust, no?” Before Estelle could verbalize a reply, Román Diaz added, “You know, I knew this Mazón when he was a small boy. Before his family moved to Janos. I have heard stories…”

“Then you know he can be dangerous.”

The highway to Regál was empty, the road snaking down from the pass into the village in a series of switchbacks that had rewarded more than one incautious driver with a somersault down into the boulders and trees. The parking lot of the church was empty as well, and just beyond it, she turned into the tiny parking lot bordered by a dozen United States flags, alternating with the bright yellow and red of New Mexico's Zia banner.

The unimposing, non-threatening character of the Regál crossing would be changed within the year as Homeland Security poured millions into a new, high tech, 24/7 facility. Agent Sam Werthiem, a rookie enjoying perhaps the dullest crossing anywhere on the border, sauntered out and looked at Estelle quizzically as she got out of the car, leaving the engine running. Shotgun in hand, she rounded the back of the Charger and pushed open the trunk lid. In a moment she reappeared with the AR-15 rifle in the other hand.

“I need to leave these with you, Sam,” she said. “You have room in your vault?”

“Sure. What's up?”

“I need to visit relatives.” She offered an engaging smile, and as the officer took the two long guns, she slipped the holster containing the Beretta off her belt. “This too.”

“I guess I can do that. But let me fix you up with the receipt,” Werthiem said. Estelle shook her head, already heading back to her car, leaving the agent's arms loaded down with artillery.

“Keep them for me. I won't be long.”

She didn't recognize the Mexican officer who now waited on his side of the fence, standing in the shade of the white office building. He eyed the official car with curiosity as Estelle pulled to a stop. Handing him her license, registration, and commission, she read
E.L.Contreras
on his name tag. “I'm meeting some of your officers in Tres Santos, just for a few minutes. Call Colonel Naranjo if you need to.”

No doubt, he'd seen her off-loading the weapons, but he looked through the Charger's cage toward the backseat. “You must surrender any firearms or ammunition,” he said, hefting his clipboard as if all of his authority rested there.

“I have done so.” He would clearly have seen the transfer a moment ago.

He examined her commission documents again. “How long have you worked for the Sheriff's Department?”

“Twenty-four years.”

“Ah. Then you know Sheriff Torrez.”

“Of course.”

“Will he be arriving soon?”

“Perhaps.”

He nodded sagely and handed back the paperwork. “We always look forward to seeing him. And you have a pleasant stay,
Señora
Guzman.” He nodded toward the dusty two-lane road that was Estelle's only choice, a route that wandered south to disappear over a small rise.

“Thank you.” The road was unchanged since she had walked it thirty years before, or when she had raised little contrails of dust while riding her bike. Over the years, she had driven it dozens, maybe hundreds of times. Only six miles now separated her from the village of Tres Santos, and she knew every rock, cactus, and lizard. Still, it was no longer home, and no longer reached out to her heart.