Double Prey (2 page)
Francisco watched his mother complete the entry in her patrol log. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he remained silent, trying to stay out of the way. The log entry she wrote didn’t reflect the alarm in Carla Champlin’s voice when she had called.
“Estelle, I’m so sorry to bother you.” Carla, the retired Posadas postmistress, had picked up a quaver in her voice as age chased her, but she had still managed to sound authoritative. Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman pictured the elderly woman, scarecrow-thin, standing in her kitchen with the receiver of the old-fashioned black wall phone pressed to her ear, face pursed with disapproval. Carla disapproved of most things.
“Carla, how are you?” Estelle pulled the county car into gear. “Are you calling from home?” If Estelle had stood on the top front step of her own home on Twelfth Street back in Posadas, she would have been able to see the white roof of Carla’s neat little bungalow across the open patch of undisturbed prairie beyond Christman’s arroyo. As it was, when Carla called the undersheriff’s car had been parked on the shoulder of New Mexico State 78, seven miles from the village. The passenger seat was covered with file folders as Estelle found a quiet afternoon to peruse job applications and make calls to references. The sun was warm, and to keep herself awake, she’d changed locations from time to time, from one end of the small county to another, watching the traffic, the ranch kids on four wheelers, the patrons of the rural saloons as they took an afternoon brew break.
Carla had tracked her down, preferring a direct call to going through Sheriff’s Department dispatch.
“Well,
I’m
just fine,” Carla had said. “And of course I’m home. But listen. I’m watching a couple of hoodlums out beyond the arroyo, and I
don’t
like what I’m seeing.”
“What are you seeing, Mrs. Champlin?” She knew that
hoodlums
was a favorite Carla-ism for
children
. If children were seen or heard doing anything more disruptive than stamp collecting, they were
hoodlums
.
“Listen,” the woman said again, as if Estelle might not be, “at first I couldn’t see what they were doing, but I found my binoculars, and I just don’t like this at all. They’re over by the arroyo, and they’re playing with a
snake
, for heaven’s sakes. And it’s a
big
snake. My gosh.”
It’s not illegal for boys to play with snakes
, Estelle almost said.
“Now, one of them has one of those whacker things…one of those Weed Whackers? That’s what they’re using, for heaven’s sake.”
Estelle turned onto the highway. She accelerated eastbound, at the same time trying to conjure a mental image of what Carla might be watching.
“It’s Butch Romero,” Carla reported.
“Ah, Butch.” Estelle’s amusement turned into apprehension. The skinny kid with enough imp in him for ten hoodlums lived just two doors west of the Guzmans on Twelfth Street. He out-Tom Sawyered Tom Sawyer by a quantum leap.
“Your little angel is with him.”
“Francisco, you mean?”
“That’s
exactly
who I mean. And oh, now they’ve gone down into the arroyo. I can’t see what they’re doing. But this can’t be good. I really think you should…oh, here they are again. You know, they’re right
at the edge
. ”
Christman’s arroyo was no more than twelve feet deep at its most precipitous, but the edge could crumble, depositing the hoodlums at the gravel bottom under half a ton of desert sand.
Estelle took a deep breath. Kids played along arroyos all the time. Not a single rain cloud graced the southwest at the moment, so there was no danger of a fast-moving headwall of water sweeping them away. Kids played with snakes all the time, too—hopefully learning early on which were the dangerous species. If Butch had elected to go hunting with a trimmer, its nylon string flailing, then he wasn’t after garter snakes. Estelle could imagine a dozen ways that such an absurd expedition might turn tragic.
“I’ll swing by, Carla. I’m about five miles out, so it’ll be a few minutes.”
“Come right down Eighth Street,” the post mistress commanded. “That’s the closest. Oh, my, there he goes…”
“Stay on the line, Carla,” Estelle said, and palmed the mike. “PCS, three ten.”
Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler responded instantly. “Go ahead, three ten.”
“I’ll be ten-six at Eighth and Christman’s Arroyo with a juvenile complaint,” Estelle said. Two minutes later, she took the curve that joined County Road 43 with the State Highway, inbound on what would turn into Bustos Avenue. “Carla, are you still there?”
Yes, she had been, watching the two boys lure trouble. From the arroyo to Carla Champlins’ was a mere hundred yards. Close enough for her to become alarmed and call, a call that brought Estelle to the scene and kept bad from being even worse.
Estelle closed her log book, and then keyed the mike.
“PCS, three-ten will be ten-six at 402 South Twelfth Street.” Confirmation came immediately, and she racked the mike and looked across at her son. “So. Hunting snakes with a Weed Whacker. Butch does that a lot,
hijo
? ” She started the car and backed out to the two-track, careful to avoid the larger clumps of cacti.
The little boy hunched his thin shoulders against the shoulder harness. “He said it was fun.”
“Ah, and so we see how fun it is. For both the snake and for Butch,
¿no
? The snake gets his head chopped off and is buried in a shallow grave in the desert. Butch gets to go to the hospital to see if they can save his eye. And if there’s venom from the snake, maybe his life. Fun,
¿no
? ”
“The snake didn’t bite him,” Francisco said. “How could there be venom?”
“Because the trimmer gouged out a chunk of the snake’s mouth parts,
hijo
. The snake was mad to begin with, and feeling threatened. Lots of venom loaded, ready to go. If a fang flew into Butch’s eye, then there’s probably venom with it.”
“Will he die?”
“We hope not.” Her son did not need a sugar coating of this situation. She touched her own face by way of demonstration. “But eyes are close to the brain,
hijo
. That’s a bad place for venom.”
The boy looked off into the distance, and Estelle felt the odd mixture of emotions—relief that the flying fang hadn’t struck her son, anger at Butch Romero for initiating such a stupid stunt, and finally sympathy for both boys and what they would endure.
“This will be expensive, won’t it?” Francisco asked quietly.
“
Hijo, hijo, hijo
, ” Estelle sighed, impressed nevertheless…from little boy playing with snakes to the precocious nine year-old that he was, seeing into the complications. Life had been so much simpler before the great, wide world had started to beckon her sons. “Yes. It will be expensive.”
“Do you know how much?”
“I don’t know,
hijo
. But a lot, I bet. Paying
that
will be fun, too.” She glanced across at him. She could see that the little boy was miserable. Estelle hesitated, but now was the time to say it, now when she had his attention. “You always have to
think, hijo
, ” she said. “
Before
, not just afterward.” She reached across and patted his leg. “I’m glad you didn’t let Carlos go with you.” Francisco and his little brother were usually inseparable.
“He doesn’t like snakes,” Francisco said.
“Ah. Well, maybe you and Butch won’t after this, either.” The car thumped down onto the asphalt of Eighth Street. “How was school today?”
“It was okay.” He sounded grateful for the change of subject.
“You still don’t like Mr. Reynolds?”
“He’s okay. He wastes a lot of time.”
Estelle kept a straight face. The concept of a nine-year-old who might be concerned with wasted time was something that would challenge first-year teacher Marv Reynolds, she suspected.
The drive back to Twelfth Street took only a moment, and as she pulled up to the curb in front of her own home, she saw Tata Romero on her hands and knees in the front yard two doors down the street, the sun hot on her back, grubbing around a spectacular bed of red hot pokers, the tall, homely flowers that thrived under the blistering sun. The house across the street had blocked her view of the field beyond. She had no inkling of the episode.
“Take the trimmer,
hijo
. ” Estelle touched the remote trunk release. “And then you go keep your brother company until I come home. And
hijo
, ” she added, and waited until he was looking at her, “you stay in the yard when you get home.”
He nodded soberly, and set off down the rough sidewalk with the trimmer. Estelle followed. Tata Romero saw them coming and eased out of the flower bed.
“Butch and I borrowed this, Mrs. Romero,” Francisco said. “Do you want me to put it back in the shed?”
“Well, hi,
hijo
, ” Tata said. “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” She stood up and brushed her knees. “Estelle, how are you these days? Here we live two doors down, and we never get to see much of you. The boys have been doing yard work for you?” She dusted her gardening gloves together.
“I wish that were the case, Tata. Butch and my son were over in the field by the arroyo. They were teasing a rattlesnake with the Weed Whacker.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Tata exclaimed, and it was clear that her assumption was that some sort of mild delinquency was afoot…neither of the Romero boys, Butch or his older brother Freddy, were strangers to that. And then she realized that neither son was part of the equation here. She craned her neck, looking down the street. “And now where
is
the young man?” she asked sternly.
“Tata, the EMTs took him to the hospital. He suffered an eye injury.”
“Oh, my gosh. The snake bit him?” Her face drained of color, and she looked after Francisco’s retreating figure as the little boy trudged back toward his own home. “What has he gotten into now…”
“The trimmer line struck the snake in the head. I think that maybe a piece of fang, or maybe a piece of jaw bone…something… something struck Butch in the right eye. They’ll do a preliminary assessment here and administer the anti-venom if they have to, but the EMTs tell me that it’s likely they’ll want to fly him to University Hospital in Albuquerque if there is significant damage to the eye.”
Tata raised a hand to cover her mouth.
“Let me drive you to the hospital,” Estelle said. “Then I’ll stop by the dealership and have George come down to be with you.”
“I need my purse.” Tata turned toward the house. She stopped. “Will he lose the eye?”
“I don’t know, Tata. They’ll have news for us at the hospital.”
The woman nodded and hurried into the house. Estelle waited on the sidewalk, and then escorted Tata back to the county car.
“How did you find out?” Tata settled into the car, looking apprehensively at the racked shotgun, the computer that invaded her knee space, the radios, all the other clutter of Estelle’s mobile office.
“One of the neighbors saw the two boys playing out by the arroyo and was worried that they had cornered a snake. She was watching them through binoculars. She called me to check.”
“Oh, my. These boys.”
These boys
, Estelle thought, and she could inventory all the toys and gadgets that the two Romero brothers, cherished in their pursuit of their own adrenaline rushes. The Romeros’ fleet grew by the season—motorcycles, four wheelers, even now a powered skateboard that enchanted her sons. The idea of a cocoon around her own two little boys grew more appealing with every week. Estelle relished the beginning of school, when the day’s activities separated the three boys, Francisco now in fourth grade, Butch a freshman, Freddy a senior.
“The caller saw Butch fall to his hands and knees, so she knew that he was hurt. By then I was just up here on Bustos. The EMTs were right behind me.”
Tata heaved a great, shuddering sigh. “Oh, these kids. Francisco is all right?”
“Yes. He’s fine. Scared, but fine.” In a moment they swung into the driveway leading to the emergency room of Posadas General Hospital. Inside she handed Tata off to one of the ER nurses. “I’ll send your husband over,” she said. “And then I’ll be right back.” She squeezed the woman’s hand.
Posadas Chrysler-Jeep was three minutes away, and Estelle made her way through the cluttered service area to where George Romero stood gazing at a diagnostic computer screen as if he didn’t believe what it was telling him about the fancy sedan on the rack. He listened to Estelle, keeping an eye on the computer at the same time, then shook his head. “Christ,” he said, obviously vexed. He finally looked directly at the undersheriff but said nothing, as if waiting for her to break the rest of the news.
“I dropped Tata at the hospital,” Estelle said.
“Well, I’ll see if I can break away,” George said. “Is Freddy with her?”
“I haven’t seen him, sir.”
“Well, he’s probably out burnin’ up more gas,” Romero said, and let it go at that. Without any further questions, he turned and stalked off toward the service manager’s counter, adding over his shoulder, “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
Estelle wanted nothing so much as to go home, but that would have to wait. Irma Sedillos,
nana
to the boys and a dear friend, would hear Francisco’s version of events, and Estelle trusted Irma’s instincts to say and do the right things. The Romeros, however, did not need to face a hospital staff without answers to their questions.
In another few minutes, she walked around the large ambulance that was parked near the emergency room entrance, its diesel engine rumbling gently.
Inside, she passed the small cubicle where the admission clerks worked.
“Mrs. Romero?”
One of the clerks looked up from the computer screen. “Oh, she’s in the ER, sheriff.”
A large hand on her shoulder startled her. Dr. Francis Guzman had padded up behind her without a sound.
“Airlift,” her husband said, and Estelle groaned. “It left Cruces about five minutes ago, so we’re getting him prepped for transfer here in a minute.”
