Scavengers (28 page)
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got an open phone line to the inside of the bank right now. Dottie Sandoval is watching for us. If you park over underneath the portico of Salazar’s Funeral Home, you’ll have a clear view of the front of the bank. Park in the shadows. I don’t want him to see you.”
“Got it.”
“When they leave town, I want you to follow
way
back. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He can’t catch sight of you. If he does, Mama’s a dead goose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When they reach Maria, I want you to drive right on through. He’s going to turn off, but don’t follow him. He’s going to be watching his back, and if he sees you, I don’t want him to panic. No fanfare, no slowing down. You drive right on through. Stop just beyond the village where that big arroyo is. All you’re going to do is keep us posted about what they’re doing when they leave the bank. My guess is that they’re going to head back out of town to the south, down Sixty-one. I’d be surprised if it’s anything else, but we gotta know. That’s all. Use the phone. I don’t know if that bastard has a scanner with him or not.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”
“Move it, now. And let me talk to Dennis.”
When he finally hung up, Torrez stood at the window for a long moment, and Estelle could tell by the expression on his face that he was replaying the game plan in his mind. Jack Adams of the State Police was already headed out of Posadas southbound on State 61, his black trooper car a blur of speed. He’d be far ahead of the Madrids, even if mother and son walked out of the bank that instant.
Deputy Dennis Collins had walked the few yards from the Public Safety Building to the small computer shop that faced the back door of Posadas State Bank, where employees or people wanting to talk to installment loan officers were apt to come and go. In the event of trouble, he could be across the street and into the bank in seconds. Tom Pasquale’s county unit was poised a hundred yards from the bank’s front door, waiting. And Lucy Madrid was taking her time remembering where her money was.
Torrez turned and walked over to Wally Madrid. “Where did they leave their car, Wally?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head in wonder. “I never saw it. They walked into my station, and I never saw it. I never saw them coming.”
Torrez shook his head and looked at Benny Madrid. “Where’s your car?”
Madrid grunted something and looked at the wall, his lip curled.
With a shrug, Torrez held out his hand for the phone that Estelle held.
“No movement yet,” she said.
“That’s okay,” he said. “We’re in no rush. We need Naranjo’s unit out of sight. You might as well invite him in to join the fun. I’ll keep Dottie company.”
“Is there someone else you can call in to keep watch at the back of the bank besides Dennis?”
Torrez shook his head. “If I had half an hour, sure. But they’re not even going to go out the back door. Not to worry.”
“You hope.”
There was just the hint of hesitation. “With all my heart that’s what I hope, Estelle.”
Estelle closed her eyes and imagined herself in the backseat of Lucy Madrid’s Chrysler as it headed south on New Mexico 61. Isidro would be sitting hunched forward with his face nearly against the dashboard, his pockets bursting with more cash than he’d managed to assemble during the previous twenty-six years of his life, his eyes searching for the first errant wisp of dust or glint of chrome that smelled of trap.
What did a mother and son talk about at a time like that? Was Lucy Madrid counting down the miles until she’d be rid of her two troublesome boys? When she’d turned over her life’s savings to them, had she also given her best advice about which way to run? As she drove away from Posadas, did Lucy glance across the car at Isidro, see him sitting there with his fingers itching on the trigger of his rifle, and wonder what she had contributed to the creation of this monster?
Estelle shook her head to snap the webs. She opened her eyes and looked across the silent patio to the highway, and beyond that to the dirt lane that led past the café. Benny Madrid was safely trussed up inside the small restroom, no doubt struggling against the steel cuffs, the nylon ankle ties, and the duct tape that kept him quiet and trussed to the water pipes so he couldn’t kick the door. Benny didn’t think of himself as safe, Estelle was sure of that. She glanced down at the Beretta in her hand. She popped out the clip, studied the stacked pack of thirteen shiny rounds. “Ay,” she said quietly, and took a deep breath, driving the clip back into the weapon.
From somewhere inside the house, she heard a hollow thump. Tomás Naranjo was finding himself a good vantage point in the shadows behind the small window. Estelle felt the warmth of morning sun touch her head, and she moved another step back to pull her shadow into hiding. At the same time, she heard the howl of tires on pavement from the east, and then the muttering rattle of a jake brake slowing the tractor trailer.
She lifted the radio off the tiles. “Bobby?”
“Go ahead.”
“Traffic from the east. I thought Adams was going to block the highway?”
As she spoke, the huge truck rolled past, a polished stainless steel tanker with
FRESH MILK
in foot-high letters near the top access hatch.
“I told him to let the guy through. He’s nonstop, and it’ll look good for Isidro to see some normal traffic coming his way. If it’s too quiet, he might get edgy.”
“Where are they now?”
“Pasquale says that they’re about six miles out. She’s driving right at fifty-five. Pasquale’s hanging a mile back. I told him to fade back a little more to give them some time. They’ll be here in about six minutes.”
“Okay. I’m in the patio. Naranjo is in the house. He’s got a back window view.”
“Ten-four,” Torrez said. He sounded as excited as someone browsing through a library book sale.
Estelle placed the radio in a niche in the stack of tiles in front of her, transferred the Beretta to her left hand and flexed the fingers of her right, surprised at how tightly she’d been gripping the weapon. She looked at the welt left by one of the cactus spines in the back of her hand and grimaced. She could picture Eurelio Saenz lying under the flood of lights at Posadas General Hospital, the attending physicians wondering where to start.
She shifted her weight, transferring the Beretta back to her right hand. As she did so, the distant sound of an approaching vehicle reached her at the same time as Torrez’s voice said quietly over the radio, “They’re coming in.”
Sheriff Robert Torrez wasn’t often wrong. He had bet that Lucy Madrid would drive up J Street to the café. Isidro and Benny would leave the café together…after who knew what kind of farewell they had planned.
Lucy didn’t do that. Estelle heard the vehicle slow, then heard the crunch of tires as the car pulled off the highway just west of the Taberna Azul, out of Estelle’s line of sight.
“They’ve stopped west of the saloon,” she whispered into the radio. “I don’t know what they’re doing.”
She waited, head turned so that her peripheral vision would pick up motion approaching the rear patio gate, now ajar an inch or two, at the same time as she watched the highway and the front patio entrance. In a moment she heard the gravel crunch again, and the Chrysler appeared out front, turning up the lane toward the café. Lucy Madrid was driving, and she was alone.
Moving in slow motion, Estelle reached forward and turned the radio’s volume knob to zero so that a random burst of squelch wouldn’t tip off her position. She transferred both hands to the Beretta. Isidro Madrid was treading light, and she saw him before she heard him, his figure a shadow through the thin cracks between the boards of the patio gate. He walked quickly to the station wagon and reached for the door.
“
Que chingado,
” Estelle heard him mutter in irritation that his brother had been so stupid as to lock the car. The rattle of keys followed, and then silence. Estelle shifted position just enough that she could see through the slit of the door. Isidro was standing motionless beside the car, keys in hand. After a moment, he jabbed the key into the lock and wrenched the door open. He held the short rifle in his left hand, and she could see a semiautomatic pistol in his belt. He slid into the car. Estelle heard the metallic clack of electric door locks.
Isidro leaned back as he passed the rifle across to the passenger side. His hands reappeared on the wheel, and Estelle shifted again. The rifle was no doubt resting on the passenger seat, its butt perhaps on the floor mat. His other weapon was still in his waistband. She could see his left hand on the steering wheel, and his head ducked as he shoved the key in the ignition. She waited, forcing herself to be patient. Even though both of his hands were occupied and she might be able to take him by surprise, Isidro was protected by the bulk of the station wagon and the ten yards that separated them.
The starter engaged, cranking the enormous old V-8. Isidro let it crank for three or four seconds, switched off, and tried again. Estelle saw the shadow of a frown cross his forehead. As if not believing his sudden turn of luck, he cranked the car over and over again until the battery started to fail.
After a final effort he slapped the steering wheel with a quiet oath. Twisting around, he looked out through the back windows, then relaxed in the seat. For a moment he was looking directly at Estelle, and she held her breath. Isidro would see the gap in the gate, but he wouldn’t be able to see through the shadows beyond.
On the highway, a car roared past. Estelle didn’t risk turning her head to look, but knew it would be Deputy Tom Pasquale. Isidro’s head swung to follow the sound. Pasquale stuck to the original plan and drove rapidly through the village, the sound of his car tires fading quickly to the east.
It took another full minute for Isidro Madrid to make up his mind. Estelle heard him say something to himself as he wrenched open the door and got out of the car. He was a slightly built man, an inch or so shorter than Estelle. The large automatic was in his right hand. He stood motionless beside the car, pistol held high, its muzzle almost touching his cheek. Estelle could see that his eyes were closed as he listened. She held her breath, hoping that Tomás Naranjo had a clear view and that he wouldn’t choose this moment to shift position.
Apparently satisfied, Isidro Madrid edged to his right, around the back of the station wagon. As he moved, he never took his eyes off the building. Once around the tailgate, he moved quickly to the front passenger door. The hinge groaned as he opened it, and Isidro gritted his teeth. Then he ducked down and came out with a short duffle bag and the rifle. Looping the straps of the bag around his left shoulder, he turned away from the car, not bothering to close the door.
“You’re going to do it,” Estelle breathed. Sure enough, Isidro Madrid set off at a fast jog, due south toward the border fence. She toed open the gate just enough to slip through and sprinted the few yards to the cover of the station wagon. At the same time she heard a thump inside the building. Already twenty yards away, Isidro heard it too, and started to sprint, dodging through the short scrub and cactus.
“
Alto ahí! Policía!
” Estelle shouted. Isidro surely had sensed something wrong from the moment he had discovered the car locked—but still the barked command took him by surprise. Instinctively, he turned and in doing so tripped and fell hard. The duffle bag acted as a cushion, and he scrambled to his knees, the pistol seeking a target. Estelle crouched behind the fender of the car, Beretta extended across the wide yellow hood. Isidro was less than thirty yards away—an easy shot.
“
No te muevas, Isidro,
” she said. Isidro didn’t move, but not because of her command. He stared hard, searching for a target. He saw Estelle behind the car just as she shouted, “There’s nowhere you can go, Isidro.” She switched to English. “Drop the weapons.”
An expression of incredulity spread across his face as he contemplated his chances with this slight, soft-voiced woman who now crouched behind his abandoned car. He could see the black automatic, could see that she held it steady and sure. The light played on the heavy, fresh scar that marred the corner of his left eye.
“And who are you?” he asked in lightly accented English.
“Drop the weapons, Isidro,” Estelle repeated.
She saw his eyes flick to right and at the same time heard the faint shuffle of feet behind her. Tomas Naranjo had sidled to a position just inside the garden gate. The black muzzle of the shotgun protruded.
Estelle turned her head just enough that she could talk to Naranjo without taking her eyes off Isidro. “I want him alive, Tomás,” she said quietly.
Isidro mouthed a curse and dove off to his left toward a stout clump of saltbush, leaving the duffle bag behind. Estelle snapped off two quick rounds, keeping her aim low, before the right windshield pillar interfered. Dust kicked behind Isidro’s feet but the second round connected. It looked as if someone had jerked a rug out from under the fleeing man. He tumbled, his form nothing but a shadow behind the scrubby bush.
Fifty yards separated him from a gentle rise in the prairie. Behind her, Estelle heard the howl of a car racing into the village, its sound muffled by the buildings. In a moment, Tom Pasquale’s Bronco appeared, shoveling dust and gravel with its front bumper as it careened around the east end of Paulita Saenz’s home and dove across a sharp dip.
Isidro Madrid didn’t wait to negotiate. He appeared from behind the saltbush, the automatic in his hand roaring. A slug whanged off the top of the station wagon, another chewed into the adobe to the left of Naranjo, and a third kicked sand in front of Pasquale’s Bronco as it slid sideways to a stop.
So loud that it made her ears ring, Naranjo’s shotgun bellowed, and Estelle saw the pattern of buckshot blow gravel to the left of Madrid’s flying feet. He dodged sideways, legs pumping like a hotly pursued wide receiver. As he ran, he pumped rounds indiscriminately behind him.
Estelle took a deep breath and clenched the Beretta with both hands. She pulled the trigger at the same time that Naranjo blasted another round from the shotgun. Isidro Madrid was in midturn, trying to avoid a cluster of acacia. Instead he crashed into the stout shrub. Estelle saw the rifle fly from his grip.
Pasquale, gun drawn, sprinted toward Madrid. The man pushed himself to his feet, the automatic digging into the gravel and sand as he did so. Holding his automatic with both hands, Pasquale advanced on Madrid.
“Drop it,” the deputy barked. Madrid turned and looked south. The cut border fence was less than fifty yards away. His left pant leg above the knee was blood-soaked, and his right foot refused to bear his weight. He turned back to Pasquale, and then watched as Estelle advanced toward him.
“
Todo se ha acabado. Isidro,
” she said. “It’s finished.”
So sudden was his movement that both Pasquale and Estelle came within an ounce of squeezing the trigger. Isidro Madrid dropped the automatic, but at the same time collapsed backward to land on his rump, legs awkwardly folded under him. He supported himself on his right elbow and closed his eyes, swaying in pain. He opened them only when Estelle’s shadow fell across his face.
She looked down at him, and found herself considering that a good swift kick would roll him into a small cholla cactus less than a foot behind him.
“No, you don’t want to do that,” Pasquale said. He stepped around Estelle and in a moment had handcuffed Isidro Madrid’s hands behind his back. He pulled the handheld radio off his belt and keyed the mike.
“We’re secure down here,” he said. “Requesting an ambulance for Mr. Madrid.”
“Ten-four,” Torrez’s voice said.
“I don’t want to do what?” Estelle said to Pasquale. She watched impassively as the deputy quickly frisked Madrid, then sliced the blood-soaked trouser leg away from the man’s thigh. One of the shotgun pellets had raked a furrow four inches long, a nasty quarter-inch deep track that bled profusely.
“My foot,” Isidro said through gritted teeth.
“Hurts, huh,” Pasquale said. He secured Madrid’s ankles with nylon ties, then looked at the neat bullet hole through the fancy leather around the heel of Madrid’s right foot. On the other side, the hole was considerably larger. “You’re not bleedin’ to death, so we’ll let the EMTs deal with that.”
He straightened up and grinned at Estelle. “I could see it in your face, Mrs. Guzman.” He reached out and touched the cholla gently with the toe of his boot. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it.” He pulled a small card out of his pocket. “Isidro, I’m going to read you your rights.” Madrid mouthed an obscenity and Pasquale shrugged. “Well, all right, then. You don’t need to hear it. We can drag your carcass about fifty yards south, and Captain Naranjo can read you your rights in Mexico. How about that?”
Naranjo limped his way over, the shotgun cradled under his arm. He regarded Isidro with distaste. “I would consider that a favor for which I would be long in your debt, officer.”
“You can’t do that,” Isidro Madrid said.
“We can’t?” Pasquale said, and then shrugged. “Well, then, shut up and listen.” As he read the Miranda statement, first in English and then in Spanish, Estelle walked over to where Isidro Madrid had dropped the rifle.
