Bag Limit

Chapter Twenty-six

“Just hold on a minute,” I said quietly. “Give him a chance to run the plate.” And sure enough, in another minute, the spotlight flicked off, and I heard the door open.

“Everybody’s kind of nervous around these parts,” my son observed. He rested his right hand on top of the steering wheel, with his left arm on the windowsill.

“Evening, gentlemen,” a voice said, and at first I didn’t recognize it.

“Good morning,” I replied. The Corvette’s roof line was so low that all I could see was a green uniform from the belt down, outlined in the harsh glare of the headlights.

The Border Patrol agent bent down and I saw that it was Taylor Bergmann. “Sheriff Gastner, we met earlier yesterday. I’m Agent Bergmann.” He spoke with the rigid formality of the rookie trying to make sure he did everything just right.

“Right. I remember. Thanks for your help, by the way. This is my son, Commander Bill Gastner.” I figured a little formality in return couldn’t hurt.

“Commander,” Bergmann acknowledged. He bent down a little farther so that he could look directly across at me. “This is the latest thing in unmarked cars, sir?”

“Absolutely. It’s the new Stealth unit. Doesn’t show on radar.” I shifted in my seat a little so that I could talk without busting my neck. “So what are you hunting, Agent Bergmann?”

“I’m trying not to get lost,” Bergmann said with a grin. “So far, I’m doing pretty good. I came in from the west, on the Douglas highway, and I thought I would swing up around here, through town. Agent Gutierrez drove me through Regal the other day, but you know how that goes.”

“A blur,” I said. “Who’s riding with you?” A solo Border Patrol agent was unusual, especially a rookie. Their patrons tended to arrive in groups, and a single agent was at a distinct disadvantage, especially at night, and especially in the back border country. Why a single deputy sheriff in the same territory was perfectly acceptable with county commissioners I had never been able to figure out.

“Agent Tomlinson is riding along tonight,” Bergmann said. I looked into the tiny rearview mirror on my side, and apart from the ominous message that OBJECTS MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR etched into the mirror’s glass, I could see nothing but the dark shadow mountain of the Expedition. I would recognize Agent Gordon Tomlinson on the street if I saw him in uniform, but that was it.

“Scott’s off?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. He took a couple days annual leave.”

“Well deserved. He gave us a hand this afternoon…make that yesterday afternoon now. We had us another little problem to resolve.”

“That’s right. I heard about that. And I thought that since there had been an unresolved situation here on top of that”-he stopped in midsentence as my cellular phone chirped, and then added as I opened the gadget-“that it wouldn’t hurt to cruise through the area.”

“Sure enough,” my son agreed, and Bergmann straightened up away from the window.

“Gastner,” I said into the phone.

“Sir,” Jackie Taber said, “the vehicle now parked behind you came in from the west. The other vehicle is still behind the church, as far as I can tell.”

“Okay. Thanks. We’ll wander over that way when we’re finished here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay put.”

“Yes, sir.”

I closed the phone and scrunched down so I could see Bergmann. He was standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the Baca house.

“Is there anything in particular that you needed, Taylor?” I said, and he turned around quickly.

“No, sir. I saw your vehicle parked here and thought I’d check. That’s all.”

“I appreciate it. We can always use an extra set of well-trained eyes, believe me.”

“Commander,” Bergmann said, and patted the roof of the Corvette, “nice to meet you. Have a great visit.”

“Thanks,” my son said. “It’s been interesting so far.”

Bergmann almost laughed. “I bet,” he said. “We’ll talk to you gentlemen later.”

We heard his boots crunch on the dirt and then the door of the Expedition open and close. The engine had been running, but produced just a gentle whisper as Bergmann reversed to clear our back bumper. He drove around us and continued down the dirt lane to the Sisneroses’ driveway, where he turned around.

“He’s not going to chance any more of Regal’s back streets,” Buddy observed.

“This one doesn’t go much farther anyway,” I said. “Down around the corner to Clorinda Baca’s, and then it just kind of peters out beyond her woodpile.”

“Whoever she is,” Buddy said, chuckling.

“She’s…” I started to say, but he held up a hand.

“I don’t need to know, Dad,” he said. The Border Patrol unit eased past us heading eastbound, and I raised a hand in salute, catching a glimpse of Agent Tomlinson’s round, pleasant face in the passenger window. “Do you want to go over to the church now?”

“Our last stop on the grand tour,” I said. I gestured after the two agents. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if they do the same thing. The mission is one of the traditional stopping places for illegals who jump the fence in this area. It’s never locked, which makes it easy.”

“Is a full-time border crossing in the cards for this place anytime soon?” Buddy asked. He ignited the Corvette and let it idle for a few seconds.

“Probably within the next year,” I said.

We used the Sisneros driveway too, and I could picture Archie Sisneros lying in bed blurry-eyed, wondering if he should turn his dogs loose. I could hear the two of them barking inside the house.

We drove back out the dirt lane. Ahead of us, the Border Patrol unit halted at the pavement, a nice full stop just like the sign ordered. The left directional signal flashed a couple of times, and Bergmann pulled out on the highway and accelerated on up the hill. “I’m surprised he didn’t check out the mission,” I said.

“Maybe he figures that’s your turf.” We reached the pavement, and Buddy leaned forward, pulling himself up against the steering wheel. By easing up and over the edge of the asphalt obliquely, my son was able to avoid leaving serious parts of his car behind. “What time do Estelle and Francis fly in today?” he asked as we straightened out on the pavement.

“Their plane arrives in El Paso a little after two this afternoon,” I said.

“I look forward to seeing them again. The last time I was here, Estelle was just breaking into detective work. As I remember, she was about to take her sergeant’s test. And she was still single, too. Gorgeous and single.”

“Pull into the church,” I said. “And none of that applies anymore, except maybe the gorgeous part. She’s happily married, two kids, no longer in police work. As far as I know. She doesn’t talk much about herself.”

We turned off the asphalt and I leaned forward. “The deputy says that someone’s parked behind the church, so let’s go around the back side.”

“It’s gravel all the way?” As if to punctuate his question, a stone pinged against the exhaust pipe directly under my rump.

“No ruts. It’ll be all right.”

We drove around the west side of La Iglesia de Nuestra Senora, and at the back corner there was just room to skirt the large chamisa plants that kept the inattentive from nicking the adobe corner of the building. The rear wall of the church, its smooth brown adobe expanse broken only by a single window that filtered light the length of the nave, rose more than fifteen feet from the ground to the rounded tops of walls.

My window was down, and even before we started to nose around the east corner toward the side of the church opposite the highway, I heard an engine start. “I don’t think whoever it is plans to stick around and chat,” I said.

But I was wrong. We rounded the corner and pulled in behind a late-model white Dodge Durango with Texas plates. Our headlights picked up the silhouette of a single occupant before we pulled so close that the back of the vehicle blocked the light.

My son turned on one of the little aircraft-style interior lights so I could see the cell phone, and I dialed dispatch. “Hopefully young Sutherland is awake,” I said. Young Sutherland was, and answered on the second ring.

“Run a plate for me, Brent,” I said. “Texas dealer plate November Hotel niner Baker Thomas six.” He repeated the number and I waited, the even rumbling of the Corvette’s idle marking time.

“Sir,” Brent Sutherland said finally, “that tag is registered to Walsh Chrysler-Plymouth, two twenty-one Parkway Avenue, Del Rio, Texas. No wants or warrants. Just a second, sir.”

I heard a voice in the background, and then the rattle of the phone being handed off to someone else.

Robert Torrez’s voice came on the line. “Sir, we think that truck belongs to Scott Gutierrez’s stepfather, a Mr. Jerry Walsh. He owns a dealership in Del Rio. Where are you right now? Behind the church?”

“That’s exactly where we are,” I said. “Jackie asked me to check out this vehicle for her. Why, I don’t know.” If the undersheriff knew where I was, he no doubt also knew that I was there by Deputy Taber’s request.

“Does the driver know you’re there?”

“Unless he’s asleep or dead, he knows there’s a noisy Corvette parked behind him. He would have no way of knowing who it is unless he’s psychic.”

“Okay.” Torrez didn’t elaborate.

“Assuming he doesn’t drive off in the next ten seconds, do you want me to talk to him?” I prompted.

“Sure. Go ahead, sir.”

“Robert,” I said, exasperated by his taciturnity, “what are you not telling me?”

“Jackie has reason to believe that the occupant of that vehicle was inside Sosimo Baca’s house just a few minutes ago.”

I sat silently digesting that. “She’s sure?”

“No, sir, she’s not. But Archie Sisneros called here a while ago to ask if one of our people was still working the Baca place. Archie says he saw the white vehicle parked in front, and someone inside the house with a flashlight.”

“He thought that was kind of odd, did he?” I said.

“Yep. Jackie took the call. On her way down the hill from the pass, she saw a vehicle exit the lane and then park behind the church. She decided it would be better to hang back a little and see what developed.”

“Well,” I said, “we developed. I’ll go have a chat with Mr. Walsh-or whoever has his truck.”

“It might be useful if he didn’t know that the deputy was sitting up the hill.”

“You got it.” I snapped off the phone. “Cat and mouse time.” I shook my head and looked across at my son. I handed him the cell phone. “That button right there”-and I pointed to one of the white buttons on the left side-“is the auto-dial to the Sheriff’s Office.”

“Why am I going to need that?”

“Hopefully, you won’t. But I have to try and pry myself out of your stealth bomber again. If I get stuck partway, we may need to call for assistance.”