Before She Dies

Chapter 37

Carlos Sanchez never looked back. If he had, he’d have seen the silhouette of my vehicle a hundred yards away, squatting in the middle of the road. He got out of the Suburban, walked to the border gate, and unlocked it. Simple as that. As Nick Chavez had once said, theft was simplest if the thief had a key. I wondered who Carlos Sanchez had bribed for that useful copy.

He reached for the top bar and started to swing the heavy welded pole gate toward the American side.

I started the engine of the Blazer with one hand and barked into the cellular phone, “Move it, Robert.” At the same time, a light show erupted from south of the border as two vehicles exploded from behind a long creosote-bush-studded sand dune.

Sergeant Torrez had not waited at the turnout. When he’d seen the Suburban pull out of the village, he’d coasted down the hill and now was less than two hundred yards behind me.

I saw the flashing lights across the border; the Blazer’s back tires chirped as I floored the accelerator.

Carlos Sanchez froze in his tracks for only a heartbeat as lights converged from both directions. With a lunge, he pushed the gate away and sprang toward the Suburban. Just as Tomas Naranjo’s jeep slid to a stop in a cloud of dust and sand thirty feet from the gate, Sanchez accelerated hard, all four massive tires chewing sand and gravel. The Suburban spun to the west, its shiny back bumper narrowly missing the gate as it turned.

I yanked the wheel to the right, thinking to block Sanchez, but back up the highway was not where he had in mind. The Suburban shot off the side of the road and bounced across the ditch, paralleling the border fence. For two hundred yards, the fence was high and solid, welded rails and wire. But farther on in both directions, it shrank to nothing more than six strands of barbed wire.

If Sanchez was headed up the line, where he could drive the vehicle right through in a tangle of posts and snapped wire, he’d face two squads of eager Federales, itching for some excitement to cap their day.

Even as I swung off the pavement in pursuit, I saw Bob Torrez’s old pickup truck slide in a circle and catapult off into the sand and bushes.

But the border wasn’t what Carlos Sanchez had in mind, either. His truck thundered along the rough fence access road, dove down through an arroyo, and, as it crested the other side, swung back to the north.

If I had had the speed, I could have cut him off when he turned across my path. But I hadn’t engaged the front hubs of the Blazer, and was caught off guard. Now, stuck in two-wheel drive, I couldn’t keep up, as my back tires churned and spun in the soft sand. Bob Torrez guessed Sanchez’s route back toward the village, and angled to intercept him.

I saw his pickup hit a hummock of grass and go airborne, shedding its spare tire, oil cans, tools, and part of the right taillight assembly. In between bounces, I grabbed the police radio microphone off the dash.

“Three oh seven, make sure that highway’s blocked,” I shouted. “Take it at the first switchback.” Mears wouldn’t have any trouble putting a cork in the highway. All he had to do was park sideways at the turn. The steep mesa face would take care of the rest.

As we approached the south side of the village I could see two sets of red lights coming down the hillside as Mears and Bishop cut off Carlos Sanchez’s escape to the north.

Ahead of me, the lights of the Suburban disappeared as the vehicle plunged down into the main arroyo that split the village in half. I turned away from the edge, knowing that it was a sure trap for two-wheel drive. Bob Torrez spun north, and just as the Suburban roared up and out on the west side of the arroyo he reached the dirt path that was Regal’s southernmost main street.

Sanchez didn’t flinch as Torrez’s old truck plunged into his path. The two vehicles met with a crash, the impact spinning the pickup around so that it faced back the way it had come. With a scream of bent metal against rubber, Sanchez flogged the battered Suburban into one of the side lanes.

By then I had worked my way north along the arroyo to the lane, and when I reached the crumpled pickup I paused just long enough for Torrez to dive in, shotgun in hand.

“He can’t go anywhere,” I said, and even as I spoke we saw the Suburban pull into Mateo Esquibel’s side yard.

“Howard, we’re going to need you down here at the house,” I said into the mike. “Tom, stay up on the highway.”

I approached Esquibel’s tiny adobe slowly. The Suburban sat in the driveway, door ajar, dome light on.

“You think he slipped out the back?” Torrez breathed.

“Be careful,” I said, and he was out of the Blazer like a shot, weapon at high port. I slid the truck into gear, turned off the lights, and got out.

I knew Carlos Sanchez had not slipped out the back. I couldn’t imagine that walking was his style, especially in this country. His return to the house could have been for only one reason. He had to figure that Mateo Esquibel was his ticket to Mexico.

I stepped forward and shut the door of the stolen Suburban, and the yard was plunged into darkness. The dog inside was yapping, and I could see only one light. It was so faint it would have frustrated the most dedicated Peeping Tom.

“Sanchez!” I shouted. “Come on out.”

Other than the old dog, there was no response from the house.

“We don’t want to hurt either you or the old man. Come on out.” Still no response. I cursed and turned as Howard Bishop’s patrol car idled into the yard. He started to get out of the car, but I waved a hand as I walked over. “Stay in the car and keep on the radio,” I said. “Bob’s around back. I don’t think our man is going anywhere.”

I turned back and walked toward the front door. Just in front of the small front stoop I stopped, hands on my hips. “Carlos! I want to come in.” The damn dog started yapping again, and I heard a dull thud, like furniture being moved. “I’m at the front door,” I shouted. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Going through the door wasn’t one of the brighter things I’d ever done, but I was in no mood to stand out in the dark, trying to negotiate with silence.

Carlos Sanchez had to know as well as I did that other deputies waited outside. I was counting on him understanding that shooting one old fat officer wouldn’t do him any good.

The doorknob turned and I pushed open the front door. The light came from a little burlap-shaded lamp that sat on a low table on the west wall, two paces from the woodstove. A doorway led to the back of the house, where I supposed the kitchen and bathroom to be. Mateo Esquibel was sitting in a deep, old chair. The blanket that covered it had long shed its color and was now soft from dust and dog hair.

Mateo looked at me as I stood a pace away from the door on the stoop. His face was expressionless, heavy-lidded eyes just watching. The dog sat in his lap, and yapped once more before falling silent.

Behind the old man’s chair stood Carlos Sanchez, his back to the thick, impregnable adobe wall. He held a short pump shotgun, and rested the weight of the gun on the wing of the chair. The muzzle looked as big as a howitzer.

“Can I come in?” I asked.

Carlos raised his head a fraction, twitching his jaw. “Drop your gun outside,” he said softly.

“No,” I said genially. “You’re holding that thing, and my gun’s buried under my coat. I’m no quick-draw artist. Just relax.”

A loud thump came from behind the house and Sanchez’s eyes flickered.

“Can I walk over to the doorway there? I’ll tell ’em to back off.”

Sanchez nodded, and the shotgun muzzle followed me as I walked past them to the doorway leading to bed and bath.

“Robert!” I shouted. “Forget it. Go round front and keep Howard company. Everything’s fine in here.”

I turned and looked at Sanchez. He was smaller than I had remembered, slender and dark, with none of the bulk or coarseness of his father.

“You see? It’s easy. Now, what do you want?”

“Over there,” he said, and motioned to the still open front door.

“All right,” I said affably. I kept my hands in plain view. “You want me to close it?” I did so without waiting for a response.

The old man raised a hand and rubbed the left side of his face. He was missing three fingers, probably lost half a century before Carlos Sanchez was born.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“He’s fine,” Sanchez snapped.

“Then what do you want?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“What do you think is going to happen to you once you’re across the border?”

“I’ll take my chances with that,” Sanchez said.

“Well, we’re not going to let you do that,” I said. “The best thing you can do for all concerned is put that damn shotgun down before anyone else gets hurt.” Sanchez’s eyes darted to one side, toward the side window. He shifted position slightly, putting the old man squarely between himself and the opening. “You had quite a deal going for yourself,” I said, but he ignored me. Carlos Sanchez wasn’t about to lapse into a long session of storytelling or explanation.

“Back outside,” he said, and hefted the shotgun. With the other hand, he grasped Mateo Esquibel by the elbow and urged him to his feet. The old man looked confused and frowned.

When he looked at me, I said slowly and distinctly, “Do exactly what he asks.” If he read lips, he read Spanish, not English. He glanced at Carlos Sanchez, and the younger man said something in Spanish. The old man nodded.

Sanchez escorted the old man across the floor toward the front door. “You go back outside. Tell them to back off. Way off. Leave your truck.”

“The keys are in it,” I said. “But this isn’t going to work, Carlos. You’ve got to know that.”

“It’ll work if you use your head, sheriff. Now do like I said.”

I didn’t move for a long moment. If Sanchez did make it to a border crossing, either by way of crashing through the fence or bribing the right person, I had no guarantee that Tomas Naranjo and his troops would feel especially motivated to fight our war for us. Sanchez had committed no crime in Mexico, beyond the sale of a few stolen vehicles-and that was damn near a national pastime across the border.

Much as I wanted the son of a bitch, I didn’t want the old man hurt. If he had known what Carlos Sanchez had been up to, he was technically as guilty as the man who held the shotgun. But I found his complicity unlikely. He was going to be a sad old man now, knowing that Sanchez hadn’t been visiting him out of respect for the aging.

I backed up, filling the doorway. “Carlos…” I started to say, but he interrupted me with an impatient wave of the shotgun.

“Call them off.”

With a deep breath, I turned to shout at Torrez, who crouched behind the bulk of the truck.

Behind him, I saw more lights turned on as the tiny village gradually awoke to the ruckus in Mateo Esquibel’s front yard. The old man’s dog ran out of the house and made a beeline for Bob Torrez, stopping a dozen feet from the deputy to bark frantically.

I heard the guttural squelch of Howard Bishop’s radio, and then the deputy slithered out of the car and crouched by the front fender. “Sir!” he shouted. “Mears just let Victor Sanchez through. He’s coming in.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked to the east, toward the main road. A vehicle was just pulling into Regal, going much too fast and fishtailing in the dirt.

Turning to Carlos, I said, “Is this the rescue you were hoping for?”

But to my surprise, he jerked Mateo Esquibel closer and rested the muzzle of the shotgun on the old man’s shoulder. “Get him out of here.” The urgency in Sanchez’s voice surprised me. I waited, framed in the doorway, knowing that more confusion might work in our favor, providing a safe opening.

If Carlos Sanchez let down his guard for an instant, I could grab the barrel of the pump shotgun, wresting it away from the old man’s head. Failing that, I knew exactly how Sergeant Robert Torrez operated. Even as he moved into position behind the Suburban, I’d caught the glint of light off the barrel of his.308 deer rifle. One opening was all he would need.

Victor Sanchez’s fat pale-green Continental slithered into the yard, almost taking off the door of Howard Bishop’s county car.

He jerked open the door and stalked toward us, reaching the back of the Suburban before Torrez blocked his way.

“Let him come through,” I shouted, and I saw Carlos Sanchez duck his head. He fidgeted and backed around the old man until their two heads merged as one. He pulled Mateo Esquibel a step back into the living room. When Victor Sanchez reached the stoop, I held up a hand.

“You’d better stop there,” I said.

“I don’t have to talk to you!” Carlos shouted at his father, and for the first time there was a crack in the younger man’s voice.

Victor’s face bulged with fury as he looked at me. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he whispered.

“Your son’s holding Mr. Esquibel, Victor. That Suburban’s stolen. He was trying to slip across the border.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. When he spoke, he had to force the words out through clenched teeth.

“Carlos! Get out here!”

“Be careful,” I said. “He’s got a shotgun.”

Victor’s head snapped around like I’d jerked it with a chain. “He’s wanted in connection with two murders, Victor. Deputy Encinos and Tammy Woodruff. He’s not just going to let you walk in there.”

I turned slightly in the doorway so Victor could see past me.

Carlos saw his father and shouted, “Get him out of here! I mean it.”

“Carlos, don’t do anything stupid,” I said. Victor Sanchez started to push past me, but I blocked the doorway with one arm. Without taking his eyes off his son, Sanchez said, “Get out of my way.” He stood patiently, waiting for me to weigh the options. Finally I dropped my arm. Victor stepped forward into the living room, standing between me and his son.

I saw no weapon in Victor’s hands, and I was banking on Carlos being incapable of swinging the shotgun without having to twist away from the old man. That would give me room for a clear shot, and I edged my hand back toward my holstered revolver.

But Victor Sanchez had a different agenda. I don’t know what he knew, or what he had been able to piece together. But right then, his small, hard eyes were focused on the shotgun and the old man.

He stood facing his son, hands clenched at his sides.

“?Como podrias hacer este?” he whispered. “How could you do this?”

“Get out of my way, Papa,” Carlos snarled. His feet shifted and I could see the knuckles of his right hand turn white.

Victor stood stock-still, his eyes unblinking. “Is it true?”

Carlos’s feet danced another nervous little two-step, and the muzzle of the shotgun dipped.

“Is it true?” Victor said again, and the words were no louder than a soft puff of night air.

I edged farther into the room, two paces behind Victor’s broad back. Carlos saw me, and this time there was almost a note of pleading in his voice. “Get him out of here!”

Victor had read all the answer he needed in his son’s panic. “How could you do it?” he said again, this time in English. He shook his head slowly and spoke as if he were talking to himself. “Por nada…y con el viejo.?Por un poquito dinero, tu amagas tu abuelo propio? Your own grandfather?”

Carlos lifted the shotgun, almost resting it on the ancient man’s shoulder. Its black muzzle pointed directly at Victor Sanchez’s face.

“Dos personas,” Victor said. “?Y como podrias robar de me??Como podrias hacerlo?”

“Papa…” Carlos started to say, and he sounded like a child.

“No creo que…” Victor said, but it was his hand I was watching. His right hand had drifted around behind him, slipping under the bulky jacket he wore. Even as he pulled out the small revolver, he moved as quickly and gracefully as a dancer. Lashing out with his left hand, he pushed the shotgun muzzle away from the old man’s head, at the same time driving his right hand out like a prize-fighter.

The explosion of the revolver was loud in the confines of the room, and Carlos Sanchez staggered backward with a cry. Victor pushed after him, wresting the shotgun out of his grasp. The weapon thudded to the floor as Victor drove his son toward the back wall of the living room. Mateo Esquibel, looking puzzled, rubbed his face.

The two bodies crashed into the wall, and a small framed portrait of Christ dropped to the floor, its glass shattering.

Jerking the handcuffs off my belt, I lunged across the room to where Victor held his son against the wall. Carlos’s eyes drifted past the purple, enraged face of his father to my own.

“He shot me,” he said simply.

“Victor, give me the gun!” I shouted, and even as I did so, the revolver thudded to the floor.

“He shot me,” Carlos said again, and started to sag sideways. Victor held him by his jacket until the younger man’s weight was too much to support. Then he lowered his son to the dusty floor of the living room. I kicked the short-barreled.38 away and held up a hand to stop Torrez and Bishop as they charged up the front steps.

“Take care of him,” I said, pointing at Mateo Esquibel.

I knelt beside Victor Sanchez, and I could smell the onions, and the fried chicken, and the beer that he served at the Broken Spur Saloon. He said nothing, but his eyes were locked on his son’s face. The rage was gone, replaced by quiet desperation.

“I can’t…” Carlos Sanchez said clearly, and stopped.

“Lie still, son.” I turned to issue orders, but Deputy Bishop was ahead of me. He slipped out the door and I heard his boots thudding across the yard toward his car.

“Papa,” Carlos Sanchez whispered. “It hurts.” Blood was beginning to leak through the jacket, and Carlos made a strangled, choking sound, at the same time that he tried to push himself up to a sitting position. And then his eyes glazed and lost focus. “Papa,” he said one more time, and died.

I rocked back on my haunches and watched as Victor released his hold on his son. Victor never took his eyes off his son’s face, but he spoke in English. “How could he kill like that? And he stole from his own father. How could he do that? He just ran inside and took the money. How could he do that?”

I didn’t reply as I stood up. Victor looked up at me. “Was he trying to leave the country?”

“We think so.”

“He didn’t even have a word to say to me.”

I walked out of the adobe, leaving the two of them alone.

Bishop came trotting back, his service automatic in his hand.

“The ambulance is on the way,” he said.

“And put that thing away,” I answered. I leaned against the Blazer’s rusted fender and looked out across the little village.

“You want him cuffed?” Bishop asked.

I shook my head and pushed my own set back through my belt. “He’s not going anywhere. Just go in and gather up all the goddamned artillery.”

“No, I meant Victor. You want him in custody?”

I looked at Howard. “Where’s he going to go in this world, Howard? He just shot his own son. Leave him alone until the ambulance gets here.”