Prolonged Exposure

Chapter 29

We managed just over two hours of relaxation-enough to eat far too much of Camille’s pasta primavera, several salads, all of which bordered dangerously close to health food, and a low-fat raspberry cheesecake that was really pretty good.

Two telephones sounded simultaneously-a startling cacophony that prompted me to look at my watch. Dr. Francis Guzman carried one of those small holstered cellular telephones on his belt-a New Age progression from beepers. His belt phone chimed just as the telephone in my kitchen jangled.

“So much for peace and quiet,” I said, starting to push myself up and out of my old leather chair.

“Let me get it, Dad,” Camille said, and she was in the kitchen before I was upright. Francis migrated toward the foyer, the ridiculously small instrument at his ear. His voice was soft and muted, but Camille had never been muted in her life.

“Good evening,” she said, and then waited. I twisted around and saw the frown on her face. She was listening intently, but then she pulled the receiver away from her ear and glanced at it, as if she wasn’t hearing correctly.

“Who is it?” I asked.

She held up a hand, then said, “Is someone on the line?”

“Cranks,” I said, and turned away, grinning at Estelle. “Remember the days of the old party lines?”

“Dad,” Camille said, “maybe you’d better listen to this.”

By then, Francis had finished with his call, and he held up his hands in resignation. “Duty calls,” he said, adding, “Camille, thanks for the dinner. I’ve got to run.” He kissed Estelle on the forehead and waved at me. “And I’m sure you folks will be getting the call, too. Someone got themselves shot.”

By then, I was on my feet. Camille handed me the receiver. “It sounds like falling furniture, with a youngster crying way in the background,” she said.

As soon as I put the receiver to my ear, I could hear the lusty screams of a child, muted with distance, and then a series of heavy thuds close to the telephone, like someone thumping a book against a hassock.

“That’s a really hurting child,” Camille said.

I listened again, but obviously I didn’t have Camille’s fine-tuned mother’s ear. It sounded like a child who was unhappy about something, but that was normal for most kids the majority of the time. Estelle pushed herself up from the couch, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“Gastner,” I said into the receiver. A mighty crash was followed by more howling from the distant kid. It sounded as if the whole side of the room, telephone and all, had collapsed. “Jesus,” I said. “Hello?”

I was about to hand the receiver to Estelle when I heard a muffled cry, an urgent “Mmmmph.”

“This is Undersheriff William Gastner,” I said again. “Is someone there?”

“Mmmmmph. Mmmmmph. Mmmmmph.” And in the background, the child continued to cry, stirred on by whatever was making the wild thumping and banging.

“Can you understand me?” I said, and abruptly the ruckus stopped, followed by another string of grunts and moans.

“Grunt once for yes, twice for no. Are you hurt?”

“Mmmph, mmmph.”

“Is the child with you hurt?”

“Mmmph, mmmph.” Whoever it was put considerable urgency in those grunts, and then a slow, dim light began to glow somewhere in my dull brain.

“Are you using an automatic dialer?”

“Mmmph.”

“Estelle,” I barked, and I handed the receiver to her. She’d heard my side of the conversation and she didn’t bother with background explanations. I could see by the look on her face that she recognized the voice of the howling child, if nothing else.

“Erma?” she said, and my pulse jumped. She got a single loud “Mmmph,” loud enough that I could hear it standing three feet away. “I’ll be right there.” She thrust the phone at me and said, “Keep her on the line.”

“Erma, do you need an ambulance?” I shouted. Estelle was already racing toward the front door.

The two “Mmmph” ’s that came then were more like a whimper than a cry for help.

“Are you in any immediate danger?”

“Mmmph, Mmmph.”

“Why can’t you talk? Are you gagged somehow?”

“Mmmph.”

“How about the kids? Are they all right?”

“Mmmmmph, Mmmph.” I could hear the anger shouted right through the tape, or sock, or plastic bag that was covering her mouth.

My blood ran cold. “Hang in there,” I said. “Is it safe for you to break the connection?”

The two screams were as immediate as a cry from a hot poker.

“All right, I’m here, and Estelle’s on the way. It’ll just be a couple of minutes.” I put my hand over the receiver and looked at Camille. “Go into my bedroom and get my handheld radio.” She took off like a shot. “Erma, now listen carefully. Is someone else there with you, other than the children?”

“Mmmph, Mmmph.”

“Was someone there?”

“Mmmph.”

She was crying, and I could hear her breath coming in jerky sobs. I could envision all kinds of nightmares, and one of them was Erma Sedillos choking to death. “Are they there now?” I knew damn well that the intruders weren’t going to be sitting there, watching her grunt into a telephone, but they might have been in the yard.

I took a deep breath of relief when I heard the two choked grunts, and Camille handed me the handheld radio.

“Hang in there, Erma. Everything is going to be all right.” I twisted the power button on, switched to channel three, and barked, “PCS, Gastner.”

The response was instant, and I recognized the clipped, efficient voice of Ernie Wheeler.

“Gastner, PCS.”

“PCS, I need a backup unit at Four-ten South Twelfth Street. Code Thirty-three.”

“Ten-four, sir. What’s your twenty?”

“I’m home, damn it.”

“Sir, all units are responding to a call at the motel…”

With a curse, I grunted to my feet, not hearing the rest of our dispatcher’s message. “Erma, are you still there?”

“Mmmph.”

“All right. Listen, is there any danger to Estelle when she arrives?”

“Mmmph,” and then, after a pause of five heartbeats, “Mmmph.”

“She’ll be there in just a minute. I’m leaving now, and I’m going to have my daughter Camille stay on the line with you. Do you understand me?”

“Mmmph.”

“She’s got a radio direct to the Sheriff’s Department, so you’re not alone. All right?”

“Mmmph.”

I thrust the phone at Camille and planted the radio in front of her on the kitchen table. “If you need to call Dispatch, just push the talk button. I’ll have the radio on in three ten, and I’ll have the other handheld with me everywhere else, so you can talk to me, as well. All right?”

She nodded and sat down, as white as a sheet.

“You’re sure you’re all right with this?” I said.

“Go, go,” she said. “And be careful.”

If I could have sprinted, I would have. But motions repeated over the years until they were second nature sufficed. Three ten hit the asphalt of Escondido with a loud bellow, and then, with a wrench of the steering wheel, I launched north onto Grande.

Estelle’s home was five blocks south of Bustos, the major east-west artery of Posadas. The fastest way to get there was to avoid all the side streets, heading straight north on Grande for a mile and then west on Bustos. I passed the intersection of Grande and MacArthur still accelerating, staying in the left-hand lane, hugging the center median.

The intersection with Bustos was four lanes wide, but I still didn’t have enough room. The county car squalled sideways through the intersection, and for an instant I had visions of planting 310 upside down on Pershing’s tank. Everyone and everything stayed out of my way, and I straightened out and headed west on Bustos.

My heart was hammering when I slowed for the left turn onto Twelfth, and as soon as I turned the corner, I could see Estelle’s county car parked at the sidewalk three blocks ahead.

As I pulled up behind her car, I palmed the microphone. “PCS, three ten is ten-ninety-seven, Guzman residence.”

“Ten-four, three ten.”

I slammed the gear lever into park, eyes scanning the front of the house. I don’t know what I expected to see, but nothing appeared amiss.

The engine died and I got out of the car. The Guzman home was one of those neat out-of-a-can tract homes that had been built during the mining boom. It was attractive and unpresumptuous. A decade before, the house next door had burned, and the previous owners of the Guzman home had had the foresight to purchase the lot, remove the charred ruins, and double the size of their own yard. That was the feature that had attracted the Guzmans when the place had come on the market a handful of years later.

As I walked to the door, I looked left, along the chain-link fence that enclosed the yard. Neither Francis nor Estelle had time to garden, and they’d settled for planting trees and bushes. On a summer’s day, the place was a densely shaded arboretum.

The neighborhood was so quiet, I could hear the hot engine of 310 ticking behind me. Estelle couldn’t have arrived more than a minute before me.

The front door was ajar. I pulled the screen open and sidled inside. The foyer opened into the living room, and Estelle was on her knees beside Erma Sedillos. A table was overturned, and the telephone unit and answering machine were on the floor.

From a back bedroom, I could hear the lusty voice of little Carlos.

“He’s okay,” Estelle said, and she was working frantically and gently to free the duct tape from around Erma’s face, hands, and feet. She was trussed like a turkey. “They took Francisco,” Estelle said over her shoulder to me.

“They what?”

Estelle shot a glance at me, and for the first time since I had known her, her voice shook. “Francisco. They took him.”