Prolonged Exposure

Chapter 31

When I walked back inside the Guzmans’ house, I found Estelle sitting on the couch, her arms still wrapped around tiny Carlos. He had stopped crying but continued to pop a hiccup now and then.

From what Erma had told us, the infant hadn’t uttered a peep all the time that the intruder was in the house. Carlos had been asleep in his crib in one of the back bedrooms, and only he knew exactly when he had awakened and what he had heard.

Only when Erma Sedillos had begun creating her hour and a half of thumping, banging mayhem did Carlos let loose, standing in his crib and screaming.

I didn’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing if it would have brought my godson to the front doorstep.

By the look on her face, though, Estelle was far, far away. Her dark brows were closely knit, and her rocking and cooing to Carlos were distracted.

“I told Robert to have someone pick up Francis at the hospital,” I said. “He’ll be here any second.”

I didn’t know if that was true or not. If Dr. Guzman was in the midst of delicate surgery, it was going to be hard for him to drop the scalpel and run. Unlike a large metro hospital, there wasn’t a plethora of vascular surgeons who could just step in and take over.

And, as so often happens, a ridiculous thought, unbidden, came to mind. If Florencio Apodaca was guilty of actually murdering his wife, and if he was even half-cogent, he must have been wondering just how patient he was going to have to be with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. I wondered what stage of Bob Torrez’s preliminary interview with the old man had been interrupted when the deputies got the call to break away.

“This has to be someone who knows our family,” Estelle murmured. “He knew exactly what he wanted, and didn’t waste a step.” She turned tortured eyes to me. “He wanted Francis, sir.”

“It appears that way,” I said. “He knew the layout of your property. You can’t really see your back door from the street unless you’re looking for it. With the back light off, it would have been even harder.”

“And there’s no gate in the chain-link fence,” she said.

“I don’t know too many people who can vault over a four-foot fence with a child under one arm.”

“And he didn’t search through the house,” Estelle said, nuzzling Carlos on the forehead. As if sensing that now wasn’t a good time to interrupt, the child had released his hold on Estelle’s neck and sat like a silent beanbag doll, his dark face sober and eyes watchful, as quiet now as he’d been noisy a bit earlier.

In the next few minutes, he had lots of things to watch. Camille arrived with Gayle Sedillos, Erma’s older sister. This was my daughter’s first visit to Posadas in nearly twenty years, and already she seemed a perfectly natural fit-part of her talent for remaining a stranger for only a few seconds.

“Gayle,” I said, “Make sure that no one ties up any of the telephones. The phone in the bedroom is listed to Dr. Guzman in the directory. Until we get some recording equipment over here, I’d rather they weren’t even answered. Camille, I’d like you to use the cell phone in my Blazer to keep in touch with the hospital. We want Dr. Guzman here the instant he can break free.”

“Three ten, three oh one on channel three.”

I jerked the handheld from my belt, recognizing Martin Holman’s voice and at the same time dreading what he might blab out over the air for all of Posadas County to hear. “Go ahead.”

“Ten-eighty-seven at Posadas Inn.”

For an instant, I couldn’t even remember what the hell 10–87 meant, and I frowned at the radio as if the translation would pop up in the little frequency window. My mind snapped into gear, but my frown deepened. The motel was the last place I was interested in visiting at the moment. A drunk getting himself killed in a parking-lot brawl was just not one of my concerns at the moment.

“Sheriff, that’s negative. We’ve got a mess here.”

“Three ten, stand by.”

“I don’t know what the hell he wants,” I said to Estelle.

“He doesn’t know about Francis yet,” she replied.

“I’m sure he knows by now. Torrez is good at keeping things off the air, but-” The telephone rang, sounding so loud that we all jumped.

I picked up the receiver, not knowing what to expect.

“Bill,” Martin Holman said, his tone clipped and businesslike. “You need to get down here ASAP. I know what you’ve got going there. Mitchell told me. There’s something here that ties into the boy’s abduction, and I want you to see it for yourself. Hustle. And bring Estelle with you.”

“She’s not going to want to leave Carlos,” I said.

“Then bring him.” The line went dead. I realized it was the first time Martin Holman had ever cut short a conversation with me.

“What is it?” Camille asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, then turned to speak to Estelle. “Sweetheart, we need to go down to the Posadas Inn. Holman’s got something he wants us to see. He says it ties in somehow.” And for the first time in our working relationship, I saw Estelle Reyes-Guzman hesitate. Two car doors slammed and I stepped to the entryway.

Deputy Tom Pasquale’s long stride was matched by Dr. Francis Guzman. The young physician’s face was grim. “Thank God you’re here,” I said.

“You need to go to the motel,” Guzman said as he brushed by me. In two or three long strides, he was kneeling beside Estelle. “Go with him,” he said to his wife. He disengaged Carlos from her embrace. “I’ll be here, and Tommy’s been assigned to stay here until we know what’s going on. From what the sheriff told me, it’s really important that you go to the motel. Then come right back.”

Estelle nodded, stood up, and shook her head as if breaking loose from a tangle of cobwebs. She turned to Camille and Gayle. “Can you both stay?”

My daughter nodded. “Good,” Estelle said. “We won’t be long.”

We left the house, Estelle at a dead run. She started toward her own unmarked county car, then thought better of it and climbed into the passenger side of 310. Across the street, I saw a heavyset woman-the wife of the county road superintendent-standing on her front step, watching the action. When she saw me, she started a step or two toward the sidewalk. I ignored her, and by the time I’d grunted myself into 310, she’d gone back up on the porch.

The telephone circuits around Posadas would be buzzing, if they weren’t already. There would be a lot more ammunition for gossip before the night was over.

The Posadas Inn was just off the interstate on Grande, less than four blocks from my house. During the two minutes it took to cover a little less than three miles, I didn’t have much time to reflect on what could be so important that Martin Holman would summon us both.