Statute of Limitations

Chapter Thirty-eight

What was now the parking lot of the clinic had formerly been a tangle of choked undergrowth. Guadalupe Trail curved around the five acres that had been Bill Gastner’s backyard, but now asphalt replaced the stunted oak, thistle, New Mexico olive, and ragged juniper. A narrow hedge of those unruly plants, perhaps fifty feet wide, separated the back border of the parking lot from the weeds around what had once been Gastner’s flagstone back patio-before he had stopped trying to keep up with the invasion.

Estelle stood between her county car and the plumber’s truck, surveying the parking lot, listening to the gentle breeze and the occasional hiss of traffic on the interstate a block to the north. Through the hedge, Estelle could see the faint glow from Gastner’s kitchen window. She dialed dispatch again.

“Ernie, I’ll be out of the car at Gastner’s for a few minutes. Is Tom clear yet?”

“He is. He’s inbound now.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to him. You’ll hear him say that he’s headed to Regál for a few minutes. Just acknowledge that, Ernie.”

Estelle clicked off and redialed. In a moment, Deputy Tom Pasquale responded.

“Tomás, this is Estelle. How far south are you?”

“About four miles, ma’am.”

“Okay. Expedite north, but silent approach. I’m at Bill Gastner’s, and I think something might be going on. I’m not sure what. When you pull into Guadalupe, don’t turn down Escondido, all right? I don’t want any extra traffic around Bill’s house. Just wait by the driveway of the trailer court on Guadalupe. Jackie’s already there.”

“Got it.”

“And you need to radio dispatch and tell Ernie that you’re headed toward Regál.”

There was a second or two of silence. “You lost me,” the deputy said.

“If someone has a scanner, I don’t want them knowing where you are, Tomás.”

“Oh, sure. Got it.”

Estelle turned off her phone and slipped it in her jacket pocket. Bill Gastner did have a scanner in his kitchen, although he rarely turned it on. It served as a handy flat surface to cover with pocket junk. Someone else might find it handy indeed. If Hank Sisneros had come to Mike’s apartment and either cajoled or coerced the young deputy to go with him to Gastner’s, knowing there was a flood of cops outside wasn’t going to help matters.

Skirting the back wall of the clinic, she cut across to the east side of the parking lot, well away from the sodium vapor light near the clinic’s back door, staying in the dark shadows along the thicket. The vegetation was musty, and once she heard the rustle of something in the dead leaves. She wanted badly to turn on her flashlight to make sure that she wasn’t about to stumble over a skunk, but resisted the impulse. The thick vegetation blocked whatever light might have strayed into the thicket from the quickly darkening sky.

She followed the perimeter of the parking lot until she was directly behind Bill Gastner’s house, the kitchen window now clearly visible as a yellowish patch through the brush. She stopped. A hundred times, she had either looked out through that kitchen window, or stood on the back patio, or even walked through the thickets. Now, with only the parking lot light behind her and the faint light from the kitchen in her eyes, the fifty feet between her and the house was a formidable barrier.

She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating on what she remembered. Off to the left of the kitchen window was an enormous cottonwood, its limbs lopped and pruned over the years so that when one dropped it wouldn’t crash through the roof of the house.

Taking a deep breath, she started toward that tree, one easy step at a time. She felt the ground ahead of her with the toe of her shoe, slipping each footstep into the dry vegetation.

The cottonwood loomed ahead of her, and she reached out a hand, touching its rough bark, reconnecting her balance with the sturdy, friendly trunk. She waited until her breathing eased and her pulse slowed. A dozen paces away, the back wall of the old adobe was a black shape against the tree-laced evening sky. Through the kitchen window, bare of curtains, she could see the top of the refrigerator and the wall cabinets beside it.

Like an old Mexican fortress, the adobe’s windows were all small and set high-no picture windows that opened the house and its occupants to view from the outside world. Keeping her steps short, Estelle moved across the patio, staying out of the light from the window. She rested against the wall of the house, one hand spread on the rough adobe as if taking its pulse. A loud thump from inside the house jerked her body bowstring tight. She could hear what might have been voices, but the thick walls were effective insulation.

Still holding her breath, she moved closer to the kitchen window, keeping her hand in contact with the wall. Her left foot touched what she hoped was a loosely coiled garden hose, and she hesitated, then felt her way around the tangle. She ducked under the window, turned, and straightened up slowly, staying out of the light.

To the right of the kitchen was a laundry room that Gastner never used, preferring instead to let Kealey’s Kleaners take care of his needs. That door was routinely closed. To the left, the kitchen opened into a large, formal dining room through an open-topped island-the countertop of which was the only table that the old man ever used. The dining-room table, a huge Mexican antique with enormously ornate carvings, could seat a dozen people-and most of the time was covered in a mess of newspapers, magazines, books, and mail, topped off with whatever hat Gastner might have been wearing last.

Beyond the dining room, a sunken six-sided living room and library was insulated with stuffed bookshelves.

Estelle sucked in a sharp breath. By standing on her tiptoes, she could see that half of the books were a mess, some lying open on the shelves, obviously many on the floor. The lampshade of the antique floor lamp hung bent and askew. She heard another loud thump, this time followed by a bellow of rage, and a broad back heaved into view, erupting up from in front of the leather sofa. Arms flailed, and Estelle saw a hand holding a pistol clamped in a grip that covered all but the last inch or two of the weapon’s barrel.

Drawing her own.45, she reached out and touched the knob on the back door. The door was closed, but one of the small panes was broken, the door’s locks unsecured.

The kitchen door opened inward, and she stayed close to the jamb. Another crash and a curse came from the living room. So focused were the two combatants that they took no notice of Estelle’s entrance. She quickly scanned the room and saw no one else.

Bill Gastner’s face was nearly purple from exertion, his teeth clenched as he struggled with a smaller, more slightly built man. They were wedged in the narrow space between the leather sofa and the huge, slate table, and Gastner was using his considerable weight to advantage. Both men were slippery with blood, but despite the flailing limbs, kicks, and punches, Gastner was obviously concentrating on only one thing-control of the weapon.

On his back on the floor, the man had his arm hooked around Gastner’s neck, hand on the older man’s chin as if he could twist the retired sheriff’s head backward. The muscles of Gastner’s shoulders bulged with effort, and the two men lay quiet for a moment, breath coming in rasping gasps.

As Estelle moved across the kitchen, Gastner couldn’t see her, but his assailant could. With a violent wrench, he twisted, driving a sharp elbow into the side of the retired sheriff’s head. At the same time, he jerked his arms downward, driving Gastner’s wrists into the sharp edge of the table. Jerking free with one hand at the same time that he elbowed Gastner’s face again, he almost flung the gun toward Estelle as he yanked the trigger.

The automatic roared and the heavy slug caught the edge of the countertop, exploding upward in a shower of Formica and chipboard fragments. Stung in a dozen places by the shrapnel, Estelle dodged backward. The man brought the gun down hard on Gastner’s head, rolled sideways, and slithered out from the cover of the table.

Estelle used the corner of the refrigerator to steady her own weapon, and as soon as the man dove out from between the sofa and the table, away from Gastner’s humped form, she squeezed the trigger. Crouched and scrambling for his balance, trying to focus on the new threat, the man was a moving, dodging target. The.45 round took the man in the side of his right knee, buckling it out from under him. He fell with a crash, cursing, twisting toward her.

Just a hundredth part of a second from pulling a second shot, Estelle saw Gastner’s large form materialize from the left. He crabbed the two steps on his hands and knees, reaching the man just as his assailant swung the gun to cover him.

Gastner’s huge paw enveloped the automatic, and for a heartbeat, Estelle expected to hear another shot, even as she hurtled across the kitchen, down the steps, and across the living room.

She saw her opening. Gastner had both hands on the gun, twisting it and the hand that held it down toward the floor, the muzzle down and away, the barrel wrenched back out of battery so the pistol couldn’t fire. The man’s other hand was wrapped around Gastner’s head. Things froze for a moment, and she tore her cuffs off the back of her belt and with a quick stab, slammed them around the man’s right wrist. Using the other half of the cuffs and the chain connector as a wrench, she twisted hard, driving the steel deep into the man’s wrist. At the same time, she dropped her left knee into the hollow of his neck and shoulder.

He bellowed something incomprehensible just before her driving knee crushed off his wind and blood supply. He thrashed, disregarding the bite of the handcuffs on the one wrist, or Gastner’s powerful twisting on the other. One leg lashed out, the boot coming down hard on the floor in punctuation to his cries.

Estelle shoved the stubby barrel of her own.45 into the man’s right eye.

“Drop the gun.” She jabbed the barrel so hard blood welled up from his lacerated eyebrow. “Drop it or I’m going to spread your brains all over the floor.”

Estelle could feel the man’s body freeze, and she twitched the gun barrel again. “I mean it. Drop it.”

“I got it,” Gastner grunted, and the pistol flew across the room.

“Let go of him,” Estelle commanded, and she twisted the cuffs again. The man’s hand opened, and Gastner shook his head free. One of Gastner’s burly arms was wrapped around the man’s elbow, dislocating it forward while the other crushed his thumb backward.

Close as she was, Estelle could smell the liquor, heavy on the man’s breath.

“Give me the other cuffs,” Gastner panted.

“You’re breakin’ my arm,” the man squealed as Estelle backed a little of her weight off his neck, and he tried to writhe away from the pain. With one of Gastner’s legs braced and driving his considerable weight downward, there was nowhere the man could go.

“We’ll break more than that, you son-of-a-bitch,” Gastner panted. With one hand still locked around the man’s thumb, he twisted even harder, then released the elbow long enough to take the cuffs Estelle thrust toward him. He snapped them around the man’s other wrist. “Gimme that.” He pushed himself up a little, reached around with surprising agility, and grabbed the other set of cuffs that secured the man’s right arm. Pulling hard, he brought the man’s wrists together and snapped the open cuff home.

“My eye,” the man whimpered. “My knee.”

“Lucky you still got a head,” Gastner said. “Let’s get me up.” Once more on his feet, drawing deep breaths, he shook his head at Estelle. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Got a nylon?” He took the long nylon security tie from her. “Shoot him if he moves,” he said, and he made sure that Estelle had a tight grip on the cuffs being used as a tether.

After sucking in air for a moment, Gastner pushed himself away, turning just enough that he could grab first one ankle and then another, pinning the man’s legs with his own. In a moment, the man was hobbled. Gastner stood up and wiped his face.

“You okay?” he asked Estelle. “You’re sure?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“My eye,” the man said again, this time with considerably less fight in his tone.

“You’ll get over it,” Estelle said, not changing position. She pulled the.45 away, but just far enough that, when the man’s vision cleared, the yawning muzzle would fill his whole universe. “Sir, will you take the radio? Tom and Jackie are just around the corner.”

Gastner reached down and pulled the hand-held out of the holster at the small of Estelle’s back.

“Three oh two,” he snapped. “Officer needs assistance at Gastner’s. The front door is unlocked. And ten fifty-five. Two down.”

“Three oh two,” Pasquale responded instantly. “ETA ten seconds.”

That brought an attempt at a smile from Gastner, but his expression immediately fell serious. “Mike’s down the hall,” he said, and stepped away, retrieving the automatic. “This is his gun.” He looked at it with disgust, then popped out the magazine and jacked the loaded round out of the chamber. For just a moment, he glared at his prostrate attacker. “And this is Hank Sisneros,” he said. “Shoulda just drowned him with the rest of the kittens long, long ago.”

Estelle hadn’t seen much resemblance between the man on the floor, covered with blood and with a couple of extremities pointing the wrong way, and the man in the instant photo tacked to the accident report in Hank Sisneros’s file-a man standing beside the old, errant dump truck, looking foolish.

“I’ll see what I can do for Mike,” Gastner said. “You all right?”

“Just fine,” Estelle said. “We’re comfortable,” she added, and tapped her prisoner’s eyebrow with the muzzle of the.45. “Aren’t we? You’re getting more of a chance than you gave Janet.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when the front door burst open and Deputy Thomas Pasquale entered, gun drawn. He moved quickly to his left, out of the doorway.

“Over here,” Estelle said. She moved back, lifting her knee but not relaxing her grip on the handcuffs. Pasquale holstered his own weapon and stepped around the table. Grabbing the man by the cuffs as Estelle moved him away, Pasquale turned him on his side, and then, with one hand on the cuffs and the other on the man’s belt, dragged him out away from the furniture. At the same time, Estelle heard someone at the kitchen door. Deputy Jackie Taber appeared, weapon ready.

Moving so deftly and quickly that the man only had time to cough out the restriction in his throat, Pasquale recuffed him with his hands behind his back. The deputy handed the extra set of cuffs to Estelle. “Christ, what’d you do to his knee?”

“I put a.45 through it,” Estelle said. “Maybe he’s lucky I’m not used to the new gun yet. And you probably shouldn’t move him any more than you have to until the EMTs get here.”

“Shoulda aimed for his head,” Pasquale said.

“I wanted to be able to hear what he has to say,” Estelle said. “First, we need to tend to Mike.”

“Sisneros?”

“He’s down the hall with Bill. Keep an eye on this one.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How am I supposed to walk,” Hank Sisneros said, finding his voice.

“You don’t walk anywhere,” Pasquale said pleasantly. “You just lie there and bleed.”

“Towels,” Gastner called from the hallway. “In the bathroom there on your right. I need some towels.”

The wall near the hallway and the first bookcase were blood-spattered, and Estelle tried to avoid any of the marks and stains on the polished wood floor as she ducked into the bathroom, emerging with a pile of clean towels.

“He didn’t duck fast enough,” Gastner said, holding out his hand for a towel. “He tried to break away.” He pressed the towel gently against Mike Sisneros’s chin, his other hand steadying the younger man’s shoulder. The deputy lay with his back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing in short, shallow gasps that burbled blood into the towel from the mess that once had been his chin. “You’re going to be okay, Mikey,” Gastner said.

“Here,” Estelle said, and reached across with more padding. “Under his head.” It appeared that the bullet had struck from the back, raking across the young deputy’s neck and throat, exploding out through the point of his chin, a grazing shot that had done a spectacular amount of damage.

Estelle and Gastner knelt silently for a minute, waiting. In the distance they could hear the approaching sirens, a symphony that blended from three different directions. The injured man tried to bring his knees up, and one hand lifted off the floor. Estelle took Mike’s hand in hers, and was surprised at the strength of the grip.

“They’re on the way, Mike. Just hang on.” As she reached to rearrange one of the towels, she saw more blood dripping on the wood, this time from Bill Gastner. He saw her expression and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Nicked me through the fat under the arm,” he said. “Got by a corner of the vest, I guess. Not to worry. Hurts like a pup now, but that’s a good thing. Everything works.”

“How about sitting down,” Estelle said, and Gastner didn’t argue. He slumped back against the opposite wall of the hallway, lifted his left arm, and peered at the damage. Estelle reached across with a towel, but he waved it away.

“Why bother ruining another one,” he said, and sighed heavily. “That son-of-a-bitch brought Mike over here… they broke in the back. They were waiting for me, Estelle. I came in the house, and they were waiting for me. I guess it was supposed to look like Mike and I took care of each other. Do that, and it sure as shit would look like Mike killed Janet.”

“He told you that?”

“He didn’t say a damn thing. He might have, if Mike had given him the chance, liquored up as he was.”

“I didn’t hear the shots,” Estelle said, cringing at the thought of what had been going on in this house while she’d been checking the pharmacy next door.

“You could fire a howitzer inside here, and you wouldn’t hear it outside, at least not with you sitting in a car. He just fired the one time, though…when Mikey made a break for it down the hallway. I think he could see I wasn’t getting anywhere with diplomacy. I tried my best.” He shrugged painfully. “That’s when we went hand-to-hand.” He shook his head ruefully. “Tough little squirt, even drunk.”

The sirens turned into Guadalupe, and in a moment Tom Pasquale reappeared, leading three paramedics. Estelle heard more doors slamming outside, and in a moment Eddie Mitchell and Robert Torrez appeared.

“Jesus,” Torrez said when he limped into the living room. He moved carefully through the scatter of books and knick-knacks, blood and gore until he was standing near Mike Sisneros’s feet. “How is it?”

“I think it looks worse than it is,” EMT Matty Finnegan said. In a moment, Sisneros was IVed, gurneyed, and whisked out of the house. Matty turned her attention to Gastner. “Oh, you look good,” she said.

“Don’t ruin the shirt,” he said.

“It already is, Bub,” Matty replied. “How many times did he hit you?” She industriously scissored his shirt away from his shoulder. “Oh, nice,” she said, pausing when she saw the damage to the vest. “Now, aren’t you the lucky one?”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Gastner grumbled. His luck had nearly run out when one round skipped past the armpit margin of the vest, plowing a path through the pad of fat under his left arm before being stopped by the back side of the vest.

Matty bandaged him quickly, and motioned for the second gurney.

“I don’t need that thing,” Gastner said.

“Oh, yes you do, honey,” Matty chirped. She had untangled the lines from an IV bag and paused, frowning at him. “You want to fight me for this needle?”

“No, ma’am.” He relaxed back against the wall, and closed one eye. “My head hurts.”

“No doubt,” Matty said. “You keep letting people batter it. But we’ll get you all fixed up. You going to mind riding in the same ambulance as Mike?”

“I’d be honored,” Gastner murmured.