Statute of Limitations

Chapter Five

La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora was one of the most frequently photographed landmarks in Posadas County, preserved on film by thousands of tourists. Most travelers found the small church charming and quaint, and they then went away relieved that they didn’t have to attend services there.

Three-foot-thick adobe walls, tall and narrow windows recessed with eighteen-inch windowsills, and carved ceiling beams that had been salvaged more than a century before from an Indian ruin in northern Mexico encased the cool interior in musty silence.

Cottonwood planks had been intricately carved and painted for the altar, with a heavy communion railing polished to a soft, reflective shine by generations of hands. The same cottonwood had been used for each of the twelve stations of the cross, the carvings nestled deep in nichos sunken into the adobe walls.

With a little cooperative planning, the twelve straight-backed pews, six on each side of a narrow aisle, could seat sixty worshipers-nearly twice the total population of the village of Regál.

That neat package, immaculately maintained and painted so white that a blast of sun through one of the narrow windows could reflect from the opposite wall like a flashbulb, had never known a utility. For evening services, light came from beeswax candles made by one of the parishioners. Burning piñon and juniper in the plump potbellied stove that stood in the center of the long east wall chased the deep chill that settled into the building when it stood empty. The black single-walled stovepipe reached up precariously a dozen feet before piercing through the ceiling thimble.

Estelle let her memories of the little church form a blueprint in her mind as they sped southwest. There were no hiding places in the church-no attic, no sanctuary. She glanced at the clock. There was also no congregation at this hour, and for that she was thankful. Not long before, her mother and aunt had knelt within those stout walls during the 5:00 p.m. service, listening to Father Anselmo and inhaling the fragrance of juniper boughs. There would be another service at nine o’clock that Christmas Eve, and, just because Father Anselmo loved it so, another at midnight.

As they crested Regál Pass, Estelle could see a scattering of lights off to the right, through the mist and light rain. The village of Regál nestled against the slope of the San Cristóbals, facing Mexico to the south. The land fell away to the flat, empty Mexican desert, a vista of endless stunted brush, cacti, and arroyos by day, a giant black hole at night.

A thousand yards southeast of the village, the Regál border crossing was harshly illuminated by a fleet of lights. In recent months, the fence had been upgraded, the chainlink and razor wire shining in the light of the sodium vapors.

There wasn’t enough traffic to operate the border crossing at night. As a concession, a large gravel-surfaced lot had been provided so that folks could park their RVs and grab a nap until the customs people arrived at 6:00 a.m. Or, they could walk a hundred yards to the church and find quiet comfort there. The iglesia was never locked-its mammoth, carved doors had never known a hasp.

“Nice night,” Gastner muttered. “You want to lay odds on what happened?”

“What do you think?” Estelle leaned forward, still picturing the church and its parking lot.

“I think that they decided not to take the interstate, and took the state road without knowing where the hell it went,” Gastner said. “I think they’re lost. The kind of genius who would steal a 1982 Dodge in Indiana as a getaway car would have trouble with a road map.”

“Maybe so.”

“Three oh two, ten twenty.” Sheriff Robert Torrez’s voice was barely audible, and Estelle reached down to turn the radio volume up.

“I’m on water tank road,” Deputy Pasquale replied. “Mike’s here with me.” The radio barked squelch twice as Torrez acknowledged by keying the microphone.

“There’s a midnight service planned?” Gastner asked.

“I think so,” Estelle said. “Father Anselmo does a service at seven over in María, and then comes back here for one at nine and then again at midnight. Someone will keep the fire going.”

“Emilio Contreras, probably,” Gastner said, and Estelle felt a pang of worry. No church enjoyed more tender, persistent maintenance than that provided to Nuestra Señora by Contreras, himself closing on eighty years old. The old man cleaned, painted, and patched, working all day, every day, except Sundays. Despite using an aluminum walker to support a bad hip, Contreras walked the three hundred yards from his home in Regál to the church.

Before the border fence upgrade, Regál had been a favorite resting spot for illegals, and the unlocked church had been a convenient hostel. Even a hard cottonwood pew made a welcome bed after a desert crossing on foot. Various law enforcement agencies had tried to convince Father Anselmo over the years that a locked door would be a small concession. Small concession or not, no lock had marred the finish since 1826, when the door had first been hung.

Tom Pasquale’s unit was parked on the gravel access road to the village water tank, high on the flank of the mountains behind Regál, with Deputy Mike Sisneros’s well off the highway’s shoulder. Sheriff Torrez turned into the narrow lane and stopped door-to-door with the deputy’s vehicle. Estelle pulled onto the shoulder behind Mike’s SUV and killed the lights. By the time she had shrugged into her slicker, Pasquale had gotten out. He rested an elbow comfortably on the spotlight housing of Torrez’s Expedition.

“Nothing going on that I can see,” he said. “The chief’s car was parked there when I cruised through. I didn’t even pull into the parking lot. Didn’t want to spook ’em. You want to use my glasses?” He reached into his vehicle and pulled the bulky, military-surplus night glasses out, offering them to Estelle, but she shook her head.

“That’s okay,” she said. “The thing that concerns me is Emilio Contreras.” She turned and looked down the hill. It was dark enough that she couldn’t see smoke from the church’s stovepipe, rainy enough that the faint glow from candles wouldn’t illuminate the windows. “They get this far, and now they find that the border’s closed.”

“Not the sharpest tools in the box,” Torrez said.

“Maybe they’re thinking about spending the night until the border opens,” Tom said.

“Maybe. We don’t know if they’re armed or not. We don’t know if they’re just sitting there chatting with Emilio, or robbing him, or what.”

“So let’s go find out,” Torrez said. He turned and grinned at Estelle. “You up for helping an old peg leg?”

“Sure,” she said. “What do you have in mind?”

“Have Bill take your unit,” Torrez said. “If he stays right here, that’ll cover us if they manage to make a run up the hill. Mike can cover the village, and Tom will stay loose on the highway.”

A fleeting expression of impatience crossed Pasquale’s face, but he didn’t argue. He was in uniform, and neither Estelle nor the sheriff were.

In a moment, with the vehicle swap completed and Estelle’s unmarked sedan parked on the water tank road with Bill Gastner at the wheel, Estelle and Bob Torrez drove sedately down the state highway in Torrez’s unmarked Expedition.

Going on ahead, Mike Sisneros turned onto Sanchez Road, the dirt thoroughfare that was Regál’s main street. In a moment, his county vehicle had disappeared in the labyrinth of corrals, barns, sheds, and dwellings. Tom Pasquale drove directly toward the border crossing and the parking lot there.

“What’s the word on Chief Martinez?” Estelle asked as they neared the church.

“I don’t know,” Torrez said simply. “I got called away on this before I had a chance to find out. When they took him into the ER, he was still alive. That’s all I know.” He swung the unmarked vehicle into the church’s broad parking lot, nosing upward toward the knoll on which Nuestra Señora had been built. At the same time, he reached over and turned off the radio.

The chief’s brown Buick was parked away from the doorway, snuggled tight against the church, invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look. Torrez regarded the Buick for a moment. He then parked on the other side of the church, letting the dark bulk of the building hide the various non-civilian features of the Expedition should someone open the front door of the church and peer outside for a closer look.

“You suppose some bonehead from Indiana knows how much that car’s worth down south?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Estelle said. She unclipped her badge from her belt and slipped it in her pocket, then leaned forward and slid her automatic as far rearward as it would go, well hidden under her jacket.

“No stealth now,” Torrez said. He managed a grin, and Estelle saw that the crow’s feet around his eyes had grown a bit more etched during the last month or two-and not from laughter. “We’re supposed to be parishioners stopping by to see if anyone remembered to bring the fruitcake. And right about now, I wish this damn place had a back door we could just slip in.”

He opened the car door and slid slowly down until his feet touched the ground, then pulled his cane loose from its position between the seats.

Estelle had just enough room between the vehicle and the building to slip through the open door, which she then slammed with vigor. “You park close enough to the building?” she said loudly.

“Hago todo lo possible,” the sheriff said, and his Spanish startled Estelle. He took his time with the two narrow steps up to the church door, and grasped the wrought-iron handle. He partially opened the door inward, and stopped, turning to look at Estelle. “Did Geraldo remember about tonight?” he asked, and Estelle shook her head.

“He didn’t say anything to me,” she said. Looking beyond Torrez’s wide shoulders, she saw Emilio Contreras standing in front of the stove, hands casually behind his back as he toasted his arthritic fingers.

“Hola, Emilio!” she called, and with her left hand held the door until Torrez had passed clear. The old man beamed widely at them, and Estelle felt a wash of relief. One of the two men was standing directly in front of the altar, as if he had been examining the ornate cross overhead. His ponytail reached almost to his waist, and he had twisted to see who had entered the church. His welding cap was scrunched in his right hand. The other man sat sideways on the pew directly in front of the stove’s alcove, one arm lying on the high wooden back, the other blocked from Estelle’s view by the pew in front of him.

“We stopped by early to see if there’s anything else you need, Father,” Estelle said, and she closed the door, making sure the wooden latch fell into place.

“Hey, Bobby-you know what you were supposed to bring this afternoon,” Emilio said. He stepped away from the stove, one hand rubbing his hot corduroy trousers against his butt.

“What’s that?” Torrez said.

“Remember that load of firewood? You know,” and he indicated the deep wood box off to his right. “I got what’s in here, and maybe one or two more loads, and that’s it. You going to bring some down?”

Torrez grimaced at his poor memory as he made his way down the center aisle. “Ah…we’ll get it down here. I got too many things goin’.”

“How you been?” Emilio said to Estelle as she approached. “The hijos?”

“They’re fine,” Estelle said.

“I enjoyed seeing your mother again,” Emilio said. “She and your aunt were here at the early service. I was looking for you guys.” His nod included both Estelle and the sheriff. His eyes were watchful, but Estelle felt a surge of relief that he was keeping perfect composure-either a tribute to his skill as an actor, or because the two car thieves had done nothing to arouse his suspicion.

“That’s the way it is,” Estelle said. She shied away from the stove. “Caramba, you have that old thing stoked up.” By retreating away from the heat, she was able to step past the pew where the man sat. Medium age, medium build, heavy work boots, blue jeans and brown work jacket, no weapon visible, both hands in sight. His legs were crossed, and his right hand rested lightly on one boot.

“Nasty night,” Emilio said.

“Yes, it is,” Estelle agreed. “How are you doing?” she said to the man, her smile broad and warm. The big man with the ponytail glanced first at his partner, then at Estelle, then at Robert Torrez. The sheriff was making his way with painful steps toward the front of the church, his right hand running along the plastered wall for additional support. The big man rested his weight against the communion rail, arms crossed over his chest. If he carried a weapon, there was no sign. It certainly didn’t appear as if Torrez was advancing on him…perhaps just making his way to the sacristy of the church to check on who knew what.

“These are some traveling friends from…” Emilio paused, standing near the wood box. “Where did you say you was from?”

“Over Oklahoma way,” the man in the pew said. “We’re just passin’ through.” He smiled engagingly at Estelle. “Nice place you folks have here.”

“Yes, it is,” Estelle said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Torrez was two pews from the front of the church, within fifteen feet of the big man with the ponytail. The sheriff’s hand pulled away from the windowsill at that point, and Estelle knew exactly what he intended.

She swept her hand behind her, and the automatic appeared in her hand in one fluid motion. The man in the pew startled backward, almost losing his balance.

“Both hands on top of your head,” Estelle snapped.

“You too, buckaroo,” she heard Torrez bellow in a tone that left nothing to the imagination. His own.45 had appeared in his right hand, the cane now abandoned against the wall.

“Hey, we don’t…”

“Hands on top of your head,” Estelle barked, and she motioned with the automatic. Emilio had moved away, and he now stood well off to one side, both hands on the back of one of the pews.

As large as Ponytail was, he elected not to argue with Torrez. He belly-flopped onto the floor when told to do so, arms stretched out over his head.

The middle-aged man lifted both hands, but he hesitated.

“Hands on your head, fingers locked,” Estelle commanded, and snapped off her automatic’s thumb safety. The man’s startled expression had been replaced by wary assessment.

“I’m not armed,” he said, shaking his head. “Really…” He stood up slowly, and Estelle shifted position so that the end of the next pew was between her and the man.

Behind her, Estelle heard the sharp snick of handcuffs and knew that Ponytail had been neutralized. The middle-aged man heard the same sound and glanced to his right, toward Emilio Contreras. With a grunt, he moved with remarkable agility, springing first onto the pew and then vaulting the back, his heavy boots crashing on the wooden floor.

Even if Estelle, or Bob Torrez now limping up behind her, had wanted to fire if they saw the threat of a weapon, Emilio was in jeopardy. The man saw the opening and sprinted toward the door.

“Wardell!” shouted the big man on the floor, but his partner was headed south. His hand hit the door and grabbed the stout rope latch, but the weight of the door, even on hinges oiled to perfection, precluded snatching it open. Hard on his heels, Estelle hit the door just as it yawned open a foot. Her momentum knocked the man sideways against the small lectern that held the visitors’ book, and both lectern and man crashed to the floor.

Estelle grabbed the man’s right wrist and twisted, pinning his arm behind his back, at the same time driving her left knee into the base of his neck.

“Just shoot the son-of-a-bitch,” she heard Torrez shout, and beneath her, the man stopped struggling. Perhaps with the border so close, he had no idea what kind of barbed-wire justice awaited him. She remained motionless while the sheriff single-footed down the aisle, and an instant later she felt her handcuffs removed from the cuff case at the small of her back.

“Okay,” the sheriff said. The cuffs snapped into place. “You can stop grindin’ his face into the floor now.” He stepped back and watched as Estelle hauled the man to his feet. Over the car thief’s shoulder, she saw that the sheriff’s face was pasty white, the sweat standing on his forehead.

Palming her radio, she pushed the transmit. “Tom, get over here ASAP.” She pushed the man to the nearest pew. “Sit,” she ordered, then turned to Torrez. “You, too,” she said.