Come Dark (19 page)

“You could take your cello,” he said to Angie, whose only response was a raised eyebrow. “Something simple and short, like Mozart's
Laudate Dominum.
That would be special.”

“You think?” Angie didn't sound wild with enthusiasm.

“Yes, I do. I have the music somewhere in one of my old piano books from years ago.”

How many years is “years ago” when one is still only fifteen?
Estelle mused silently.

“I always thought that piece was the definition of ‘elegant,'” Francisco added.

“I'll play it for your grandmother tomorrow, maybe. If she would like…” She nodded thoughtfully.

The patio door slid open, and Dr. Francis Guzman filled the opening. Burly and well over six feet tall, he had long ago earned the affectionate nickname
Oso
, or “Bear” from Estelle. Neither Francisco nor Carlos had inherited his brawn, instead favoring their mother's lean, chiseled look. His beard, trimmed short, broke into a wide smile.

“Wow,” he said, and let that suffice. With a quick step, he crossed to Estelle and enveloped her in a crushing hug, then straightened up, still holding her hand. “This is quite the surprise.” He stepped around the table and Francisco disappeared in the folds of another ferocious hug. “We're going to have to start calling you Rocky.” He stepped back a bit and encircled Francisco's upper right arm with both hands. He glanced over at Estelle. “Remember when this used to be a little twig?” He released the boy and held up an index finger as he thumped the flat of Francisco's chest with the other hand. “Don't go away. I have to meet…” He looked expectantly at Angie, who had risen and circled the small table. She held out a hand.

“I'm Angela Trevino. I'm also a student at Leister.” The last word was partially muffled as Dr. Guzman used the proffered handshake as a handy way to pull the girl into another mammoth hug.

“Wow,” he said again as he released the girl and found an empty chair between his wife and son. “So…” He shook his head and turned, about to sit down as the door slid open, this time for Carlos, who carried another glass of iced tea. The boy leaned over and placed it carefully on the table, then turned just in time to be snatched up by his father. Carlos, at nearly eleven, was not a wisp of a child, but Francis stepped away from the chair, grabbed the boy around the waist and spun him away from the table, flipping him upside down with a ferocious growl so it appeared as if he were preparing to pile-drive the youngster's head into the flagstones. Carlos screeched. After a moment, Francis lowered him until his hands could touch the stones, then let him collapse back to earth.

“Not long before I can't do that anymore,” he huffed to Estelle as he fell back into his chair.

“Did you see the 'Vette outside, Papá?” Carlos straightened his clothes and sat Buddha-style on the flagstone step leading into the dining room.

“I thought maybe that was something your mother confiscated after a traffic stop.”

“I wish it was confiscated,” Carlos said. “They came all the way from Kansas!”

“They would have to,” Francis said reasonably, and Carlos made a face, having heard the joke dozens of times.

“If they didn't come all the way, they wouldn't be here,” Carlos finished for his father. “Angie said I could drive it!”

“Absolutely. For your sixty-fifth birthday,
hijo.
” Francis clasped his hands over his stomach and regarded Angie. “So—break the news gently, now. The two of you drove, that's obvious. What's in Kansas?” He tipped his head a little sideways, regarding his elder son critically while Francisco explained the round-robin route that he and Angie had taken, first with her parents and then heading west solo in the birthday-machine.

“A spur-of-the-moment impulse,” the doctor mused when the tale concluded.

“Well, sort of. We—I mean Angie and I—talked about it for quite a while, after her folks drove us to Kansas, and then sprang the surprise car on her. See,” he said, sounding like a talented car salesman, “
Before
they gave her the car, we hadn't figured out a way to get home for just a weekend. I guess we could have taken a bus or something. Fly into Albuquerque or Cruces, maybe. But there's a lot of hassle with that, no matter how we did it. Somebody had to pick us up at the airport, take us back…all that.”

“How many hours?”

“The drive? I guess somewhere around twenty. We listened to a lot of music, and did a lot of other work. The car makes a good think-chamber sort of place. A lot of the time, I was working on the piano-cello duet for Grandmamá. I should say
we
were working on it. We finished the rough-out about the time we stopped in Lubbock for gas.”

The physician frowned at his tea glass, then shifted it to spread the little puddle of condensation across the plastic tablecloth's pattern. “I'd be a liar if I said that two teens driving cross-country nonstop in a flashy sports car didn't concern me just a little bit.”

“We were careful, Papá. And Angie's a good driver. And the cruise control is a great gadget for avoiding speeding tickets.”

“But all the while, we didn't know anything about this trip, or where you might be.”

“We checked in regularly with my folks,” Angie offered. “And I have to admit that I forgot to do that once in a while. If I missed a deadline, my phone let me know. When we stopped for fuel, I would call.”

He smiled. “Maybe you'll teach my son how to use a phone.”

“I'm always apprehensive that I might interrupt something,” Francisco tried.

Francis leaned forward, turning his head so that he could look toward the kitchen. “You know that box that sits with the land line? The answering machine?”

“Yes, Papá.”

“We'd like to be able to look forward to your visits. To know you're coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

Francis turned back to Angie and regarded her for a long moment as if he were pondering what drug to prescribe. “It must be difficult for you.”

“Sir?”

“The balance. Balancing who you both are—what you're both becoming—with the normal, run-of-the-mill world and its business. My first inclination is to wrap you both in a safe cocoon until you hit the world concert stage as adults.” He flashed a grin. “But, Angie, I guess your birthday says that you're already there, aren't you? Whether we like it or not.” Neither youngster spoke, and the physician added, “I'm not sure that I would balance the very real
risks
of a trip like this against what you could stand to lose with one mishap.”

“And you and Mamá do that every day when you walk out the front door,” Francisco said gently, sounding far more mature than the fifteen-year-old he was.

“Well, your mother does.” Francis smiled again at them both. “But…here you are. And somehow, you guys have to get back to school, which means a return trip, and again I'd be lying if I didn't admit that that worries me a little.” He pulled his shoulders up in a slow shrug. He turned to look at Estelle. “Maybe we can ship them back via UPS.”

“I'll take care of the car!” Carlos chirped.

“Yeah, you will.” Francis stretched out and rested his fist on top of the boy's head. “First things first, though. Is Bill on his way over?” He looked at his watch and grimaced.

“He said he wouldn't miss it,” Carlos informed them. “He said he was just about on his way, Papá.”

“Perfect. The late night meeting of Insomniacs Anonymous.” Francis leaned forward, chin on hand, and watched Estelle's phone spin a slow, lazy circle on the table where she had placed it earlier. “You want to turn that off?” He grinned, but it was an expression of resignation. He looked at the little window where the incoming calls were displayed. “Especially from him.”

“
Ay,”
Estelle whispered.

Chapter Twenty-four

“I'm really sorry to be calling so late, Estelle.”

“No, you're not, Frank.” Estelle stepped inside and closed the patio door behind her. She kept her tone light, even playful.

“Well, see, I was desperate. I have an Associated Press feed deadline coming up, and I feel like I'm running barefoot down a gravel road trying to catch a fire engine.”

“Nice image, sir. I'd like a photo of that. What can I do for you?”

“Look, Estelle, this is a horrible thing. Just horrible. For a good man, for the community, for any reason we can think of. What can you give me about Coach Scott's murder? Anything at all yet? I mean, other than ‘the investigation is continuing'?”

“That would be accurate, along with those other favorites like ‘We're exploring new leads but have made no arrests.' You're going to have to be patient with us, Frank.”

“Patience, the AP doesn't have. And what new leads? I tried to talk with our favorite sheriff.” He hesitated. “That didn't go at all well, for the ten seconds that our conversation lasted. Is it true the school is locked down?”

“Empty and locked, Frank. ‘Lockdown' implies something else that is not accurate in this instance…like kids inside, under possible threat. That's not the case here.”

“Okay. I'm not sure I see the difference, but we'll go with ‘closed.' Archer tells me no school Monday. Or maybe on into Tuesday.”

“That's my understanding. Whatever it takes.”

“So…what can you give me?”

“Are you doing a special edition?” The regular issue of the
Posadas Register
would be released Thursday, which meant Frank Dayan and his tiny staff had plenty of time.

“No, I hadn't planned on that.”

“Then by later in the week, the whole complexion of this case may have changed, Frank.”

“Well, I have my AP feeds all the time. This one is a big deal, Estelle.”

“I understand that. It was for Coach Scott, as well.”

Dayan made an odd little humming sound, as if he couldn't decide how to respond to Estelle's comment. Finally, he said, “Dr. Archer said that it was brutal, but he wouldn't comment beyond that.”

“He's correct. But then again, I can't remember a murder that
wasn't
brutal, Frank. That's the nature of the beast with which we're dealing.”

Silence followed that.

Finally the newspaper publisher said, “Something like this rocks the community.”

“I would imagine so. And I don't mean to be snide, but it seems to me that's the way the media usually describes something like this. ‘Rampant rumor' may be more accurate, but people don't like to see that in the headline.”

This time he uttered a resigned chuckle. “You're a hard person to quote. Although maybe I disagree. ‘Rampant rumor' might look good in a headline.”

“The Sheriff's Department is not releasing any details of the murder at this time,” Estelle said. “It's premature, and we have too many loose ends.”

“Thanks. At least you admit that it's a murder.”

“Most certainly it is that. You may quote me on that, Frank.”

“So what's the Las Cruces connection?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I understand that you took a fast trip to Las Cruces this evening. I was assuming it was somehow related to the case.”

“Assumptions,” Estelle said cryptically. “Just out of curiosity, who told you that I went to Cruces?”

“Ah…I don't want to get anybody in trouble, Sheriff. I think I heard it on the scanner. Just a mention. I knew you weren't going there for back-to-school shopping. What was the deal?”

“Frank…please. It's too early to spread all our cards out on the table.”

“No persons of interest?”

“You know I can't tell you that.”

He exhaled loudly. “So, if not that…is there anything you can tell me about the Bonds' case?”

For a moment Estelle drew a blank. She had given no thought to the odd couple from Illinois who currently enjoyed the county lockup. “Ah, the Bonds. They are awaiting arrangements for extradition back to Illinois.”

“Local charges pending?”

“I'm not sure what the district attorney has decided.”

“But I'm hearing there was an assault on one of the officers.”

“In the course of the apprehension, a small caliber weapon was discharged. One shot. I don't know if it was accidental or intentional. The bullet grazed one of the officer's boots and was recovered from the asphalt of the parking lot. And if you print that she was shot in the foot, I'm going skin you alive and short-circuit your AP leads, Frank.”

That brought a laugh. “So they were armed.”

“Indeed, they were.”

“Both?”

“One had an uncharged CO2 pistol, but anything that can be confused with a weapon
becomes
a weapon. The woman was in possession of the .25 caliber automatic. The gun discharged once and then jammed.”

“Wow. Strange folks. What were they planning?”

“I couldn't tell you.”

“Were they in possession of any drugs? Contraband? Stuff like that?”

“About sixty pounds of alfalfa. Wrapped in tidy little packages.”

“You're joking.”

“It's too late in the evening for that, Frank. I'll ask Lieutenant Mears to make the bundle available to you for a photo, if you'd like.”

“You bet, I'd like. What was the hay for?”

“An excellent question. No comment from the Bonds.”

“For sale as fake narcotics?”

“That's one possibility.”

“I understand that Tom Pasquale made the original arrest. In the parking lot of The Spree.”

“He made first contact, yes.”

“What tipped him off?”

“A routine computer check turned a switched license plate.”

With the excitement of a little kid, Frank Dayan changed direction. “And both dispatch and the EMS response log show an abandoned child case, too. Just about the same time. A child left in a car, or something like that?”

“Your sources are efficient, Frank.”

“Well, it's been a busy day. Night. Whatever the hell it is right now.”

“Did you have a good train ride this morning?” The question seemed an effective way of switching Frank away from what she knew would come if she didn't—questions about Stacie and Todd Stewart.

“Oh, fantastic. Have you had a chance to take that ride?”

“No.”

“Well, you should. You know, it's my opinion that in a short time, folks are going to become believers. Miles Waddell really has something going with that project of his.”

“He'll appreciate hearing that, Frank. Or seeing it in print. Most of the time, he's the butt-end of ignorant rumors.”

“I've sifted a few of those myself. ‘Our mesa-top missile base.' Things like that. By the by, I'm heading up to the mesa again later tomorrow. Any chance of seeing you up there?”

“Probably not. My plate is full at the moment.”

“I just wondered how the investigation of the graffiti vandalism is going. I was going to see what photos I can get.”

Estelle sighed. “That's what the taggers want, all right. Some good Page One publicity, Frank.”

“You're thinking it's a bad idea?”

“Yes, I am. But you're the newspaper guy. It's your call. Whoever the taggers are, what they want is for people to see their work. I hate to see them encouraged, Frank. But, like I said, it's your call.”

“Well, I'll check it out. I don't understand how they got up on the big dish in the first place.”

“I don't follow?”

“They painted a panel up on the rim of the big dish. Up on top. Can you imagine? They must have used sky hooks. Nobody saw them get past the security fence, and nobody saw them up there.”

“I'm sure Miles was delighted.”

“Oh, you know how he is—Mr. Mellow.”

Estelle looked at her watch. “Anything else, Frank? I really need to go.”

“Just thanks for talking to me.”

“You're welcome. Any time.”

“You don't mean that, and you know it.”

“Well,
almost
any time. Good night, Frank.”