Nightzone (19 page)

Chapter Twenty

“Frankie is coming tomorrow,” nine-year-old Carlos announced in a grave imitation of a butler. He held the door for me and bowed ever so slightly. “Welcome, and may I take your coat, Padrino?”

“What TV program has been frying your brain, Bud?” I asked, and swung out of my jacket. I kept the quilted vest.

Teresa Reyes, Estelle's mother, offered me a nice smile of recognition. She was engulfed in a colorful afghan, nestled in her favorite rocker near the fireplace. It seemed to me that the favored chair grew larger each time I visited and saw the tiny woman sitting in it. Two more years, and the grand old lady would hit the century mark. Twenty years before, I would have predicted death's door any day for her, but that door had slammed shut, locked, and bolted, and like a piece of petrified heartwood, her dark brown skin just kept adding polish to the wrinkles and crevasses. Estelle's stepmother had me by twenty-four years, and damned if in all likelihood she'd probably outlive me.

I crossed the living room and with a hand on the arm of her chair and another on the back, bent down and pecked her on her high forehead. “How are you doing, Teresa?” I asked, looking forward to the standard answer.

“Too old,” she whispered. She patted my russet vest. “That's a nice color on you.” She gazed up at me, and I'm not sure just what her dark eyes saw. The left was starting to cloud, and the coke-bottle glasses that hung around her neck would do little for the macular degeneration in her right eye. Losing the ability to read had to be a deep sadness for her—as would an unclear, smoky vision of her two grandchildren.

“What do you think of this,
Francisco
?” she asked as I straightened up, emphasizing the proper name for Carlos' benefit. Not waiting for my answer, she added, “So young for such a thing.”

“I'm looking forward to the concert,” I said. “Quite a production they've planned. Our old gymnasium is going to shake to its foundations.”

Carlos reappeared after stashing my coat. He folded his hands reverentially. “May I get you something from the kitchen, Padrino?”

I regarded the kid soberly. Sprouting up now, developing some muscle definition, Carlos Guzman was every bit as handsome as his older brother. And, I had always thought, in his own way just as much a prodigy. For the past couple of years, he had developed an unshakable interest in designing anything that soared upward—buildings, bridges, aircraft—and despite being an otherwise normal nine-year-old, could concentrate on a project from start to finish…that same gene for concentration that guided his brother Francisco through five or six hours of nonstop piano practice.

I'd never met a kid with a wider imp streak. Now, Carlos the Butler waited patiently for my answer. He'd be disappointed if I demurred, so I screwed on a thoughtful expression. “What I'd really like…”

“Yes, Padrino?”
He had settled on a modified British-Mexican accent, in itself quite an accomplishment.

“A cup of properly aged coffee, if you please.” I noticed that Addy Sedillos was peeking around the kitchen corner. Like her older sister Irma, who had worked for the Guzman corporation for years, Adorina had no trouble managing the household, regardless of the bizarre hours demanded by a doctor and an undersheriff.

“No cream, no sugar, but the oil skim on top should reflect aging in the pot for at least ten hours.”

Perfectly sober, Carlos allowed his face to fall, despite the twinkle in his eyes that he couldn't suppress. “I'm sorry, Padrino
.
All we have at the moment is a nice dark Sumatran blend that will finish brewing in another minute.”

I sighed mightily, trying not to laugh at a nine-year-old saying the words ‘Sumatran blend.' “I'll just have to settle for that.” I glanced at Addy. “How are you doing, doll?”

“We're surviving,” she said, and advanced with a hug. “Estelle just called a few minutes ago. She'll be home around six. The doctor is in surgery, so…”

“Life as usual,” I laughed. “Thank you, sir,” I said to Carlos, who handed me a mug of dark, aromatic coffee and a small saucer heaped with gingersnaps.

“My pleasure, Padrino.”

I settled in a well-broken-in spot on the sofa with an end table near at hand. “So tell me what you're building at the moment.”

The boy's shoulders relaxed, and he became an excited nine-year-old rather than a reserved member of the household service staff. Perching on the sofa beside me, his hands were animated. “Have you seen the inside of the gymnasium?”

“Sure I've seen it.”

“The sound is going to be awful, Padrino
.
It will echo like some old cave.
”

“Huh. So what do we do about that?” A Carlos without a solution was unthinkable.

“And Mateo plays the flute.
That
sound isn't like some orchestra or something. It'll just go out and get lost in all those trusses.”

Trusses.
Such a nine-year-old's word or concept. “Have you met this Mateo guy?”

“Yes. He's…” and his voice dropped and took on an awful Texas twang, “a cool dude, man.” The boy's hands drew something in the air, his forehead furrowed. “They need to hang acoustical baffles,” he said.
Acoustical baffles?
It was hard to keep a straight face, so I sipped delectable coffee and then tried a gingersnap. “I made those,” Carlos announced, and pushed himself off the sofa. “I have to show you something.” He vanished.

“This boy.” Teresa's whisper was hoarse.

This boy returned immediately with a large sheet of paper, and I tabled my cup so he could spread the rendering across my lap. I recognized the sketch as the inside of the gym, the elevated stage at one end, four basketball backboards cranked up against the ceiling, an electronic scoreboard at the end opposite the stage. It was the sort of do-all gymnasium designed in the 1950s. The rendering betrayed Carlos Guzman's age. He hadn't yet mastered how to end lines crisply at the corners.

“Why didn't they use the Little Theater?” I asked.

“Tooo little,” Carlos chirped. He started to say something else and I held up a hand. He slammed on the brakes and looked at me expectantly.

Tracing the lines of the walls, I asked, “So when did you learn all about perspective?”

“Oh, that's easy, Padrino.”
He held his hands apart, then zoomed them together as he pushed them away from his body, mimicking a set of disappearing railroad tracks. “All you have to do is decide where you want the horizon. Mrs. Carrillo showed me that last year.” He said it as if “last year” was decades ago.

“This is your solution?” I tapped one of the large tapestry-like things hanging from the ceiling, huge versions of the various championship flags that schools hang in gymnasiums. He nodded eagerly. Enjoying this peek into how his young mind worked, I asked, “What do they do, exactly?”

He frowned and took a deep breath, as if girding for the challenge of explaining something so simple to someone so dense. Touching the roughly drawn stage, he swept his fingers across the area where the audience would be sitting. “The sound can go this way,” he said. “But not up here.” His index finger traced several arrow-like paths upward where the sound would strike the baffles. “These stop it from bouncing all around among the girders.”

“Huh. I'll buy that. You know, it'll be interesting to see what the Leister stage crew comes up with.”

Carlos carefully rolled up his rendering and then shrugged expressively. “I faxed Francisco a copy of this,” he said. “They'll have to do
something.”

Silly me. Why
wouldn't
a nine-year-old know all about acoustical engineering, or copying and faxing and the like? What did I think he would be doing, riding a bike all day? Or playing basketball? Or hiking?

As if reading my mind, he asked, “Were you out at the fort today?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Will you take me out there again sometime when you go? I mean, when I don't have to be in school?”

“You got it, my friend.” I'd inflicted my Bennett theories on all of the Guzmans at one time or another, and both boys had tagged along with me on more than one occasion when I explored Bennett's route. Carlos had been fascinated by the Colt, and the first thing he wanted to do was haul out the can of penetrating oil and try to free up the rust-frozen hammer. My edict that the revolver be left alone hadn't made sense to him.

He leaned forward to check the coffee supply, then bounded back to the kitchen, returning with the pot. I know adults who can't pour coffee and talk at the same time, but Carlos managed perfectly.

“Will Mamá catch the guys who sawed down the power line?”

“You have doubts?”

“I guess not.”

“You
guess
not?”

He sighed. “She will. Her and Big, Bad Bobby.” I laughed, and the exchange earned a dark glower from Teresa. I don't know which she disapproved of more, the boy's slangy grammar or the nickname for a respected elder. Maybe both. “Do you think that someday…” He hesitated, on unsure ground. “Do you think I could talk to Mr. Waddell sometime?”

I regarded the boy with interest. “You'd like that?”

His eyes lit. “I really would like to see the plans for his idea. Mamá said that you saw them.”

I nodded sagely. “Yes, I've seen them. You think you could do that and be a good listener at the same time?”

“Yes, sir.” And Carlos Guzman probably could. I could imagine Miles Waddell's eyes glazing over as a nine-year-old chattered on about improbable changes to the rancher's cherished plans. The boy's welcome would wear thin really quickly, especially since Miles Waddell wasn't one of those folks whose world revolved around children. Seldom seen, never heard. If
NightZone
reached fruition, he'd have to get used to them—school buses by the fleet would be visiting. It would be good for Miles to see the sort of excitement his project could generate in minds other than his own.

“I'll see if I can make that happen,” I said. “Not this weekend, though. We have a lot going on, don't we?”

Carlos puffed out his cheeks in a very adult expression of overload.

“When your brother was home for Christmas, he didn't say anything about the concert?”

“He's got secrets,” the boy said. “I tried to find out, but he's…” and he squeezed his lips together tightly.

“As some other boys should be,” Teresa observed dryly.

Headlights washed across the living room window and I heard the crunch of tires in the driveway. Carlos was at the door long before me, and I mentally thanked him for outgrowing the stage when he felt the need to screech his announcements. Now it was, “That would be Mamá.” He turned to me as I crossed the living room. “Has she given you a ride in the beast yet?”

“Yes.” I rubbed the small of my back. “I'm still recovering.”

I stood at the storm door and gazed out. The black “beast” was parked in the driveway facing out, and Estelle still sat in the driver's seat, jotting notes in her log. Across the street, a dog launched into a frantic comment on the new arrival—a car and a person he'd seen a thousand times before. Farther down Twelfth a cat crossed, just touching the cone from a streetlight. Pausing in mid-stride, the cat turned to look back at the brainless dog, then ducked under the back end of a parked car. That didn't draw my curiosity until I looked back at Estelle, now getting out of her vehicle. Then it felt as if someone had snapped my head back against a rubber band tether. A silver, mid-sized sedan. And inside, just visible under the streetlight, a single figure sat at the wheel.

A few seconds later, the airport courtesy car eased around the corner from Bustos Avenue, looking exactly like the cop car it had once been as it slid to a stop just beyond the Guzmans' driveway. As Lynn Browning parked, the silver sedan fired up and pulled away from the curb, disappearing down the first cross street.

Chapter Twenty-one

“That's Arturo Salazar,” Estelle said as she approached the front steps. She had seen my attention diverted by the departing sedan and guessed the reason.

“Junior,” I added, a little embarrassed at how easy it was to jump to ridiculous conclusions when the nerves are wound. Arturo Salazar had died the year before, but his son, who lived just two doors south of the Guzmans', continued the family funeral home.

“How did your day finish up?” I held the storm door for her and her attached son.

“Some progress.” Estelle turned to wait for Lynn, who hustled up the sidewalk and joined us. She'd had time to change into casual jeans and a white sweatshirt, comfortably rumpled under a short down jacket. “And yours?” I added for her benefit.

“My day was spectacular,” Browning said. “More vacation than work.” She hefted the slender attaché case. “And the weather tomorrow is supposed to be just what we need. You still up for a little flying?”

“Sure.”

She turned her attention to the others as Estelle made introductions, and the usually ebullient Carlos appeared captivated. “Do you need to shed some weight?” Estelle asked. “I'll put your jacket in on our bed.” As she slipped out of her coat, Lynn Browning unclipped the holstered handgun from her belt and tucked it in the jacket before handing it to Estelle. The movement wasn't lost on Carlos. She kept the attaché case.

“What agency are you with, ma'am?” he asked, the picture of polite curiosity.

Lynn regarded him with interest as she first shook hands, and then held his for a longer moment. “I'm with United Security Resources out of Longmont,” she said, without adopting the overly sweet “everything must be a learning experience” tone that so many adults favored with kids. “We're a private company.”

“Just outside of Denver,” Carlos clarified.

“Correct. We're down for a couple of days to meet with Mr. Waddell.” She crossed to where Teresa sat in the rocker and combined a differential half-bow with a gentle two-handed shake. “Mrs. Reyes, what a pleasure. Do you remember that we met a long time ago? When Estelle and I graduated from the police academy?”

“I wish I did,” Teresa said dryly. “These days, I do well to remember where I am. But you're welcome here.”

I watched the undersheriff shed gun, cuffs, and a few pounds of other junk as she relaxed into another life. When she returned from the bedroom, I asked, “Did you folks make any progress today?”

“We have some contacts out of state that are checking out possibilities,” Estelle said. “Mister Daniel wasn't someone who spent his life lurking in the shadows. He's left pretty big footprints, at least up until a couple of days ago. We were successful in opening up his credit card records, and Tom Mears is on
that
trail. We have both land line and cellular accounts.” She held both hands up as if holding an invisible basketball. “In short, he's going to find life as a fugitive a challenge.”

“My sympathy goes out,” I scoffed. It would be perfect justice if Elliot Daniel didn't enjoy a single peaceful moment until such time as a cop slapped on the cuffs. We—I—wanted him looking over his shoulder every minute. He'd make a mistake, and that would be all it would take.

Unfortunately, such mistakes could be long in coming. There were fugitives under every rock, and some of them had evaded law enforcement for years, even decades…even a lifetime. But now, relaxed in this warm house with good food on the burner, I didn't want to waste another moment considering the fate of Elliot Daniel. He'd find his own rock, and I hoped his life would remain bleak and empty.

“How did he come to know Boyd?”

“They both took the same adult ed computer class at the college. Similar interests, I guess. Similar politics. Boyd became fascinated with European politics between the two wars. His girlfriend told us that. He was incredulous at the way Hitler was able to come to power.”

“Ah. The old ‘those who don't learn from their mistakes are bound to repeat them' thing.”

“Perhaps so, Padrino.”

I didn't want to weigh down a nice evening talking about a killer's motivations. “And anything new from the pianist?” I asked.

Estelle laughed. “Ay…we'll know tomorrow, Padrino. This has been an interesting experience.” She flopped onto the sofa after hugging her mother, and when settled, reached over to take the old woman's left hand in both of hers. Lynn Browning had taken the rocker on the other side of the fireplace, the attaché case on the floor by her chair. “Parents are supposed to wean children, not vice versa.” Estelle shifted position slightly and touched the back of her mother's hand to her lips. “I know more than I did a few days ago, at least.”

“I'm glad someone does.”

She smiled at her youngest son and reached out to accept a cup of tea that he delivered. Mother first, then company? What would the butler's book say about that? He turned to Lynn. “What may I get for you, ma'am. Tea? Coffee? White or red wine? We'll be serving smoked salmon under a dark chipotle sauce in a few minutes.”

Lynn pondered for a long moment then held up her thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “This much red would be wonderful, thank you.”

“I believe it's a Merlot.”

“Perfect.” She watched him exit. “He's nine?” Estelle nodded, and Lynn added, “Going on thirty.”

“Under the current fascination, he hasn't been able to decide whether to study as an executive chef or an architect,” Estelle said. “These things change weekly.”

“He could design restaurants,” I said.

“One of the concert posters was prominently displayed in the motel lobby,” Lynn said. “They look very much alike, your two boys. I wish I could stay for the performance.”

“You should make a point to,” I said. “This sort of thing doesn't come around very often. I'm about as musical as a fence post, but I know musical genius when I hear it.” Estelle made an impatient face, but didn't disagree.

“Maybe I will. What does he play? I mean, piano, of course.” She reached out and patted the flank of the grand piano that rested in front of the living room window. “But what's he studying?”

“Everything from A to Z,” Estelle said. “From the squarest classical to his rendition of desert car crashes to contemporary jazz.”

Carlos reappeared and delivered Lynn's wine, then made a quick stop at his grandmother's, leaning against the arm of her chair for a few seconds.

“And you're committed to silence, right?” I said to the boy. He grinned and ducked his head.

“I really don't know,” he pleaded.

“Do we have a polygraph around here someplace?”

“No, I really, really don't.”

“He hasn't let on what the surprise is?” Over Christmas, I'd heard Francisco during several of his practice sessions, and the kid's progress was astonishing. His technique was now driven by all the energy of a powerful teenager, but tempered so that his range of emotion was startling. His slender fingers were capable of caressing the keys so gently that I had to strain to hear. But none of that was a surprise. Since age seven, the kid had been soaring, his progress upward like the brightest comet. It all made me nervous.

“Not a word,” Estelle replied.

“How did all this come to pass?” Lynn kept looking at the closed piano as if it was about to speak.

“Leister Conservatory encourages each one of their advanced performance majors to arrange a hometown concert.” She set the cup down on the end table carefully. “After Posadas, the kids go to Dos Pasos, Mateo Atencio's hometown in Texas.” She smiled. “If you think Posadas is small…”

“You've met Mateo?” Lynn asked.

“We have. A quiet, immensely talented flutist. He's a first-generation Texan who likes Italian food. That's the extent of what I know. As for the rest…” She held up both hands in surrender. “There's nothing we can do from our end about this concert, so other than saying ‘no', which I'm not about to do, I guess we'll just wait and see.”

As if the aroma of the dinner reached out and drew him in, Dr. Francis Guzman's SUV pulled into the driveway, and in a moment
Oso,
as his wife fondly called him, appeared at the door in time to grab the knob before Carlos had a chance to fully open it. They tussled for a brief moment, and then the burly doctor appeared, grabbed Carlos and upended him under one arm, threatening to pound the youngster's head into the parquet.

“About one more year,” he said with a cheerful grin. “Then the brute is going to be doing this to me.” He dumped the youngster unceremoniously on the floor, earning gales of laughter, then extended a hand of truce. “Sorry about that,” he explained when he noticed company other than myself. “It's all part of the male-dominated tribal ceremony.”

He crossed to Lynn Browning. “I'm Francis Guzman. And I've met you before.”

“How good is your memory?” she said, rising to extend a hand. She allowed the physician a few seconds to try his recall. “Lynn Browning,” she prompted. “Your wife and I went to school together.”

“Ah! Well, that's been a while. Welcome back.” He slipped behind Teresa Reyes' chair and enveloped her in a massive hug.

“Oh, now,” the old woman protested, obviously delighted.

Estelle intercepted her husband as he was headed my way, and he swept her along with an arm around her waist. “I have about twenty minutes,” he said. “Blown appendix, but he's stable now.” He extended a hand to me. “Padrino. You're lookin' good.”

“For what?” I replied. He gave me that practiced survey of clinical assessment, head-to-toe in ten seconds, and looked satisfied.

“Been hikin' the mesa in the middle of the night, I hear.”

“An old habit.”

“I know it is. And it seems to be working.” His face went sober. “Sorry we lost the shooter. I'm sure you guys would have had a lot to learn from him. Like
why.”
He shook his head in resignation.

Carlos was standing in the foyer, hands thrust into his pockets. “Dinner is served,” he announced when his father glanced his way. The physician caught sight of Addy Sedillos, hard at work in the kitchen. Sure enough, he hugged her, too.

In due course, we managed a reasonably uninterrupted dinner, with the chipotle-laced salmon in a delicate crust, the huge, Carlos-required dollop of cheddar mashed potatoes, and half a dozen other garnishes. Dr. Guzman set his phone on the kitchen counter within easy reach, and the food went down the hatch so quickly that we could see he hadn't been kidding about the eighteen minutes.

Addy Sedillos, plumpish, round-faced and with an easy smile who had always seemed to me to be the definition of serenity, reluctantly agreed to join us for dinner. It seemed to me that she was still embarrassed to be included, and doubly so when Estelle rose quickly at one point to replenish the salmon servings instead of letting Addy to it.

For whatever reason, everyone seemed to be keenly interested in my study of Bennett's Trail—I chalked it up to a desire to avoid discussion of sensitive or even confidential topics, and it was convenient to spend the thoughts in another time and place. That was all right with me, since there aren't many folks on Earth who don't like to discuss their current, consuming hobby.

“Will Colt actually
know
about the gun?” Francis asked at one point.

“Their archives are actually pretty good,” I said. “But…” and I captured a Brussels sprout that no longer looked—or tasted, thank God—like a sprout. It was actually delectable. “Most of the time, the original sales and shipping records don't mean much. I mean, we find out what caliber, and barrel length, and stocks, and finish and all that, but we usually don't find out where it went
after
it's shipped to the jobber. They might sell it anywhere. Although,” and I paused, savoring, “back in those days, they were more apt to ship to an individual. No paperwork, no restrictions.” I held up a forkful in salute. “And Addy, this is masterful. All of it.”

Lynn Browning clasped her hands in front of her, elbows firmly on the table, fork dangling. Teresa wasn't impressed. I saw the slight twist of her lips, just a little purse of disapproval at such casual manners.

“And when you're convinced that the Bennetts did whatever they did along this trail, what then?”

I looked puzzled. “I don't guess there
is
a ‘what then.' Mostly, it's just the knowing. And if that's his gun, then that's another puzzle piece. If that's his gun, something happened on top of that little hill. And then I work on
that.
”

“You might never find out. I mean, after all this time, what are the odds?”

“That's true. And that's part of the charm.” I smiled at her. “The journey, not the destination.”

On that note of heavy philosophy, Francis Guzman patted the table and announced, “If you folks will excuse me, I need to get back.” He rose and held out his hands. “Don't let me interrupt the party.” He kissed his wife and said
soto voce,
“It's going to be a while,
querida.
We have an eleven-year-old who tried to tough-out appendicitis, and it's nasty.” It had to be nasty to leave before dessert. He made his exit, escorted to the door by his son, who returned shortly to serve the key lime pie, so sharply tangy that it almost cut the tongue.

I expected Lynn Browning to make her exit as well, but she relaxed as Carlos refilled her coffee cup. With the boy and Addy busy over in the kitchen, she toyed with the cup for a moment, then opened both hands, her frown deepening.

“We're in an interesting situation,” she said. “I wanted to run this by you.”

“Now might be the time for me to say good night,” I said, but Lynn held up a hand.