When she was finished, she returned to the Expedition to find Leona mulling over the county map.
“Look at this,” the county manager said. “If I wanted a discrete route back into Posadas from here, this is how I’d go.” She traced the route with a pencil, not touching the point to the paper. “Back up this road about a mile, and there are all these spiderwebs.” She indicated dotted lines that represented nothing even as grand as an established two-track. “One of them wanders over toward the Salinas arroyo, another to the windmill on the back side of Cooper’s ranch, and then…” She paused and leaned forward, pushing her dark glasses up into her hair.
“Remember that grand plan a number of years ago for that housing development south of the airport? If my memory serves me correctly, Hardy Aimes almost talked the county commission into that one. Close enough that he graded a whole bunch of access roads and lanes and such. This whole block here.”
As Estelle leaned forward to examine the map, Leona added, “The point is, with a copy of the county map from the Chamber of Commerce, or off the Web, or a dozen other places, we can go where we want.” She dragged a finger across the paper. “He can wend his way back to State Seventy-eight, where one of the development ‘roads’ comes out across from the airport, or he can meander south and east and eventually, he’ll come out on North Flat Street, right behind the high school. Voilà.”
“And with the race going on, no one is going to see him,” Estelle said. “He’ll be mistaken for one of the support team.” She nodded. “Maybe so.” She walked around the front of her truck. “Rick, keep your eyes open,” she said. “If you see a stocky Mexican guy with a broken ankle riding a bright red Yamaha dirt bike with no plates, your excitement is about to begin.”
“I got the picture of him off the computer,” the trooper said. “But it don’t make sense that he’d come back here.”
“We hope not,” Estelle replied. “Keep the bikers on the road and moving. Don’t let anybody congregate here. We’ve lost enough evidence already.” She started the truck and backed carefully away, turning around on the road. As they wound back up the hill, she kept the pace steady, mindful of the sporadic appearance of bike competitors and occasional official race vehicles.
Just beyond one of the dilapidated windmills that dotted this portion of the county, Leona leaned forward, pointing.
“That’s it,” she said. The turnoff could have been mistaken for an attempt by a sun-struck road grader operator to cut a bar ditch. Estelle stopped the truck and got out, scanning the ground. It would be impossible to hide a motorcycle’s tracks in the red earth, even through the gravelly sections. One recent set of vehicle tracks cut a crescent across the trail where someone had pulled over, perhaps to let cyclists pass. And off to the side, cut deeply in the soft soil, was a clear track showing the imprint of both front and back tires, and then doubled as if either there were two motorcycles or someone had driven in here and then retraced the route back out to the county road.
Estelle walked two dozen paces away from the truck, until the scrub growth closed in on either side of the path. The tracks showed that the motorcycle had veered in here and then, forced to a halt by the narrowing window of vegetation, had turned around. For a moment, the undersheriff stood and gazed at the tire prints. They could have been cut ten minutes before or a month ago. In this protected spot, with no rain or snow since January, the tracks might as well be petrified.
A series of shoe prints were indistinct beside the tire tracks, and Estelle could imagine Tapia, grimacing with the pain, putting down his good leg to support the bike as he horsed it around on the narrow trail. She knelt and took a quick set of digital pictures, forcing herself to take her time, then returned to the truck feeling an odd combination of relief and regret. Now that she knew something of his route, Estelle wanted nothing more than to charge after an escaping Manolo Tapia, running him to ground. But the big county vehicle was no match for a nimble motorcycle, whether the rider had an injured ankle or not.
“Next plan,” she said. “Someone on a bike went in a ways, then turned around.”
Leona was undeterred. “Now, Bobby is the inveterate hunter,” the county manager said. “I’m surprised he isn’t dashing about through the brush in hot pursuit.”
That image brought a smile from Estelle, since Bobby never “dashed” anywhere. “He’s thinking Posadas,” she said. “For all he cares, Tapia can bake out in the sun all day. He wants to be sure that Hector Ocate stays put and safe.”
“Not to mention that his Gayle is back in town and would be in some jeopardy,” Leona added.
“There is that.”
“Now, your man made the same mistake I did,” Leona replied. “I don’t think this is the right turnoff.” Waving ahead, she added, “Just a bit farther.”
A bit farther was an obvious two-track, and as soon as she turned off the main road, Estelle recognized the route. She didn’t spend a lot of time touring the back byways of Posadas County, but she knew this particular path, knew that it ran almost due east. Clearly, the tire prints showed that the motorcyclist knew that, too. The tracks swung off the county road in a smooth arc, no hesitation, no slowing. The undersheriff turned into the narrow lane and stopped.
“He came back out,” Leona said, seeing the double tracks.
“Or there was more than one,” Estelle said. “Or Tapia was out here yesterday or the day before, practicing his setup.”
“I hadn’t thought of that possibility-a man practicing. That makes sense. Risky, though. Surely he would want to be careful not to be seen.”
“Who’s going to take a second look at a man on a motorcycle?” Estelle asked. “Especially this weekend. Illegals don’t jump the border on dirt bikes. Ranchers use them and four-wheels all the time. So do hunters. And kids.”
“But a stolen, unlicensed vehicle…” Leona persisted.
“Number one, we didn’t know it was stolen until just hours ago. Number two, Tapia might not know that we do know…now. And as long as he doesn’t cruise the streets and state highways, the odds of us seeing him are slim to none. Under normal circumstances, if an officer were to see him out here in the boonies, odds are good he would never be stopped.”
Estelle eased the county truck along the rough trail, trying to avoid driving on the motorcycle tracks whenever she could. They had traveled less than a hundred yards when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“Guzman.”
“Estelle,” Gayle Torrez said, “Channel Eight is offering their chopper. They’re over in the motel parking lot right now.”
“Accepted,” Estelle said instantly, fully aware of the risks of involving civilians in an emergency operation. “We’re just east of County Road Fourteen. Tell them to pick me up at Cooper’s windmill. There’s a good wide meadow there. They’ll see my vehicle. I’ll park at the base of the windmill, out of their way.”
“You got it. Jessica Duarte and her cameraman are here in the office right now. I’ll give them a map for the pilot. She says they can be in the air in about five minutes. That’s maybe ten out to you at the most.”
“We’ll be there,” Estelle said. Cooper’s windmill, two miles east of their current position, hadn’t pumped water in ten years, since the day that Jim Cooper had climbed up the wooden tower to service the transmission. He had ignored the modest dark clouds so far away that the thunder was just a faint rumble. The lightning bolt flicked out and swatted the rancher. He fell, probably already dead, his skull hitting the water tank so hard that the dent was still visible in the steel rim. When Estelle had responded to the incident, the sky was a blank blue, innocent of any wrongdoing, the homicidal clouds having retreated beyond the San Cristóbals.
For much of the distance to the windmill, the road was no more than a scuff on the rough table of prairie. Here and there, Estelle could see the motorcycle tracks. On a few low humps, the sort of things that would have vaulted a bike into the air had the rider been a rambunctious youngster enjoyin
g his freedom, the tracks showed this biker had stayed firmly, and patiently, on the ground.
As they approached the windmill, Estelle saw that the lopsided fan had frozen in place. Enough remained of the tail, with the faded Aeromotor logo still visible, that the mill head drifted this way and that, ruined fan facing into the breeze.
The stock tank below the windmill was empty, one side caved in by the back bumper of a careless woodcutter’s pickup. Bullet holes dappled the metal. Estelle slowed the truck to a crawl, scanning the area around the mill. After passing the stock tank, the lane turned and circled left, up a gradual rise to the north. She picked up her binoculars as she braked to a halt. Focusing carefully, she examined the road ahead.
“Nothing,” she said. The road up the grade was facing them, in bright sunshine. She should have been able to see the tracks left by a passing motorcycle as Tapia accelerated up the hill, away from the meadow and the windmill.
“Is that…” Leona started to say, pointing toward the tank. Where it wasn’t crushed inward, the steel tank rim was four feet high. It now cast a hard, sharp-edged shadow on the prairie on the east side-a shadow that humped outward at one point into an amorphous shape. Estelle trained the binoculars and immediately saw what appeared to be the back wheel of a motorcycle.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The stock tank was a hundred yards ahead, and Estelle hesitated. Manolo Tapia was a cunning man. Where he might be, or what he might intend, was anyone’s guess. It made sense to flee to the border, or perhaps to the relative anonymity of a major city, like El Paso to the east or Tucson to the west. The border was close, within striking distance via back roads. In many spots, the border fence was nothing more than a few strands of barbed wire, sometimes not even that much. The large metro areas presented an immediate risk for a fugitive, reached by traveling on the interstates, where he would be exposed to sharp eyes.
Tapia had killed in the most calculating, cold-blooded fashion-it appeared that both the Salvadorans and Chester Hansen had gone from exhilaration to death in an instant, with no time to plead for their lives. Then, Tom Pasquale had been neutralized as efficiently as circumstances permitted-that Tapia hadn’t killed the young deputy when he had the chance was a surprise.
Estelle lifted her foot off the brake and let the Expedition creep forward a few yards. If what appeared to be a motorcycle belonged to Manolo Tapia, there could be any number of reasons why he might have abandoned it-mechanical breakdown, flat tire, even lack of fuel. If that was the case, the injured man was on foot somewhere-or resting on the far side of the tank in a patch of shade. And he had to know that they were there. The undersheriff picked up her binoculars again and methodically began a scan of the runty vegetation-mostly low juniper, greasewood, and black sage.
Twisting around in her seat to her left, Estelle searched the trees across the meadow. Shadows moved a hundred yards away and materialized into three mule deer, curious about the intrusion. They looked placidly at her, but their attention was drawn nowhere else. Wherever Tapia was, he hadn’t spooked the wildlife.
“I don’t see anything,” Leona said, then just as quickly added, “Oh, yes, I do.”
At the same time that she turned back toward the county manager, Estelle felt the truck jolt. Leona recoiled back in her seat as Manolo Tapia’s face appeared in her open window. A black semiautomatic rested on the windowsill, the blunt muzzle of its silencer pointed unwaveringly at Leona’s throat. His left elbow was thrust into the truck, tight against the window post, almost close enough to elbow Leona in the face. He stood on the running board, bracing a leg against the vehicle.
“Now,” he said, breathing hard, “we must think very carefully.” The gun didn’t waver away from Leona, but his gaze was locked on Estelle.
She sat quietly, right foot on the brake, the truck in gear and idling. Her right hand was full of binoculars, her left hand on the steering wheel. In a heartbeat, she could stab the accelerator to the floor, and the big V-8 would jar the truck forward in a shower of rocks. She could see that Tapia was braced for such a maneuver, and nothing she could do would dislodge him quickly enough to protect Leona. A trigger pull was just a few ounces away.
“You must know that I will shoot if I have to,” Tapia said, his voice almost courtly with its gentility. “This position in which we find ourselves…It can all be resolved so easily if we don’t indulge in heroics.”
Estelle didn’t move, and thankfully neither did Leona. The county manager’s eyes were huge, focused on the gun barrel.
Tapia’s face was pale and sweaty, the only indication that he might be hurt. He had positioned his body in such a way that his crooked left arm, besides locking him to the truck door, protected the gun. Leona was a large woman, and no doubt stronger than average. She could slam forward, trying to bash the threatening muzzle forward. But Tapia’s beefy arm blocked that, even if she were inclined to attempt it.
“Put down the binoculars,” he instructed. Estelle did so, freeing her right hand. Her own service automatic was tight in its holster, blocked by her seat belt. The shotgun rested in its rack, tantalizingly close but absolutely useless.
“Put the vehicle in park,” Tapia continued in flawless English. “Be oh-so-careful now.” There was no threat in his voice, just quiet patience-and somehow all the more deadly for that. He grimaced as he shifted his weight. The muzzle of the silencer ticked upward toward Leona’s chin. “Just into park.”
“What do you want?” Estelle said.
“Ah, a beautiful voice as well,” Tapia said, and nodded his approval. “What I want is that lever,” and this time he shifted the gun to point at Estelle, “pushed gently into park. At this moment in time, that’s all I want. Can we accomplish that much without bloodshed?”
“I hope so,” Estelle replied, at the same time calculating the odds if she went for reverse, lurching Tapia away from his braced arm. But that could force the gun back toward Leona. She placed the binoculars on the seat, then with the tips of her fingers lifted the gear lever and pushed it up through the gates. In at least one respect, Manolo Tapia was a known quantity-he had plenty of experience pulling triggers, but he hadn’t killed Tom Pasquale when he had the easy chance.
“Ah, good. Now turn off the key, if we please. Just that. No more.”
She released the gear lever and switched the key back to the first detent, not far enough to lock the steering wheel or free the key. The deep murmur of the engine quit and for a brief moment, their breathing was the loudest noise in the cab. Tapia shifted his position, leaning more weight on the door as he dropped his good leg to the ground. He pushed himself away from the truck, making it impossible for Leona to make a grab for the gun.
“Now,” he said. “It is very simple what we must do, and you may help me do it. I think that is the best thing, no?” Estelle didn’t respond, since Tapia clearly would understand her two priorities-to prevent more bulletholes in people and to see him behind bars.
“You will drive me back to the village. That is a most simple thing, I think. So,” and he shifted backward another fraction of a step, left hand on the truck door, right hand still holding the pistol on Leona. “You do not appear to be an officer, señora. Are you with the race?”
“I am the county manager,” Leona said matter-of-factly. “And you must know that you’re not going to get away with any of this.”
Tapia laughed gently. He swung the muzzle of the pistol toward Estelle. “You will remain exactly where you are, with both hands on the steering wheel. Are we agreed?”
Estelle rested both hands on the wheel. There would be opportunities, but at the moment, nothing balanced the risks.
“Now,” Tapia said, but stopped as he heard the characteristic whupping sound of a helicopter approaching.
“That chopper is coming here,” she said, without moving her hands. “I need to call them off. They’re with the television station.” The last thing she wanted was a spray of bullets involving civilians-particularly
Channel 8, “More News at Ten.”
“Yes, indeed you do,” Tapia said. “Be careful.”
“It’s just a television news unit,” Estelle said. “I have to call my dispatch in order to reach them. We don’t have their frequency on our radios.”
“Of course you don’t. Be very careful.”
The undersheriff found the cellular phone without taking her eyes off Tapia, and auto-dialed dispatch. She watched as Tapia reached into the truck and locked one hand on Leona’s right shoulder, at the same time swinging the gun so that it pointed directly at Estelle’s head.
“Gayle,” she said as soon as the connection when through, “I need the Channel Eight chopper to clear the area. Tell Ms. Duarte that I’ll meet with her back at the office in a few minutes.”
“Affirmative,” Gayle replied. “Tom Mears is heading up the team out at the site. He should be there by now. Linda’s on her way.”
“That’s good,” Estelle said. The farther they stay away from here, the better. The chopper appeared, flying along the top of a low rise, skimming no more than a hundred feet above the ground. It banked sharply toward them, then appeared to hesitate. It slowed and turned broadside to them a thousand yards out, hovering nose high.
“They want to know what the ambulance is for,” Gayle asked. “They can see it from their position now.”
“I’ll talk to them in a few minutes,” Estelle said. “If they want to fly over west of the location, there’s an open field there. Tell them they’ll see an old broken-down homestead off the road a ways. They can land there. Sergeant Mears will talk with them. But tell them that we don’t want that chopper near the crime scene. The last thing we need is the rotor wash sweeping everything away.”
“Roger that,” Gayle said.
Estelle switched off the phone. Tapia was watching her with something akin to amusement.
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