With a quick glance at her, he turned the key, and the big prop jerked into life. The engine caught, and as the prop became a blur of motion, the aircraft shifted and moved forward toward the door. Tapia pulled the throttle back to idle and let the airplane ease out of the hangar, a foot clearance at each wing tip. Estelle heard his right foot shuffle on the rudder pedal, at first pushing, then dancing to the opposite pedal to guide the plane. As the nose cleared the door, sun flooded into the interior, and Estelle turned to look down the tarmac. The State Police cruiser that had been parked by the FBO was driving slowly toward them.
The instant the aircraft’s tail cleared the hangar door, Tapia pushed hard on the right rudder. Estelle felt the pedals saw back and forth at her feet, and the Cessna headed for the taxiway.
A flick of the finger and the flaps spooled down, and then Manolo Tapia’s intentions became clear. He firewalled the throttle, and the big engine bellowed, the turbo a shrill whistle. He spun the trim wheel and continued to dance his right foot first on one rudder pedal and then the other as the plane charged down the taxiway, using the full width of the macadam surface. The natural assumption was that, on taxiways, airplanes taxied. That was unnecessary, as unnecessary as flying thousands of feet up in the air to clear low bushes and fences.
It didn’t matter that the state trooper was following them. His Crown Victoria was fast, but it couldn’t fly, and Tapia used the taxiway to full benefit. Two hundred yards before the donut turnaround at the end, he pulled back hard on the yoke and the ground dropped away.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Cessna roared off the end of the taxiway but rose only a dozen feet over the prairie scrub before leveling off. As it accelerated to well over a hundred knots, Tapia let the plane drift right, remaining north of the state highway and closing uncomfortably close to the flank of Cat Mesa.
Under other circumstances, flashing across the prairie just over the tops of vegetation might be exhilarating, but handcuffed to the seat and having to trust her life to a man with a broken ankle was terrifying. Sitting awkwardly anyway, Estelle could not pull herself upright to see over the massive, arched dash cowl. She turned and looked out the side window as the airport faded behind them. If Tapia didn’t change course, their route would take them north of the intersection of County Road 14 and the state highway.
His left hand outstretched to the dash cowl for support, and with only his right hand on the yoke, Tapia flew the airplane with a light touch. They continued to accelerate, and then with a glance to the left, Tapia curled his right wrist, bringing the yoke back. Estelle felt her stomach sag under the mild G’s, and the plane climbed steeply, banking south.
They flashed diagonally across the state highway, climbing toward five hundred feet. Estelle’s view west toward County Road 14 was blocked, but from his side of the airplane Tapia would be able to look out and in the distance see the crime scene where he had left Chester Hansen and Tom Pasquale. Tapia continued his turn to the south, and Estelle saw that their route would take them across State Highway 56, the southwestern route to Regál and the border crossing. Without another course correction, their route would also take them straight into the boulder-strewn northern flank of the San Cristóbals.
Satisfied with his vantage point, Tapia allowed the Cessna’s nose to lower. His left hand dropped to manipulate the trim wheel, and then balance the throttle, mixture, and prop for a smooth, fast cruise. With a twist of the yoke and five minutes, they could be across the border and into Mexican airspace, away from State and Border Patrol aircraft-if that threat should materialize.
If a person knew where to look, the Broken Spur Saloon and its parking lot would be visible for miles from the air. Obviously Manolo Tapia knew exactly where to look if he wanted to see a yellow Mustang convertible.
He turned to her and shouted over the loud engine. “Now we will see.”
What he referred to, she couldn’t tell. Her view out the left side of the airplane was the vast, rumpled northern flank of the mountains separating Mexico from the United States. She leaned toward him. “Give me the cuff key now.” The noisy cockpit wasn’t the place for nuance.
He grinned at her, dismissing the demand. Estelle slumped, trying to relax her back. Deputy Jackie Taber came to mind. The deputy had established the habit of wearing a handcuff key around her neck on a fine gold chain, the cop’s version of a crucifix. Estelle’s handcuff key was on her key ring, lying on the front seat of her Expedition parked back at the airport. She kept another in her wallet, now out of reach, and another on her utility belt for those rare times when she wore a department uniform.
She pulled gently on the steel tether. Tapia had locked the cuffs tightly on her right wrist, but when he’d transferred the lock to the left, he’d left more slack. Pulling her thumb in tight, she eased her weight back against the shackle, twisting her hand. The combination of bone and steel produced pain, but no progress.
The Cessna banked sharply again, dipping the right wing. Estelle could see the Broken Spur Saloon, and farther on, County Road 14 twisting north from the state highway. A bright yellow spot winked, and as they drew closer, she could make out the blocky lines of Tom Mears’ Mustang convertible. Tapia kept the plane south of the highway, paralleling it.
The saloon’s parking lot was full, making the place look like a watering hole for cops. Far to the north, she saw two dust trails as vehicles headed down the dirt road at high speed. Estelle felt a sinking feeling, and it wasn’t an air pocket. Most of it was apprehension at not knowing what Sheriff Torrez had planned.
Manolo Tapia held the vantage point, that was certain. There was no way to approach the airport without announcing the arrival from miles away. The saloon was two miles by road from the gas company’s airstrip-far less by foot, but still a significant trek over rough ground, far more than what might be possible in the narrow time window.
On County Road 14, the first southbound car pulled to a stop at the brow of a low hill north of the airstrip. Farther on, a second joined the roadblock at the county road and its intersection with the Bender’s Canyon Trail, the race route that wound and twisted northeast, roughly paralleling the state highway to emerge at Moore, an abandoned village site halfway between the saloon and Posadas. That was one less concern. The race cyclists would turn on the canyon trail, heading away from the airstrip.
A third vehicle, this one a white SUV, headed north on the country road until it met the other two vehicles, joining the roadblock there.
Tapia kept the Cessna south of the state road, the flank of the San Cristóbals looming off the left wing. His hand reached out and turned the trim wheel forward. The nose of the Cessna dropped and the airspeed accelerated. A mile beyond the west end of the gas company’s runway, Tapia banked hard to the right, the Cessna’s descent increasing as they swung north. In a moment he pulled the plane level four or five hundred feet above the scrub.
The yellow Mustang had stopped at the airstrip gate, and a large figure emerged from the driver’s side.
The plane turned to parallel the runway, heading due east now, back toward County Road 14. Looking out past Tapia, Estelle saw the gate open and the figure return to the Mustang. By the time they had flown the length of the strip, the car had pulled forward onto the apron of the narrow runway.
As far as Estelle could see, no vehicle was within a mile of the runway. There was no way for anyone to approach the west end of the runway, the direction from which she assumed Tapia planned to land. Once he had touched down, he had but to turn around and take off, away from any threat-a maneuver that took only seconds. With no Blackhawk chopper on the horizon with lethal firepower, nothing blocked his route south.
The passenger climbed out of the convertible, and Estelle recognized the figure of Hector Ocate. The boy trudged straight down the center of the macadam strip, away from the car and Leona Spears. Manolo Tapia said something, more to himself than to Estelle, and the Cessna banked sharply again, this time to the east,
taking a tight circle that afforded Tapia another look at the saloon parking lot, at the county road, and at the threshold of the airstrip. They had a large audience, but save the county manager and Hector Ocate, no one was near the airstrip.
Estelle searched the prairie on either side of the airstrip, looking for breaks in the shadows. At one point, a jackrabbit broke cover and flashed away, and Estelle scanned the area from which the rabbit fled. Without pulling the throttle, Tapia let the plane sink in the turn until it appeared he intended to buzz the three vehicles on the rise. The Cessna shot over them, no more than fifty feet over the surprised faces. Estelle had a clear view, and saw Eddie Mitchell, Tom Mears, and a State Police officer.
She felt the ache of tension in her spine and tried again to settle back. Sheriff Robert Torrez would not stand back with his arms folded, simply allowing this event to happen-while Estelle wanted to believe that the sheriff wouldn’t take an unnecessary gamble, he would try something. She had no clue what. In the best of all possible worlds, one did not simply let a killer escape-or his son.
As they thundered over the top of the hill, she scanned the brush and rumpled landscape surrounding the airstrip. South of the macadam, the ground dropped away a bit, then rose in a series of rills. Although the scrub vegetation rarely grew more than four or five feet high, it provided plenty of cover.
Estelle twisted, trying to look behind them. Hector Ocate continued to plod down the center of the runway, approaching a point a third of the way along the tarmac. Without a glance at the dash, Tapia reached out and manipulated the throttle, mixture, and prop, and Estelle felt the aircraft sink. The flaps spooled down a notch, and Tapia pulled himself upright, shifting in his seat.
They paralleled the runway, and then as they sank toward the prairie, Tapia smoothly fed in power. This time, the turn was uncomfortably tight, the plane practically standing on one wing, engine bellowing. If Manolo Tapia could fly this well with a broken ankle, it was easy to imagine that under less trying circumstances, the trip across the border was simplicity itself. And what had he needed his son for? When the plane rolled out of the turn, the nose was pointed down the center of the runway.
Ahead of them, Hector Ocate had stopped walking, and now stood quietly. Follow in your father’s footsteps, Estelle thought. The boy had proved he could steal an airplane, had proved he could fly with the best of them. Maybe that was all he had ever wanted-to prove himself to his father.
More flaps wound down, great rattling barn doors that produced as much drag as lift. Shedding speed as Tapia bled off power, the Cessna sank toward the strip. For a moment, it appeared that they were going to sink right into the vegetation short of the runway, but a burst of power brought them to the pavement not a dozen feet from the two little yellow marker cones at the verge of the asphalt. Tires smacked the pavement hard and smooth, without a trace of bounce.
Tapia let the aircraft roll without braking, the slight uphill gradient serving to slow the aircraft. Estelle extended her feet, touching the set of rudder pedals on her side. She could slam one to the floor now, and the plane would in all likelihood careen off the runway, perhaps ripped off the landing gear-and then just as likely go cartwheeling in a pile of junk before exploding in a fireball.
With a roar of pain, Tapia braked hard, this time using his bad foot on the left brake. He let the airplane drift toward the right side of the runway, and as he did so, Estelle saw Hector walk away from the center, toward the opposite side. Tapia pounded his left fist on the dash cowling so hard that he left dents, but the smooth braking didn’t waver. When the Cessna had slowed to a fast walk, he swerved to take up the last inch of macadam, then shifted feet and pushed the left rudder/brake pedal to the floor with his right foot, toeing the brake hard.
The aircraft had enough momentum remaining that it spun in a smooth circle, once more facing southwest. Hector ran to the plane, ducked under the trailing edge of the wing, and opened the cargo door on the right side. At the same time, Tapia reached across with Estelle’s keys.
“Thank you,” he said, and it sounded as if he meant it. Estelle took the ring and maneuvered the small key. The cuffs came loose and she straightened up. The Beretta eyed her, no longer in the door boot. Still, she hesitated to open the door.
“You are free to go,” Tapia said. “Get out of the airplane. Now.” Without wavering the muzzle of the gun away from Estelle, he turned to his son. “You will fly.” Ready and willing, Hector moved to a position between the front seats, one hand on each, ready to vault into place in the left seat, behind the wheel. Estelle opened the door, immediately feeling the strong wash of air from the windmilling propeller. Even though the engine was at idle, the thrust was strong enough that opening the door required effort.
As she started to slide out, the airplane jerked a little as Tapia shifted his feet. Not wasting a second, Hector was already wedging himself forward toward the pilot’s seat. Her feet touched the tarmac and Estelle felt the airplane begin to drift forward. She took an awkward step to catch her balance, waiting for an instant of opportunity. It came as the boy shifted his weight forward so he could maneuver into the pilot’s seat. Estelle drove toward his extended left arm with the loose end of the handcuffs. The steel connected with his wrist with a sharp crack but he jerked backward before the ratchet could snap closed.
Estelle lunged back into the plane and grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt with both hands. He flailed wildly as he lost his balance, trying not to crash forward into the control yoke or instrument panel. She pulled backward with all her weight. He tumbled toward Estelle, striking out at her with one hand while the other made a wild grab at the control wheel.
A burly arm shot around the boy’s body as Manolo Tapia tried to grab him. Hampered as he was by his own seat belt and shoulder harness, he could not equal Estelle’s attack. Instantly realizing that, he brought the Beretta around, the barrel dangerously close to Hector’s head. Even as the boy lost his grip and was hauled headfirst and flailing out of the airplane, Tapia fired.
Estelle did not hear the oddly muted snap of the gun, so concentrated was she on the boy. The round struck her squarely in the center of her vest, a sharp blow that only added momentum to her backward struggle and knocked the wind out of her. As her body twisted away, a second blow struck her, but now, disregarding the airplane or the boy struggling on top of her, she concentrated on only one thing. Grabbing his right arm as he aimed a punch at her face, she smashed the handcuffs on his left wrist and crunched them closed.
Scrabbling wildly, Ocate shouted for his father, and his right hand grabbed for the landing gear strut as they crashed to the ground.
For an instant, they were an awkward heap-both of them fully out of the airplane, with Estelle trying to rise to her hands and knees, slipping on the pebbles of rough asphalt while Hector Ocate tried his best to hold on to the landing gear strut. With a cry, Tapia stabbed the brakes, and the plane lurched sharply to a stop.
Something struck the passenger window above Estelle’s head at the same time that she heard a sharp pop, like someone clapping his hands, or slapping a ripe melon. She flinched down, assuming that Tapia had fired at her again, this time through the thin aluminum skin of the airplane. Hector lost his grip on the landing gear and tried to regain his feet.
Estelle scrabbled hard as the airplane once more started to drift forward, and she lurched toward the approaching horizontal stabilizer with the sole thought of putting distance between herself and the aircraft. But her body refused to obey, and she dropped to all fours again, unable to move the anchor of the boy on the handcuffs.
The Cessna’s engine pitch didn’t change, and the airplane continued its slow amble diagonally across the runway. The stabilizer passed over her head. She grabbed at Hector’s right wrist as he threw an ineffectual punch at her. It should have been easy to throw him facedown, twisting his left arm hard behind him. But she couldn’t move, and instead her body sank to the asphalt despite her best efforts. She heard
running footsteps and vehicles approaching. Hector stopped his struggle, and lying together in a heap, they both watched the Cessna cross the runway, lurching as its nose wheel dug into the soft gravel on the other side. As soon as the mains ran off the pavement, the airplane slowed. Its prop burst through a thick, stout bush, sending an eruption of plant matter, dirt, and rocks in all directions. Finally the plane stopped, engine burbling in idle, prop windmilling. Estelle could see only a small portion of Manolo Tapia’s slumped body in the cockpit.
The boy cursed in Spanish, crying at the same time. But he was trapped, and knew it.
Estelle felt the cuffs released from her wrist. It was Jackie Taber’s quiet voice that she heard next. “Be smart now,” the deputy said to Hector. “It’s over.”
It felt good to relax and let her face touch the warm asphalt. She could see a line of police vehicles swerving onto the runway, pulling past the Mustang. Moving as little as possible, she looked west and saw the tall, powerful figure of Sheriff Robert Torrez. He walked quickly through the runty vegetation that grew south of the runway, the scoped rifle cradled in his left arm, right hand relaxed on the stock near the trigger. He circled the airplane warily, then disappeared behind it.
“Tapia has a handgun,” Estelle tried to say, but the words came out as little more than a whispered burble.
“You just hold still,” someone said. The aircraft engine ran rough and then died, the propeller ticking to a stop.
Estelle pushed herself up, astounded at the weight of her own body. “I’m okay. Really,” she said. Other hands took custody of Hector Ocate, and Jackie knelt close to Estelle. “I’m okay,” Estelle said again.
“Sure you are,” Taber said gently. She barked instructions into her handheld radio, and in a moment Torrez loomed over Estelle, face grim. “He’s dead,” he said.
“Ay,” Estelle murmured. She tried to take a breath. “That’s too bad.” She tasted copper, an odd, pervasive sensation that was as much a smell as a taste. She knew the first round from the Beretta had caught her flush on the vest, and she tried to turn her head so that she could look down at the single small tear just below the third button of her tan blouse. “Bruised me pretty good,” she managed to say.
Final Payment pc-14 Page 26
