One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  On the still night air, the howl of Bergin’s late model pickup truck carried to us, and he had to brake hard for the airport gate. His GMC slid to a stop behind 310, the dome light came on, and I could see him shuffling papers, cigarette between his lips, eyes squinting against the smoke. He found what he wanted and climbed out, crushing the butt under foot.

  “What’s wrong with a sunny morning for this sort of thing?” the airport manager grumped. A short, lithe man with an old-fashioned buzz cut left over from his military days, Bergin had taken over the manager’s job two years before, and we’d become good friends from the get-go. I admired his ambition…he seemed to be able to make a living at an airport where on a busy day, air traffic could be counted without resorting to double digits. He nodded at Estelle as I introduced them, then beckoned us to the enormous hangar door.

  “As long as you’re here, give me a hand with this son of a bitch,” he said, and we all leaned against the door and pushed it to one side against the drag of cranky, squeaky rollers. “One of these days, I fix it,” he muttered, and found the light switch. Racks of florescent fixtures blossomed in the cave-like hangar. I’d ridden in Jim’s Cessna 182 RG a few times, enough to know that flying held no thrill for me, and considerable gastric anguish for my stomach. It was parked square to the door, with two other aircraft crammed in the hanger behind it.

  “Go ahead and board,” he said. “Damsel in back.”

  “You want help pulling it out of the hangar?”

  “Hell, no.”

  By the time Estelle and I had squeezed inside and found all the seatbelt connections, Jim had finished a cursory walk around. “Not even cooled off from the last flight,” he said as he slipped inside with considerably more grace than I had managed. A twist, a pull, and a few other gyrations, and the big engine fired, settling into a ragged idle. Lights, camera, action. About that fast, Jim finished up with the switches, dials, and controls, released the brakes and eased the Cessna out of the hangar under its own power, wing tips clearing the door frame with a foot on each side.

  “Winslow?” he shouted, and I nodded. “Whoever would want to go there?”

  “Us,” I shouted in response.

  “I hear ya,” he said, and then ignored his passengers. The run-up thing that pilots do was accomplished on the way out to the taxiway and then a final prop cycle and check at the donut at the runway end. Even as he steered out onto the asphalt runway, he radioed his plane’s I.D. and intentions out into the disinterested night, and then we were gone-blasting down the pavement for about a thousand feet before heading for the heavens, wheels tucking up into the plane’s belly, prop settling into fast cruise once we were safely clear of the ground, the cacti, and the mesa.

  We tracked northwest, and even though two hundred miles isn’t far in a speedster like the Cessna, it was altogether too long for me. The air had quieted down to nighttime velvet, and it was like sitting in a noisy, vibrating arm chair for an hour and a half. There wasn’t much point in trying to carry on a conversation, so I sat there and tried to think of a hundred ways out of the scenario waiting for us in Winslow.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Arizona is a wonderfully picturesque state, but at two in the morning, all I could see were swatches of lights here and there. Leaving New Mexico, we could see Silver City tucked behind us at the foot of the Gila Wilderness with a scattering of tiny communities around it, and then ahead Springerville, Arizona in the middle of the great black void with Show Low off to the west. Snowflake finally showed itself after too long wondering where the hell Jim would land 592 Foxtrot Gulf should the engine quit. He wasn’t sparing the horses. About the time Holbrook and the daisy chain of lights on I-40 hailed into view, I could also see what had to be Winslow in the distance to the west.

  I had no idea where Winslow-Lindberg was, but that didn’t matter. Jim Bergin did, and a genteel approach wasn’t in the books. He peeled off from altitude and did a steep approach, flaps hanging down from the wing’s trailing edges like great shaking doors. All the while he talked on the radio, and part of the conversation included the terse instructions, “And make sure the deputy is parked where we can see him.”

  Even as our tires kissed the pavement, I could see the cop car well off to the side, red lights flashing. We fast taxied in and Jim cut the engine, the prop windmilling to a halt as we coasted the last few feet.

  “You probably want a ride back,” he said laconically.

  “Yep. But I don’t know when. Do you have something to shackle to? We may have a prisoner with us.”

  Bergin looked skeptical.

  “Just a kid,” I added, but Bergin could read my expression. As far as I was concerned, Mo had taken himself out of the “kid” category about the time that he squeezed the trigger of his father’s Winchester. Kids’ advocate Ruth Wayand might disagree, but she, the D.A., and the judge could fight it out. I hoped only that Mo would survive to take part in the negotiations.

  “Ah. Seat frame works for that. Done it before. Look, I’ll grab a ride to the railroad hotel and finish the sleeping that you so rudely interrupted. Give a holler when you’re ready to go back. How’s that work?”

  “Outstanding.” I held out my hand. “Thanks.”

  I slid out of the plane, followed by Estelle. The Arizona deputy tried not to do a double take when he saw the young lady, then introduced himself as Willie Begay. Not sure of the protocol, he held the Suburban’s back door for Estelle while I climbed into the front.

  “It’s about twenty miles,” he announced. I tightened my seatbelt, because I knew what was in store. Young men and powerful engines bring out the best. We wailed out of Winslow onto Interstate 40 and kept to the left lane for enough miles to make me nervous. We dove off an exit and hit the dirt paths that pass for secondary roads in that part of the state, and sure enough, out ahead of us like an illuminated snake, the Amtrak Santa Fe Chief train #3 was parked on a siding. The approach was a rail access road that turned the Suburban into a bucking bronco.

  Just off the tail of the train’s last car, a fleet of six police units had congregated. Had he been able to look out and see them from where he sat five cars forward, Mo Arnett might have felt proud of himself for generating so much attention. But he was isolated from a rear view, with only the black desert out the side windows.

  Deputy Begay turned at the last moment and tucked the Suburban in behind an unmarked Dodge SUV. A huge individual broke away from the circle and headed toward us.

  “Damn good thing,” he greeted. “We’re out of donuts.” Leo Burkhalter hooked an arm through mine as if he were escorting an old lady, nodded a greeting at Estelle, and then led us toward the rear door of the last rail car. He paused with a hand on the passenger rail. His head oscillated as if he had a loose bolt in his neck.

  “This is what they tell me,” he said. “He’s at one of the four-top tables at the front of the observation car. The door’s locked now, and the attendant apparently spun a tale that it’s all part of whatever problem they’re having. With the train being delayed for hours up north, it isn’t much of a stretch to believe there’s more trouble.”

  “You have communication?”

  “The attendant has a radio, but they’ve played it cool, man. The kid hasn’t heard a thing. Every once in a while, the attendant walks back to make a show about trying the door. Gives her a chance to communicate a little bit.”

  “Her name?”

  “Iola Beauchamp. Forty-four year old mother of six. Home is Chicago.”

  “We need to get her out of there. Is she the one who I.D.’d the kid?”

  Burkhalter exhaled loudly. “I tell you what, sheriff. I wish to hell that woman worked for me. She said Arnett was sleeping, head down on the table. I guess her motherly instincts kicked in, and she went to find him a blanket. When she got back, she went to put it over him, and that’s when she saw the gun. He had it in his pants on the right side, near the small of his back.”

  “Not the smarte
st move he’s ever made,” I said. “She couldn’t grab it easily?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Just as well that she didn’t try.”

  “He’s zonked out, and Iola takes her time. That time of night, there were only two other folk at the far end of the car. Iola discreetly gets ’em gone, then calls for the door lock. And there she is, one on one with your fruitcake. He hasn’t tried to explore the train, which is a good thing. Just a matter of time, though. I don’t want Iola having to confront him to keep him in place. Doors are locked, but you know…”

  The door above us zipped open, and a tall, trim conductor looked down at us.

  “This is Bruce Hammer. He’s the boss,” Burkhalter said. “Sir, this is Sheriff Bill Gastner from Posadas, New Mexico. The suspect belongs to him. This young lady is one of his deputies.”

  “Sir,” Hammer said, and extended a huge hand. His grip was powerful. He tipped his gold-edged cap in an old-fashioned salute to Estelle. “I don’t need to tell you all that what we want to avoid is any kind of disturbance. I want this young man off my train, and I want it done so quietly and quickly that the rest of the passengers never know what happened.” He stepped down so he was looking me in the eye. “It’s our understanding that he’s armed.”

  “One forty-five caliber pistol,” I said. “At least that.”

  “And he’s killed once already?”

  “Yes. We’re not sure of the circumstances,” I replied. “Lots of pieces to the puzzle are still missing. But he’s not a psychopath,” and I had reservations about the veracity of that but didn’t voice them. “He’s not a serial killer. He’s not a bank robber. He’s a scared kid who made a bad mistake. We’re not even sure of the circumstances of that mistake.” I saw the lieutenant grimace at that.

  “He’s on the lam, he’s got a gun, he’s cornered,” Burkhalter said.

  On the lam, I thought. Machine-gun Mo Arnett, on the lam. “So let’s just take him out with a sniper rifle shot through the window. Why the hell not.” Burkhalter looked as if he wanted to agree with me, despite the heavy sarcasm.

  Hammer regarded me for a moment. “One of my employees is in that car, sheriff. My chief concern is her safety.”

  “My concern as well, sir. Her safety comes first, then ours, then his. That’s the mess he’s put himself in. So let’s do this. Let’s get her out of there, right now.”

  “She’s had that opportunity, and chosen not to take it,” Hammer said.

  “She’ll come to the door if you request it?”

  “I’m sure she will, but she won’t leave the young man by himself, locked in the car. He’s suicidal?”

  “I really don’t know,” I said. “But Iola probably called it right. Let’s see what we can do.” I turned to Estelle. “You get to stay here.”

  “Yes, sir.” She didn’t sound happy, but I had already worked out a scenario in my mind, and there was no role in it for her. I turned back to Burkhalter. “Let me tell you what I want to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The three of us, Hammer, Burkhalter, and I, made our way forward through the cars. I suppose he had his reasons for not walking outside, through the gravel and desert wildlife along the side of the railcars. The passengers sprawled this way and that, finding a way to sleep or read or, in the case of a couple of teenagers, snuggle, the wildlife on board the train.

  One middle-aged lady looked up, saw Hammer, and reached out a hand.

  “Are we ever going to get to Flagstaff?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be underway in just a few minutes.”

  She glanced at Burkhalter and me, both obviously cops, but she didn’t ask.

  The dark aisles passed one by one, each car packed with warm, smelly bodies, some a good deal smellier than others. Legs and other body parts crowded the aisles, and we maneuvered carefully. Each door at car’s end snapped open like a good sentry coming to attention.

  Hammer led us through several cars before holding up a hand. “The car beyond this next one.” He palmed his radio and pointed with the antenna through the door ahead. I saw a snack bar of sorts taking up the bulk of the next car. A television up in the corner was harshly bright, showing an early morning western. The door snapped open and as we entered I saw a hirsute young man curled in the corner with a heavy knapsack, sleeping over a copy of Les Miserables.

  The complication was simple. Just as we could look through the sliding door into Mo Arnett’s car, he could see us. I wanted him to have no advantage-none whatsoever. We took the absurdly narrow stairs down to the lower level where Hammer opened the exterior door.

  “You’ll want to stay close to the side of the car,” he warned, and we sidled along, shoulders brushing the aluminum. At the far end of the sleeper car ahead of Arnett’s observation unit, we re-entered and made our way up to the second level. As long as the boy remained at his table, we’d enter behind his back.

  “All set?” Hammer whispered.

  “Tell the engineer that all we need is a couple of bumps…nothing spectacular. Just enough to make the kid think we’re underway again.”

  “You got it.” He handed me a radio unit. “So you can hear what’s goin’ on,” he said, and wagged a finger at both of us, a warning that if we put any holes in his train, we’d be in deep shit. With the conductor gone, I punched the door release, and it hissed open. The sealed landing between cars was wide enough for both of us to remain clear of the entry. I eased forward toward the door’s window, but the bulkhead prevented me from catching a glimpse of Mo.

  The radio barked a triple blast of squelch, and Iola Beauchamp’s must have done the same. She heard it and made her way toward the rear door. She was a large woman, easily capable of snapping Mo Arnett into little pieces. But she was smart enough to know that size didn’t matter to a.45.

  “We’re about to get underway,” Hammer’s voice said. “Let me know if all the doors are secure.”

  Iola acknowledged with a quick, “You got it.” At that moment, the train lurched-not much of a bump, but for folks who had grown used to sitting still in the middle of the night, it must have felt like an earthquake. There was no reason for Mo Arnett to think anything amiss. He knew that the train had been delayed for hours before he’d boarded, and another delay wasn’t unimaginable. And, out in the desert under cover of darkness, he might have felt secure, safe from his Posadas troubles.

  At the far end of the car, Iola’s door snapped open, and she turned toward Mo with a broad smile, playing her part to perfection. Hammer appeared, and she touched the conductor’s arm as she passed him. The door hissed shut behind them, and Mo was alone in the car.

  I activated my own door just as Mo came out of his burrow in the corner. It’s hard as hell to make snap decisions in the groggy wee hours, especially when you’ve alternately been sitting and snoozing the hours away. Mo saw me and for just a fraction of a second, his face went blank. Mo and I didn’t know each other well-not face to face, anyway. Under other circumstances I might recognize him on the street among a gaggle of other teens, the events of the last few hours made it seem as if we were life-long acquaintances.

  He might not have been able to recall my name, or for sure place that big old face, the fat belly, or the salt and pepper stubble that passed for my haloed hair-do. He sure as hell could recognize cops when he saw them, especially since Leo Burkhalter was in uniform and the lieutenant’s face was set in that expression that all bad guys, even neophytes, recognize.

  Mo hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then tried to scramble around the table, Iola’s courtesy blanket wadding around his legs. He sprawled out into the aisle, now thrashing in four-wheel drive, making for the back door. The gun went skittering, and he grabbed it just about the time I reached his ankles.

  I had stared down the bore of a.45 ACP pistol a good number of times, but always while cleaning the damn thing, never while a live round might be nesting in the chamber while a nervous nitwit’s finger shook against the tri
gger. Mo now lay in the aisle on his back, eyes the size of dinner plates, the gun held awkwardly in both hands, pointed squarely at me.

  Well-tempered bravery washed over me, brought on by the various patents that John M. Browning, arguably the greatest firearms designer who ever lived, had melded into the model 1911 semiautomatic pistol. Mo Arnett had been carrying the heavy, old-fashioned handgun stuffed under his belt. I ducked my head and saw that the hammer was not cocked. In that condition, the gun was about as useful as a boat anchor.

  “Mo,” I said, “why don’t you give me that thing before someone gets hurt.”

  I held out my hand. Unconvinced, Mo dropped one hand from the gun and tried to push himself backward down the aisle. “Where are you going to go?”

  His eyes had teared so that he couldn’t focus either on me, or the hulking figure of Burkhalter behind me. And the lieutenant’s weapon was cocked.

  “Mo, I can understand why you ran. When you found out that there had been someone in that grader after all, well, hell…who can blame you?” I held out my hand again. “Here. Let’s see if we can salvage something from this mess, Mo. Give me the gun.”

  Mo didn’t give me the gun. He jerked around, trying to get up, trying to untangle himself from the blanket. Keeping my bulk between the squirming kid and the lieutenant behind me, I stepped forward, grabbed his right arm and yanked it out from under him, driving his face into the railcar’s flooring. With my left, I palmed the.45, twisting it from his fingers and tossing it backward between my legs. Mo let out an anguished howl as I snapped a set of cuffs on his right wrist. With a yank, I pulled his left arm behind him as well, and in seconds he was helpless, belly down in the aisle. Burkhalter had holstered his gun, and now handed me another set of long-chained cuffs for the boy’s ankles. With the final click of the stainless steel locks, I straightened up. Glancing toward the back door, I saw conductor Bruce Hammer standing with Iola Beauchamp, their faces grim. I gave them both a little salute of gratitude.