One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  Deputy Tom Mears’ twin brother Terry was a vice president at Posadas State Bank.

  “Find out if the kid made any withdrawals from his college account or whatever…whatever he’s got. If Terry wants a warrant, go ahead and bother the judge again. And do it tonight, Bobby.”

  “Gotcha.”

  I sat for a moment, trying to climb into the kid’s mind. About the time Torrez’s brake lights flared as he reached the end of the parking lot, I turned to Estelle.

  “Everyone needs a place to go,” I said. “Everybody. Even Mo Arnett. Most of us just go home. What the hell does he do?”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  When the phone rang, it just about put me into orbit. I’d finally fallen asleep in that huge, maroon leather recliner down in my den—my place to go. The nearest telephone was up on the kitchen counter, its location one of my quirks. I didn’t want the thing in my inner sanctum, competing with the solitude of my library. But as a result, it took a while for me to reach the kitchen without breaking my neck.

  The phone was patient, its insistent ringing imperative.

  “Gast…” I coughed and tried again. “Gastner.” The stove clock blinked, which told me the power had been off. I looked up at the clock over the counter and saw that it was close to midnight.

  “Sir, this is Marcus Baker,” my swing shift dispatcher said. No doubt my fine diction told him I’d been blowing z’s.

  “Sure enough,” I managed ungratefully. I had collapsed into my chair after dropping Miss Reyes off at her modest little apartment behind the school. I hadn’t bothered to promise her a normal day tomorrow…today, now. Who the hell knew what would happen. I’d managed to read half a Chapter about Chichamauga, then dropped off, book in my lap, pages rumpled.

  “Sir, they found Mo Arnett’s car up in Albuquerque,” Ernie reported. “In the long-term parking lot at the Sunport.”

  “Well, son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want me to call the sheriff?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said quickly. “The Pontiac, but no Mo?”

  “No, sir. It’s a Sergeant Patterson who called from the APD. Would you like his numbers? He said he’d be available until two.”

  “Absolutely.” I copied the number, thanked Ernie for calling, and dialed. In a moment, Patterson’s light voice came on the line. He sounded as if he were twelve years old.

  “Airport security made the identification,” he acknowledged. “None of the flight manifests show your subject boarding any flight within the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Shit,” I said, and Patterson chuckled.

  “Security made a sweep of the airport. Mr. Arnett doesn’t appear to be on the premises.”

  “Any corners he can hide in?”

  “I don’t think so, sheriff. Of course, it’s a big place.”

  A big place, indeed. The high school photo we’d included with our bulletin showed Mo as he was the year before, and he happened to have been particularly scruffy in that portrait…long hair, with what passes for a teenage beard, not as pudgy as he was now. He could blend in with a family, or sit in a quiet, dark corner of the restaurant, waiting for his flight.

  “But no hits on the manifests,” I repeated.

  “No, sir. But we’ll keep after it. We have the car. A teenager isn’t going to stray far from his wheels.”

  “We can hope not.” But with this particular teenager? Who knew where he’d stray.

  “By the way, sarge, there was a handgun in the glove compartment. I need to know if it’s still there.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that. The vehicle was locked, and it’s going to be a few minutes yet while they process it.”

  “I need to know if the kid has the gun with him. You sure as hell do too. And it’d be nice to know if there’s a body in the trunk.”

  He laughed. “I hear ya.”

  “We never know.”

  “Well, according to the ticket on the dash, it was in the hot sun all day, and nothing smells. But I’ll get the team on that ASAP. He hasn’t boarded a flight, and he sure as hell wouldn’t try carrying a gun on board.”

  I was skeptical about that, but didn’t burst the sergeant’s bubble.

  With the sleep driven away by the phone call, I stayed vertical and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. By the time I took the first sip, wondering where my cigarettes were before recalling that I was trying to quit, the clock had ticked to twelve fifteen.

  Parked in the Sunport, but not on a flight. Airport Security said that Mo Arnett wasn’t on the premises, but I didn’t believe that as a given. It’s easy to hide in a huge facility, easy to slip here and there, away from prying eyes. If that was the case, what was the boy waiting for? The sooner airborne, the better, if he was on the run. If he hadn’t grabbed a flight, odds were good he was still in Albuquerque, a place that must seem incomprehensibly huge after the tiny confines of Posadas.

  With a full mug of coffee, I left the house, enjoying the quiet of the village. Lights from the trailer park down the street and from the interstate interchange ruined the view of the star canopy overhead, but I could see a few being squired around the heavens by Orion. No wind, mild—a magnificent night.

  The middle of the night is a cruel time for the cops to show up on the doorstep, but I knew that the Arnetts wouldn’t be asleep. They deserved to know that the Pontiac had been found in the big city, and that information might jog their memories. And sure enough, they lived on a block where they weren’t alone with their worries. The lights were ablaze in the front rooms of the Arnetts, and across the street at the Zipoli residence. A bright light drifted out from Jim Raught’s back yard. Maybe they’d all joined forces to find the errant Mo.

  I parked in the street half a block down from Arnetts’ and sat for a bit with all the windows open. The lights might have all been blazing, but that was the extent of any activity I could hear. I cracked the door and when I swung my boot out and planted it on the asphalt, it was as if I’d grounded a faulty connection, throwing a switch on my car radio.

  “Three ten, PCS. Ten twenty.”

  Home in bed, I almost said, but the graveyard dispatcher, Ernie Wheeler, already knew that wasn’t true. He would have called the house and chatted with my answering machine. And he knew my habits, habits fueled by a persistent insomnia that most of the time I found both useful and pleasant.

  “PCS, three ten is ten eight on Fourth Street.”

  “Ten nineteen if you’re not busy.”

  “Ten four.” I’d already said I was ten eight, or in service…hence “not busy.” I swung the door shut and started the car, leaving the neighborhood to its own thoughts and worries. As soon as I swung into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, I saw the little sedan tucked into a spot between two department cruisers. Estelle Reyes hadn’t listed insomnia as one of her virtues.

  I trudged inside using the side entrance, and saw the young lady over in the lobby, hands thrust into her pockets, gazing at the huge county map that was framed in walnut. The six foot square map had been prepared by Enuncio Baca, a county assessor and artist, based on the most recent data at the time. The “time” happened to be 1936, which meant that the map was now functionally useless, but a historical treasure. I had a long list of questions to ask Enuncio, history being one of my passions. But Enuncio had died in 1951, so my questions would have to wait.

  Estelle turned as I stepped into the dispatch island. Ernie Wheeler, tall and lanky and one of those guys who looks thirty going on sixty-five, nodded toward the young lady.

  “She has a question for you,” Ernie said. “I think that she wants to use the phone.”

  “Our phones are restricted now?” I asked, puzzled. “She doesn’t need to ask permission from me.”

  “She wanted to talk with you first, sir, but then went
ahead and used the one in the conference room.”

  Not more saint stuff, I almost said, but instead held up my now empty coffee cup. “Anybody fueled the pot?”

  “Fresh an hour ago,” Ernie said, and I beckoned to Estelle as I headed for the work room.

  “Good night’s sleep?” I asked as she followed me into the room. “We need well-rested staff, you know.” If I successfully managed a touch of amused reproof, she didn’t acknowledge it. Besides, she appeared fresh and well-rested. Even her tan pants suit was wrinkle free. Did she own a rack of the damn things?

  “I got to thinking, sir.”

  “Uh oh. You need to know, by the way, that they found Mo Arnett’s car in Albuquerque International’s long-term parking lot. No Mo yet.”

  That brought no response, and I glanced at the young lady as I snapped off the coffee flow. I held up the cup, offering her some.

  “No thank you, sir. His car was at the airport?”

  “Correct. APD and airport security are following up on it for us. I was just heading over to the Arnetts’ for a few minutes to let them know. Maybe news of finding the car will jar something loose.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “He hadn’t taken a flight?”

  “Not yet, at least. And they’re continuing a sweep of the airport. If he’s there, they’ll find him.” I watched her face as she mulled all this. “What’s your concern?”

  She took a deep breath, and I got the strong impression that she was trying very hard not to be too forward with her opinions. “I’m surprised that he didn’t consider the train.”

  “Ah. Amtrak.”

  “He loves trains, sir. I’m just surprised that he was at the airport. There wasn’t a single model or photo of an airplane in his room.”

  “Well, that’s true. Old steam engines, yes. He also loves Corvettes, but as far as we know, he didn’t steal one.”

  “He’s too smart for that.”

  “I’m not convinced of that.”

  “He got rid of the Pontiac right away, and parking it at the airport was good thinking. Even if the car was discovered promptly, it makes us think he was planning on air travel.”

  “That’s a possibility. A conniving little bastard, he’s turning out to be. So what’s he do? Take a taxi down to the train station?”

  “That or a shuttle or city bus, sir. No I.D. required. Or he could walk. It’s not that far.”

  I gazed at her with interest, enjoying the way the excitement of the chase made her dark, almost Aztecan features glow.

  “Train four eastbound was more than two and a half hours late, sir,” Estelle offered. “It left Albuquerque northbound at two fifty six. Train three westbound was nearly four hours late. They said that they had a medical emergency near La Junta, Colorado, with one of the passengers. It should have left Albuquerque at 4:55 p.m., but didn’t actually pull out until 9:27 p.m. Albuquerque is a fuel stop, and that put them even further behind.”

  “Nine thirty, then. Okay.”

  “Security on both the bus and the train is lax, sir. You can even step onboard and pay your ticket after the train is in motion. I’ve done that.”

  “The Southwest Limited goes north out of state and then swings east to Kansas City,” I mused. “And then the route ends in Chicago. There are connections all along the way to God knows where.”

  “Yes, sir. And the westbound train heads out to Flagstaff and finally Los Angeles. Even though it was late, eastbound left the city first.”

  “Which way, then. If he jumps east, he’s out of here at two yesterday afternoon. In Kansas City by mid-morning. Or he could wait around for the west-bound…hell of a wait until 9:30 last night. It all depends, I suppose. Does he have a particular destination that makes him choose a train, or is he just jumping on board the first one that shows. Just the two trains each day, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I dumped the remains of the coffee into the utility sink. “Let’s see where this leads us.” Ernie Wheeler was on the phone with someone when I reappeared, and he leaned forward, nodding, trying his best to cut off the conversation.

  “Dogs,” he said, and scanned the roster. “Just what Miracle needs.” I didn’t interrupt as he forwarded a radio call to village unit 327, requesting that part-time officer J.J. Murton respond to a barking dog complaint over on Llano del Sol.

  “We need a copy of Mo Arnett’s photo faxed up to Amtrak security in Albuquerque,” I said. “We want to know if he boarded either east or westbound, and if there’s a destination on his ticket.”

  Wheeler nodded, excited at having something worthwhile to do. “They have a seat manifest?”

  “I would think that they do.” Then again, I thought, who knows. I hadn’t ridden a train in a long time. I had picked up a passenger once in Albuquerque not too many years before, and it seemed to me that the platform had been a disorganized flood of people, a swarm. Any nimble person could have slipped on or off without much notice. And someone familiar with trains would know where to hide to avoid the conductors.

  Buses didn’t keep track of anything but the gross number of passengers, making them the absolute best public transportation for those wishing to stay under the radar. It was entirely possible that Mo Arnett might be handing us a fast one as he boarded a friendly Greyhound.

  “And mention to both rail and bus security that the subject might have a firearm…” The telephone hand buzzed again, and Ernie took the call. As he listened, he raised a hand toward me. I waited, and in a moment he covered the receiver.

  “No gun, nothing in the trunk.” He held the phone toward me. “You want to talk to the sergeant?”

  “Nope. That means Mo likely has the gun with him, unless he got smart and ditched it. Tell ’em to be careful.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned back to the phone.

  The only safeguard the transportation folks had was sharp-eyed conductors, agents or drivers who might recognize a nervous passenger when they saw one. Hopefully a pudgy kid, sweating with strungout nerves and trying to conceal a big .45, would trigger their radar.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Sorry for the hour,” I said when Mark Arnett answered the door, and I spoke before his blood pressure had a chance to spike. I held up a hand. “Some developments,” I said matter-of-factly, making sure that he heard me. “May we come in?”

  He nodded and held the door for us. “We’re in the living room.” Mindi was sitting in a padded rocker, her hands clasped in her lap. She rose as we entered, her hands remaining locked together. None of the office-boss spunk stiffened her shoulders now.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Arnett, Albuquerque police have found your vehicle in the Albuquerque airport parking lot. There’s no sign of your son yet. The handgun is not in the car.”

  Mark gestured toward a couple of chairs. “You mean he just left the car?”

  “It would appear so.” I settled on a stout, straight-backed chair, all leather straps and heavy wood. Estelle took the end of the sofa an arm’s length from Mark. “The car was locked when they found it in the long-term lot. Nothing in the trunk, but the gun was taken. We don’t know if Mo still has it, or if he chucked it somewhere. Maybe in a garbage can or something.”

  “Why the hell would he do a stunt like that?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want it taken from the car if someone broke in. Maybe he took it, then found it too hard to conceal. Maybe he just got scared with it. We don’t know.”

  “So where did he fly to, then?” Mark’s question was blunt, still carrying the tone of voice that promised “an even worse lickin’ when he gets home.”

  “APD is surveying the flight manifests right now, double-checking. Depending on when he actually got to Albuquerque, he could have had several choices, but right now, it looks as if he didn’t take a flight at all. I mean it doesn’t
take long to check computer manifests.” Mark appeared ready to sputter something, but I held up a hand. “You saw him at breakfast, was I correct in hearing you say that?” Mark looked across at Mindi, a silence between them about a mile wide. I felt like saying,

  “Okay…who’s going to lie first?”

  “Did you see him at breakfast?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mark snapped. “I had to leave early. I left before he was up.”

  I looked questioningly at Mindi. “You saw him at breakfast?”

  “I told you that I did,” she murmured.

  “Refresh my memory,” I said pleasantly.

  “I made sure that Mo was up…he loves to sleep in, you know. I told him that he needed to come down for breakfast. I had it all laid out for him.”

  “And he did that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You physically saw him enter the kitchen?”

  “I…” Mindi came to a embarrassed halt. She glared at me, some of the spirit coming back now that she had a convenient target. “Listen, I had things I needed to do. Mo is perfectly capable of getting up in time for school, fixing his breakfast, and…you know.”

  “So you didn’t sit down to breakfast with him.”

  “No. I told you I didn’t.”

  “When you left the house, it was your assumption that Mo was up and about.”

  After a grudging pause, Mindi said, “Yes.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since.”

  That brought tears from Mindi and a concrete set to Mark’s jaw. I sighed. “If Mo was going to fly somewhere, where do you think it would be?”

  “He wouldn’t fly,” Mark said instantly. “He gets airsick just looking at an airplane.”