One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  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 smartest 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 trigger. 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.

  As Burkhalter led the hobbled Mo down the stairs, out into the cool, fresh desert night and finally to one of the county Suburbans, I took a brief statement from Ms. Beauchamp. The Amtrak folks wanted their train to roll. They were in no mood to chat. Although she was clipped and all business, in her eyes I could see a touch of sympathy for Mo Arnett.

  She explained succinctly how she had seen Mo sleeping at that four top, an enormous puddle of drool leaking onto the table. “I mean, he looked just plain worn out, you know. I felt sorry for him, and there’s plenty of blankets, so I fetched him one,” she said. “That’s when I saw the gun in his waistband.” After that, the decision to isolate and call the nearest police had been simple enough. The Coconino Sheriff’s Department had received—and thankfully read—the BOLO.

  After I finished with the Amtrak folks, with names and addresses and the like, they didn’t waste any more time. Train #3 had been delayed long enough. I saw plumes of diesel shoot upward from the two engines, and the Santa Fe Chief started to roll, spooky quiet. In the back of Burkhalter’s Suburban, Mo Arnett twisted his head around to watch—whether as a train aficionado or a sorrowful fugitive wishing he were westbound, I couldn’t tell.

  “What were you going to do out in California?” I asked as Mo settled back awkwardly.

  “I don’t know,” he managed, not sounding like much of a fan of anything.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  As it turned out, The Great State of Arizona did not want Maurice “Mo” Arnett. They were entirely satisfied that I had conducted the arrest, nailing a fugitive from New Mexico’s justice. Our DA and theirs chatted, no doubt made promises, and the great wheels of the legal system turned and groaned and spat Mo out in record time. As the tires of Jim Bergin’s Cessna cleared the runway at Winslow, heading home to Posadas, the sun was working on its zenith, burning ferociously through the Cessna’s tinted Plexiglass. I managed a wonderful cat nap, Estelle sifted through notes, and I doubt if the miserable Mo even shut his eyes.

  Mo sat in the left rear, directly behind Bergin. The boy was a sorry sight, wrists cuffed and then along with his ankles chained to the seat frame now that we were airborne. Since I’d slapped the cuffs on him, he hadn’t bothered with a song of denial. He hadn’t sung—or said, or sobbed—a word. He slumped in the crowded little seat, now and then snuffling snot and leaking tears. He held a barf bag between his knees, but hadn’t used it. He was so fatigued and stressed that he didn’t take any pleasure in rubbing hips with Estelle Reyes. Perhaps her own quiet presence only served to remind Mo what he was going to miss for a long, long time.

  Jim Bergin did the talking, and although the day was clear and the air smooth, he filed IFR. The FAA certainly knew 592 Foxtrot Gulf’s location every step of the way. About 90 minutes later, I awoke with a jolt, looking down to see the western hip of Cat Mesa outside of Posadas. Taking care not to yank a muscle out of true, I cranked around and looked back first at Mo and then at Estelle. She almost smiled, and except for a trac
e of dark circles under her elegant eyes, she didn’t look the worse for a sleepless night. Mo wouldn’t return my gaze, but kept his eyes locked on the rugged terrain below. I’d have given a lot to know what thoughts were roaming through that young brain.

  “You got yourself a welcome party.” Bergin pointed.

  I looked down and saw the airport with two police cars parked on the apron, lights flashing. As we turned into the downwind leg for runway 28, I saw another vehicle as well, a white pickup truck tricked out with contractor’s tool boxes and headache rack.

  “Oh, that’s just what we need,” I muttered. I felt motion behind me, and watched as Estelle unlocked Mo’s ankle chain. I had explained to her in Arizona that the prisoner was to be free of restraints that locked him to the aircraft during both take-off and landing—and I hadn’t needed to mention it again. That was a marvel to me, since my own memory was as full of holes as a garden colander.

  “Posadas Unicom, Cessna five niner two foxtrot gulf is downwind, two eight.” Jim’s greeting was enunciated clearly, and I’m sure boomed out of the outside speakers above the door of his FBO. For ordinary civilians unused to the world of aviation, there’s something official about the landing process for an airplane. A car just slips into the driveway and stops. But it always seemed to me that airplanes have this ritual, this governmental procedure that gives them some kind of mystique.

  We banked steeply into base, and then final approach, Jim announcing our presence again so that some other airplane didn’t try and share the same bit of airspace. The fat tires touched the asphalt a hundred yards beyond the threshold so gently that the transition from flight to ground was seamless. Jim had plenty of time to brake for the first intersection to the taxiway.

  “Posadas traffic, niner two foxtrot gulf is clear the active,” Bergin radioed, and then glanced at me. “Stewardess service is shitty, but we made it.” He taxied to the far side of the pumps, well away from the reception committee, and shut down. As the prop ticked to a stop, he jerked a thumb rearward. “Best to exit toward the rear.” He nodded ahead. “Even if it ain’t spinnin’, it’s a bitch to crack your skull against that prop.”