Final Payment

by Steven F Havill

  “Linda?” Estelle asked.

  “She’ll be along. Take a couple of shots, though. We need to get in there,” Torrez said, and Estelle nodded. She rapped the side of the gas storage tank with a knuckle.

  “Mr. Grider, thanks for coming out,” she said. “Do you use this often?”

  “No, ma’am,” Grider replied. “We used to. When we work on a vehicle, once in a while we need gas.”

  “When was it filled last?” Torrez asked.

  Grider fell silent, mouth pursed in thought. “Sometime last spring, I guess.”

  “Not exactly fresh, then,” the sheriff said. “Not too bright dumpin’ it in an airplane.”

  “You guys want to tell me what all this is about?” Grider asked uneasily.

  “Someone’s stealin’ gas,” Torrez said, and let it go at that. “How much did you have in this? Do you remember?”

  “Honestly, I don’t. Maybe half. Maybe three quarters. Like I said, we don’t use it much. I could look up the paperwork.” He looked first at the sheriff and then at Estelle, perhaps wondering why the theft of a few gallons of gasoline would attract such attention. “What happened?”

  “Good question,” Torrez said. He turned to Estelle, ignoring Grider. “Gravel parking lot,” he said. “No tracks for shit.” He took her by the elbow and together they walked toward the gate. “This don’t fit,” he said when they were out of earshot of Grider and Collins. “We’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. This is the work of some kid. Some punk who wants gas for his four-wheeler. At three-fifty a gallon, even old gas is worth takin’.”

  “I think that’s who we’re dealing with, Bobby.”

  The sheriff stopped short, waiting.

  Her stomach tightened its knots now that she had voiced the notion. “Look at the pieces. Number one, he climbs the airport fence, or slips through somehow, and does it with full cans of fuel. Even if he pulls a pickup truck up beside the fence where it’s only four feet of barbed wire, hops in the back, and then goes over, that takes strength and agility.”

  The sheriff remained silent, his signal for her to continue.

  “That’s one. Number two, he goes through the back of the building, slipping through a small piece of bent siding. That takes strength and agility, too. And he’s no giant. Maybe he only did that once, because after he was inside, he had the keys. Then he takes the plane and, more important, returns it—that takes some guts and some planning, too, and that flair for risk that appeals to kids. He flies a route to who knows where, at night—and then returns, again at night, making a risky landing on a small strip with a plane carrying a heavy load.” She paused. “It just seems to me that the odds are so stacked that most adults would hesitate. This pilot doesn’t. Have you ever met a teenager who didn’t think he was immortal?”

  Torrez grunted. “They all do.”

  “What’s a professional drug runner do?”

  “Meaning what?” the sheriff said.

  “Meaning this: They take an airplane, or actually buy one. Load it full. If there’s any sign of trouble, the plane is abandoned. Not a look back. They cut their losses and run to fly another day. But think about it. What’s this guy doing? He’s being cute, Bobby. So clever that he’s leaving kid prints all over everything.”

  “Kids don’t shoot whole families.”

  “That’s the joker in this. Forget the murders for a minute and concentrate on Jerry Turner’s stolen airplane. It’s a kid. I just feel it. It has all the earmarks. Especially now. Who would be most likely to steal the gasoline from this particular storage tank? Someone who knows it’s there, for one thing. Maybe someone who can figure out that there might be jerry cans in the shed.”

  “Yup. That’s teachers or kids.” He turned and gazed across the dark compound to where Collins now talked with Linda Real, with Grider standing by the door, hands thrust in his pockets.

  “Cutting the chain and then retying it with a piece of wire? Putting the tank lock back so that it looks okay at a passing glance? It all fits. That’s a kid’s mentality, being clever so he isn’t caught. Collins said his brother did the same stunt years ago.”

  Torrez traced idle circles on the gravel with his flashlight beam as he mulled over what Estelle had said. “If we got us a kid flying Turner’s plane, then the pilot ain’t the killer. That’s the work of a professional.”

  “I think so.”

  “And it ain’t going to be hard to figure out who did the flying, either,” the sheriff said. “There ain’t a teenager alive who has that kind of skill and experience who wouldn’t talk about it to his buddies.” He nodded toward Grider. “Good place to start.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Matt Grider’s classroom was well on its way to being a poster museum. From the yellowing lithograph of a Ford 9N tractor being driven across an idyllic pasture by a checkered-shirted farmer, to current flyers for synthetic motor oils, nearly every square inch of wall space was covered. Little Carlos would love it all, Estelle thought. The desks were in a hodgepodge, not rows of organized groups. Grider made his way toward the front of the room and then stopped, uncertain.

  “I need to talk to Dr. Archer first,” he said, and glanced at the wall clock. “I don’t think I can call him now,” he added. Estelle knew that Glen Archer was used to being called at all hours, even at 2:10 on a Sunday morning.

  “We already did,” Torrez said. “Relax a little.” That was easily said. Matt Grider fidgeted, looking miserable.

  “How many students are enrolled in auto mechanics, Mr. Grider?” Estelle asked.

  “Is Dr. Archer coming over?” he repeated.

  “I’m not asking about any specific student, sir,” Estelle said. “And yes, the superintendent is on the way.”

  “Look,” Grider said, and he turned to leaf through a grade book that lay on his desk without turning it toward them. “I need to know what this is about.”

  “Somebody’s takin’ gas from your tank,” Torrez said.

  “But that’s not all,” Grider said quickly. “I don’t think that’s why we’re having a convention in the middle of the night, is it? And whatever it was, what makes you think that it was one of our students that did—whatever it was?” He looked expectantly from Estelle to Torrez.

  “It’s a logical place to start,” Estelle said. “Students and school staff would be the first ones to know about the fuel storage tank out back.”

  “Or anyone who graduated from here in the last fifteen years,” Grider added. “I don’t know what you’re after, but it isn’t the theft of five or ten gallons of gasoline.”

  Estelle didn’t respond to that, but watched Grider’s face as he skimmed down a class list where his thumb had opened the grade book, seemingly at random.

  A swath of headlights danced through the window as another vehicle pulled into the parking loop out front. “That’s Dr. Archer,” Grider said with some relief. He closed the grade book.

  “What else do you teach, sir?” Estelle asked. “You must not have more than a dozen students in auto mechanics now, do you?”

  “I have nine,” he replied. “And I teach three sections of consumer math and one section of welding.”

  “That would keep you busy.”

  “Sure. And one class of study skills—that’s just like a study hall sort of thing.”

  “You teach all of them here? In this room?” She turned in place, scanning the small classroom. In the back of the room, a double door led out to the shop area.

  “Auto and welding. The others are over in one-twelve, behind the gym.”

  They heard the outside door rattle open and then close, and in a moment Glen Archer appeared in the classroom doorway. Even in the middle of the night, he managed to look natty, dressed in a light tan jacket over a salmon-colored polo shirt with spotless blue jeans and golf shoes.

  “Good evening, all,” he said, not a cheery greeting, but not frosty, either.

  “Thanks for coming down, sir,” Estelle said.

&nb
sp; “You’re entirely welcome,” Archer said. His gaze swept the room quickly. “I think, anyway,” he added quickly. He flashed a smile at Estelle. “I was having trouble sleeping, so here we are.”

  “Sir,” Estelle said, and then hesitated. She was loath to explain the details of what happened—once the information was out, it would spread like wildfire through the tendrils of the gossip vine. Still, enough time had already passed that the killer enjoyed a significant head start. Sheriff Bob Torrez remained silent. “Sir, we think that someone is taking gasoline from the storage tank out back.”

  She saw Archer’s right eyebrow rise, as if to say, You got me up in the middle of the night for this?

  “We think that there’s a chance that they’re stealing gasoline from here and using it to fuel a stolen aircraft.”

  Archer’s broad, ruddy face went blank. “Say that again. You lost me.”

  Estelle repeated what she had said word for word.

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know both of you, and know that neither one of you is given to thinking up jokes like this in the middle of the night…or any other time, for that matter. But stealing an airplane?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From out here? Jim’s airport?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well…that’s a new one. Whose plane was it?”

  “Jerry Turner’s.”

  “Oh, my gosh. And how do we know all this?”

  “We don’t, sir,” Estelle said. “Not for sure, anyway. We’re making some assumptions about what happened.”

  “I see.” Archer turned sideways and sat in one of the awkward chair–desk combinations. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket, along with a gold ballpoint pen. “Stealing an airplane. Huh.” His pen hovered but he didn’t mark the paper. “Well, Estelle,” he said, and nodded at Torrez. “And Robert. Again, I know you both well enough to know this isn’t some wild goose chase. If you’re here, it’s serious, whatever it is. So that’s that. What do you need from us?”

  “We have reason to believe that the person who used the airplane is possibly a student,” Estelle said, then amended that. “I think so.”

  Archer regarded her skeptically. “Really.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the gasoline? What’s up with that?”

  “Whoever used the airplane wanted to do it without being noticed, sir. It was flown at night, probably south into Mexico. After returning, the aircraft was refueled and replaced in its hangar, no doubt in hopes that the owner would never notice.”

  “But evidently he did.”

  “In part, yes. When we posed the possibility of someone gaining entrance to his hangar, he made an examination. He saw some irregularities.”

  “So they didn’t just steal the airplane, then,” Archer said. “Someone used it without permission. Sort of borrowed it, as it were.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re running drugs, you think? Isn’t that what everybody does with an airplane these days?”

  “No. We don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “What, then?”

  “We think that the airplane was used to bring at least three people into the country.”

  “Wow.” Archer whistled. “We have enough troubles with the folks who try to walk across the desert. This group is going first class. What did they do, drop ’em off here in Posadas, or what? Fly ’em to the city someplace?”

  “That would have been better, sir. We found the bodies out at the gas company’s airstrip down by Regál Pass.”

  “You’re kidding.” For a long moment, Archer stared at Estelle, speechless. “Three, you say? Murdered, or died of exposure?”

  “Shot.”

  He looked down at his pad, even though he hadn’t written a word. “You’re saying that someone stole an airplane from right here…What, Jerry left the keys in it, or what?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Not the smartest thing he ever did. So they stole the airplane, flew it down into Mexico somewhere, picked up three people, brought them back to a remote airstrip, and killed them there?”

  “That’s essentially it.”

  “Whatever for? Drug deal gone sour?”

  “We don’t know, Dr. Archer.”

  “Wowser.” He looked at Grider, who shrugged helplessly. “You know any of these people? The ones who were killed?”

  “No.”

  “Now, for some reason, you think that one of our kiddos is in on this? Am I hearing that right? I can’t believe that.”

  “Involved somehow, yes. If not as the pilot, then at least as an accomplice.”

  “Why a child, for heaven’s sakes?”

  “Not a child, sir. I would guess a teenager. Someone old enough to drive a car. Someone with some experience.”

  “My lord. This world is going nuts. What do we do, then? What do you need from us? You’ve got prints and things like that?”

  “We’re still processing what we have,” Estelle said, avoiding adding, What little we have. She hesitated again, looking at Grider. “One thing that kids have trouble with is keeping their mouths shut,” she said.

  Archer laughed ruefully. “Adults, too.”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking, sir. I can’t imagine some teenager who has these kinds of aviation skills being so close-mouthed about it…never letting something slip. Never saying anything.”

  “But say again…You’re sure that a youngster is involved? I just can’t believe this. You really are?”

  “No. But at this point, that’s what I think.”

  “Ah…woman’s intuition,” Grider said, managing to make it sound vaguely condescending. “How do you know it’s some kid from Posadas?”

  “We don’t, for sure. But it doesn’t make sense to me that someone from Deming would drive over here to steal your gasoline—and then drive to the airport and know the place well enough to steal the right airplane, and then return it? I don’t think so.”

  “What do you want from us?” Archer asked again.

  “I’d like you to look through that,” Estelle said, indicating the grade book. “I want you to think about your students. Do any of them fly, or come from families who do? Do any of them talk about flying a lot? Do any of them spend time out back with the smokers?”

  “Nobody smokes out there,” Grider said quickly.

  “Well, then they’re emptying their ashtrays out by the fence,” Estelle said, and sensing Grider’s animosity, changed tacks. “Or is there anyone who you know who is intimately familiar with Mexico? That’s another angle. Someone who knows the country really well.”

  “Huh,” Archer said. He beckoned at Grider, and the teacher handed him the grade book. “I’ve been in this district for a long, long time,” he said.

  “I know you have, sir.” In fact, no one was as completely familiar with the demographics of his student body as Glen Archer—a teacher of mathematics and history for years, then high school principal for a decade, he had finally taken the new position when the superintendent’s and principal’s job were combined. Estelle watched the older man thumb through the grade book, and reflected that, between former sheriff Bill Gastner and Glen Archer, there were not many unknown faces in Posadas County.

  He scanned each class in turn, running a finger down the names. Finally he flipped the book closed almost too quickly and handed it to Grider. “No bells ring for me,” he said. “How about you?” Grider shook his head.

  The superintendent pushed himself up and out of the awkward desk. “Let’s take a walk,” he said to the officers. “Matt, thanks for coming down. Are we finished here?”

  “I think so, sir. If you’ll lock things up, we’ll probably come back when it’s light for more photos.”

  “Buy a better lock this time,” Archer said with a grin, but Grider didn’t share the humor.

  “They cut the chain, not the lock.”

  “Ah. We pro
bably need to rethink having that tank,” Archer said, and beckoned at Estelle and Torrez. “If you have a few minutes?”

  Out in the hall, Deputy Collins was talking with Linda Real, who had just arrived.

  “Tomorrow,” Estelle said to them, “let’s rethink this with some light on the subject. I took a couple shots of the cut chain. Make sure things are secure, and then let’s wrap it up.”

  Archer led Estelle and Torrez out of the annex, through a short breezeway, and into the main building of the high school. He fumbled with the keyed light switch for a moment, and then nodded down the hall. “This way.” As he walked, he reached out and touched Estelle on the elbow. “I saw when you left the recital last night,” he said. “Great timing, eh?”

  “It never fails,” she replied.

  “That’s quite a boy you have there.”

  “Thank you, sir. He’s a challenge.”

  Archer laughed, the sound echoing in the empty building. “Aren’t they all.” They rounded a corner, and fifty feet of hallway extended in front of them, ending in the main foyer behind the double-glass entry doors. He stopped, surveying a display of artwork that hung on the north wall. “Some really fine things,” he said. “Starts with primary students, and goes right through the high school seniors down at the other end.” He strolled slowly, examining the work as if for the first time. “We have two shows a year, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  He had nearly reached the end of the display, a collection of sophisticated artwork that leaned heavily on fantasy, video game violence, or Middle Earth. Beside one piece, the principal stopped and turned to look expectantly at Estelle and the sheriff. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  The watercolor was large, perhaps eighteen inches wide and thirty inches tall. In the lower left of center was a rambling adobe home, neat and tidy but entirely ordinary with chile ristras hanging from the vigas on either side of the doorway. Two figures were in the front yard, waving wildly. Pulling up steeply to avoid the family and the home was a bright yellow biplane, a crop duster, the mist from its sprayers still wisping off the nozzles.

  “Caramba,” Estelle said. “This is amazing.”