“I am the county manager,” Leona said matter-of-factly. “And you must know that you’re not going to get away with any of this.”
Tapia laughed gently. He swung the muzzle of the pistol toward Estelle. “You will remain exactly where you are, with both hands on the steering wheel. Are we agreed?”
Estelle rested both hands on the wheel. There would be opportunities, but at the moment, nothing balanced the risks.
“Now,” Tapia said, but stopped as he heard the characteristic whupping sound of a helicopter approaching.
“That chopper is coming here,” she said, without moving her hands. “I need to call them off. They’re with the television station.” The last thing she wanted was a spray of bullets involving civilians—particularly Channel 8, “More News at Ten.”
“Yes, indeed you do,” Tapia said. “Be careful.”
“It’s just a television news unit,” Estelle said. “I have to call my dispatch in order to reach them. We don’t have their frequency on our radios.”
“Of course you don’t. Be very careful.”
The undersheriff found the cellular phone without taking her eyes off Tapia, and auto-dialed dispatch. She watched as Tapia reached into the truck and locked one hand on Leona’s right shoulder, at the same time swinging the gun so that it pointed directly at Estelle’s head.
“Gayle,” she said as soon as the connection when through, “I need the Channel Eight chopper to clear the area. Tell Ms. Duarte that I’ll meet with her back at the office in a few minutes.”
“Affirmative,” Gayle replied. “Tom Mears is heading up the team out at the site. He should be there by now. Linda’s on her way.”
“That’s good,” Estelle said. The farther they stay away from here, the better. The chopper appeared, flying along the top of a low rise, skimming no more than a hundred feet above the ground. It banked sharply toward them, then appeared to hesitate. It slowed and turned broadside to them a thousand yards out, hovering nose high.
“They want to know what the ambulance is for,” Gayle asked. “They can see it from their position now.”
“I’ll talk to them in a few minutes,” Estelle said. “If they want to fly over west of the location, there’s an open field there. Tell them they’ll see an old broken-down homestead off the road a ways. They can land there. Sergeant Mears will talk with them. But tell them that we don’t want that chopper near the crime scene. The last thing we need is the rotor wash sweeping everything away.”
“Roger that,” Gayle said.
Estelle switched off the phone. Tapia was watching her with something akin to amusement.
“Very good,” he said. “I am much impressed.” In a few seconds, the helicopter’s nose dipped and it headed past them toward the southwest. “Now, let us do what we must do. There is little time,” Tapia said. He stepped closer and braced one hand against the door as he touched the muzzle of the automatic to the county manager’s right ear. She flinched and said something that Estelle couldn’t hear. “Now,” Tapia said, “give me your telephone.”
“Why would I do that?” Estelle asked.
Leona yelped as Tapia jammed the silencer’s muzzle into her skull. “Because I ask of you,” he said pleasantly. Estelle extended the phone toward him. “Take it,” he said to Leona, who did so instantly. He released his grip on the door and she placed the phone in his hand. “Now,” he continued. “You have a radio, I believe.”
“Of course.”
“I mean the small one on your belt.” He nudged Leona again, but his eyes never left Estelle. “You will be careful not to trigger the emergency call button as you hand it to me.” He had slipped the phone in his pocket, and once more extended his hand. “And now,” he said as he took the small radio, “the gun.”
Estelle didn’t move.
“The gun,” he repeated. “Now is not the time for heroics. After all,” he added pleasantly, “pop, pop, and I am free to take your fine truck without arguing with you. That is so, is it not? I am offering you an opportunity, señora, an opportunity to avoid blood all over that nice upholstery. You must see that.”
With one finger, Estelle released her seat belt, then popped the holster snap. Moving slowly, she withdrew the pudgy .45. It took conscious effort to do so without snuggling the grips into her palm, the thumb safety so easily released. But she understood clearly that no matter how practiced the maneuver, it was just that—an orchestrated series of coordinated movements, none of them as instant as the single twitch of Tapia’s trigger finger: in point of fact, a far more practiced trigger finger than her own.
“Give it to him, Leona.” She held out the pistol and Leona took it, holding her hand flat like a platter.
“Very good,” Tapia said. He grimaced again and shook his head. “Ah, well. Now, on the back of your belt, young lady. There are handcuffs, I assume?”
Estelle said nothing.
“You will remove them now.”
“You don’t need handcuffs,” she said.
“Ah, but that would be something that I must decide,” he said. “If you please.”
Estelle leaned forward and reached around behind herself, slipping the set of cuffs off her belt.
“Secure your right wrist,” Tapia said, and when Estelle hesitated, he ground the muzzle of the silencer into Leona’s ear once again, so hard that she yelped. “I have been as patient as I intend to be,” he added. Estelle snapped one side of the cuffs around her wrist, keeping the latch well back from her hand. “The other on the steering wheel.” As she started to move her hand toward the bottom of the wheel’s arc, he said sharply, “Above the center.” When she was tethered, he nodded with satisfaction and withdrew the gun from Leona’s face.
“And now, madam county manager, you will step out of the truck. With the utmost care. Things have gone so well up to now. Don’t do something foolish to ruin our day.”
He stepped back a pace, and Estelle could see him wobble clumsily on the bad leg. “Come. Do not be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of you, young man,” Leona said, lying expertly.
“Ah, I suppose not. But thank you. I haven’t been called a young man in a long, long time.” He beckoned with the gun. “Out, now.” An eyebrow lifted with surprise at Leona’s size as she slipped out of the truck. “Give me your telephone,” he commanded. Leona pulled her phone from her pocket and he waved toward the truck. “Just toss it on the seat.” As she did so, he said, “Now, listen to me. It is a beautiful day. Pleasant sunshine, a gentle breeze.” He chuckled softly. “Almost poetic, don’t you think? A pleasant day for a walk. It is not far back to the main road. And as you walk, you will remember that I have your friend with me.” He motioned away from the truck with the gun. “You will remember that, I’m sure.”
Leona looked at Estelle, eyes pleading. “You will be careful, won’t you?” she said.
“A wise woman,” Manolo Tapia said. “Of course she will be careful.” Moving painfully, he swung himself up into the truck. “Let us do what we must do.”
Chapter Thirty
The effort to climb into the truck cost Tapia considerable agony. Estelle watched him and saw his eyes go wide with pain as he pulled himself into the high seat. Through it all, he never took his eyes off her. A handcuffed right wrist was effective, she granted him that. She couldn’t reach him with her left without performing ridiculous gymnastics, and the massive transmission tunnel and center console corralled her legs. She forced herself to relax, to wait for opportunity, to seek ways to make opportunity.
At the same time, a laconic comment made years before by Bobby Torrez came to mind. A dog had bolted out of a driveway, madly chasing the sheriff’s cruiser in which they were riding. “What’s he gonna do when he catches us?” Torrez had joked as the dog snapped at the cruiser’s tires. Chasing Tapia, Estelle had hoped to see him in the distance, to have time to plan and coordinate. But her fatigue had blunted common sense. Tapia’s work brought him up close and personal. It was even
possible, with the broken ankle, that he had known someone would see his tracks and follow him.
Once in the passenger seat, Tapia slammed the truck door and immediately leaned toward Estelle. His polo shirt was soaked with sweat and dust, and his odor was pungent. With his left hand he crunched the cuffs even tighter on her wrist, sliding the shackle forward of the wrist bones so she had no chance of sliding her hand free. He held the silenced Beretta so close that she could see the rosette of burned powder on the blued steel of the muzzle. Despite some confidence that Manolo Tapia was not going to just shoot her out of hand, her mouth went dry as he allowed the blued steel of the silencer to slide almost seductively down her arm.
“If you behave, you lovely creature, you’ll be home to your family by dinnertime. You understand that, don’t you?”
Estelle didn’t reply. Tapia sounded too much like Tomás Naranjo for comfort. The two of them could have cooperated to present a workshop on how Mexican men could sound gentle, suave, and self-assured all at the same time—no matter how dangerous they might be.
“When you passed by on the road earlier, I thought certainly that you had seen me. But,” and he waved with the gun toward the narrow two-track that wound up the slope, “let us be on our way. You must drive me to the airport.”
Estelle twisted in the seat until she could see Leona Spears in the rearview mirror. The county manager stood helplessly, both hands on top of her head as if she meant to tear out her braid. Finally realizing that there was nothing she could do by standing alone in the sun and dust, she turned and began a determined jog back the way they had come.
“Now,” Tapia said, tapping her right arm just ahead of the elbow with the silencer. He then pointed ahead. “Go.”
Estelle didn’t move. “You’re going to leave Hector to face authorities all by himself?” The question jolted Tapia, and the wink of uncertainty in his expression told Estelle that for all his self-assurance, Manolo Tapia had no idea what events had transpired in the past twenty-four hours. “You think you’re just going to take the airplane again and fly home? That’s not possible.”
So you know, his expression said. “There is no purpose in discussing this with you. Now go.”
“I’m not ‘discussing’ it, señor. The boy is in jail, and that’s where he’s going to stay. He may have flown you in to Posadas County, but he’s not going to fly you out.”
Tapia frowned and for a moment he was silent. “We will see,” he said. He twisted in the seat, watching Leona’s retreating figure.
“She will do you no good,” Estelle said. “You can take all the hostages you like. The simple fact remains that your nephew will remain in jail, and will face charges as an accessory to multiple counts of murder. The only way you can help him now is to testify that you forced him to accompany you—if that’s true.”
Tapia laughed with genuine amusement. “Really now,” he said, and then his face twitched as he tried to shift his leg, lifting it clear of the floor and then finding no place to rest it that was comfortable. Estelle saw the swelling above his expensive tan trainer. He pointed with the gun. “Go. I am growing weary of arguing with you.”
Estelle leaned as far from the steering wheel as she could, left side against the door. “And if I don’t?”
He heaved a heavy sigh. “You have forgotten the two men in the arroyo?” He thumbed the hammer back on the Beretta, and having carried exactly that model handgun for a decade before switching to the heavier .45, Estelle knew how little force was required to drop the sear. Her bulletproof vest suddenly felt five sizes too small.
Tapia cocked his head and reached across carefully with his left hand. He drew the corner of her light jacket to one side, exposing the county shield on her belt. “Undersheriff,” he read. “Most impressive. I’m sure you are popular with the troops, no? I’m sure they would not wish for anything to happen to you. But if you do not cooperate with me, well then.” He shrugged expressively. “A bullet for you is simple enough. And I take the truck and go on my way, uncomfortable as that would be considering my condition. So you see? I have been most generous up to this point. I have not harmed your large friend. I really do not wish to harm you. But it is your choice. And it is one you must make quickly.”
He lifted the muzzle of the Beretta and squeezed the trigger. Despite the suppressor, the gun was surprisingly loud, a vicious sharp sneeze coupled with the clatter of the slide slamming back and then forward. The hot gases scorched Estelle’s forearm, and a chip of something stung her left cheek as the bullet slammed into the door panel just below the windowsill. The empty shell casing cracked against the windshield, bounced off the dash, and disappeared down one of the defroster vents.
Estelle realized she was holding her breath, and she tried to force herself to relax. Somewhere deep inside the door mechanism, something tinkled and then clattered to the bottom of the door frame.
“Go,” Tapia repeated. “No more discussions.”
By sliding the cuffs down to the crossbar of the steering wheel, Estelle could reach the ignition key, and she started the Expedition.
“Up that way,” Tapia said, pointing with the gun. She touched the gas and the truck jarred forward. He gasped and she glanced across at him. It was clear now why he had taken such a risk in abandoning the motorcycle rather than pressing on. Perhaps at first, he had intended only to rest for a few minutes. But riding the bike must have been agony, with no way to support the injured ankle. He had seen the white Expedition blundering along on his path, and he had made his decision.
They cleared the hill, and Estelle scanned the prairie before them. Four miles ahead as the crow flew lay the state highway that passed by Posadas Municipal Airport. Their route, winding across the rumpled terrain, would eat up the better part of twice that. It would be impossible on foot with a shattered ankle, and sheer torture idling a motorcycle along.
As if reading her mind, Tapia reached out once more with the Beretta, tapping her arm. “Think self-preservation now, as I do,” he said. “Without this fine truck, I would be nearly helpless in this country—easy hunting, perhaps. But you would have a hole in you, no matter how very brave you might be.” He paused, then pointed where the rough two-track teed into a wide swath cut years before by the developer’s bulldozers now nearly overgrown by desert brush. “Go left,” he instructed.
“You’ve practiced,” Estelle said, and Tapia shrugged. The truck hit a hummock and lurched hard enough that Tapia put his hand up on the roof, bracing himself.
“Why Hansen?” she asked, and Tapia waved the gun again.
“Slow down here,” he said. A shallow arroyo had channeled across what the developer had envisioned as a street, a rough and gravelly channel. Estelle could see a set of single tracks. Tapia had made good use of his time planning the attack on Chester Hansen, right down to scouting the best getaway route.
He reached across and touched the four-wheel-drive button on the dash. “Like so,” he said, nodding in satisfaction as the little icon on the dash illuminated. The truck waddled across the cut, dropping first one tire and then another, like an old, overweight horse picking its way. The front bumper pushed gravel as they surged up and out, back onto the flat prairie.
When it became obvious that he had either not heard, or chose to ignore, her question, she repeated it. This time, he looked balefully at her. “My business is just that, señora. It is my business. There is nothing you need to know.”
“You’ve left four dead bodies for us to clean up,” Estelle said. “And you shot one of my deputies. And rest assured that it’s not over yet. It most certainly is my business.”
Tapia shrugged expressively, and his grin was genuine and warm—it would have been appealing under other circumstances. “Then we must agree to disagree, my dear señora,” he said. “What this man is to me is of no consequence.”
“And an entire family dead in the desert—they’re of no consequence either?”
“None. None whatsoever. What happened
was of their own choosing, not mine.”
“You’re only the instrument, is that it?”
“Just so. That is a good way to put it. Only the instrument.” He whispered something in Spanish that she didn’t catch.
“For whom?”
He laughed gently and stretched out a hand to the dashboard as the truck surged over another hummock.
“Captain Tomás Naranjo of the Judiciales tells me that you work for corporate interests in Mexico and El Salvador. Do you think we won’t discover who sent you?”
“Please, señora. At this point, I do not really care what you are able to discover about me, or anyone else. You are in no position. In a few moments, I will be nothing but a memory for you. Your jurisdiction—your importancia—ends at the borders of your little county. It would be best that you remember that.”
“How poetic. You are a confident man. Almost as if the modern radio and telephone don’t exist.”
“It must be so. Without confidence, we simply become motionless, no?”
“PCS, three-ten.” The radio was jarringly loud, and when Estelle made no move toward the mike, Tapia pulled it off the radio clip and extended it toward her. Leona Spears had been left to find her way out on foot a mile and a half from County Road 14. She would have strode along at a good clip after the initial burst of speed, perhaps even breaking back into a jog when she could. Had it taken her ten minutes? Fifteen?
“Now you must choose,” he said. “If there is no response, they will worry.” He winked at her. “I know what I would do.”
“And what am I to choose?” Estelle asked. She could picture Gayle Torrez on the radio, counting the seconds until she repeated the message. Tapia draped the mike’s cord over her arm, and she took it with her left hand. A word or two, and every cop in the county would descend on them, enough weapons to start a small war. Odds were good that Manolo Tapia would die, and there was a good chance that he might take some of them with him, even though his only weapons appeared to be two handguns and now the pump shotgun in the rack.
Final Payment Page 23
