Final Payment

by Steven F Havill

  “Three-oh-eight, three-ten,” she said. “Ten-twenty?”

  Manolo Tapia reached across and took the mike from her. “Your sheriff has but one mission,” he said. “Perhaps we will discover how much he appreciates you. Do you think so?” He glanced ahead at the waiting officers. “We don’t need to know what he might invent as his location, señora. What matters is that he does as he is told. Otherwise, we must begin to worry about you.”

  “Three-oh-eight is one mile out.” The sheriff’s tone was clipped and impatient, and he didn’t elaborate “out” from what. He would have heard the exchange with Jackie, and Estelle had no trouble envisioning the sheriff turning around abruptly to intercept them on the highway, rather than tending to Tapia’s demands.

  A second state officer appeared out of the car, and Estelle could see that he held another of the short AR-15’s, this one fitted with a telescopic sight. At the same time, Jackie’s Bronco pulled forward to the shoulder, clearing the highway.

  “Roll up your window,” Tapia said, and Estelle complied. The dirt two-track turned abruptly to the right before once again curving to cross the cattle guard on the state highway right-of-way. When she reached the highway, two of the state officers would be on her side of the vehicle, exactly where Tapia would want them.

  “When you reach the highway, turn right,” Tapia ordered. Once more, he leaned toward her and his left hand encircled the back of her neck, not a clamp, but a promise.

  Now we find out how patient everyone can be, Estelle thought.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  As they neared the cattle guard, Estelle could look east, down the state highway. There was no traffic. A roadblock would have been established between this point and the village. There had been no radio traffic, either—Sheriff Torrez was sticking to the phone, refusing to give Tapia any more advantage than he already held.

  The two State Police officers made no move away from their vehicles, but the rifles tracked Estelle’s vehicle every inch of the way. The officers were the first of what would eventually become an army, and she knew that with every player added, the odds of a peaceful resolution diminished.

  Deputy Jackie Taber stood by the right front fender of her Bronco. Estelle lifted the fingers of her right hand off the steering wheel in acknowledgment as they slipped by.

  “You see?” Tapia said. He ignored the two state troopers, but watched Jackie Taber closely. “When we behave, there is no problem.”

  “And now?” Estelle asked as they pulled out onto the pavement.

  “Now to the airport.” He pointed with the pistol. “Just ahead. And promptly.”

  Instead of accelerating, she slowed the SUV to a crawl, and he looked at her sharply. In her rearview mirror, she saw the three officers reenter their vehicles. “I want to clear the airport. There may be people there that will only get in the way.” She didn’t know what airport manager Jim Bergin would do when they drove blithely onto his turf and stole an airplane—and it appeared certain that was what Tapia had in mind, even though he would be surrounded by enough firepower to start a small war.

  “That is not necessary,” Tapia said. He rocked her head gently, never releasing the grip on her neck. “As long as you are with me, there is not problem, ¿verdad?”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “But you are. Now go,” he said, pointing down the highway. “Stop the delay. You are with me, and that is that.” He stroked her right forearm with the muzzle of the silencer again, and she snapped her arm away to the limit of the handcuffs. He chuckled. “In other circumstances…” he began, then finished the thought with a shrug. “I know people who in your circumstance would be no more than…” He groped for the right word. “Is it jello?” She didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that her stomach had been tied in knots for the past hour.

  “You will drive to the airport now. Drive directly to the hangar where niner two Hotel is kept.” The hand on her neck tightened. “Quickly now.” His use of pilot jargon opened another door in Estelle’s mind.

  She accelerated down the empty highway, the other police units trailing behind.

  He twisted in his seat without releasing his hold on her. “I want them to stop,” he said. “Tell them so.” He handed her the mike.

  “Three-oh-three,” she said, “stop at the mile marker and block the highway. I don’t want anyone through.” She saw the Bronco slow immediately, then turn sideways on the highway, the two state cars flanking it from behind. “If the sheriff has the highway blocked at the village, have them stay in place.”

  “Ten-four. Are you okay?”

  “Ten-four.” She dropped the mike, and Tapia gathered it up.

  “Very good. What is the saying here? I heard another American police officer say it once years ago…Our goal is that we all go home at night.” He released her neck and transferred his hand to her headrest. “That is what we must keep in mind, no?”

  “Maybe it’s not the same ‘we’ that you have in mind,” Estelle said. “Did Hansen know the Haslán family?” Those were pieces of the puzzle whose edges refused to mesh. Guillermo Haslán, his wife, and son had fled north, allegedly with cash belonging to someone else. Was it their intention to meet with Hansen? Was he to provide their safe house? Estelle doubted that. Chester Hansen’s mind had been on the race, not on wondering where the Hasláns had gone after their disappearance.

  He regarded her curiously. “Now why do you think that I would tell you my life story?” he asked. “Of what advantage is that to me? And that is what we are about, is it not? Advantage? I think that it is better that you do not know, señora. I think perhaps that is ground where you do not need to walk.”

  “We must not interfere with the business of the rich and powerful,” Estelle said. “Is that it?”

  Tapia laughed heartily. “That would be it, exactly. You are very good.” Ahead of them, another set of winking lights approached. He handed her the mike. “Make sure there is no interference.”

  “PCS, three-ten.”

  “Go ahead, three-ten.”

  “I want the area both east and west of the municipal airport cleared. You have an emergency vehicle westbound on Seventy-eight. Have them stop.”

  There was a second’s hesitation on the radio. “Three-ten, be advised that unit is an ambulance. They’re responding to an assistance call from the race officials west of your location.”

  Estelle looked across at Tapia, who nodded. “Be careful,” he said.

  “Tell them to go ahead,” Estelle said. “Three-oh-three, did you copy?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “And Gayle,” Estelle continued, “call Jim Bergin and tell him that we’re on the way in. Tell him to remain in his office and not to interfere.” Tapia’s hand reached for the mike, and Estelle added quickly, “There’s nothing he can do.”

  Almost gently, Tapia took the mike from her hand. “Very intelligent,” he said. “We must hope that the sheriff is now doing his part.”

  “Why did you pull your son into all this?” Estelle asked. “He is a boy with so much promise. So much talent, so gifted.” A gifted little liar, she thought. “And yet you ruin his life. You had no right to do that.”

  “We all gamble in different ways,” Tapia said.

  “That is not a gamble. And what is to win? A few thousand dollars? His life is worth only that? Your life is worth only that? What did Hansen ever do to you that makes killing him so necessary? And the three Salvadorans—what did they do? Did the father embezzle a few thousand from the wrong people, and the entire family is killed for that?”

  Tapia grinned at her. “Such passion, señora.” He sighed and watched the highway as she slowed for the airport entrance. “A few thousand is one thing. When the number is millions, that’s another thing, you see.”

  “Why not just have the boy brought here?” she asked. “To this airport? Where the airplane is?”

  “Ah, well,” Tapia said, and let another shrug suffice. “A little
isolation is helpful, sometimes, no?”

  “Three-ten, three-oh-eight.”

  The sheriff’s voice was tight and his delivery uncharacteristically rapid. She could picture Robert Torrez hunched over the steering wheel, jaw clamped tight, his square, handsome face set with determination as he sought a way out from under the ultimatum. Tapia handed her the mike.

  “Three-ten. Go ahead.”

  “Two subjects will be southbound here in just a minute. Be lookin’ for a yellow ’64 Mustang. You know the one. Two occupants.”

  “Ten-four.” What Sergeant Tom Mears jokingly referred to as his “pension,” the classic convertible saw the outside world in the evenings, when the sun wouldn’t blister its paint, or on an occasional weekend run. A yellow convertible, driven by a large woman with a flying yellow Heidi braid, accompanied by a darkly handsome Mexican youth—that would set tourists to gawking, Estelle thought.

  The airport gate was open, and she drove in and turned hard right, skirting the FBO office. Jim Bergin stood in the doorway holding a cell phone. Estelle lifted a hand in greeting. The airport manager’s face was grim, and he pointed the phone at her.

  Stay put, Estelle whispered.

  “To the hangar,” Tapia ordered, and then a moment later, as they rolled down the tarmac to the last hangar, “Stop here.” Once more, his left hand encircled her neck, not hard, but a constant reminder. He twisted in his seat, surveying the area. No one could approach from across the airport without being seen—across taxiway, runway, and prairie, where the tallest cover was scrub creosote bush. When they had driven into the airport, the back of the hangars were visible, but Estelle doubted that anyone had secreted themselves there. Tapia’s plans were only now becoming clear, and no one had had the time to mobilize.

  Satisfied, he turned back to Estelle, leaning so close that she could smell his breath. “Listen, now. And listen carefully. If you cooperate with me, no one will be hurt. I think you know this—I do not want to hurt you. But they are another matter. Do you understand me?”

  “They?”

  “There is always the temptation to do something heroic,” he said. “But you must think carefully. If you cooperate, my son and I will be gone from your lives in just a few minutes. That will be that. If you do not cooperate, then someone else will die. There is no doubt. You are all hoping that will be me.” His smile was tight. “But you must know that I will do all I can to assure that is not the case. You can choose which one of your associates will not go home to his family tonight. You will decide who, no?”

  Keeping one hand on her neck, with the other holding the Beretta at a comfortable distance, he lowered his voice. “Let us do this without incident. You have a son as well, so you must understand.” He hesitated. “If mistakes were made, this is the time to make rectification.” He pronounced the word with heavy emphasis on each of the five syllables. Reaching across, he turned the ignition key and pulled it out of the lock.

  He examined the ring thoughtfully for a moment, isolating the small handcuff key. Then, with a final look behind them to make sure that the police escort had not followed them into the airport, he opened his door and slid out of the truck. At one point, as his weight touched the bad ankle, he hissed between his teeth. Working his way around the truck, the hand with the Beretta on the hood for support, Tapia didn’t take his eyes off Estelle.

  She watched him make his way around the front fender, and as he hopped awkwardly a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. He stopped in front of the windshield post, left hand on the spotlight for support.

  In the rearview mirror, Estelle saw one of the State Police cars ease around the FBO office and stop, three hundred yards away.

  “There’s no reason for me to go with you,” she said. “You don’t need me.”

  Tapia laughed gently. “Would that were so. Get out of the car now. And be careful.” He moved past the Expedition’s door, away from its range as a battering ram, and opened it. “Slide out now. As far as you can.”

  She did so, right hand still shackled to the steering wheel, her body stretched awkwardly. He slid behind her, forcing her forward against the door. With one hand tethered, she was helpless to strike out in any effective way. He reached around and held out the keys so she could take them with her left hand. “Now is the time to think carefully,” he whispered, the bulk of his body pressed against hers. Even as she reached out with the cuff key, his right arm slid past her and he grasped the chain link of the cuffs. His left hand pushed the automatic into the back of her neck. “Open only the side on the wheel,” he said. “Leave them on your wrist.” He had covered her wrist and the lock on that side with his hand.

  As the cuffs came loose, he held them securely, a slight twist sending the message to her right wrist. He didn’t move, but stood still, blocking her against the open door. The gun was gone, replaced by his hand clamped on the back of her neck.

  “Do you understand me?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Tapia had not snapped the loose end of the cuffs to either himself or anything else, and she knew that if she could break free from his grip, she could outsprint him easily, leaving him alone and vulnerable in the open. Would he shoot her if she broke away? Probably not. There would be no point. A wounded or dead hostage was of little value at this point.

  “Now,” he said, still not moving. “Come with me.” He pulled away, a little more twist on the cuffs bringing her right arm behind her, canceling her ability to strike out, left hand braced on her neck. She could feel him using her as a crutch, his weight shifting with each painful step. She could feel his breath on her neck, and every time he winced with pain she could feel his hands clench.

  Ten shuffling steps brought them to the hangar door. He pushed her against it, arm wrenched behind her. An instant later, breathing hard, he reached past her with his left hand and inserted a key into the lock. “The owner is most accommodating,” he whispered. The door yawned open, the interior air of the hangar musty and oil-tinged.

  Jim Bergin had not had the time to replace locks—nothing had spurred him to such urgency—and Hector or his father had had the foresight to make a duplicate when they discovered the original hanging from the Cessna’s ignition.

  Tapia pushed her inside, hand once more on the back of her neck, but the twist in the cuff chain relaxed just short of discomfort.

  “Come,” he said. The hangar was dark, the shape of the Cessna cut by sharp lines of light from the open door. “Give me your left hand.” His moves were quick and practiced, and before she understood what he actually intended to do, he had cuffed her around the smooth sloping wing strut. Always, his body was pressed close to hers. “You will excuse my discourtesy,” he said. “But I find this leg all but useless.”

  With a flick of the other key, he unlocked the airplane and in a moment appeared with a slender plastic fuel sampler. He hopped with one hand against the airplane, sometimes both, and by the time he had completed only half a circuit, Estelle could see that his face was soaked with sweat. Doggedly, he found a way to stop at each wing fuel drain, and once under the engine cowl. He drained a small sample from each, scrutinized it closely, then flicked it out on the hangar floor. She watched him examine the airplane, hand stroking down the leading edge of each propeller blade, then a stop at each control surface. The tour took several moments, and more than one gasp of pain when he failed to find the support he needed. He finally returned to where she stood, manacled to the strut.

  “So,” he said, and shrugged. “You may ask what is the point of checking the airplane at this moment. And you are right. If it works, it works. If not, well…” He shrugged again. “Old habits, you know. Sometimes they cause us trouble. But now, we see.”

  He pulled himself past her and half-limped, half-hopped to the hangar door. The bolt shot open with a loud clang, and he leaned against the door, rolling it open on its coasters. He stayed behind the heavy framework, protected by the shadows and the rolling wall of steel. As he
guided the door, he looked east toward the airport’s FBO office. Satisfied, he lurched back to her. “Do I trust you?” he asked. With him standing close to her now, she could see that his face was ashen from the pain.

  “To do what?”

  He grinned, despite his obvious discomfort. “I could leave you so, you understand.” The image of her cuffed to the wing strut, first jogging along beside the plane on the taxiway, and then dragged down the runway, to hang like a broken rag doll as the plane lurched into the air, was not the finish to this day that she would willingly choose.

  “When my son steps into the airplane,” Tapia said, “you will step out. That is my word. That is why I choose the other runway, señora. There will be less of an audience, fewer complications.”

  “And if your son is not there?”

  “Ah,” Tapia said, moving toward her wrist with the cuff key. “Let us hope that does not happen. If that is the case—if I do not see him standing alone on that deserted runway—then we go on to Mexico, you and I. What happens to you there, I cannot guarantee.” He popped the lock of the cuff around her right wrist this time, holding the link securely. The gun was out of sight, perhaps stuck in his belt behind his back.

  “The sheriff said there would be two people in the convertible. Let us hope it is the correct two people, no? From the air, it will be very easy to distinguish. I’m sure they will do the right thing. They will want you back, no?”

  Twisting hard on the cuffs, he spun Estelle’s left arm behind her, the force making her gasp. His right hand now clamped on her neck, he pushed her to the airplane. The grip of his large, beefy hand on her slender neck was paralytic, and spots danced in her vision. “Open the door.” She reached out and fingered it open, and once more he used his entire body to block hers. With almost a negligent swat, he yanked her left arm down, swung the empty cuff and caught the bottom seat bracket, then snapped the cuff ratchet closed.