“If the killer didn’t get back on that airplane out here, we got us a different problem,” Torrez said. “Where’d he walk to? Assumin’ there was just one of ’em.”
“The county road is just a half-mile away,” Estelle replied. “But I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“I don’t guess so,” the sheriff agreed. “Anybody with this situation under control the way he had to have it ain’t going to leave himself on foot out in the middle of nowhere. Somebody was waitin’ here for him, or he got back on the plane.” He turned a full circle, hands on hips. “Ted Weaver was out, by the way. He’s not too happy about all this.”
“I imagine not,” Estelle said. Weaver, a gas company executive, would join Jerry Turner as someone uncomfortable with being an innocent bystander.
“One way it coulda worked,” Torrez said, and paused. “If the pilot saw what was goin’ on and spooked, he might have bolted. Took off and left the shooters behind.”
Off to the north, following the circuitous route of County Road 14, headlights glinted briefly through the scrub. As if reading her thoughts, Torrez added, “Abeyta’s on his way up to the Torrance Ranch-that’s the closest dwelling-then on over to the saloon to talk with Vic Sanchez. But all this happened two, maybe three days ago. That’s what Perrone’s givin’ us for the time of death. The killer’s long gone.”
“Maybe he is,” Estelle said. “Back to Mexico?”
“Most likely. That’s what the Border Patrol thinks. Rutledge sees this as payback of some kind. Drug deal, maybe. Something like that. He ain’t impressed.”
“I suppose he isn’t.” Estelle had worked with Barker Rutledge on several occasions, never by choice. In this instance, Rutledge had arrived earlier at the crime scene in company with two other federal agents, and stayed less than an hour. Estelle had not had the opportunity to talk with him, but she was reasonably sure that at some point, Rutledge would have sucked in his considerable belly and announced, “Well, that’s three more we don’t have to worry about.”
“No word yet from Naranjo?” Eddie Mitchell asked. He had been standing quietly in the dark, well away from the airplane, watching and listening.
“Not yet. He’ll work on it. I’ll call him back in a bit,” Estelle said. “I sent the morgue shots to him. He’ll do what he can.”
“Which ain’t much,” Torrez said.
“You never know,” Mitchell said, not so quick to write off the Mexican efforts.
“These three weren’t laborers,” Torrez said. “At least they didn’t spend much time workin’ with their hands.”
At the far end of the runway, a pair of headlights materialized and then flicked out, the vehicle driving down the center of the runway guided only by its parking lights.
In a moment, Jackie Taber’s older-model white Bronco idled to a stop.
“Collins thinks that he’s found where the gasoline came from,” Jackie said. “The lock’s been cut on the tank behind the school’s auto shop.”
Estelle’s heart skipped a beat. “Recently, he thinks?”
“I asked Collins that. He says it’s hard to tell. He’s trying to find the shop teacher now.”
Torrez patted the door panel and stepped away from Jackie’s truck.
“Meet you there,” he said. “You flyin’ back with Jim?”
She nodded. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” She walked to the plane and Bergin held the door for her. She settled back against the hard seat and closed her eyes.
“Long day, eh?” Bergin said. He slammed the door and snapped his seat belt. “Won’t take long goin’ home. You learn anything useful?”
“Yes.” She reached across and touched his right wrist. “And thanks, Jim. I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.” He scanned the checklist briefly and then the Cessna shuddered into life. The taillights of Jackie’s Bronco were fading down the runway, and Bergin gunned the Cessna out of the gravel and back onto the asphalt. Spinning it against the left wheel brake, he turned the plane around and taxied the remaining yards to the end of the pavement. They turned around once again just shy of the yellow crime scene tape.
“Short strip like this, it’s a good thing to use every advantage,” he said, and fed in the power. The takeoff roll was short enough that they were a couple hundred feet in the air by the time they flashed over the county road. To the right, Estelle could look down to the saloon, less than half a mile south.
She knew how quiet the prairie could be. An odd noise stood out, begging to be noticed. Without much effort, she could imagine a couple of patrons sitting at the Broken Spur’s bar, sipping the brew. When they heard the plane, one might smile and turn to the other. “’Nother load dropped off,” he might say. And that would be that.
Bergin banked left, and they headed directly toward Posadas Municipal Airport. He let the Cessna climb to five hundred feet, and then trimmed it forward to a fast cruise. It seemed like seconds before he keyed the radio.
“Posadas traffic, niner two Hotel is five southwest, inbound for right base, niner zero.” He clicked the mike button twice, and ahead of them, the runway lights illuminated as if by magic, two long strips to guide them in. “Makes it easy,” Bergin said. “We already proved we can land in the dark.”
In a moment, they were down and taxiing quickly toward the hangar. Jerry Turner’s BMW was still parked off to one side.
“Nervous parent,” Bergin said. “His baby’s become a criminal.” As he shut down the engine, he looked across at Estelle. “Any questions?”
“Several million,” she replied. “Thanks so much.”
“You’re welcome. Any time.” He opened the door and slid out. “’Course, I don’t really mean that. Keep me posted, will you?”
“Certainly.”
“I was thinkin’ of spending a few nights out here, till you get this thing wrapped up.”
“Not a bad idea,” Estelle said. “But if someone stops by to steal an airplane again, just let them take it. We’re not dealing with an amateur here.”
He laughed. “I ain’t no hero. Anyway, they’re going to have to work harder at it. I’ll get that sheet metal siding welded in place, and we’ll change the lock on the dead bolt. That’ll slow ’em down some.”
Chapter Fourteen
The state highway back to Posadas was a reminder that all was not normal this quiet night. Estelle passed two State Police units, running five miles apart, both officers cruising well below the speed limit, no doubt looking in every arroyo and behind every abandoned ranch building. They wouldn’t find anything, she knew. No doubt, they knew it, too.
Closer to town, she saw an SUV pulled into the shadows by an abandoned gas station. She slowed, and the vehicle’s lights winked at her. As she passed, she could see the broad stripe down the vehicle’s flank that was part of the Border Patrol’s insignia.
“Everybody is looking,” she said aloud to herself. “And no one knows who to look for.” Most of the coverage was token, she realized. The shootings, now two, three, maybe four days cold, were long in the killer’s rearview mirror. But the old saw was true-every additional hour only benefited the killer. For want of anything specific to do or someone specific to chase, officers looked in the shadows for things that shouldn’t be there.
As soon as she had heard where the deputy had discovered gasoline thefts, a new theory had crept into her mind, an uncomfortable one that fitted her instincts. The more she thought about it, the more her apprehension built.
Her telephone chirped as she drove past Pershing Park, and she groped it out of her pocket.
“Hey,” Bob Torrez’s voice announced. “I’m at the school. Where you at?”
Fast and direct as the flight might have been, her brief conversation with Jerry Turner at the airport had consumed several minutes. The cell phone salesman had promised not to let his delinquent aircraft leave its hangar without notifying the Sheriff’s Department first.
“Just about into the village. Give me a minute.”
“Okay. I got Archer over here. Grider is on the way,” the sheriff said, not bothering to elaborate where “over here” was. “Some other stuff, too,” he added cryptically.