Tom Pasquale had not moved, marking the minutes with his eyes shut while Leona murmured comfort, unable to do anything else but keep him in the shade. The county manager had taken a quick look down into the arroyo herself, turned pale, and concentrated on Pasquale.
All the while, Estelle tried to imagine Tapia’s progress. Her guess was that the killer would ride carefully, perhaps even slowly. If Tapia had an injured ankle, as Pasquale thought was the case, that would take some of the starch out of his effort. But even fifteen minutes’ head start would change the game.
“He was on the bike when you charged him?” Estelle asked.
“Just going to it,” Pasquale said. “I saw him hit Hansen when I was fifty yards away, maybe more. I shouted, but he ignored me. Tapia did, I mean. Then Hansen crashed right by the lip of the arroyo, and Tapia just sort of kicked him in. Just that fast,” Tom whispered. “I bailed into him, and down he went. I didn’t see the gun right away, or I might have given…I might have given the situation more thought.”
“He could head for the border now,” Leona said. “Taking any number of routes.”
“He’s not going to make it across,” Estelle said. “You’re okay?”
“No,” Tom Pasquale said. “But that ain’t going to change.”
“I need to look at the map,” Estelle said. “I’ll be right back.” She jogged to the truck and dug a county map out of her briefcase, folded it so that their patch of prairie was in the center, and returned to the arroyo edge. She knelt and flattened the map on her thigh.
“He could have cut off to the east,” Leona said. She sat beside the injured Pasquale, a protective hand on his shoulder. “There are two-tracks and ranch trails all over out here.”
“And most of them not on the map,” Estelle said. Tapia could wind across the prairies, dodging this way and that, always out of sight of the main routes, always able to keep an eye out for dust trails thrown up by chasing vehicles.
“We need a chopper,” Estelle said, and a moment later had Gayle Torrez on the phone. “If a State Police unit isn’t available,” she said, “see if you can find someone else. Even Channel Eight is better than nothing.”
“They’d like that,” Gayle said. “I’ll see what I can do. How’s Thomas holding out?”
“He’s tough,” Estelle said. “I think he’ll be all right.”
“Linda’s here,” Gayle said. “She wants to know if she can head out there.”
“Ay,” Estelle said, and glanced at Pasquale. He and Linda had lived together for nearly three years. “Tell her no. We need her camera out here, but if she comes out, she’ll miss him. He’ll be inbound in the ambulance here in just a minute. Have her meet him at the hospital. And will you reach Lieutenant Adams and ask if we can have some help from his mobile unit? We don’t know what Tapia’s intentions are at this point, or if he knows about Hector. Make sure you have a couple of people there with you.” When Gayle was hesitant in acknowledging, Estelle added, “I’m serious. Right now, Hector is the only witness to what happened out at the airstrip.”
“Eddie was here just a minute ago,” Gayle said. “We’ll be fine.”
“No, not was, Gayle. I want him in the building with you right now,” Estelle insisted. “And whoever is free needs to stay central. Let’s keep our eyes open.”
Gayle acknowledged, sounding as serene as ever.
“And here we wait,” Leona said; putting her finger on the pulse of things with her usual unerring accuracy. As crime scenes went, this one was pretty simple. But some dark corner of Chester Hansen’s life had been ripped open, and the repercussions no doubt would reach far beyond this spot. The investigation would have to be meticulous and thorough.
Estelle felt a chill thinking about Tapia. Calculating was an understatement. Wounding the deputy was a perfect touch, effectively hog-tying their pursuit efforts until the wounded were cared for. Everyone else, all of their other personnel, were splattered about the county, watching bike riders sweat themselves pounds lighter, closing sections of highway and intersections as the riders approached.
Estelle looked up from the map. Pasquale opened his eyes and grimaced at her, disgusted by his incapacity.
“Tell me again what happened,” Estelle said, more to keep him occupied than anything else.
The young man tried to shift position and groaned miserably. “I came around the curve just in time to see this guy swing a chunk of wood and catch Hansen right in the face.” He closed his eyes again, trying to stretch a little. “That old guy can really move on a bike, and he was goin’ so fast down this hill that there was no way he could avoid it. He went off the bike hard. Wobbled and swerved first, but then he went off right up here.” He pointed behind them, toward the road. “I’m comin’ down the road toward ’em, and I see the guy kick Hansen’s bike into the arroyo, then he starts to drag the guy over here.”
“Toward the arroyo?”
“Yes. I thought first that it was some guy who had passed us earlier, or something like that. Someone with a beef with Hansen. It didn’t even snap that it could be the guy we’re looking for.” He stretched again, trying to find some relief, and hissed through his teeth.
“Bike riders normally don’t take off after each other with baseball bats, do they?” Leona asked.
“You never know,” Pasquale said, attempting a grin. “I just rode straight at him, and we went down in a tangle. Shit.” He stopped, shaking his head. “That guy is strong, Estelle. I got to him a little, though. He’s got a hurt ankle. I heard it pop. Then he threw me and next thing I know I’m in the arroyo. That’s when he pulls the gun.”
“He hadn’t shot Hansen yet? Not when you tackled him?”
“No. He points the gun at me and says, ‘This is none of your affair.’ And then he shoots me in the hip. Real careful and calculated. Then he takes his time and shoots Hansen in the face, just like that. The old guy didn’t even move or nothin’. I think he was out cold already…Maybe he was already dead. Then Tapia pointed the gun back at me and I thought, Now, this is it. But he just says, ‘You stay right there,’ and then he’s gone. A second or two later, my bike comes flyin’ into the arroyo. Then I hear his motorcycle start, and he rides off that way.” Pasquale pointed back to the north. “And that’s it.” He sat up a little straighter.
“It was a semi-auto, Estelle,” the deputy said. “I think it was a Beretta, with a suppressor. Casings are off to the left, there. I figured that my hip was going to start hurtin’ pretty bad, so I concentrated on climbing out.” He pointed upstream a bit, where the edge of the arroyo was caved in, providing a ramp out. “I pulled myself out, and that’s as far as I got when you showed up.”
“You did good,” Estelle said. “How many minutes’ head start does he have?”
“Maybe ten by now. Maybe fifteen.”
“Company,” Leona said.
A clump of five cyclists was speeding down the hill toward them, kicking up dust. Since the riders couldn’t see down to the carnage in the bottom of the arroyo, they had no reason to do more than glance at Estelle, who rose and walked back to the truck where she leaned against the front fender as if this remote spot was somehow the choicest race seat in the house.
After another couple of minutes, Estelle heard a vehicle and turned to see Bob Torrez’s aging pickup truck vault over a rise, almost putting daylight under its wheels. To the north, the thin wail of the ambulance siren grew louder.
Estelle met the sheriff as his truck slid to a stop on the road. “Hansen,” she said urgently. “He’s dead. Tommy’s okay, but took a 9mm through the hip. He can’t walk. I think Tapia is headed back toward Posadas. Tom said he took off back to the north.”
Torrez jammed the gear lever into neutral, set the parking brake, and got out. He strode to the arroyo, glanced at the footing, and then slid down the bank a dozen feet west of Hansen’s corpse. Flipping the corner of the tarp to one side, he looked impassively at the dead man. After a moment, he dropped the cover and climbed back out of the arroyo. He looked down at Pasquale.