Chapter Twenty-nine
The stock tank was a hundred yards ahead, and Estelle hesitated. Manolo Tapia was a cunning man. Where he might be, or what he might intend, was anyone’s guess. It made sense to flee to the border, or perhaps to the relative anonymity of a major city, like El Paso to the east or Tucson to the west. The border was close, within striking distance via back roads. In many spots, the border fence was nothing more than a few strands of barbed wire, sometimes not even that much. The large metro areas presented an immediate risk for a fugitive, reached by traveling on the interstates, where he would be exposed to sharp eyes.
Tapia had killed in the most calculating, cold-blooded fashion-it appeared that both the Salvadorans and Chester Hansen had gone from exhilaration to death in an instant, with no time to plead for their lives. Then, Tom Pasquale had been neutralized as efficiently as circumstances permitted-that Tapia hadn’t killed the young deputy when he had the chance was a surprise.
Estelle lifted her foot off the brake and let the Expedition creep forward a few yards. If what appeared to be a motorcycle belonged to Manolo Tapia, there could be any number of reasons why he might have abandoned it-mechanical breakdown, flat tire, even lack of fuel. If that was the case, the injured man was on foot somewhere-or resting on the far side of the tank in a patch of shade. And he had to know that they were there. The undersheriff picked up her binoculars again and methodically began a scan of the runty vegetation-mostly low juniper, greasewood, and black sage.
Twisting around in her seat to her left, Estelle searched the trees across the meadow. Shadows moved a hundred yards away and materialized into three mule deer, curious about the intrusion. They looked placidly at her, but their attention was drawn nowhere else. Wherever Tapia was, he hadn’t spooked the wildlife.
“I don’t see anything,” Leona said, then just as quickly added, “Oh, yes, I do.”
At the same time that she turned back toward the county manager, Estelle felt the truck jolt. Leona recoiled back in her seat as Manolo Tapia’s face appeared in her open window. A black semiautomatic rested on the windowsill, the blunt muzzle of its silencer pointed unwaveringly at Leona’s throat. His left elbow was thrust into the truck, tight against the window post, almost close enough to elbow Leona in the face. He stood on the running board, bracing a leg against the vehicle.
“Now,” he said, breathing hard, “we must think very carefully.” The gun didn’t waver away from Leona, but his gaze was locked on Estelle.
She sat quietly, right foot on the brake, the truck in gear and idling. Her right hand was full of binoculars, her left hand on the steering wheel. In a heartbeat, she could stab the accelerator to the floor, and the big V-8 would jar the truck forward in a shower of rocks. She could see that Tapia was braced for such a maneuver, and nothing she could do would dislodge him quickly enough to protect Leona. A trigger pull was just a few ounces away.
“You must know that I will shoot if I have to,” Tapia said, his voice almost courtly with its gentility. “This position in which we find ourselves…It can all be resolved so easily if we don’t indulge in heroics.”
Estelle didn’t move, and thankfully neither did Leona. The county manager’s eyes were huge, focused on the gun barrel.
Tapia’s face was pale and sweaty, the only indication that he might be hurt. He had positioned his body in such a way that his crooked left arm, besides locking him to the truck door, protected the gun. Leona was a large woman, and no doubt stronger than average. She could slam forward, trying to bash the threatening muzzle forward. But Tapia’s beefy arm blocked that, even if she were inclined to attempt it.
“Put down the binoculars,” he instructed. Estelle did so, freeing her right hand. Her own service automatic was tight in its holster, blocked by her seat belt. The shotgun rested in its rack, tantalizingly close but absolutely useless.
“Put the vehicle in park,” Tapia continued in flawless English. “Be oh-so-careful now.” There was no threat in his voice, just quiet patience-and somehow all the more deadly for that. He grimaced as he shifted his weight. The muzzle of the silencer ticked upward toward Leona’s chin. “Just into park.”
“What do you want?” Estelle said.
“Ah, a beautiful voice as well,” Tapia said, and nodded his approval. “What I want is that lever,” and this time he shifted the gun to point at Estelle, “pushed gently into park. At this moment in time, that’s all I want. Can we accomplish that much without bloodshed?”
“I hope so,” Estelle replied, at the same time calculating the odds if she went for reverse, lurching Tapia away from his braced arm. But that could force the gun back toward Leona. She placed the binoculars on the seat, then with the tips of her fingers lifted the gear lever and pushed it up through the gates. In at least one respect, Manolo Tapia was a known quantity-he had plenty of experience pulling triggers, but he hadn’t killed Tom Pasquale when he had the easy chance.
“Ah, good. Now turn off the key, if we please. Just that. No more.”
She released the gear lever and switched the key back to the first detent, not far enough to lock the steering wheel or free the key. The deep murmur of the engine quit and for a brief moment, their breathing was the loudest noise in the cab. Tapia shifted his position, leaning more weight on the door as he dropped his good leg to the ground. He pushed himself away from the truck, making it impossible for Leona to make a grab for the gun.
“Now,” he said. “It is very simple what we must do, and you may help me do it. I think that is the best thing, no?” Estelle didn’t respond, since Tapia clearly would understand her two priorities-to prevent more bulletholes in people and to see him behind bars.
“You will drive me back to the village. That is a most simple thing, I think. So,” and he shifted backward another fraction of a step, left hand on the truck door, right hand still holding the pistol on Leona. “You do not appear to be an officer, señora. Are you with the race?”
“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.