He nodded and once more spoke into the phone. “The señora Leona,” he said. “She will drive the convertible. Only she with my son as a passenger in the front seat. Is that quite clear?” He looked at his watch. “It is now one fourteen, Sheriff. I will pick up my son at two o’clock. That gives us both sufficient time to get there.”
Apparently Torrez protested, because Tapia said, “Oh, yes it is. I’m sure you can move efficiently.” He snapped the phone closed and dropped it in his pocket. “So,” he said, as if waiting for Estelle to voice her thoughts. When she said nothing, he asked, “Your sheriff. He is a creative man? I suppose we shall see.”
“You don’t really want your son back, do you?”
He looked at her in surprise. “But of course I want my son returned to me.”
“Then why all the theatrics? You know that what you ask is not possible in forty-five minutes.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “By now, they know exactly where this county manager is, yes? They have a helicopter in the vicinity. They can pluck her away, return to the village, and by then, your sheriff-who must surely know everyone in this small community-will have secured a convertible automobile. And then they drive that automobile to our rendezvous.”
“It’s a thirty-minute drive,” Estelle pointed out.
“Ah. Then I hope they waste no time.” He laughed. “But no one drives the speed limit these days.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Estelle heard the helicopter before she saw it, and although she was sure that Tapia also heard it, he showed no reaction. For a few minutes, it paced them from behind, out of sight. Then, it drifted off to the right, paralleling them. Once, when it sounded as if it were descending dangerously close, Estelle ducked down and caught a glimpse of it. The garishly painted flanks announced Channel 8 FirstNews.
“So, we have an audience now,” Tapia said finally. “This is unfortunate, I suppose. Perhaps your sheriff is having trouble making up his mind.”
Not likely, Estelle thought, and almost added aloud, but he doesn’t do well with ultimatums. And now that they were pinpointed by airborne observers, she hoped that the sheriff both had gained an advantage and would put it to good use. At that moment, Estelle supposed, Channel 8’s big zoom lens was focused tightly on the dust-covered Expedition, hoping for a good profile shot of Tapia in the passenger seat. If they were lucky, they might even win a network feed. The narrator of America’s Wildest Cop Chases would have to figure out how to make a dirty SUV, lurching along on desert two-tracks, exciting for viewers.
The radio crackled.
“Three-ten, chopper eight ETA a minute or so.” Gayle’s voice was steady, and the television station’s Jet Ranger banked sharply away from them, angling back toward the original crime scene.
“Ah, you see?” Tapia said, and flinched as a slight change in position shot agony up his leg. “Now, go.” The two-track flattened out, and far ahead she could see the flat black line of the state highway and, to the east, the low buildings of the airport. If they could stall long enough, one of the Border Patrol’s Blackhawk helicopters might be brought within striking range, but the Mexican counterparts certainly were not a factor. Manolo Tapia knew as clearly as she did that although he might be paced by ten dozen officers and half a dozen helicopters on the north side of the border, once across that imaginary line etched in the desert, he was a free man.
“Tell me something of yourself,” Tapia said conversationally, as if they were engaged in a leisurely Sunday drive.
Estelle ignored the request and slowed the SUV to avoid a wash of rocks that a careless road grader operator had left when he pulled his blade out of the bar-ditch cut. For a moment, she considered a sudden swerve, crashing the truck’s suspension into the rocks. The outcome of that was unattractive any way she looked at it.
“You have young children,” Tapia persisted. “What…two? Three?” When she didn’t answer, he reached across with the gun and once more aimed a quick, hard rap at her right forearm. Estelle saw the black barrel coming and more out of reflex than anything else, intercepted the blow with her left hand, grabbing the weapon by the silencer and twisting up and away as hard as she could. Tapia was caught off-guard. As she saw his weight jar forward, she stomped the brake pedal and yanked the steering wheel with her shackled hand.
The SUV swerved right, surging over a hump just before its front wheels plunged down in the bar ditch. Estelle ignored where the vehicle was headed, concentrating instead on twisting the pistol with all her strength. As the truck crashed down into the ditch, she floored the accelerator, the tires spraying dirt and rocks.
Tapia cursed and with astonishing strength lashed out in two directions at once. He yanked his right hand away from her, so hard that the front sight of the Beretta raked a trough across the palm of her hand. Chopping with his left at the same time, he struck Estelle with the back of his fist, the blow smacking her in front of her right ear.
The SUV burst through a thick grove of creosote bush and with the gas pedal still mashed to the floor, began a long, almost lazy power slide to the left. As skilled as a rodeo rider on a plunging bronc, Tapia grabbed the back of Estelle’s neck, using her as support as he drove his good leg against the firewall.
“Stop,” he commanded. His hand clamped her head, and he pulled her toward him, tight against her shoulder harness. The gun’s suppressor dug into her cheek. “You will stop.” Still spraying rocks, the SUV vaulted back over the bar ditch, crossed the two-track once again, and slid to a halt, its front wheels cocked sideways in the prairie gravel.
For a moment their harsh breathing was the only sound other than the idling engine. Tapia did not release his hold, and his viselike grip forced Estelle’s head toward the side window. He was smart enough to know that, alone in the desert without Estelle as a shield, he would be easy prey. Slowly, Estelle lifted her left hand in apparent surrender. Blood trickled down her wrist.
“You must be smarter than this,” Tapia said. The pressure on her neck increased, and Estelle panted, trying to keep her vision clear, waiting for the cervical vertebrae to pop. For emphasis, he jerked his hand sideways, smacking her skull against the glass. “Now go. There is nothing to be gained by your heroics.” He touched her forearm with the gun again, this time gently. “Only much to be lost. Now go.”
“Hit me again and we’ll both be without a vehicle,” Estelle whispered through clenched teeth.
“Spectacular,” Tapia said with good humor. He released her neck, the powerful clamp becoming a caress with his fingertips that ran up the back of her skull to the top of her head, a gentle touch that a patient parent might use on a child-or one lover to another.
She guided the truck back onto the two-track. The blood from her hand was a sticky mess on the steering wheel, but she ignored it. Tapia pulled away, and now sat well away from her, his back against the door. “You have not answered my question,” he said pleasantly, as if they hadn’t struggled, as if he had not struck her, as if her neck would not carry the bruises of his grip. “You have children, no?”
“I will not discuss my life with you,” Estelle whispered through clenched teeth.
He regarded her with interest. A quarter mile ahead, where State Highway 78 cut its swath across the prairie, she saw two State Police cruisers parked along the shoulder of the highway. If Tapia saw them, he didn’t react.
“You must care for them,” he said instead. “The children. I can see that you do.”
“Do you now,” she replied coldly.
He actually chuckled. “You must put this all into perspective. What is done is done. The three? Four? They are nothing to you. What do you gain by putting your family at risk for them?”