With a quick glance at her, he turned the key, and the big prop jerked into life. The engine caught, and as the prop became a blur of motion, the aircraft shifted and moved forward toward the door. Tapia pulled the throttle back to idle and let the airplane ease out of the hangar, a foot clearance at each wing tip. Estelle heard his right foot shuffle on the rudder pedal, at first pushing, then dancing to the opposite pedal to guide the plane. As the nose cleared the door, sun flooded into the interior, and Estelle turned to look down the tarmac. The State Police cruiser that had been parked by the FBO was driving slowly toward them.
The instant the aircraft’s tail cleared the hangar door, Tapia pushed hard on the right rudder. Estelle felt the pedals saw back and forth at her feet, and the Cessna headed for the taxiway.
A flick of the finger and the flaps spooled down, and then Manolo Tapia’s intentions became clear. He firewalled the throttle, and the big engine bellowed, the turbo a shrill whistle. He spun the trim wheel and continued to dance his right foot first on one rudder pedal and then the other as the plane charged down the taxiway, using the full width of the macadam surface. The natural assumption was that, on taxiways, airplanes taxied. That was unnecessary, as unnecessary as flying thousands of feet up in the air to clear low bushes and fences.
It didn’t matter that the state trooper was following them. His Crown Victoria was fast, but it couldn’t fly, and Tapia used the taxiway to full benefit. Two hundred yards before the donut turnaround at the end, he pulled back hard on the yoke and the ground dropped away.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Cessna roared off the end of the taxiway but rose only a dozen feet over the prairie scrub before leveling off. As it accelerated to well over a hundred knots, Tapia let the plane drift right, remaining north of the state highway and closing uncomfortably close to the flank of Cat Mesa.
Under other circumstances, flashing across the prairie just over the tops of vegetation might be exhilarating, but handcuffed to the seat and having to trust her life to a man with a broken ankle was terrifying. Sitting awkwardly anyway, Estelle could not pull herself upright to see over the massive, arched dash cowl. She turned and looked out the side window as the airport faded behind them. If Tapia didn’t change course, their route would take them north of the intersection of County Road 14 and the state highway.
His left hand outstretched to the dash cowl for support, and with only his right hand on the yoke, Tapia flew the airplane with a light touch. They continued to accelerate, and then with a glance to the left, Tapia curled his right wrist, bringing the yoke back. Estelle felt her stomach sag under the mild G’s, and the plane climbed steeply, banking south.
They flashed diagonally across the state highway, climbing toward five hundred feet. Estelle’s view west toward County Road 14 was blocked, but from his side of the airplane Tapia would be able to look out and in the distance see the crime scene where he had left Chester Hansen and Tom Pasquale. Tapia continued his turn to the south, and Estelle saw that their route would take them across State Highway 56, the southwestern route to Regál and the border crossing. Without another course correction, their route would also take them straight into the boulder-strewn northern flank of the San Cristóbals.
Satisfied with his vantage point, Tapia allowed the Cessna’s nose to lower. His left hand dropped to manipulate the trim wheel, and then balance the throttle, mixture, and prop for a smooth, fast cruise. With a twist of the yoke and five minutes, they could be across the border and into Mexican airspace, away from State and Border Patrol aircraft-if that threat should materialize.
If a person knew where to look, the Broken Spur Saloon and its parking lot would be visible for miles from the air. Obviously Manolo Tapia knew exactly where to look if he wanted to see a yellow Mustang convertible.
He turned to her and shouted over the loud engine. “Now we will see.”
What he referred to, she couldn’t tell. Her view out the left side of the airplane was the vast, rumpled northern flank of the mountains separating Mexico from the United States. She leaned toward him. “Give me the cuff key now.” The noisy cockpit wasn’t the place for nuance.
He grinned at her, dismissing the demand. Estelle slumped, trying to relax her back. Deputy Jackie Taber came to mind. The deputy had established the habit of wearing a handcuff key around her neck on a fine gold chain, the cop’s version of a crucifix. Estelle’s handcuff key was on her key ring, lying on the front seat of her Expedition parked back at the airport. She kept another in her wallet, now out of reach, and another on her utility belt for those rare times when she wore a department uniform.
She pulled gently on the steel tether. Tapia had locked the cuffs tightly on her right wrist, but when he’d transferred the lock to the left, he’d left more slack. Pulling her thumb in tight, she eased her weight back against the shackle, twisting her hand. The combination of bone and steel produced pain, but no progress.
The Cessna banked sharply again, dipping the right wing. Estelle could see the Broken Spur Saloon, and farther on, County Road 14 twisting north from the state highway. A bright yellow spot winked, and as they drew closer, she could make out the blocky lines of Tom Mears’ Mustang convertible. Tapia kept the plane south of the highway, paralleling it.
The saloon’s parking lot was full, making the place look like a watering hole for cops. Far to the north, she saw two dust trails as vehicles headed down the dirt road at high speed. Estelle felt a sinking feeling, and it wasn’t an air pocket. Most of it was apprehension at not knowing what Sheriff Torrez had planned.
Manolo Tapia held the vantage point, that was certain. There was no way to approach the airport without announcing the arrival from miles away. The saloon was two miles by road from the gas company’s airstrip-far less by foot, but still a significant trek over rough ground, far more than what might be possible in the narrow time window.
On County Road 14, the first southbound car pulled to a stop at the brow of a low hill north of the airstrip. Farther on, a second joined the roadblock at the county road and its intersection with the Bender’s Canyon Trail, the race route that wound and twisted northeast, roughly paralleling the state highway to emerge at Moore, an abandoned village site halfway between the saloon and Posadas. That was one less concern. The race cyclists would turn on the canyon trail, heading away from the airstrip.
A third vehicle, this one a white SUV, headed north on the country road until it met the other two vehicles, joining the roadblock there.
Tapia kept the Cessna south of the state road, the flank of the San Cristóbals looming off the left wing. His hand reached out and turned the trim wheel forward. The nose of the Cessna dropped and the airspeed accelerated. A mile beyond the west end of the gas company’s runway, Tapia banked hard to the right, the Cessna’s descent increasing as they swung north. In a moment he pulled the plane level four or five hundred feet above the scrub.
The yellow Mustang had stopped at the airstrip gate, and a large figure emerged from the driver’s side.
The plane turned to parallel the runway, heading due east now, back toward County Road 14. Looking out past Tapia, Estelle saw the gate open and the figure return to the Mustang. By the time they had flown the length of the strip, the car had pulled forward onto the apron of the narrow runway.