Hills rose on either side of us, and I tried my best to ignore them. At seven thousand, Wheeler called for altitude hold again, plus a little throttle. “You’ve got a little drift to the left, Bill. Give me just a hair of a turn. That’s it. Let that autopilot earn its keep. Don’t let that ground upset you. You got to be close to it to walk on it, remember.” My eyes were riveted to the asphalt far ahead of me. The feedlot corrals passed underneath, the mini-mall, the neighborhood where Estelle Reyes lived. “Altitude hold off, doing fine,” Wheeler said crisply. “Light touch with the feet on the rudder pedals. Let auto do it.” The last few thousand feet were a blur. The Centurion settled out of the sky, and it seemed to me there was a point when it turned to lead. Pavement flashed under me. “Autopilot off,” Wheeler snapped, and I flipped the switch and then concentrated on not upsetting the delicate balance the autopilot had established. One wing began to dip, and I corrected too little, then too much. Wheeler said loudly, “Back hard on the yoke, throttle off. Back, hard. Hard.”
The Centurion was crabbed sideways when the main wheels hit the runway well to the right of the center line, with the wing desperately low. The first touchdown was feather-light, and then, as I tried to haul back on the yoke, the full weight slammed down. The plane swung hard to the right, and I stood on the brakes. The right main gear slid off the asphalt and dug sand, increasing the slew even more. Something snapped, and the plane lunged and tore around in a wild pinwheel. One wingtip gouged the dirt and then 178 Mike Bravo slid and crunched to a stop, facing back toward Douglas-Bisbee, belly in the dirt between runway and taxi strip.
I sat motionless, eyes closed. I did remember to unlatch the door before the first vehicle and the pounding feet reached the aircraft. After that, I didn’t see much point in paying attention to anything or anyone. My system’s own autopilot switch tripped, and I sailed off into a smooth, gray fog of peace and quiet.
Chapter 29
The week that followed was rougher than my landing in Sprague’s Centurion, but it passed. Faces came and went-including one that belonged to my pilot son. I wasn’t up to much talking, with all the tubes and medication. I managed a wan smile when he talked about my landing technique, and that’s about all I remembered.
No doubt with relish, Dr. Perrone and his imported sidekick Robert Gonzales went to work the day after the crash. They managed a quadruple bypass, and I managed to survive it. Their prediction was that I’d feel like a man of forty after a suitable recuperation. Perrone stressed the word “suitable.”
I guess they expected me to worry some, but I didn’t…not about my health, anyway. I figured that would take care of itself. My visitors came and went frequently as time passed, including Sheriff Martin Holman. He spent a lot of time, I found out later, talking with my doctors. The portrait of an old, gray-haired, potbellied ex-cop kept nagging me. I spent some long hours trying to decide what I’d do when Holman made his announcement…I didn’t push him for it, but I didn’t figure he’d forget. And the hollow feeling continued to grow as I realized there was nowhere I wanted to go, nothing else I wanted to do. Hell, I didn’t even drink much. I couldn’t even look forward to being a permanently buzzed alcoholic.
Ten days after the surgery, I was up and dressed. I looked pretty good, missing about twelve pounds of belly fat and several inches of clogged coronary tubing. It was a Sunday, and I was scheduled for release the next morning, if I behaved myself. I sat by the window, reading the Sunday paper. A light rap on the door brought my head up. Martin Holman stood there, dressed to kill in his polished linen suit.
“Come on in,” I said. I stood up without too much of a grunt and folded the paper.
“I understand you’ll be sprung tomorrow,” Holman said. I gestured at one of the hard plastic-covered chairs, and he sat down carefully.
“The big day,” I said and smiled.
“Your son was pissed at you, you know that?”
“I got that impression.” I shrugged. “Everything worked out.
“He mentioned that you and he discussed the possibility of hypoxia.”
I looked at Holman, surprised. “He mentioned it, yes.”
“But you didn’t bother to take along any oxygen.” Holman frowned. “I mean, if you suspected Sprague, couldn’t you have snuck a little canister along or something?”
“I suppose. I didn’t think about it. To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect Sprague to do what he did. The notion never occurred to me.” I grinned sheepishly. “My son was worried, and I told him that Sprague might pull a gun, but that I was faster. Then, my son went through this spiel about warning signs and all. But everything turned out all right. Sprague didn’t leave me much choice.”
Holman shook his head slowly, then took a deep breath. “Listen, I wanted to shoot something past you. See what you thought.”
“Shoot,” I replied, less eager to hear it than I sounded.
“I think a more formally structured department might do us some good. There’s a county meeting tomorrow, and I think now is the time to put the question to them.”
“More formally structured how?”
“Well, for one thing, Estelle Reyes works her little buns off, and except for you and some uniformed assistance, she’s pretty much solo. I know we’re no big county, but our location helps my argument. Everyone’s worried about border drug traffic. That puts us in a strategic position to join the twentieth century.”
“What are you proposing?”
“How would you feel about giving Reyes sergeant rank? Assuming she passes the test and all.”
“Sure. Way overdue.”
“That would start it. What I want is three detectives. That way, we have one every shift, and we can double up if need be. One detective sergeant and two plainclothes officers.”
“You’re talking about making the department a third bigger, right off the bat.”
“That’s right. I have some feelers out for federal grants. Money’s there, if we go for it. The publicity is on our side.” He grinned. “You made sure of that with that grandstand play of yours. I say now is the time.”
“Good move, Sheriff,” I said.
Holman looked at me with a half-smile. “You and Estelle made us look real good, Bill. The feds are going to be talking about this for a long time.”
“Well, Sprague and Barrie weren’t exactly bringing in truckloads, Sheriff. They weren’t big time.”
“No. But the damage was being done, nevertheless. Anyway, I didn’t stop by to rehash the case. I knew you’d be out tomorrow, and my guess was that you’d stop by the office. I’ll be at the county meeting all morning. I wanted you to know what I was up to.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Just good politics, Bill. Good politics.” He thumped the thin chrome arms of the chair with the heels of his hands and got up. “Well, got to go. Sergeant Reyes said she’d be up later this afternoon.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You planning to take a little vacation before getting back in the saddle for good?”
I shrugged casually. “Ah, maybe a little later. When things slow down a little.”
Holman grinned and opened the door. “Say, in about five or ten years, right?”
I laughed, more with relief than anything else, although I’m sure Martin Holman didn’t know that. “That’s what I was thinking,” I said. “Or fifteen.”
“Go for it,” Sheriff Holman said, and damned if he didn’t sound as if he meant it. He left, and I sat down to finish the paper, feeling good. The Travel section caught my eye. None of the vacation spots looked as welcome to me as Posadas County.