“You want help pulling it out of the hangar?”
“Hell, no.”
By the time Estelle and I had squeezed inside and found all the seatbelt connections, Jim had finished a cursory walk around. “Not even cooled off from the last flight,” he said as he slipped inside with considerably more grace than I had managed. A twist, a pull, and a few other gyrations, and the big engine fired, settling into a ragged idle. Lights, camera, action. About that fast, Jim finished up with the switches, dials, and controls, released the brakes and eased the Cessna out of the hangar under its own power, wing tips clearing the door frame with a foot on each side.
“Winslow?” he shouted, and I nodded. “Whoever would want to go there?”
“Us,” I shouted in response.
“I hear ya,” he said, and then ignored his passengers. The run-up thing that pilots do was accomplished on the way out to the taxiway and then a final prop cycle and check at the donut at the runway end. Even as he steered out onto the asphalt runway, he radioed his plane’s I.D. and intentions out into the disinterested night, and then we were gone-blasting down the pavement for about a thousand feet before heading for the heavens, wheels tucking up into the plane’s belly, prop settling into fast cruise once we were safely clear of the ground, the cacti, and the mesa.
We tracked northwest, and even though two hundred miles isn’t far in a speedster like the Cessna, it was altogether too long for me. The air had quieted down to nighttime velvet, and it was like sitting in a noisy, vibrating arm chair for an hour and a half. There wasn’t much point in trying to carry on a conversation, so I sat there and tried to think of a hundred ways out of the scenario waiting for us in Winslow.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Arizona is a wonderfully picturesque state, but at two in the morning, all I could see were swatches of lights here and there. Leaving New Mexico, we could see Silver City tucked behind us at the foot of the Gila Wilderness with a scattering of tiny communities around it, and then ahead Springerville, Arizona in the middle of the great black void with Show Low off to the west. Snowflake finally showed itself after too long wondering where the hell Jim would land 592 Foxtrot Gulf should the engine quit. He wasn’t sparing the horses. About the time Holbrook and the daisy chain of lights on I-40 hailed into view, I could also see what had to be Winslow in the distance to the west.
I had no idea where Winslow-Lindberg was, but that didn’t matter. Jim Bergin did, and a genteel approach wasn’t in the books. He peeled off from altitude and did a steep approach, flaps hanging down from the wing’s trailing edges like great shaking doors. All the while he talked on the radio, and part of the conversation included the terse instructions, “And make sure the deputy is parked where we can see him.”
Even as our tires kissed the pavement, I could see the cop car well off to the side, red lights flashing. We fast taxied in and Jim cut the engine, the prop windmilling to a halt as we coasted the last few feet.
“You probably want a ride back,” he said laconically.
“Yep. But I don’t know when. Do you have something to shackle to? We may have a prisoner with us.”
Bergin looked skeptical.
“Just a kid,” I added, but Bergin could read my expression. As far as I was concerned, Mo had taken himself out of the “kid” category about the time that he squeezed the trigger of his father’s Winchester. Kids’ advocate Ruth Wayand might disagree, but she, the D.A., and the judge could fight it out. I hoped only that Mo would survive to take part in the negotiations.
“Ah. Seat frame works for that. Done it before. Look, I’ll grab a ride to the railroad hotel and finish the sleeping that you so rudely interrupted. Give a holler when you’re ready to go back. How’s that work?”
“Outstanding.” I held out my hand. “Thanks.”
I slid out of the plane, followed by Estelle. The Arizona deputy tried not to do a double take when he saw the young lady, then introduced himself as Willie Begay. Not sure of the protocol, he held the Suburban’s back door for Estelle while I climbed into the front.
“It’s about twenty miles,” he announced. I tightened my seatbelt, because I knew what was in store. Young men and powerful engines bring out the best. We wailed out of Winslow onto Interstate 40 and kept to the left lane for enough miles to make me nervous. We dove off an exit and hit the dirt paths that pass for secondary roads in that part of the state, and sure enough, out ahead of us like an illuminated snake, the Amtrak Santa Fe Chief train #3 was parked on a siding. The approach was a rail access road that turned the Suburban into a bucking bronco.
Just off the tail of the train’s last car, a fleet of six police units had congregated. Had he been able to look out and see them from where he sat five cars forward, Mo Arnett might have felt proud of himself for generating so much attention. But he was isolated from a rear view, with only the black desert out the side windows.
Deputy Begay turned at the last moment and tucked the Suburban in behind an unmarked Dodge SUV. A huge individual broke away from the circle and headed toward us.
“Damn good thing,” he greeted. “We’re out of donuts.” Leo Burkhalter hooked an arm through mine as if he were escorting an old lady, nodded a greeting at Estelle, and then led us toward the rear door of the last rail car. He paused with a hand on the passenger rail. His head oscillated as if he had a loose bolt in his neck.
“This is what they tell me,” he said. “He’s at one of the four-top tables at the front of the observation car. The door’s locked now, and the attendant apparently spun a tale that it’s all part of whatever problem they’re having. With the train being delayed for hours up north, it isn’t much of a stretch to believe there’s more trouble.”
“You have communication?”
“The attendant has a radio, but they’ve played it cool, man. The kid hasn’t heard a thing. Every once in a while, the attendant walks back to make a show about trying the door. Gives her a chance to communicate a little bit.”
“Her name?”
“Iola Beauchamp. Forty-four year old mother of six. Home is Chicago.”
“We need to get her out of there. Is she the one who I.D.’d the kid?”
Burkhalter exhaled loudly. “I tell you what, sheriff. I wish to hell that woman worked for me. She said Arnett was sleeping, head down on the table. I guess her motherly instincts kicked in, and she went to find him a blanket. When she got back, she went to put it over him, and that’s when she saw the gun. He had it in his pants on the right side, near the small of his back.”
“Not the smartest move he’s ever made,” I said. “She couldn’t grab it easily?”
“Not a chance.”
“Just as well that she didn’t try.”
“He’s zonked out, and Iola takes her time. That time of night, there were only two other folk at the far end of the car. Iola discreetly gets ’em gone, then calls for the door lock. And there she is, one on one with your fruitcake. He hasn’t tried to explore the train, which is a good thing. Just a matter of time, though. I don’t want Iola having to confront him to keep him in place. Doors are locked, but you know…”
The door above us zipped open, and a tall, trim conductor looked down at us.
“This is Bruce Hammer. He’s the boss,” Burkhalter said. “Sir, this is Sheriff Bill Gastner from Posadas, New Mexico. The suspect belongs to him. This young lady is one of his deputies.”
“Sir,” Hammer said, and extended a huge hand. His grip was powerful. He tipped his gold-edged cap in an old-fashioned salute to Estelle. “I don’t need to tell you all that what we want to avoid is any kind of disturbance. I want this young man off my train, and I want it done so quietly and quickly that the rest of the passengers never know what happened.” He stepped down so he was looking me in the eye. “It’s our understanding that he’s armed.”