“One forty-five caliber pistol,” I said. “At least that.”
“And he’s killed once already?”
“Yes. We’re not sure of the circumstances,” I replied. “Lots of pieces to the puzzle are still missing. But he’s not a psychopath,” and I had reservations about the veracity of that but didn’t voice them. “He’s not a serial killer. He’s not a bank robber. He’s a scared kid who made a bad mistake. We’re not even sure of the circumstances of that mistake.” I saw the lieutenant grimace at that.
“He’s on the lam, he’s got a gun, he’s cornered,” Burkhalter said.
On the lam, I thought. Machine-gun Mo Arnett, on the lam. “So let’s just take him out with a sniper rifle shot through the window. Why the hell not.” Burkhalter looked as if he wanted to agree with me, despite the heavy sarcasm.
Hammer regarded me for a moment. “One of my employees is in that car, sheriff. My chief concern is her safety.”
“My concern as well, sir. Her safety comes first, then ours, then his. That’s the mess he’s put himself in. So let’s do this. Let’s get her out of there, right now.”
“She’s had that opportunity, and chosen not to take it,” Hammer said.
“She’ll come to the door if you request it?”
“I’m sure she will, but she won’t leave the young man by himself, locked in the car. He’s suicidal?”
“I really don’t know,” I said. “But Iola probably called it right. Let’s see what we can do.” I turned to Estelle. “You get to stay here.”
“Yes, sir.” She didn’t sound happy, but I had already worked out a scenario in my mind, and there was no role in it for her. I turned back to Burkhalter. “Let me tell you what I want to do.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
The three of us, Hammer, Burkhalter, and I, made our way forward through the cars. I suppose he had his reasons for not walking outside, through the gravel and desert wildlife along the side of the railcars. The passengers sprawled this way and that, finding a way to sleep or read or, in the case of a couple of teenagers, snuggle, the wildlife on board the train.
One middle-aged lady looked up, saw Hammer, and reached out a hand.
“Are we ever going to get to Flagstaff?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be underway in just a few minutes.”
She glanced at Burkhalter and me, both obviously cops, but she didn’t ask.
The dark aisles passed one by one, each car packed with warm, smelly bodies, some a good deal smellier than others. Legs and other body parts crowded the aisles, and we maneuvered carefully. Each door at car’s end snapped open like a good sentry coming to attention.
Hammer led us through several cars before holding up a hand. “The car beyond this next one.” He palmed his radio and pointed with the antenna through the door ahead. I saw a snack bar of sorts taking up the bulk of the next car. A television up in the corner was harshly bright, showing an early morning western. The door snapped open and as we entered I saw a hirsute young man curled in the corner with a heavy knapsack, sleeping over a copy of Les Miserables.
The complication was simple. Just as we could look through the sliding door into Mo Arnett’s car, he could see us. I wanted him to have no advantage-none whatsoever. We took the absurdly narrow stairs down to the lower level where Hammer opened the exterior door.
“You’ll want to stay close to the side of the car,” he warned, and we sidled along, shoulders brushing the aluminum. At the far end of the sleeper car ahead of Arnett’s observation unit, we re-entered and made our way up to the second level. As long as the boy remained at his table, we’d enter behind his back.
“All set?” Hammer whispered.
“Tell the engineer that all we need is a couple of bumps…nothing spectacular. Just enough to make the kid think we’re underway again.”
“You got it.” He handed me a radio unit. “So you can hear what’s goin’ on,” he said, and wagged a finger at both of us, a warning that if we put any holes in his train, we’d be in deep shit. With the conductor gone, I punched the door release, and it hissed open. The sealed landing between cars was wide enough for both of us to remain clear of the entry. I eased forward toward the door’s window, but the bulkhead prevented me from catching a glimpse of Mo.
The radio barked a triple blast of squelch, and Iola Beauchamp’s must have done the same. She heard it and made her way toward the rear door. She was a large woman, easily capable of snapping Mo Arnett into little pieces. But she was smart enough to know that size didn’t matter to a.45.
“We’re about to get underway,” Hammer’s voice said. “Let me know if all the doors are secure.”
Iola acknowledged with a quick, “You got it.” At that moment, the train lurched-not much of a bump, but for folks who had grown used to sitting still in the middle of the night, it must have felt like an earthquake. There was no reason for Mo Arnett to think anything amiss. He knew that the train had been delayed for hours before he’d boarded, and another delay wasn’t unimaginable. And, out in the desert under cover of darkness, he might have felt secure, safe from his Posadas troubles.
At the far end of the car, Iola’s door snapped open, and she turned toward Mo with a broad smile, playing her part to perfection. Hammer appeared, and she touched the conductor’s arm as she passed him. The door hissed shut behind them, and Mo was alone in the car.
I activated my own door just as Mo came out of his burrow in the corner. It’s hard as hell to make snap decisions in the groggy wee hours, especially when you’ve alternately been sitting and snoozing the hours away. Mo saw me and for just a fraction of a second, his face went blank. Mo and I didn’t know each other well-not face to face, anyway. Under other circumstances I might recognize him on the street among a gaggle of other teens, the events of the last few hours made it seem as if we were life-long acquaintances.
He might not have been able to recall my name, or for sure place that big old face, the fat belly, or the salt and pepper stubble that passed for my haloed hair-do. He sure as hell could recognize cops when he saw them, especially since Leo Burkhalter was in uniform and the lieutenant’s face was set in that expression that all bad guys, even neophytes, recognize.
Mo hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then tried to scramble around the table, Iola’s courtesy blanket wadding around his legs. He sprawled out into the aisle, now thrashing in four-wheel drive, making for the back door. The gun went skittering, and he grabbed it just about the time I reached his ankles.
I had stared down the bore of a.45 ACP pistol a good number of times, but always while cleaning the damn thing, never while a live round might be nesting in the chamber while a nervous nitwit’s finger shook against the trigger. Mo now lay in the aisle on his back, eyes the size of dinner plates, the gun held awkwardly in both hands, pointed squarely at me.
Well-tempered bravery washed over me, brought on by the various patents that John M. Browning, arguably the greatest firearms designer who ever lived, had melded into the model 1911 semiautomatic pistol. Mo Arnett had been carrying the heavy, old-fashioned handgun stuffed under his belt. I ducked my head and saw that the hammer was not cocked. In that condition, the gun was about as useful as a boat anchor.
“Mo,” I said, “why don’t you give me that thing before someone gets hurt.”
I held out my hand. Unconvinced, Mo dropped one hand from the gun and tried to push himself backward down the aisle. “Where are you going to go?”
His eyes had teared so that he couldn’t focus either on me, or the hulking figure of Burkhalter behind me. And the lieutenant’s weapon was cocked.
“Mo, I can understand why you ran. When you found out that there had been someone in that grader after all, well, hell…who can blame you?” I held out my hand again. “Here. Let’s see if we can salvage something from this mess, Mo. Give me the gun.”