Winsor was grinning. “Budge,” he said. “You should know by now you can’t kid me. If I believed you’re as stupid as you want me to believe you wouldn’t be working for me.”
Budge considered that. “Fair enough,” he said. “But either you trust me all the way, or you don’t trust me at all, and if you don’t, then I quit. But the way it is, I’m working for you. What do you want me to do now?”
“Come on,” Winsor said, walking toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. The colonel serves as sort of an envoy for the Mexicans invested in this business. He and I are going to get some business done. I want you back at the plane. And I want you to be remembering what happens to you if you do decide to quit.”
He stopped at the door, stared at Budge.
“You understand what I’m saying?” Winsor asked.
“I do.”
“We still have most of that bundle of pesos in the plane and we don’t want anyone breaking in. Eat that lunch you brought. Get some sleep. We’re going over the border to the Tuttle Ranch bright and early tomorrow. Landing on another dirt strip. You’ll want to be fresh.”
“OK,” Budge said. “I’ll have to call the FAA folks and make sure they know we have clearance. Do you have any problem with that.”
“None,” Winsor said. He handed Budge a photograph. “Nice-looking girl there. Take a good look at her.”
Budge agreed. She was nice-looking. Great eyes. Nice-shaped face. And, he noticed, nice shape even in that uniform she was wearing.
“Who is she? And why am I supposed to get interested?”
“Well, ...” Winsor said. “Did I mention before we left that you might have to kill a cop? ... Well, this is her. The Mexicans in this business agree she looks like a serious problem. Some sort of an undercover agent planted in the Border Patrol. They said they dealt with one such problem for us. That fellow who ... that fellow who got himself shot in a hunting accident up in northern New Mexico. The colonel says they eliminated that problem for us and now it’s our turn.”
“Another Chrissy?”
“Different motives, but the same idea. And it may not be so simple for you this time. With a federal cop, you’ll damn sure want to make it slick as silk. Maybe you can arrange to get her on the Falcon and dump her off into those mountains down in Mexico.
22
Budge had consumed what was left in his coffee Thermos, used some water from his jug to give his face a wakeup scrub, and was watching the dawn turn high clouds on the western horizon red, and then pink, when the SUV rolled up beside the Falcon 10 and discharged Winsor and the Mexican colonel. Budge climbed out of the plane to meet them.
“Colonel,” Winsor said. “This is Mr. de Baca, my assistant. Budge de Baca. Colonel Diego de Vargas is representing our partner in this venture.”
Budge said, “How do you do,” and the colonel said, “Con mucho gusto.” They eyed each other and shook hands.
“Time to go,” Winsor said. “The colonel and I want to be there to see those deliveries arriving.”
“Ah, sí,” the colonel said, smiling broadly at the thought. “Los puercos muy ricos.”
Winsor was grinning, too. “Yep, very rich pigs indeed,” he said. “And it’s been a hell of a lot of work and worry to get them safely immigrated;”
Budge looked at Winsor. “You riding up front this time or with Colonel de Vargas?”
“The colonel’s a pilot,” Winsor said. “He’d said he’d like to fly the Falcon.”
“Are we going to that game ranch in New Mexico?” Budge asked. “You like the idea of a guy landing a strange airplane the first time he’s flown it, and having to put it down on a short dirt strip?”
Winsor grinned, shook his head. The colonel looked disappointed, and Budge noticed that.
“Why don’t you take the copilot’s seat, Colonel,” Budge said, motioning him toward it. “I’ll show you some of the gadgets the French built into this thing.”
“Oh, good,” the colonel said, smiling happily. “And people call me Diego.”
As a crow flies, or a pipeline runs, the trip from San Pedro de los Corralitos is short indeed, not much more than a hundred miles. As a Dessault Falcon 10 jet flies across the U.S. border from Mexico it’s more complicated. The colonel had explained some of those complications as they buckled in and prepared for takeoff, telling Budge, in Spanish, with a few technical terms mixed in, about where and when the Border Patrol flew its helicopters, where radar stations were and what they covered, and how flying too low involved a risk of encountering the pilotless drones and their cameras, which sent what they were viewing back to television screens in Border Patrol stations.
Budge took the Falcon toward El Paso, low, and far enough south to avoid radar, then gained altitude and crossed the border on a direct route toward Albuquerque until, fifty miles over New Mexico, he turned west as if headed for Tucson, explaining the little jet to Diego as he did.
The flight took time, and Budge needed time. He wanted to get acquainted with this Mexican who, he sensed, might be useful, might be subject to persuasion that killing a Border Patrol cop was not a wise idea. And he had to decide what to do about the cop herself, no matter what. And, finally, he couldn’t get Chrissy off his mind.
She had brought her luggage with her that black day—that last day he’d seen her—excited, nervous, happy as she watched him fitting the bags into the limo’s trunk.
“Did Rawley tell you where we’re going this morning?”
“He didn’t say,” Budge said. “And that’s very unusual. I want you to sit up front with me so we can talk about it.”
“Sure,” Chrissy said. “We’re going out to the airport. To his airplane, and we’re going to fly down to Mazatlan, down to that Mexican resort on the Pacific. And guess what?! Rawley and I are going to get married down there.”
Now, flying east toward El Paso and the morning sun, he remembered every second of that day. He had closed the limo door behind her, walked around the front, got in, started the engine, and rolled down the drive to the street, trying to collect his wits. Even though he’d known this was going to happen, had been trying to form a workable plan for dealing with it, this had left him speechless-enraged, engulfed in hatred for Rawley Winsor. It hadn’t occurred to him Winsor would use a ruse like this marriage idea. The man’s cruelty amazed him.
“Aren’t you excited for me?” Chrissy said. “I’ve never been to Mexico before. I’ve never even seen the Pacific Ocean.”
“Chrissy. What did he tell you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he must have said something about why he wasn’t flying down there with you. How did he explain that? Is he flying down later? Do I go back and get him? He’d told me he wants me ready to fly him down to El Paso, or maybe somewhere in New Mexico, and all on very short notice. What’s the plan here?”
“Budge. What’s wrong? You sound funny?”
He stopped for a red light, signaled a turn. How could he tell her what Winsor planned for her? How could he tell her so she would believe him. She would think he was jealous. Lying. He couldn’t just abduct her with force. If he did, what then. And if he told her, and she didn’t believe him, she’d call Winsor. And Winsor would pretend to believe her, assure her that Budge was just crazy jealous. Then Winsor would get him out of the picture and dispose of Chrissy another way. He’d have to find a way to show her the truth.
“Did Mr. Winsor tell you when he was coming down? Do you have a date for the wedding? Any of that?”
“He had a job he had to finish. Just another day he thought. He said you’d be bringing him down tomorrow.” She paused. “But I guess you already knew that. He must have mentioned it to you. Didn’t he?” Chrissy’s tone had wavered from angry to uncertain.