Final Payment

Chapter Fifteen

Matt Grider’s classroom was well on its way to being a poster museum. From the yellowing lithograph of a Ford 9N tractor being driven across an idyllic pasture by a checkered-shirted farmer, to current flyers for synthetic motor oils, nearly every square inch of wall space was covered. Little Carlos would love it all, Estelle thought. The desks were in a hodgepodge, not rows of organized groups. Grider made his way toward the front of the room and then stopped, uncertain.

“I need to talk to Dr. Archer first,” he said, and glanced at the wall clock. “I don’t think I can call him now,” he added. Estelle knew that Glen Archer was used to being called at all hours, even at 2:10 on a Sunday morning.

“We already did,” Torrez said. “Relax a little.” That was easily said. Matt Grider fidgeted, looking miserable.

“How many students are enrolled in auto mechanics, Mr. Grider?” Estelle asked.

“Is Dr. Archer coming over?” he repeated.

“I’m not asking about any specific student, sir,” Estelle said. “And yes, the superintendent is on the way.”

“Look,” Grider said, and he turned to leaf through a grade book that lay on his desk without turning it toward them. “I need to know what this is about.”

“Somebody’s takin’ gas from your tank,” Torrez said.

“But that’s not all,” Grider said quickly. “I don’t think that’s why we’re having a convention in the middle of the night, is it? And whatever it was, what makes you think that it was one of our students that did-whatever it was?” He looked expectantly from Estelle to Torrez.

“It’s a logical place to start,” Estelle said. “Students and school staff would be the first ones to know about the fuel storage tank out back.”

“Or anyone who graduated from here in the last fifteen years,” Grider added. “I don’t know what you’re after, but it isn’t the theft of five or ten gallons of gasoline.”

Estelle didn’t respond to that, but watched Grider’s face as he skimmed down a class list where his thumb had opened the grade book, seemingly at random.

A swath of headlights danced through the window as another vehicle pulled into the parking loop out front. “That’s Dr. Archer,” Grider said with some relief. He closed the grade book.

“What else do you teach, sir?” Estelle asked. “You must not have more than a dozen students in auto mechanics now, do you?”

“I have nine,” he replied. “And I teach three sections of consumer math and one section of welding.”

“That would keep you busy.”

“Sure. And one class of study skills-that’s just like a study hall sort of thing.”

“You teach all of them here? In this room?” She turned in place, scanning the small classroom. In the back of the room, a double door led out to the shop area.

“Auto and welding. The others are over in one-twelve, behind the gym.”

They heard the outside door rattle open and then close, and in a moment Glen Archer appeared in the classroom doorway. Even in the middle of the night, he managed to look natty, dressed in a light tan jacket over a salmon-colored polo shirt with spotless blue jeans and golf shoes.

“Good evening, all,” he said, not a cheery greeting, but not frosty, either.

“Thanks for coming down, sir,” Estelle said.

“You’re entirely welcome,” Archer said. His gaze swept the room quickly. “I think, anyway,” he added quickly. He flashed a smile at Estelle. “I was having trouble sleeping, so here we are.”

“Sir,” Estelle said, and then hesitated. She was loath to explain the details of what happened-once the information was out, it would spread like wildfire through the tendrils of the gossip vine. Still, enough time had already passed that the killer enjoyed a significant head start. Sheriff Bob Torrez remained silent. “Sir, we think that someone is taking gasoline from the storage tank out back.”

She saw Archer’s right eyebrow rise, as if to say, You got me up in the middle of the night for this?

“We think that there’s a chance that they’re stealing gasoline from here and using it to fuel a stolen aircraft.”

Archer’s broad, ruddy face went blank. “Say that again. You lost me.”

Estelle repeated what she had said word for word.

“That’s what I thought you said.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know both of you, and know that neither one of you is given to thinking up jokes like this in the middle of the night…or any other time, for that matter. But stealing an airplane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From out here? Jim’s airport?”

“Exactly.”

“Well…that’s a new one. Whose plane was it?”

“Jerry Turner’s.”

“Oh, my gosh. And how do we know all this?”

“We don’t, sir,” Estelle said. “Not for sure, anyway. We’re making some assumptions about what happened.”

“I see.” Archer turned sideways and sat in one of the awkward chair-desk combinations. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket, along with a gold ballpoint pen. “Stealing an airplane. Huh.” His pen hovered but he didn’t mark the paper. “Well, Estelle,” he said, and nodded at Torrez. “And Robert. Again, I know you both well enough to know this isn’t some wild goose chase. If you’re here, it’s serious, whatever it is. So that’s that. What do you need from us?”

“We have reason to believe that the person who used the airplane is possibly a student,” Estelle said, then amended that. “I think so.”

Archer regarded her skeptically. “Really.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the gasoline? What’s up with that?”

“Whoever used the airplane wanted to do it without being noticed, sir. It was flown at night, probably south into Mexico. After returning, the aircraft was refueled and replaced in its hangar, no doubt in hopes that the owner would never notice.”

“But evidently he did.”

“In part, yes. When we posed the possibility of someone gaining entrance to his hangar, he made an examination. He saw some irregularities.”

“So they didn’t just steal the airplane, then,” Archer said. “Someone used it without permission. Sort of borrowed it, as it were.”

“Yes.”

“They’re running drugs, you think? Isn’t that what everybody does with an airplane these days?”

“No. We don’t think that’s what happened.”

“What, then?”

“We think that the airplane was used to bring at least three people into the country.”

“Wow.” Archer whistled. “We have enough troubles with the folks who try to walk across the desert. This group is going first class. What did they do, drop ’em off here in Posadas, or what? Fly ’em to the city someplace?”

“That would have been better, sir. We found the bodies out at the gas company’s airstrip down by Regál Pass.”

“You’re kidding.” For a long moment, Archer stared at Estelle, speechless. “Three, you say? Murdered, or died of exposure?”

“Shot.”

He looked down at his pad, even though he hadn’t written a word. “You’re saying that someone stole an airplane from right here…What, Jerry left the keys in it, or what?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Not the smartest thing he ever did. So they stole the airplane, flew it down into Mexico somewhere, picked up three people, brought them back to a remote airstrip, and killed them there?”

“That’s essentially it.”

“Whatever for? Drug deal gone sour?”

“We don’t know, Dr. Archer.”

“Wowser.” He looked at Grider, who shrugged helplessly. “You know any of these people? The ones who were killed?”

“No.”

“Now, for some reason, you think that one of our kiddos is in on this? Am I hearing that right? I can’t believe that.”

“Involved somehow, yes. If not as the pilot, then at least as an accomplice.”

“Why a child, for heaven’s sakes?”

“Not a child, sir. I would guess a teenager. Someone old enough to drive a car. Someone with some experience.”

“My lord. This world is going nuts. What do we do, then? What do you need from us? You’ve got prints and things like that?”

“We’re still processing what we have,” Estelle said, avoiding adding, What little we have. She hesitated again, looking at Grider. “One thing that kids have trouble with is keeping their mouths shut,” she said.

Archer laughed ruefully. “Adults, too.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking, sir. I can’t imagine some teenager who has these kinds of aviation skills being so close-mouthed about it…never letting something slip. Never saying anything.”

“But say again…You’re sure that a youngster is involved? I just can’t believe this. You really are?”

“No. But at this point, that’s what I think.”

“Ah…woman’s intuition,” Grider said, managing to make it sound vaguely condescending. “How do you know it’s some kid from Posadas?”

“We don’t, for sure. But it doesn’t make sense to me that someone from Deming would drive over here to steal your gasoline-and then drive to the airport and know the place well enough to steal the right airplane, and then return it? I don’t think so.”

“What do you want from us?” Archer asked again.

“I’d like you to look through that,” Estelle said, indicating the grade book. “I want you to think about your students. Do any of them fly, or come from families who do? Do any of them talk about flying a lot? Do any of them spend time out back with the smokers?”

“Nobody smokes out there,” Grider said quickly.

“Well, then they’re emptying their ashtrays out by the fence,” Estelle said, and sensing Grider’s animosity, changed tacks. “Or is there anyone who you know who is intimately familiar with Mexico? That’s another angle. Someone who knows the country really well.”

“Huh,” Archer said. He beckoned at Grider, and the teacher handed him the grade book. “I’ve been in this district for a long, long time,” he said.

“I know you have, sir.” In fact, no one was as completely familiar with the demographics of his student body as Glen Archer-a teacher of mathematics and history for years, then high school principal for a decade, he had finally taken the new position when the superintendent’s and principal’s job were combined. Estelle watched the older man thumb through the grade book, and reflected that, between former sheriff Bill Gastner and Glen Archer, there were not many unknown faces in Posadas County.

He scanned each class in turn, running a finger down the names. Finally he flipped the book closed almost too quickly and handed it to Grider. “No bells ring for me,” he said. “How about you?” Grider shook his head.

The superintendent pushed himself up and out of the awkward desk. “Let’s take a walk,” he said to the officers. “Matt, thanks for coming down. Are we finished here?”

“I think so, sir. If you’ll lock things up, we’ll probably come back when it’s light for more photos.”

“Buy a better lock this time,” Archer said with a grin, but Grider didn’t share the humor.

“They cut the chain, not the lock.”

“Ah. We probably need to rethink having that tank,” Archer said, and beckoned at Estelle and Torrez. “If you have a few minutes?”

Out in the hall, Deputy Collins was talking with Linda Real, who had just arrived.

“Tomorrow,” Estelle said to them, “let’s rethink this with some light on the subject. I took a couple shots of the cut chain. Make sure things are secure, and then let’s wrap it up.”

Archer led Estelle and Torrez out of the annex, through a short breezeway, and into the main building of the high school. He fumbled with the keyed light switch for a moment, and then nodded down the hall. “This way.” As he walked, he reached out and touched Estelle on the elbow. “I saw when you left the recital last night,” he said. “Great timing, eh?”

“It never fails,” she replied.

“That’s quite a boy you have there.”

“Thank you, sir. He’s a challenge.”

Archer laughed, the sound echoing in the empty building. “Aren’t they all.” They rounded a corner, and fifty feet of hallway extended in front of them, ending in the main foyer behind the double-glass entry doors. He stopped, surveying a display of artwork that hung on the north wall. “Some really fine things,” he said. “Starts with primary students, and goes right through the high school seniors down at the other end.” He strolled slowly, examining the work as if for the first time. “We have two shows a year, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

He had nearly reached the end of the display, a collection of sophisticated artwork that leaned heavily on fantasy, video game violence, or Middle Earth. Beside one piece, the principal stopped and turned to look expectantly at Estelle and the sheriff. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

The watercolor was large, perhaps eighteen inches wide and thirty inches tall. In the lower left of center was a rambling adobe home, neat and tidy but entirely ordinary with chile ristras hanging from the vigas on either side of the doorway. Two figures were in the front yard, waving wildly. Pulling up steeply to avoid the family and the home was a bright yellow biplane, a crop duster, the mist from its sprayers still wisping off the nozzles.

“Caramba,” Estelle said. “This is amazing.”

“Yes, it is,” Archer said. “You know, when I first saw it, my reaction was a bit negative. For one thing, I’ve seen the picture before, only in different form. There’s a picture that I’ve seen several times in some of those aviation junk-mail catalogs-the crop duster pulling up sharply to miss the barn? This is the same perspective. He’s changed the barn into a house, changed the Stearman, I think it is in the original, into a Grumman Ag Cat. But technically, he’s really got the touch, doesn’t he?”

“Hector Ocate,” Estelle read from the label, and her stomach felt as if it were full of lead.