Final Payment

Chapter Twenty-five

Now that Tom Pasquale and the other riders had survived the mesa, Estelle’s mind drifted back to other, more pressing concerns. The Expedition thumped onto the pavement of the state highway, and the undersheriff turned away from the race, back toward the airport and the village of Posadas. From this point on, race competitors faced miles of undulating prairie-not much of a spectator sport.

“That’s enough excitement for one day,” Leona said almost wistfully. “I thought Thomas looked pleased with himself, don’t you think?”

“Not too much blood yet.” Estelle grinned. “He’s been working hard on the organization for this race. I’m happy to see it working out. So far, so good, anyway.”

“I think I got a good picture-and one of Mr. Hansen as well, looking exhausted.” She stretched languidly. “I think I’ll e-mail him a copy. He’ll get a kick out of it.”

“He probably would-just him and the bike and the rocks and the blood,” Estelle said. “No politics out here.”

“Well, he’s not into politics much anymore. I think that when his brother died, he kinda shrank back a little. And I’m not surprised.”

Estelle glanced over at Leona. “I didn’t remember that’s what happened.”

“Sad, sad. You spend your life building roads, and then drive off a bad one.”

“Really?” Estelle asked, but Leona needed little prompting.

“Apparently so. He and his wife.” She frowned. “And I can’t remember their names. Anyway, it was one of those little narrow roads down in Chiapas, with no guardrails.” She sighed. “I never did hear the details, but it’s sad nevertheless. They didn’t even bring the bodies back. Terribly burned, I suppose.”

“Ay. That’s right. That rings a bell. I remember there being some talk about how odd it was that they settled for burial in Mexico.”

“Well, dead is dead,” Leona said almost cheerfully. “Just a nasty, nasty thing.”

“That’s the brother who took over Hansen’s construction company while Chet was in office?”

“That’s the one. After Donnie’s-that’s his name-after Donnie died, Chet got the company back, but that’s a tough way to do it. I think the two boys were quite close. That’s what I’d heard, anyway.” She held up both hands in resignation. “But that’s ancient history. So, are we headed home now?”

“I wish I knew,” Estelle sighed. “I suppose so.” She took a deep breath. “You know, this youngster puzzles me.” She glanced across at Leona. “Hector, I mean. I don’t understand him.”

Leona frowned. “An impressionable young man, perhaps,” she said. “Easily talked down the wrong path.”

“He knows more than he’s telling us. I’m sure of that. He brings this Manolo Tapia into the country without knowing a thing about the man’s business? I don’t think so. And then we discover that the man is actually his uncle. We don’t know how much he confided in the boy, but we do know that Tapia stayed in the abandoned house next door to the Uriostes. Hector set him up with that little convenience. At any time, Hector could have tipped us off. Instead, this boy claims that he doesn’t even know how long his uncle hid next door.”

“There’s some trust there, though,” Leona said. “This ugly Tapia person trusted Hector enough that he must have figured the boy wouldn’t turn him in.”

“Sure there’s trust. And that’s the question. How much did Tapia keep Hector in the dark? Hector’s story seems to be that Tapia might come back. That the boy might be needed for another round of air taxi service.”

“And that door has been certainly and most definitely closed,” Leona said. “Thank heavens for that. This Mr. Tapia may not even know about Hector’s arrest yet.”

“But he just as easily could know, if he’s in the area. If he went up to Albuquerque as Hector suggests, then no, maybe not. It depends on how much of a spread the media gives it all when we finally open the door to reporters.”

“Well,” Leona said philosophically, “we can always hope that he never returns. And I can think of a very good reason why this man might not confide in the youngster, beyond the necessary basics. We’re dealing with a mere child, after all. I mean really…he is, is he not?” Estelle didn’t remind Leona that many of the world’s most accomplished thugs had never turned eighteen years old, and Hector had passed that milestone.

“He flies a mean airplane, that’s for sure,” Leona continued. “But Hector is a child. And you know, look where he ended up. Hmm? Clever as a little rat, but look where he ends up. In the clink. So there you are. I can empathize. The less the boy knows, the safer for this Tapia fellow, nasty as he is.” Leona’s eyes widened. “And he’s not in the clink. Not yet, anyway.” She reached over and patted Estelle’s shoulder maternally. “I think he’s back in Mexico…for what it’s worth. I think he accomplished his nasties, and now he’s back home.”

“His nasties,” Estelle said, amused at Leona’s quaint turn of speech. “They’re certainly that. Unless we’re very lucky, I think we can expect another trail of bodies showing up…somewhere, sometime. We’re missing something. It’s that simple. That’s what I think.”

They rode in silence as they approached the airport from the west. “Why would he fly into Posadas, and then depend on a motorcycle?” Estelle asked. “That doesn’t make sense, except that it happened to be there. Hector knew about it, maybe even told his uncle beforehand that it was there. The little weasel might even have borrowed it for a joyride himself from time to time. But Tapia? Steal a car, yes. Rent a car, sure. Borrow a car. Why not? But a motorcycle? A dirt bike? What sense does that make? What’s more obvious than a bright red dirt bike, ridden by a fat middle-aged man?”

“Oh,” Leona corrected. “Burly. I don’t see fat. And it’s only obvious if the motorcycle happens to cross the path of someone who’s looking for it, or someone who cares. But you’ll piece it all together,” Leona said. “I’m confident of that.” She let out a sharp gasp and reached out a hand to the dashboard for support as Estelle braked hard. The undersheriff swung the Expedition off onto the shoulder, then cranked it around in a hard U-turn. As soon as the truck was squared away and accelerating hard, she reached for the mike.

“Estúpida, Estúpida,” she said, and keyed the radio. “Three-oh-eight, three-ten.”

For a moment the radio was silent, and then Sheriff Torrez’s quiet voice responded. “Three-oh-eight.”

“Ten-twenty?”

“At the airstrip, headin’ north.”

“Ten-four. I’m headed that way. Look, Chet Hansen is number 109. He just came off the mesa with Pasquale right behind him. They’ll be on the prairie by now, headed south on fourteen.”

“Okay.”

“I think we need a close escort for Hansen.”

“Ten-four. I’ll be twenty-one.” Torrez didn’t elaborate, but in a moment Estelle’s phone buzzed. With the county truck charging westbound at well over eighty miles an hour, she took her time finding and opening the gadget.

“Guzman.”

“So what’s going on?” Torrez asked. Estelle could hear his vehicle in the background.

“The three victims were involved somehow with Pemberton, Duquesne, and Cordova, Bobby. At least one of them worked for that firm. They were headed for Socorro-that’s what Hector tells us. Coincidence or not, the lieutenant governor is from Socorro. On top of that, Leona just reminded me that Chet Hansen’s brother was killed in a car wreck last year in southern Mexico, along with his family. Hansen took his construction company back after that.”

“Huh.” The sheriff’s grunt was noncommittal. “So what?”

“It’s the only thing we have,” Estelle said. “And this has been bothering me-why would Tapia want a dirt bike if he was headed to Albuquerque, like Hector claims he was? He wouldn’t. He’d want the bike if he’s going into the rough, if he’s going out in the boonies. And that prompts coincidence-or-not number three. Why did he come to Posadas this particular week? He made that very clear, Hector says. This was the correct date. So what’s going on this week? A cyclo-cross bike race. Our ex-lieutenant governor is in a well-publicized race right through the heart of our finest boonies. That’s opportunity, Bobby.”

“Yeah, well,” Torrez said, and he still sounded dubious. “There’s a hundred and thirty riders in the race, though. Might be a hundred and twenty-nine other targets. Might not be Hansen-if it’s anyone.”

“All I’m going on is the Mexican and PDC connection, Bobby. If you can look down the list of names and come up with someone else more likely, have at it.” She glanced at Leona, who was scanning the list as she spoke. The county manager looked at her and shook her head.

“I don’t recognize anyone else,” Leona said.

“We’re on the list right now,” Estelle continued. “Look, suppose that for whatever reason, this assassin is after Chet Hansen…or someone else participating in this race. Think about it. The race is a well-publicized convenience for him…close to the border, lots of hubbub.”

“And lots of opportunity,” Torrez interjected. “If a rider is the target, he’s got a nice big number pinned on him, front and back.”

“Absolutely.” She pulled into the passing lane to shoot past traffic. “But it’s too rough up on the mesa, and there are too many witnesses. Not hard to hide, or ambush, but way too hard to make a getaway. He’s too smart to let himself be trapped.”

“Huh. Everybody’s off the mountain?”

“Yes. Off and accounted for. At the same time, we don’t have much coverage all the way down County Fourteen. That’s thirty-one miles of opportunity, with plenty of escape routes. And in the country, a dirt bike is just the ticket. The terrain is open, and it’s just minutes from the border.”

The phone was silent. “Bobby, there’s evidence Tapia stayed in the house next door to the Uriostes. That’s saying he had some business here, not up north in Albuquerque. He might have told Hector that just as insurance-in case the boy was caught and decided to talk.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yes, it does. He didn’t even need the boy to feed him information beforehand. Anyone with a computer can find race information online, starting in February, when they posted the route map and started registering riders. The story Hector tells us coincides with all of that. And anybody can get a race program online, with the riders’ names and numbers. Like you said, a number front and back-that makes for a handy target.”

“Shit,” Torrez muttered. “He could just as well be after any name on that list. They’re strangers, most of ’em.”

“That’s right. They are. I’m going by only one thing…. Make that two. Number one, Hansen has had dealings with PDC in the past. Number two, his brother died in Mexico in odd circumstances. His body wasn’t even brought back to the States for burial. Why didn’t Hansen insist on that? It just doesn’t jibe. I might be wrong. But it makes sense to me.”

“We got nothing to lose,” Torrez said. “If it’s a hunch, follow it up. If you’re wrong, all we’ve done is waste a little gasoline.”

“Look, I’m coming in from the north,” Estelle said. “I’m probably closer to him than you are.”

“I’m on my way.” Torrez switched off, and Estelle dropped the phone on the seat beside her. She braked hard as they reached the check station. Six riders were guzzling fluids, and Estelle had time to see the expressions of surprise as the Expedition turned off the highway onto the dirt, red lights flashing, fishtailing as she applied power.

Leona murmured something and grabbed the panic handle.

“Keep a sharp eye,” Estelle said. “We’re going to be overtaking riders, and this road doesn’t give us a whole lot of room.”

“I’m watching when I don’t have my eyes closed,” Leona chirped.

For a mile, the county road ran arrow-straight, the prairie so dry that traffic had pounded the red soil into fluffy dust that billowed up behind the truck like a jet’s vapor trail. Just beyond a windmill and a large stock corral, the route jogged left around the base of a low mesa, cutting through the jumble of rocks that over the eons had calved off the mesa rim.

Estelle slowed. She didn’t want to roar up behind Pasquale and punt the deputy and his bike off into the piñons. At the same time, she saw that opportunity for ambush abounded, with harsh shadows making it hard to identify individual shapes under the trees or behind boulders. There would be a fair amount of traffic, but an ambush would take only seconds.

With the windows down despite the dust, she drove up and around the small mesa, then braked hard as they dipped across an arroyo, clawing and chewing rocks up the other side. A helpful sign, riddled with generations of bullet holes, announced: County Road Maintenance Ends, 5 Mi.

“I have to ask,” Leona said, hanging on tightly as they charged up and out of the arroyo. “Why ever not just come into the country like a normal tourist, this assassin person? Why all the risk with this night flying business?”

Estelle didn’t answer for a moment, instead concentrating on avoiding a series of frame-bending ruts that yawned eighteen inches deep in the prairie. Once more on sharp rocks as the road took on a steep rise dead-on, she replied, “For one thing, border checks are tighter than they used to be. If a weapon turns up, he’s dead meat. Anyway, we’re assuming that he has business north of the border. Otherwise he wouldn’t show up here. But it works for him. If he killed the PDC accountant and his family in Mexico, he runs the risk of having those authorities on his tail. This way, everything is in the United States. He finishes his business here, skips south, and he’s home free.”

“Ah. I’m not smart enough for this.”

“And maybe just because it suited his sense of fun,” Estelle added. “And it gives him a tie to Hector. Another bond. That might be of use later. Who knows, maybe he’s training the little weasel.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Leona sighed. “We’re talking about a different species here.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” the undersheriff said. “But you may be dead-on right.”

Driving as quietly as a jouncing two-ton vehicle could manage on a dirt road, they crested the top of the rise. She had slowed to thirty miles an hour, with emergency lights off. As she drove and listened, Estelle tried to recall the intimate details of the country-how the road twisted, how the sweep of vegetation flowed up on the high ridges where the cattle rarely strayed.

For a hundred yards, they drove along a low ridge. They could see all the way south to the San Cristóbals, and to the north, Cat Mesa. The road then swept down in a graceful, fast curve to an abandoned windmill and the remains of a stock corral.

Twisting left, the county road left the meadow and skirted a conglomeration of old fence lines that converged from several directions. Turning to hard gravel and emerging limestone outcroppings, the route climbed back into the scrubby trees. The next two turns were so tight that Estelle slowed to a walk, keeping the Expedition away from the jutting rocks on the passenger side, and the growing drop-off on hers. She glanced at her watch. The cyclists would be flying on this section of the race, rougher for a four-wheeled vehicle than for a bike.

Out on top again, the road ran along the spine of the little wrinkle in the prairie and, craning her neck, Estelle could see back down to the windmill. For a hundred yards or so, they drove straight north, and then the road turned sharply to the left and downhill, switching back to slope down toward the next meadow. As she rounded the right corner, mindful of the drop-off once again on Leona’s side, she caught sight of a figure wearing the colorful garb of the race. Not leaning against his bike, not sitting on a rock or a stump, Tom Pasquale was collapsed awkwardly in the dirt at the very edge of an arroyo, the drop-off directly behind him. His legs were buckled under him, his back leaning against the fresh dirt cut where a road grader’s blade had trimmed the road two weeks before, cutting a ditch to the arroyo.

The county truck slid to a stop and it was only when Estelle opened the door that she saw Pasquale’s right hand lift. He didn’t look up, but his signal for her to stop was clear enough. For just an instant, he held his hand palm toward her; then the fingers curled, his index pointing up the hill behind him.

Estelle froze, eyes scanning the sparse and runty timber. After a few seconds, she leaned back into the truck. “Stay in the vehicle,” she said as she tripped the shotgun release.