Final Payment

Chapter Twenty-nine

The stock tank was a hundred yards ahead, and Estelle hesitated. Manolo Tapia was a cunning man. Where he might be, or what he might intend, was anyone’s guess. It made sense to flee to the border, or perhaps to the relative anonymity of a major city, like El Paso to the east or Tucson to the west. The border was close, within striking distance via back roads. In many spots, the border fence was nothing more than a few strands of barbed wire, sometimes not even that much. The large metro areas presented an immediate risk for a fugitive, reached by traveling on the interstates, where he would be exposed to sharp eyes.

Tapia had killed in the most calculating, cold-blooded fashion-it appeared that both the Salvadorans and Chester Hansen had gone from exhilaration to death in an instant, with no time to plead for their lives. Then, Tom Pasquale had been neutralized as efficiently as circumstances permitted-that Tapia hadn’t killed the young deputy when he had the chance was a surprise.

Estelle lifted her foot off the brake and let the Expedition creep forward a few yards. If what appeared to be a motorcycle belonged to Manolo Tapia, there could be any number of reasons why he might have abandoned it-mechanical breakdown, flat tire, even lack of fuel. If that was the case, the injured man was on foot somewhere-or resting on the far side of the tank in a patch of shade. And he had to know that they were there. The undersheriff picked up her binoculars again and methodically began a scan of the runty vegetation-mostly low juniper, greasewood, and black sage.

Twisting around in her seat to her left, Estelle searched the trees across the meadow. Shadows moved a hundred yards away and materialized into three mule deer, curious about the intrusion. They looked placidly at her, but their attention was drawn nowhere else. Wherever Tapia was, he hadn’t spooked the wildlife.

“I don’t see anything,” Leona said, then just as quickly added, “Oh, yes, I do.”

At the same time that she turned back toward the county manager, Estelle felt the truck jolt. Leona recoiled back in her seat as Manolo Tapia’s face appeared in her open window. A black semiautomatic rested on the windowsill, the blunt muzzle of its silencer pointed unwaveringly at Leona’s throat. His left elbow was thrust into the truck, tight against the window post, almost close enough to elbow Leona in the face. He stood on the running board, bracing a leg against the vehicle.

“Now,” he said, breathing hard, “we must think very carefully.” The gun didn’t waver away from Leona, but his gaze was locked on Estelle.

She sat quietly, right foot on the brake, the truck in gear and idling. Her right hand was full of binoculars, her left hand on the steering wheel. In a heartbeat, she could stab the accelerator to the floor, and the big V-8 would jar the truck forward in a shower of rocks. She could see that Tapia was braced for such a maneuver, and nothing she could do would dislodge him quickly enough to protect Leona. A trigger pull was just a few ounces away.

“You must know that I will shoot if I have to,” Tapia said, his voice almost courtly with its gentility. “This position in which we find ourselves…It can all be resolved so easily if we don’t indulge in heroics.”

Estelle didn’t move, and thankfully neither did Leona. The county manager’s eyes were huge, focused on the gun barrel.

Tapia’s face was pale and sweaty, the only indication that he might be hurt. He had positioned his body in such a way that his crooked left arm, besides locking him to the truck door, protected the gun. Leona was a large woman, and no doubt stronger than average. She could slam forward, trying to bash the threatening muzzle forward. But Tapia’s beefy arm blocked that, even if she were inclined to attempt it.

“Put down the binoculars,” he instructed. Estelle did so, freeing her right hand. Her own service automatic was tight in its holster, blocked by her seat belt. The shotgun rested in its rack, tantalizingly close but absolutely useless.

“Put the vehicle in park,” Tapia continued in flawless English. “Be oh-so-careful now.” There was no threat in his voice, just quiet patience-and somehow all the more deadly for that. He grimaced as he shifted his weight. The muzzle of the silencer ticked upward toward Leona’s chin. “Just into park.”

“What do you want?” Estelle said.

“Ah, a beautiful voice as well,” Tapia said, and nodded his approval. “What I want is that lever,” and this time he shifted the gun to point at Estelle, “pushed gently into park. At this moment in time, that’s all I want. Can we accomplish that much without bloodshed?”

“I hope so,” Estelle replied, at the same time calculating the odds if she went for reverse, lurching Tapia away from his braced arm. But that could force the gun back toward Leona. She placed the binoculars on the seat, then with the tips of her fingers lifted the gear lever and pushed it up through the gates. In at least one respect, Manolo Tapia was a known quantity-he had plenty of experience pulling triggers, but he hadn’t killed Tom Pasquale when he had the easy chance.

“Ah, good. Now turn off the key, if we please. Just that. No more.”

She released the gear lever and switched the key back to the first detent, not far enough to lock the steering wheel or free the key. The deep murmur of the engine quit and for a brief moment, their breathing was the loudest noise in the cab. Tapia shifted his position, leaning more weight on the door as he dropped his good leg to the ground. He pushed himself away from the truck, making it impossible for Leona to make a grab for the gun.

“Now,” he said. “It is very simple what we must do, and you may help me do it. I think that is the best thing, no?” Estelle didn’t respond, since Tapia clearly would understand her two priorities-to prevent more bulletholes in people and to see him behind bars.

“You will drive me back to the village. That is a most simple thing, I think. So,” and he shifted backward another fraction of a step, left hand on the truck door, right hand still holding the pistol on Leona. “You do not appear to be an officer, señora. Are you with the race?”

“I am the county manager,” Leona said matter-of-factly. “And you must know that you’re not going to get away with any of this.”

Tapia laughed gently. He swung the muzzle of the pistol toward Estelle. “You will remain exactly where you are, with both hands on the steering wheel. Are we agreed?”

Estelle rested both hands on the wheel. There would be opportunities, but at the moment, nothing balanced the risks.

“Now,” Tapia said, but stopped as he heard the characteristic whupping sound of a helicopter approaching.

“That chopper is coming here,” she said, without moving her hands. “I need to call them off. They’re with the television station.” The last thing she wanted was a spray of bullets involving civilians-particularly Channel 8, “More News at Ten.”

“Yes, indeed you do,” Tapia said. “Be careful.”

“It’s just a television news unit,” Estelle said. “I have to call my dispatch in order to reach them. We don’t have their frequency on our radios.”

“Of course you don’t. Be very careful.”

The undersheriff found the cellular phone without taking her eyes off Tapia, and auto-dialed dispatch. She watched as Tapia reached into the truck and locked one hand on Leona’s right shoulder, at the same time swinging the gun so that it pointed directly at Estelle’s head.

“Gayle,” she said as soon as the connection when through, “I need the Channel Eight chopper to clear the area. Tell Ms. Duarte that I’ll meet with her back at the office in a few minutes.”

“Affirmative,” Gayle replied. “Tom Mears is heading up the team out at the site. He should be there by now. Linda’s on her way.”

“That’s good,” Estelle said. The farther they stay away from here, the better. The chopper appeared, flying along the top of a low rise, skimming no more than a hundred feet above the ground. It banked sharply toward them, then appeared to hesitate. It slowed and turned broadside to them a thousand yards out, hovering nose high.

“They want to know what the ambulance is for,” Gayle asked. “They can see it from their position now.”

“I’ll talk to them in a few minutes,” Estelle said. “If they want to fly over west of the location, there’s an open field there. Tell them they’ll see an old broken-down homestead off the road a ways. They can land there. Sergeant Mears will talk with them. But tell them that we don’t want that chopper near the crime scene. The last thing we need is the rotor wash sweeping everything away.”

“Roger that,” Gayle said.

Estelle switched off the phone. Tapia was watching her with something akin to amusement.

“Very good,” he said. “I am much impressed.” In a few seconds, the helicopter’s nose dipped and it headed past them toward the southwest. “Now, let us do what we must do. There is little time,” Tapia said. He stepped closer and braced one hand against the door as he touched the muzzle of the automatic to the county manager’s right ear. She flinched and said something that Estelle couldn’t hear. “Now,” Tapia said, “give me your telephone.”

“Why would I do that?” Estelle asked.

Leona yelped as Tapia jammed the silencer’s muzzle into her skull. “Because I ask of you,” he said pleasantly. Estelle extended the phone toward him. “Take it,” he said to Leona, who did so instantly. He released his grip on the door and she placed the phone in his hand. “Now,” he continued. “You have a radio, I believe.”

“Of course.”

“I mean the small one on your belt.” He nudged Leona again, but his eyes never left Estelle. “You will be careful not to trigger the emergency call button as you hand it to me.” He had slipped the phone in his pocket, and once more extended his hand. “And now,” he said as he took the small radio, “the gun.”

Estelle didn’t move.

“The gun,” he repeated. “Now is not the time for heroics. After all,” he added pleasantly, “pop, pop, and I am free to take your fine truck without arguing with you. That is so, is it not? I am offering you an opportunity, señora, an opportunity to avoid blood all over that nice upholstery. You must see that.”

With one finger, Estelle released her seat belt, then popped the holster snap. Moving slowly, she withdrew the pudgy.45. It took conscious effort to do so without snuggling the grips into her palm, the thumb safety so easily released. But she understood clearly that no matter how practiced the maneuver, it was just that-an orchestrated series of coordinated movements, none of them as instant as the single twitch of Tapia’s trigger finger: in point of fact, a far more practiced trigger finger than her own.

“Give it to him, Leona.” She held out the pistol and Leona took it, holding her hand flat like a platter.

“Very good,” Tapia said. He grimaced again and shook his head. “Ah, well. Now, on the back of your belt, young lady. There are handcuffs, I assume?”

Estelle said nothing.

“You will remove them now.”

“You don’t need handcuffs,” she said.

“Ah, but that would be something that I must decide,” he said. “If you please.”

Estelle leaned forward and reached around behind herself, slipping the set of cuffs off her belt.

“Secure your right wrist,” Tapia said, and when Estelle hesitated, he ground the muzzle of the silencer into Leona’s ear once again, so hard that she yelped. “I have been as patient as I intend to be,” he added. Estelle snapped one side of the cuffs around her wrist, keeping the latch well back from her hand. “The other on the steering wheel.” As she started to move her hand toward the bottom of the wheel’s arc, he said sharply, “Above the center.” When she was tethered, he nodded with satisfaction and withdrew the gun from Leona’s face.

“And now, madam county manager, you will step out of the truck. With the utmost care. Things have gone so well up to now. Don’t do something foolish to ruin our day.”

He stepped back a pace, and Estelle could see him wobble clumsily on the bad leg. “Come. Do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of you, young man,” Leona said, lying expertly.

“Ah, I suppose not. But thank you. I haven’t been called a young man in a long, long time.” He beckoned with the gun. “Out, now.” An eyebrow lifted with surprise at Leona’s size as she slipped out of the truck. “Give me your telephone,” he commanded. Leona pulled her phone from her pocket and he waved toward the truck. “Just toss it on the seat.” As she did so, he said, “Now, listen to me. It is a beautiful day. Pleasant sunshine, a gentle breeze.” He chuckled softly. “Almost poetic, don’t you think? A pleasant day for a walk. It is not far back to the main road. And as you walk, you will remember that I have your friend with me.” He motioned away from the truck with the gun. “You will remember that, I’m sure.”

Leona looked at Estelle, eyes pleading. “You will be careful, won’t you?” she said.

“A wise woman,” Manolo Tapia said. “Of course she will be careful.” Moving painfully, he swung himself up into the truck. “Let us do what we must do.”