One Perfect Shot

Chapter Thirty-seven

Arizona is a wonderfully picturesque state, but at two in the morning, all I could see were swatches of lights here and there. Leaving New Mexico, we could see Silver City tucked behind us at the foot of the Gila Wilderness with a scattering of tiny communities around it, and then ahead Springerville, Arizona in the middle of the great black void with Show Low off to the west. Snowflake finally showed itself after too long wondering where the hell Jim would land 592 Foxtrot Gulf should the engine quit. He wasn’t sparing the horses. About the time Holbrook and the daisy chain of lights on I-40 hailed into view, I could also see what had to be Winslow in the distance to the west.

I had no idea where Winslow-Lindberg was, but that didn’t matter. Jim Bergin did, and a genteel approach wasn’t in the books. He peeled off from altitude and did a steep approach, flaps hanging down from the wing’s trailing edges like great shaking doors. All the while he talked on the radio, and part of the conversation included the terse instructions, “And make sure the deputy is parked where we can see him.”

Even as our tires kissed the pavement, I could see the cop car well off to the side, red lights flashing. We fast taxied in and Jim cut the engine, the prop windmilling to a halt as we coasted the last few feet.

“You probably want a ride back,” he said laconically.

“Yep. But I don’t know when. Do you have something to shackle to? We may have a prisoner with us.”

Bergin looked skeptical.

“Just a kid,” I added, but Bergin could read my expression. As far as I was concerned, Mo had taken himself out of the “kid” category about the time that he squeezed the trigger of his father’s Winchester. Kids’ advocate Ruth Wayand might disagree, but she, the D.A., and the judge could fight it out. I hoped only that Mo would survive to take part in the negotiations.

“Ah. Seat frame works for that. Done it before. Look, I’ll grab a ride to the railroad hotel and finish the sleeping that you so rudely interrupted. Give a holler when you’re ready to go back. How’s that work?”

“Outstanding.” I held out my hand. “Thanks.”

I slid out of the plane, followed by Estelle. The Arizona deputy tried not to do a double take when he saw the young lady, then introduced himself as Willie Begay. Not sure of the protocol, he held the Suburban’s back door for Estelle while I climbed into the front.

“It’s about twenty miles,” he announced. I tightened my seatbelt, because I knew what was in store. Young men and powerful engines bring out the best. We wailed out of Winslow onto Interstate 40 and kept to the left lane for enough miles to make me nervous. We dove off an exit and hit the dirt paths that pass for secondary roads in that part of the state, and sure enough, out ahead of us like an illuminated snake, the Amtrak Santa Fe Chief train #3 was parked on a siding. The approach was a rail access road that turned the Suburban into a bucking bronco.

Just off the tail of the train’s last car, a fleet of six police units had congregated. Had he been able to look out and see them from where he sat five cars forward, Mo Arnett might have felt proud of himself for generating so much attention. But he was isolated from a rear view, with only the black desert out the side windows.

Deputy Begay turned at the last moment and tucked the Suburban in behind an unmarked Dodge SUV. A huge individual broke away from the circle and headed toward us.

“Damn good thing,” he greeted. “We’re out of donuts.” Leo Burkhalter hooked an arm through mine as if he were escorting an old lady, nodded a greeting at Estelle, and then led us toward the rear door of the last rail car. He paused with a hand on the passenger rail. His head oscillated as if he had a loose bolt in his neck.

“This is what they tell me,” he said. “He’s at one of the four-top tables at the front of the observation car. The door’s locked now, and the attendant apparently spun a tale that it’s all part of whatever problem they’re having. With the train being delayed for hours up north, it isn’t much of a stretch to believe there’s more trouble.”

“You have communication?”

“The attendant has a radio, but they’ve played it cool, man. The kid hasn’t heard a thing. Every once in a while, the attendant walks back to make a show about trying the door. Gives her a chance to communicate a little bit.”

“Her name?”

“Iola Beauchamp. Forty-four year old mother of six. Home is Chicago.”

“We need to get her out of there. Is she the one who I.D.’d the kid?”

Burkhalter exhaled loudly. “I tell you what, sheriff. I wish to hell that woman worked for me. She said Arnett was sleeping, head down on the table. I guess her motherly instincts kicked in, and she went to find him a blanket. When she got back, she went to put it over him, and that’s when she saw the gun. He had it in his pants on the right side, near the small of his back.”

“Not the smartest move he’s ever made,” I said. “She couldn’t grab it easily?”

“Not a chance.”

“Just as well that she didn’t try.”

“He’s zonked out, and Iola takes her time. That time of night, there were only two other folk at the far end of the car. Iola discreetly gets ’em gone, then calls for the door lock. And there she is, one on one with your fruitcake. He hasn’t tried to explore the train, which is a good thing. Just a matter of time, though. I don’t want Iola having to confront him to keep him in place. Doors are locked, but you know…”

The door above us zipped open, and a tall, trim conductor looked down at us.

“This is Bruce Hammer. He’s the boss,” Burkhalter said. “Sir, this is Sheriff Bill Gastner from Posadas, New Mexico. The suspect belongs to him. This young lady is one of his deputies.”

“Sir,” Hammer said, and extended a huge hand. His grip was powerful. He tipped his gold-edged cap in an old-fashioned salute to Estelle. “I don’t need to tell you all that what we want to avoid is any kind of disturbance. I want this young man off my train, and I want it done so quietly and quickly that the rest of the passengers never know what happened.” He stepped down so he was looking me in the eye. “It’s our understanding that he’s armed.”

“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.”