One Perfect Shot

Chapter Thirty-eight

The three of us, Hammer, Burkhalter, and I, made our way forward through the cars. I suppose he had his reasons for not walking outside, through the gravel and desert wildlife along the side of the railcars. The passengers sprawled this way and that, finding a way to sleep or read or, in the case of a couple of teenagers, snuggle, the wildlife on board the train.

One middle-aged lady looked up, saw Hammer, and reached out a hand.

“Are we ever going to get to Flagstaff?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be underway in just a few minutes.”

She glanced at Burkhalter and me, both obviously cops, but she didn’t ask.

The dark aisles passed one by one, each car packed with warm, smelly bodies, some a good deal smellier than others. Legs and other body parts crowded the aisles, and we maneuvered carefully. Each door at car’s end snapped open like a good sentry coming to attention.

Hammer led us through several cars before holding up a hand. “The car beyond this next one.” He palmed his radio and pointed with the antenna through the door ahead. I saw a snack bar of sorts taking up the bulk of the next car. A television up in the corner was harshly bright, showing an early morning western. The door snapped open and as we entered I saw a hirsute young man curled in the corner with a heavy knapsack, sleeping over a copy of Les Miserables.

The complication was simple. Just as we could look through the sliding door into Mo Arnett’s car, he could see us. I wanted him to have no advantage-none whatsoever. We took the absurdly narrow stairs down to the lower level where Hammer opened the exterior door.

“You’ll want to stay close to the side of the car,” he warned, and we sidled along, shoulders brushing the aluminum. At the far end of the sleeper car ahead of Arnett’s observation unit, we re-entered and made our way up to the second level. As long as the boy remained at his table, we’d enter behind his back.

“All set?” Hammer whispered.

“Tell the engineer that all we need is a couple of bumps…nothing spectacular. Just enough to make the kid think we’re underway again.”

“You got it.” He handed me a radio unit. “So you can hear what’s goin’ on,” he said, and wagged a finger at both of us, a warning that if we put any holes in his train, we’d be in deep shit. With the conductor gone, I punched the door release, and it hissed open. The sealed landing between cars was wide enough for both of us to remain clear of the entry. I eased forward toward the door’s window, but the bulkhead prevented me from catching a glimpse of Mo.

The radio barked a triple blast of squelch, and Iola Beauchamp’s must have done the same. She heard it and made her way toward the rear door. She was a large woman, easily capable of snapping Mo Arnett into little pieces. But she was smart enough to know that size didn’t matter to a.45.

“We’re about to get underway,” Hammer’s voice said. “Let me know if all the doors are secure.”

Iola acknowledged with a quick, “You got it.” At that moment, the train lurched-not much of a bump, but for folks who had grown used to sitting still in the middle of the night, it must have felt like an earthquake. There was no reason for Mo Arnett to think anything amiss. He knew that the train had been delayed for hours before he’d boarded, and another delay wasn’t unimaginable. And, out in the desert under cover of darkness, he might have felt secure, safe from his Posadas troubles.

At the far end of the car, Iola’s door snapped open, and she turned toward Mo with a broad smile, playing her part to perfection. Hammer appeared, and she touched the conductor’s arm as she passed him. The door hissed shut behind them, and Mo was alone in the car.

I activated my own door just as Mo came out of his burrow in the corner. It’s hard as hell to make snap decisions in the groggy wee hours, especially when you’ve alternately been sitting and snoozing the hours away. Mo saw me and for just a fraction of a second, his face went blank. Mo and I didn’t know each other well-not face to face, anyway. Under other circumstances I might recognize him on the street among a gaggle of other teens, the events of the last few hours made it seem as if we were life-long acquaintances.

He might not have been able to recall my name, or for sure place that big old face, the fat belly, or the salt and pepper stubble that passed for my haloed hair-do. He sure as hell could recognize cops when he saw them, especially since Leo Burkhalter was in uniform and the lieutenant’s face was set in that expression that all bad guys, even neophytes, recognize.

Mo hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then tried to scramble around the table, Iola’s courtesy blanket wadding around his legs. He sprawled out into the aisle, now thrashing in four-wheel drive, making for the back door. The gun went skittering, and he grabbed it just about the time I reached his ankles.

I had stared down the bore of a.45 ACP pistol a good number of times, but always while cleaning the damn thing, never while a live round might be nesting in the chamber while a nervous nitwit’s finger shook against the trigger. Mo now lay in the aisle on his back, eyes the size of dinner plates, the gun held awkwardly in both hands, pointed squarely at me.

Well-tempered bravery washed over me, brought on by the various patents that John M. Browning, arguably the greatest firearms designer who ever lived, had melded into the model 1911 semiautomatic pistol. Mo Arnett had been carrying the heavy, old-fashioned handgun stuffed under his belt. I ducked my head and saw that the hammer was not cocked. In that condition, the gun was about as useful as a boat anchor.

“Mo,” I said, “why don’t you give me that thing before someone gets hurt.”

I held out my hand. Unconvinced, Mo dropped one hand from the gun and tried to push himself backward down the aisle. “Where are you going to go?”

His eyes had teared so that he couldn’t focus either on me, or the hulking figure of Burkhalter behind me. And the lieutenant’s weapon was cocked.

“Mo, I can understand why you ran. When you found out that there had been someone in that grader after all, well, hell…who can blame you?” I held out my hand again. “Here. Let’s see if we can salvage something from this mess, Mo. Give me the gun.”

Mo didn’t give me the gun. He jerked around, trying to get up, trying to untangle himself from the blanket. Keeping my bulk between the squirming kid and the lieutenant behind me, I stepped forward, grabbed his right arm and yanked it out from under him, driving his face into the railcar’s flooring. With my left, I palmed the.45, twisting it from his fingers and tossing it backward between my legs. Mo let out an anguished howl as I snapped a set of cuffs on his right wrist. With a yank, I pulled his left arm behind him as well, and in seconds he was helpless, belly down in the aisle. Burkhalter had holstered his gun, and now handed me another set of long-chained cuffs for the boy’s ankles. With the final click of the stainless steel locks, I straightened up. Glancing toward the back door, I saw conductor Bruce Hammer standing with Iola Beauchamp, their faces grim. I gave them both a little salute of gratitude.

As Burkhalter led the hobbled Mo down the stairs, out into the cool, fresh desert night and finally to one of the county Suburbans, I took a brief statement from Ms. Beauchamp. The Amtrak folks wanted their train to roll. They were in no mood to chat. Although she was clipped and all business, in her eyes I could see a touch of sympathy for Mo Arnett.

She explained succinctly how she had seen Mo sleeping at that four top, an enormous puddle of drool leaking onto the table. “I mean, he looked just plain worn out, you know. I felt sorry for him, and there’s plenty of blankets, so I fetched him one,” she said. “That’s when I saw the gun in his waistband.” After that, the decision to isolate and call the nearest police had been simple enough. The Coconino Sheriff’s Department had received-and thankfully read-the BOLO.

After I finished with the Amtrak folks, with names and addresses and the like, they didn’t waste any more time. Train #3 had been delayed long enough. I saw plumes of diesel shoot upward from the two engines, and the Santa Fe Chief started to roll, spooky quiet. In the back of Burkhalter’s Suburban, Mo Arnett twisted his head around to watch-whether as a train aficionado or a sorrowful fugitive wishing he were westbound, I couldn’t tell.

“What were you going to do out in California?” I asked as Mo settled back awkwardly.

“I don’t know,” he managed, not sounding like much of a fan of anything.