Santa Fe Dead

39

AS DARKNESS APPROACHED, Jack Cato drove his car to the Compton airport, a small field southeast of Los Angeles International, then to the Compton Flying Club, where he had learned to fly fifteen years before and where he sometimes rented airplanes.

He parked his car and walked over to where the Beech Bonanza had been left parked for him. He opened the fuel caps and checked to be sure the airplane had been refueled, then he performed a preflight check and kicked away the chocks securing the wheels, finding the airplane’s key under the nosewheel chock.

He tossed his duffel and hat and the briefcase containing the sniper’s rifle into the rear seat, got the airplane started and taxied to the end of the runway. He called Socal Approach and gave them his tail number. “Departing Compton VFR, bound for Palmdale,” he said into the headset. “Request a squawk code and vectors to the Palmdale VOR.”

“Bonanza, squawk four-seven/four-seven cleared for takeoff. Fly runway heading and maintain VFR,” the controller said.

Cato taxied onto the runway and shoved the throttle forward. A moment later he lifted off just in time to see the upper limb of the sun sink into the Pacific. Twenty minutes later, after a number of vectored turns, he was at the Palmdale VOR, a navigation beacon. He thanked the Socal controller, was authorized to change frequencies, then switched off the transponder and turned the radio volume all the way down. Now he didn’t exist for the controllers, except as a primary radar target, so his tail number did not appear on their screens.

He entered 17,500 feet into the altitude preselect unit, entered SAF into the GPS computer, then climbed to his selected altitude, slipping on an oxygen mask at 10,000. He was flying across the Mojave Desert, direct to Santa Fe, at an altitude rarely used by general aviation aircraft, and although he had a screen display of other airplanes in the area, it was unlikely that any of them would ever come near him. All he had to do for the rest of the flight was to switch fuel tanks from time to time. He switched on the Sirius Satellite Radio, tuned in a country music station and opened a sandwich he had brought with him. The GPS told him he would be in Santa Fe in two hours and forty minutes.

Half an hour out of Santa Fe he took a sunglasses case from his pocket and opened it. Inside was something he had stolen from the makeup department during his last movie: a beautiful and voluminous handlebar moustache. He switched on the cabin lights, painted his upper lip with adhesive from a small bottle and, using a mirror, affixed the moustache.

He landed at Santa Fe, put on his large cowboy hat and went into the reception building at Santa Fe Jet. Using a fake driver’s license with an Austin, Texas, address, he signed up for the rental car he had reserved, left a thousand-dollar cash deposit and placed his fuel and oxygen order, then he was on his way. The girl behind the counter would remember only a man with a big hat, a broad Texas accent and an outlandish moustache.

Cato knew Santa Fe fairly well, because he had made two pictures there and because he had studied a map and had located the route prescribed by the woman who had hired him.

He checked into a motel on Cerrillos Road, a busy, six-lane approach to the city, and watched TV until he got sleepy. He slept until past ten A.M., then donned his moustache and hat and had breakfast at McDonald’s. He then drove to the northern outskirts of the city to a country road where he had once driven a stagecoach in a film.

He got out of the car and walked a couple of hundred yards into the desert, where he set up some stones as targets, then paced off one hundred yards. He assembled the rifle, loaded it and first from a prone position, then kneeling and standing, fired at the stones, making minute corrections to the telescopic sight until he was zeroed in. Then he disassembled the rifle, packed it into its case and walked back to his car.

He had some lunch at the Tesuque Market, a local grocery and restaurant, then he found the road where his target lived. He drove past the house, then turned around and drove back, checking it out again. Along the way he saw a little dirt track where he could park his car, unseen. Satisfied, he went back to his motel and watched a NASCAR race on TV.

He had a late dinner at a place on Canyon Road, still in his moustache and never removing his hat. A little past midnight, he got into his car and drove slowly out to the target house, parked his car and began to make ready.

EAGLE HAD DINNER in town with Susannah, made a lunch date with her for the next day, then drove her back to her house. He called a cell number he had been given.

“Yes?” a voice said.

“It’s Ed Eagle. Can I come home now?”

“Yes. I’m in the house, and I’ve got a man patrolling the perimeter of the property.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there shortly.” He drove back to his home, parked in the garage and let himself into the kitchen. A police detective was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee. “Good evening,” Eagle said.

“I made myself some coffee,” the cop said.

“Raid the refrigerator, if you’re hungry. I’m going to bed. Long day.”

“Good night, then,” the cop said.

Eagle went into his bedroom and switched on the lights.

JACK CATO HAD seen the car drive in and the light go on. He worked his way around the house a couple of dozen yards until he could see, through a window, someone moving. He sighted through the scope and found his victim, as described.

He knelt beside a large boulder and rested the rifle on it, giving himself a steady shooting cradle. The target walked past a window, but he didn’t have time to fire. Then the target came back and was satisfyingly still, framed by the window, undressing.

Cato needed only a single shot. He heard the glass break, and his target spun and fell, out of sight. Cato wasted no time. He walked quickly back to the car, disassembled the rifle, locked it in the trunk in the compartment with the spare tire, backed out of the dirt road with his lights off and drove away from the house. Using his map, he found another way back to town. An hour after the kill, he was in his bed, sound asleep, with the clock radio set for five A.M.

The following morning, Cato was back at the airport, just as Santa Fe Jet opened. He turned in his rental car and paid his fuel bill in cash, and half an hour later he was on his way back to Los Angeles.

After landing, he called the cell number he had been given.

“Yes?” she said.

“The job is done.”

“I’ll mail your money as soon as it’s confirmed.”

Cato hung up and drove home.