Thunderbird

by Susan Slater

  “Back row near the street. On your left when you leave the building. Catch.” Tommy’s boss tossed him the keys. The van was really a cage on wheels great for transporting drunks and holding one foreign airman, or whatever he was. It was going to come in handy.

  “Be back in a minute. Don’t guess you think I’m going to run out on you.” Tommy grinned.

  “Probably couldn’t get too far.”

  Tommy walked out through the automatic glass doors and squinted against an overly bright sun. His sunglasses were somewhere, maybe in the Bronco, which was still on the Rez somewhere between Brenda’s house and the Information Center. With no spare, he reminded himself. He sighed. He was beat. Little sleep, too much spent adrenaline, worry … at this rate he’d be old before his time.

  And there was still a lot to do. Brenda … he didn’t even want to think about what might lie ahead. But she had spoken … called out his name. That had to be a good sign. He wondered how long he’d be detained. Would they take his badge? Somehow, he doubted it. A wrist-slapping, maybe a few days off without pay. Maybe Leonard would see fit to not write it up. He saw the van and cut across the packed lot to the last row.

  He unlocked the driver’s side door and climbed behind the wheel. He had more than one memory of driving this thing around. He swung the wide-chassis Chevy through the semi-circle drive and then backed up to the front door. He opened up the back double-door entry before heading back into the hospital.

  “Hey, I’ll get him.” Tommy moved to intercede for his boss. The man was 200 pounds at least and at this point dead weight

  Leonard stepped aside. “I’ll be out in a minute. I need to phone ahead—get someone looking for the rest of these folks.” Leonard looked relieved that he didn’t have to wrestle the airman into the van. Tommy had helped him save face, or so Tommy wanted to think. Brownie points now wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  “I’ll watch him. Take your time.” So much for being under arrest, or almost. But he knew his boss trusted him—probably thought he could do some really dumb things—but meant well.

  Heaving the solid 200 plus pounds of the airman over his shoulder, Tommy walked back out to the van and dumped the inert weight on the floor in the back. Hardly broke a sweat. Maybe going back to the gym wasn’t going to be so hard after all.

  A partition and steel mesh divider separated the prisoner from the two rows of seats behind the driver. Another mesh divider separated the airman from the door itself—a cage within a cage, a space-eater but effective when you picked up a mean drunk. Tommy could remember being thankful for this arrangement on many occasions. He bolted the divider and stepped back to watch the man. Still out. He’d be easier to handle if he’d just stay that way for awhile.

  He went around to the driver’s side and got in. He’d park in a handicapped slot but first, he needed to clear the emergency entrance.

  “Keep driving. Don’t turn around. Leave the parking lot and go east, take a right onto I-40.” The voice was directly behind him.

  “Shit. I thought you’d be long gone, Colonel, the minute you saw one of your men in trouble. The one that you left to finish off Brenda.” If the colonel heard the anger in his voice, he didn’t let on.

  “Loose ends. Just a couple of threads out of place. I like a tidy package. How about you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The gun was pressed into the back of the seat. “I’m not one to leave my pals. Little did I know that you’d deliver my friend here and provide transportation. How can I thank you?” He laughed derisively.

  Think. Think. Tommy willed his brain past exhaustion. He had no gun. No weapon of any sort.

  “Shit.” A stop sign. He’d almost run a stop sign. The lurch of the van brought a response from his passenger.

  “Don’t get smart. Be a good cop and follow the rules. Can’t have you pulled over now, can we?”

  Tommy didn’t answer. How long would it be before Ben and Leonard would realize that he’d been gone too long—maybe wasn’t coming back? Too long, he figured. Maybe they’d think he’d gone to the john or to get coffee or … he was driving himself crazy. He needed a plan. But first he needed to know where they were going.

  His hands sweated into the steering wheel cover, some god-awful fake suede and from the feel of it, his sweat wasn’t the first. He wiped one hand across a thigh, then the other. “Both hands on the wheel.” The colonel was sitting upright now in the seat behind the driver’s. “I’ll need the keys to those cuffs.”

  “Didn’t bring them.”

  “That’s bullshit. What’s that?”

  “Where?”

  “Key ring. Stupid place to carry a key but you guys out here aren’t known for smarts.”

  What did that mean? Tommy didn’t have time to waste wondering. And, yes, a cuff key was in plain sight dangling among other keys on the ring that held the key to the ignition. Truly stupid. Keys were almost interchangeable unless you had some pretty expensive cuffs—which he didn’t. But how many times did they use this van for something other than the transport of drunks? Never. He didn’t feel any better. Somehow one time was going to be enough.

  “I’ll release my friend here but don’t worry, I’ll need you for awhile longer. He’s in no shape to drive. So, nice and easy, slip that ring off the ignition key and pass it back.”

  Tommy could hear the beating of his own heart, a thudding that seemed to stop up his ears. Was he going to have a stroke? Old-timers said that no matter how old you were, how many years you’d been on the force, it was always like this in situations where you knew you were going to die. And that was it. He knew he was going to die.

  The colonel moved to the back of the van. “God damn it. Does this partition only open from one side?”

  “Yes.” Tommy had forgotten. They’d have to stop in order for the colonel to undo the cuffs and free the airman. So, it was still going to be one-to-one. At least, for awhile. But a gun upped the numbers for the opposition a little. Made his chances a little lopsided. But wasn’t this what he had trained for? The terror of the moment? Raw emotions riding up and up to end in a giddy rush of adrenaline? Wasn’t he supposed to get off on this?

  “Where are we going?”

  “No need for you to know.” The colonel returned to the seat behind him. “Just get on the freeway. Head toward Grants.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Leonard seemed in no hurry to join Tommy and the airman in the van. He questioned Ben on the case’s particulars and seemed especially interested in the explanation of Amos Manygoats’ skinned animal. Ben watched Leonard’s face register incredulity as he related how the mutilations were done precisely and then the pictures and story released along with accusations of alien intervention. Listening to the story, Ben found it hard to believe it himself—just one more aspect of Anglo society that might be difficult to swallow.

  Leonard took him up on the offer to use the phone in his office. Ben could use the phone in the lunch room. He needed to call the Federal Agents holding Bruce. Leonard could hold the airman until the Feds came—probably at the Gallup jail. Ben had a feeling that the man wouldn’t give up the colonel and by now with the electronic equipment in hand, the colonel was probably long gone. It was obvious that the airman was supposed to kill Brenda and then just disappear himself. He came so close. Ben tried not to think what might have happened.

  Leonard emerged some fifteen minutes later looking like a man satisfied with his morning.

  “Got those guys coming over to the jail pronto. Could be a big break.”

  Ben could understand why he was so pleased that local law enforcement had made the collar. Kudos didn’t come easy out here—but criticism was ever present.

  “Any idea what might happen to Tommy?”

  “Can’t say. I got some thinking to do. Tommy’s a good man. Heart is right here.” Leonard thumped his chest.

  Ben thought he meant to say Tommy’s heart was in the right place. Whateve
r. The meaning was clear.

  “Better go take my prisoners in.” Leonard laughed. To include Tommy as a prisoner was a joke.

  Ben had appointments in Crownpoint that afternoon so the quicker he could finish up the paperwork, the better. He had seen Brenda’s brother coming down the hall. He’d be able to sit with her, but Ben would check in before he left.

  He stacked three folders near his briefcase—those he’d take with him. There were a couple books he’d brought over from his own collection—he walked to the bookcase but didn’t see them right away. He looked up at the light knock.

  “Leonard?”

  The man was leaning against the door jamb—not in a cavalier way but more for support looking dazed and disoriented.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Who’s gone? The prisoner? What did he do to Tommy?” His mind raced to Tommy being overpowered, maybe killed; he wasn’t prepared for what came next.

  “The van, Tommy and the prisoner. They’re nowhere.”

  “Tommy would never have left on his own. Either he was overpowered by the prisoner or …” Ben couldn’t come up with another possibility. “He’s in trouble. I mean something’s wrong. He wouldn’t leave.” Ben grabbed his jacket.

  “Come on. I’ll get a car.”

  “Big tan Chevy’s easy to spot. Go by the station first.”

  Ben tried not to break any speed limits, but he covered the five miles in record time. Tommy needed help. Ben knew it. What would have made him take off? When they reached the jail, Leonard was out of the car and taking the steps two at a time before Ben had the car in park.

  A young man jumped up and came out of an office to the right of the reception area when they came through the front door. “Hey, been trying to raise you on the radio. Your van’s heading off toward Grants. Something going on over there?” Then it looked like it had just dawned on him— “Hey, if you’re here, who’s in the van?”

  “Good question.” Leonard was noncommittal.

  “Look at this. There you go right down the highway.”

  The man was pointing to a monitor in his office.

  “Global Positioning Satellite—GPS? Right?” Ben was excited. This meant pinpointing the exact position of the van. There was a receiver probably in the hub of a wheel that transmitted every move.

  “Yeah, we got it to trace Leonard here. We know every time he visits his girlfriend or gets a cheeseburger at Sadie’s.” The young man was the only one laughing.

  “Get someone out there. Now!” Leonard barked orders, grabbed keys off a pegboard and headed for the door. “I want backup.”

  “That’s me.” The kid looked at Ben. “Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Man might be in trouble. Disappeared with a prisoner.”

  “Wow. I better get going. They got a forty minute lead. I’ll follow Leonard and radio Grants for help.”

  + + +

  Rollover. The minute the concept flashed across his brain, Tommy knew the idea had merit. As long as they were on the Interstate, he was probably safe but the colonel was looking for a side road. Tommy figured that the chopper and the remaining airmen were waiting for their boss, and then they’d take off.

  He’d be killed. Simply no longer needed and discarded—like the colonel had gotten rid of Hap and Ronnie and Edwina and almost Brenda. There was no doubt that they might find Brenda’s prints on his revolver but she never pulled the trigger—not without strong-arm help. And the battering? Another no-brainer. The colonel or one of his support group. Anger threatened to wipe out all rational thought. He had to be careful. But he’d made up his mind. He was not about to die somewhere outside Grants, NM, and let one of the most heinous murderers in recent state history just walk away.

  “Watch your speed. Don’t let your badge blind you. You’re not exempt. This stretch is heavily patrolled. I don’t think you’d want to endanger the lives of others.” The colonel leaned against the seat behind him. “We’re looking for a side road but we’ll see the ’copter first. Should be coming in from the east.”

  Shit. The rest of the men. Now what? He’d have to dump this thing close to civilization—anything to discourage the ’copter from landing. Hopefully, innocent bystanders wouldn’t get in the way.

  The van was top heavy, tall and long—a pig when it came to soft dirt or sand. If he dropped the right side tires off the pavement going up or down an incline, the thing would, at least, go onto its side. Would it buy him enough leverage to get the gun? The assumption was that he wouldn’t be injured and would be able to get to the colonel who was behind him before he chose to shoot. Long shot. But what else did he have?

  In the cage behind them, the airman began to groan. He might be in the safest spot—small area, no threat of getting thrown from the vehicle.

  He’d need surprise on his side and an unpopulated exit—one that he could accelerate on approach to at least seventy-five. He wouldn’t be able to put on his seatbelt without warning the colonel. Damn. If he lived through this thing, then right after swearing off chile-fries, he’d promise to always wear his belt.

  “That clock right?” The colonel motioned toward the dash.

  “Far as I know.” In the rearview the colonel slipped off his watch and made adjustments. “Any minute now.” The colonel leaned against the glass and scanned the sky.

  It was said more to himself but struck resolve in Tommy. It was now or never. The exit ramp on his right banked sharply about halfway up and curved to the left. And there were no cars in sight. The nearest car behind him was a good mile back. If he kicked up the speed about now …

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The colonel lunged over the seat.

  But Tommy had already entered the ramp. Wrenching the steering wheel back and forth, he rocked the van, knocking the colonel off balance and giving the van sideways momentum as he drove off the edge of the pavement.

  The right-side tires dug into the soft embankment but there was no stopping. The speed and rocking pushed the van to teeter and balance while still going forward, leaving the left tires a foot in the air before the van toppled—once, twice, down and over, finally coming to a rest on its roof.

  The screams of the caged man surrounded him. At least, the airman was still alive. The colonel had been thrown through the windshield on the second roll. Tommy had braced himself between the console and the front passenger side seat and now feet-first punched out the rest of the windshield and wiggled forward, out from under the collapsed roof onto the ground. He pushed back against the van. There was a sharp pain in his side, a cracked rib, maybe, but nothing else. Tomorrow might uncover some bruises but he was better off than he thought he would be and had a chance to be alive tomorrow.

  Did the colonel have the gun? Was he alive? Where was he? Tommy pushed to his feet. The airman continued his screaming, tearing the air around him and making it impossible to hear. Then he saw it. The gun lying about six feet in front of him. Tommy lunged, grabbed the gun and squatting quickly scanned the slope. Nothing. Then movement caught his eye. The colonel was running down the frontage road, running and waving his arms above his head.

  The helicopter was still two miles to the east, a dot above the horizon but closing fast. He wasn’t going to get away. Tommy started after him, the gun tucked in his belt until he could get a shot off. A trucker had pulled his rig off to the side of the ramp above him; two other cars were slowing down. Tommy didn’t look back. His target was fifty yards in front of him, but he was gaining.

  The colonel’s frantic waving was slowing him down, but still an impressive sprint for a man in his fifties. An oncoming car had already pulled over; two others had slowed. No one seemed to be doing anything heroic. So far, so good.

  Just stay out of the way. He wanted a clear shot, no one jeopardized.

  Suddenly the colonel veered to the side, down the drainage ditch and up onto the bank. Tommy followed suit, the second he saw a break in the fence. Was he close enough to get a shot off? And have it mean s
omething? He kept going, faster, the soft dirt of the ditch top cushioned his feet. Hardly slowing, he pulled the gun from his belt. The first shot went wide but the second found the colonel’s upper thigh. Just grazed him but Tommy could see the blood. The man kept running.

  The ’copter was almost on top of them. Another shot. The colonel grabbed his left shoulder. Sirens broke through his concentration, and Tommy made a decision. Let the ’copter land, and shoot out the gas tanks. Ground it with backup coming—but he’d need the ammo and he didn’t know what was left in the magazine. There was one in the chamber and maybe a couple more. He wasn’t going to take the time to look.

  The machine-gun fire took him by surprise. He rolled down the ditch embankment and dove for a culvert. At least this time of year there wasn’t any water. Then as the ’copter hovered overhead, he got off a shot, and another, and another before he heard the impotent click and knew he was out of ammunition. He ducked back under the cement bunker-style protection just as a ball of fire erupted above him.

  As Tommy leaned forward to watch, the fiery mass came down hard, shearing the tops of a stand of cottonwood, and hit the ground disintegrating upon impact. He had no idea whether the colonel had made it aboard. There was a part of him that hoped so. He pulled himself upright and walked up the ditch bank.

  The area was swarming with law enforcement—agents, Grant’s police, Leonard and the computer-whiz kid. Two firetrucks and three ambulances roared up. It looked like no one had escaped. Then he saw him. Cuffed, bleeding from Tommy’s hits, the colonel was slumped between two agents who were leading him toward a patrol car. He should be dead. How could this man have survived? He didn’t deserve to live.

  “Wait.” Tommy yelled. He stumbled down the steep side of the ditch, the empty gun still in his hand. He rushed the threesome and wadded the front of the colonel’s shirt at the neck jerking him forward until they were nose to nose. “You sorry son of a bitch, you should be dead.” Tommy drew back his arm.