The Sinister Pig jlajc-16

by Tony Hillerman

  “Another Chrissy?”

  “Different motives, but the same idea. And it may not be so simple for you this time. With a federal cop, you’ll damn sure want to make it slick as silk. Maybe you can arrange to get her on the Falcon and dump her off into those mountains down in Mexico.

  22

  Budge had consumed what was left in his coffee Thermos, used some water from his jug to give his face a wakeup scrub, and was watching the dawn turn high clouds on the western horizon red, and then pink, when the SUV rolled up beside the Falcon 10 and discharged Winsor and the Mexican colonel. Budge climbed out of the plane to meet them.

  “Colonel,” Winsor said. “This is Mr. de Baca, my assistant. Budge de Baca. Colonel Diego de Vargas is representing our partner in this venture.”

  Budge said, “How do you do,” and the colonel said, “Con mucho gusto.” They eyed each other and shook hands.

  “Time to go,” Winsor said. “The colonel and I want to be there to see those deliveries arriving.”

  “Ah, sí,” the colonel said, smiling broadly at the thought. “Los puercos muy ricos.”

  Winsor was grinning, too. “Yep, very rich pigs indeed,” he said. “And it’s been a hell of a lot of work and worry to get them safely immigrated;”

  Budge looked at Winsor. “You riding up front this time or with Colonel de Vargas?”

  “The colonel’s a pilot,” Winsor said. “He’d said he’d like to fly the Falcon.”

  “Are we going to that game ranch in New Mexico?” Budge asked. “You like the idea of a guy landing a strange airplane the first time he’s flown it, and having to put it down on a short dirt strip?”

  Winsor grinned, shook his head. The colonel looked disappointed, and Budge noticed that.

  “Why don’t you take the copilot’s seat, Colonel,” Budge said, motioning him toward it. “I’ll show you some of the gadgets the French built into this thing.”

  “Oh, good,” the colonel said, smiling happily. “And people call me Diego.”

  As a crow flies, or a pipeline runs, the trip from San Pedro de los Corralitos is short indeed, not much more than a hundred miles. As a Dessault Falcon 10 jet flies across the U.S. border from Mexico it’s more complicated. The colonel had explained some of those complications as they buckled in and prepared for takeoff, telling Budge, in Spanish, with a few technical terms mixed in, about where and when the Border Patrol flew its helicopters, where radar stations were and what they covered, and how flying too low involved a risk of encountering the pilotless drones and their cameras, which sent what they were viewing back to television screens in Border Patrol stations.

  Budge took the Falcon toward El Paso, low, and far enough south to avoid radar, then gained altitude and crossed the border on a direct route toward Albuquerque until, fifty miles over New Mexico, he turned west as if headed for Tucson, explaining the little jet to Diego as he did.

  The flight took time, and Budge needed time. He wanted to get acquainted with this Mexican who, he sensed, might be useful, might be subject to persuasion that killing a Border Patrol cop was not a wise idea. And he had to decide what to do about the cop herself, no matter what. And, finally, he couldn’t get Chrissy off his mind.

  She had brought her luggage with her that black day—that last day he’d seen her—excited, nervous, happy as she watched him fitting the bags into the limo’s trunk.

  “Did Rawley tell you where we’re going this morning?”

  “He didn’t say,” Budge said. “And that’s very unusual. I want you to sit up front with me so we can talk about it.”

  “Sure,” Chrissy said. “We’re going out to the airport. To his airplane, and we’re going to fly down to Mazatlan, down to that Mexican resort on the Pacific. And guess what?! Rawley and I are going to get married down there.”

  Now, flying east toward El Paso and the morning sun, he remembered every second of that day. He had closed the limo door behind her, walked around the front, got in, started the engine, and rolled down the drive to the street, trying to collect his wits. Even though he’d known this was going to happen, had been trying to form a workable plan for dealing with it, this had left him speechless-enraged, engulfed in hatred for Rawley Winsor. It hadn’t occurred to him Winsor would use a ruse like this marriage idea. The man’s cruelty amazed him.

  “Aren’t you excited for me?” Chrissy said. “I’ve never been to Mexico before. I’ve never even seen the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Chrissy. What did he tell you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he must have said something about why he wasn’t flying down there with you. How did he explain that? Is he flying down later? Do I go back and get him? He’d told me he wants me ready to fly him down to El Paso, or maybe somewhere in New Mexico, and all on very short notice. What’s the plan here?”

  “Budge. What’s wrong? You sound funny?”

  He stopped for a red light, signaled a turn. How could he tell her what Winsor planned for her? How could he tell her so she would believe him. She would think he was jealous. Lying. He couldn’t just abduct her with force. If he did, what then. And if he told her, and she didn’t believe him, she’d call Winsor. And Winsor would pretend to believe her, assure her that Budge was just crazy jealous. Then Winsor would get him out of the picture and dispose of Chrissy another way. He’d have to find a way to show her the truth.

  “Did Mr. Winsor tell you when he was coming down? Do you have a date for the wedding? Any of that?”

  “He had a job he had to finish. Just another day he thought. He said you’d be bringing him down tomorrow.” She paused. “But I guess you already knew that. He must have mentioned it to you. Didn’t he?” Chrissy’s tone had wavered from angry to uncertain.

  “Tomorrow? That’s not possible unless he changes his other plans. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said. But now she didn’t sound sure. She sounded shaken.

  “Is someone meeting you when we get to Mazatlan? At the airport. Maybe a hotel limo service? Which hotel?”

  “He didn’t tell you that?” She reached into her purse, extracted a card, read from it: “Hotel la Maya, 172 Calle Obregon, Mazatlan.”

  She stared at him. “I guess I go down there and check in, and when Rawley arrives tomorrow I’ll ask him when he gets there. But what do I ask him? Ask him why he forgot to tell you about this? You could ask him yourself when you’re flying him on the way down.”

  He sighed. Said: “Chrissy—” But he cut it off. Her tone was stiff again. She didn’t want to know. He’d have to show her.

  He’d expected to find that Winsor had not bothered to make a reservation at Hotel la Maya, and to use that solid, concrete evidence to add some credibility to what he had to say. Then he would explain that Winsor hadn’t expected her to reach Mazatlan, that Winsor had told him that she was blackmailing him, that she had copied confidential materials from his legal files, that she had evolved an extortion plot, and that he had ordered Budge to dispose of her. He imagined Chrissy hysterical, demanding to know why he was lying to her. He imagined her rushing to a telephone to call Winsor. What could he do to stop her? And what would happen next?

  Winsor, however, proved to have been overconfident.

  Chrissy sat in the passenger seat behind him on the flight down, silent. No hotel limo was awaiting them. He took the cab with her from the airport to the hotel, told the cabbie to wait, and surrendered her bags at the entry to the greeter.

  “I’ll take care of things from here, Budge,” she said. “It was nice of you to worry about me, but go home now.”

  “I’ll make sure your reservations are correct,” Budge said, and followed her in.

  Of course they weren’t.

  The desk clerk’s English was perfect. He looked puzzled. “We seem to have a mistake,” he said. “Some confusion, I think. Was there a second reservation? A Mr. Rawley Winsor, of Washington, D.C., often keeps a suite here and I believe he is here now.”
He glanced down at his record again. “No, Mrs. Winsor is in occupation. She arrived last week. According to this, she will stay here until next Tuesday, I believe.”

  “He reached for the telephone. “I will call Mrs. Winsor. Was she expecting you to join her?”

  Budge glanced at Chrissy standing motionless and speechless beside him. She looked faint. He took her arm.

  “No,” he said. “We’ve made a mistake.”

  He recovered her luggage, ushered her out to the cab, and told the driver to take them to the airport. En route, he told her everything, how Winsor had ordered him to kill her and dispose of the body. She listened, wordless.

  “That’s all of it,” he said, and noticed she was shaking. “Now, ask me any questions, and if you don’t have any, just tell me what you want to do.”

  “I wonder why you are telling me all this.”

  “Because it’s true, Chrissy,” he said. “And because no one should be treated like this. Certainly nobody like you. Do you believe me.”

  “I don’t know. Some of it, I guess. Maybe a lot of it.”

  He thought a moment. “Remember that day you showed me that ring? His grandmother’s ring he told you, with the huge diamond. Do you have it with you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Where is it?”

  “Do you want it?”

  “No, Chrissy. I don’t want it. But why don’t you have your engagement ring with you? Why aren’t you wearing it.”

  “He asked for it back. So he could have the jeweler clean it and fit it to my finger size.”

  “When?”

  “Tuesday afternoon.”

  “It was Wednesday morning he told me to get rid of you. To dispose of you. Permanently.”

  “Why are you—” She cut off the question, shuddered, and said, “Oh,” in something like a whisper.

  He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him. “In a little while we’ll be at the airport. I don’t want to take you back to your apartment because if you go there, he will hear about it. He’ll know I didn’t follow my orders. He’ll still think you’re dangerous to him. I’m not sure you’d be safe there. But what do you want to do?”

  “I don’t care,” Chrissy said, still in a whisper.

  “If you still have some doubts about me, do you want to find a room here, and wait, and see if he comes to the Hotel la Maya?”

  “No. No. No. Not that.”

  “You could come home with me. Stay at my place. And call the Maya tomorrow to find out if he comes.”

  “No.”

  “Not stay at my place?”

  “Not call. I would never call about that. But I think I would stay down here for a little while. I feel tired. And sort of sick. Could we find another hotel where I could stay a day or two?”

  They did, and checked her in, and he took the cab back to the airport. Budge was remembering that return flight now. His relief, the feeling of the tension draining out him, a sort of jubilation. But the happy thought was interrupted. The colonel’s voice intruded in Spanish:

  “You handled that very nicely,” Diego said.

  “What?”

  “The turbulence back there. Neatly done. Where did you learn to fly? From your Spanish, I thought perhaps it would have been in Cuba.”

  “Some of it was,” Budge said. “And you, Diego. Where did you learn the trade?”

  “Some in Mexico. And later on, some in El Salvador.” He chuckled. “For that very generous Central Intelligence Agency, courtesy of the United States taxpayers. And some in Panama, when their presidente was the drug boss down there.” Diego laughed. “He was also on the CIA payroll at the time, but they were paying him a lot more than I got. Your boss told me we have that CIA experience in common.”

  “Well, I flew some for the CIA.”

  “Yes,” Diego de Vargas said. “Not very pleasant to work for. Nor reliable.” He chuckled. “I can say the same thing for my own present patron. Muy rico. And very, very willing to kill somebody if they seem inconvenient. Including me, I have no doubt.”

  “He and my patron seem perfectly matched in this business,” Budge said. “Why did he have that man killed up in northern New Mexico? That seems a long way from this.”

  Diego turned his head, glanced back at Winsor in the seat behind him, then looked at Budge.

  “You’re dead certain he doesn’t understand Spanish?”

  “His second language is bad French,” Budge said. “He once heard me talking to one of his Mexican cleaning ladies and said something about not wanting any of his friends to hear that low-down language in his house.”

  “Low-down? He meant undignified?”

  “Trashy,” Budge said. “Low class. He won’t understand you. So tell me why that man was killed way up there.”

  “I think it was a mistake. He was asking a lot of questions about pipelines. And about products being shipped through the wrong ones. The chief thought he should be erased and they decided the Mexican end of their project should handle it.”

  “How about your uniform?”

  “I’m a former colonel. But now it’s more or less honorary. The Reform Party won the election, and the good old PIRG is out, and President Fox is in. The PIRG people are getting fired, especially in the police and the military. These days I get paid through some big shot in Banco de Mexico, and I think he takes his orders from somebody in the Colombian cartel, and I don’t think that’s going to last very long. I hear the Fox people are after him, too.”

  Diego sighed, shook his head. “My boss, he’s a miserable bastard. But I hear even worse stuff about your chief.”

  “Believe it.”

  “I heard he is so connected he could get you deported by just saying the word,” Diego said. “I heard they’d like to lock you up in Guatemala. If your patron speaks to the right people they haul you off to jail.” Diego shook his head. “I’ve seen those Guatemala lockups, man. You want to avoid that experience.”

  Budge didn’t respond. He adjusted something on the instrument panel.

  “You never know about gossip,” Diego said. “They say bad things about me, too.” He shrugged. “Some of them are true. How about you?”

  “Well, I know my patron could give me some serious trouble if he wanted to do it.”

  “Maybe he’s doing that right now,” Diego said. “Getting us in serious trouble, I mean. He says that woman who has been snooping around here is probably in the Border Patrol just to find out what we’re doing. I mean the one in the picture they’ve been handing around. I think the plan is to have her killed.”

  Budge made another slight flight instrument adjustment, thought a moment, made a decision.

  “Diego, I’m going to get very serious now. And tell you some things. The first is, I think you’re right. The second is, you and I are going to be lucky if we get out of this situation like free men, alive and well. And the third is, if that woman gets killed by anybody, we’re going to be the ones hanged for it. Just us. Not anybody who told us to do it.”

  Diego sat silent for a long moment. And when he spoke his voice was very low. “What are you telling me?”

  “That man sitting behind us, he thinks he has had this all arranged to perfection. His cocaine comes flowing through the pipe from Mexico. No more Border Patrol problems. It gets unloaded very simply, goes from his ranch here right into Phoenix, and then into the big-city markets, pure profits. A flawless plan. Absolutely no way anything could possibly go wrong. But you and I, we have already seen it hasn’t been flawless.”

  “You mean the man killed up north. That’s true. We hear now that was a mistake. I don’t like mistakes.”

  “Especially, I don’t like mistakes that might get me in prison. Or get me killed.”

  Diego stared straight ahead, thinking. Then he glanced at Budge, his expression wry.

  “You’ve been in the U.S. of A. a long time. The patron”—he nodded toward Winsor behind him—“he seems to think you can kill this woman
cop and get away with it. What do you think about that.”

  “I don’t know what he thinks. But I think that if we kill her, he has it figured out so he’ll get away with it. But if he has it figured right, she is a federal cop. The federals will catch us, wherever we go. Not give up until they do. And then they either kill us or we die in a federal prison somewhere. And, of course, that’s exactly the way he hopes it will work out. He wouldn’t want us around anymore.”

  Diego sighed. “Yes,” he said. “It would be true also among those where I’ve always worked.”

  “The way it happens in Washington, my patron is rich and powerful, and his roomful of lawyers and very important friends let the police know that our rich and powerful boss is innocent. He just came out here to shoot an African antelope for his trophy room. And he had me put his special trophy hunting rifle back there in the storage place to show them evidence that that’s the truth. And then he says he was betrayed by two low-class scoundrels who already are wanted by the police.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That sounds like it would be in Mexico too.”

  “I think there is a way out of this for us,” Budge said.

  “Tell me,” Diego said.

  Winsor’s voice intruded:

  “Hey, Budge,” Winsor said. “There’s the ranch up there ahead. You guys knock off that Mex gabbing and pay attention to business. You think that strip looks safe enough?”

  “I’ll lose some altitude and circle,” Budge said. “Why take chances.” He flew over the Tuttle Ranch headquarters, the big tile-roofed ranch house, and the row of mobile homes where the hired hands lived, the barns, the stables, the horse pasture, the stock tank with its connected windmill. He studied the landing strip. It was a straight and narrow black band pointing into the prevailing winds. It looked blacker than he remembered, apparently recently stabilized by a fresh coating of oil. The windsock on the pole atop the little hanger reported a mild westerly breeze was blowing. He was low enough to see the nose of the ranch’s little Piper backed into the hanger and to recognize that the dark blue sports utility vehicle parked beside it was a Land Rover.