Return To Sender

by Merline Lovelace

  Ten minutes later, the car squealed through the gates leading to the headquarters of Troop R of the New Mexico Highway Patrol. Grabbing the duffel bag containing his field gear from the trunk, Harry raced for the helo pad. Ev and Fay met him halfway, both jubilant, both lugging their own field gear.

  “Give me a rundown on who we’ve got playing so far,” Harry shouted over the piercing whine of the helicopter’s engine.

  “Our Santa Fe highway patrol detachment is pulling in every trooper they’ve got to cordon off the airport,” Fay yelled. “The Santa Fe city police have alerted their SWAT team. They’ll be in place when we get there.”

  They ducked under the whirring rotor blades and climbed aboard through the side hatch. The copilot greeted them with a grin and directed them to the web rack that stretched behind the operators’ seats.

  Panting, Ev buckled himself in. “Customs has a Cessna Citation in the air tracking our boy as we speak. They’ve also got two Blackhawks en route from El Paso, with a four-man bust team aboard each.”

  Fierce satisfaction shot through Harry at the news. The huge Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters came equipped with an arsenal of lethal weapons and enough candlepower to light up half of New Mexico.

  “Good. We might just give them a chance to show their stuff.”

  While the copilot buckled himself in, the pilot stretched around to show the passengers where to plug in their headsets.

  “What’s the flying time to Santa Fe?” Harry asked, his words tinny over the static of the radio.

  “Twenty minutes, sir.”

  “Right. Let’s do it.”

  The aviator gave him a thumbs-up and turned her attention to the controls. Seconds later, the chopper lifted off. It banked steeply, then zoomed north.

  Harry used the short flight to coordinate the operation with the key players involved. The copilot patched him through to the Customs National Aviation Center in Oklahoma City, which was now tracking the suspect aircraft, the New Mexico state police ops center and the Santa Fe airport manager.

  “Our boy is still over an hour out.” he summarized for Ev and Fay. “That gives us plenty of time to familiarize ourselves with the layout of the field and get our people into position. No one moves until I give the signal. No one. Understood?”

  Harry didn’t want any mistakes. No John Waynes charging in ahead of the cavalry. No hotshot Rambos trying to show their stuff. If the man he’d been tracking for almost a year was flying in aboard this aircraft, the bastard wasn’t going to get away. Not this time.

  The short flight passed in a blur of dark mountains to their right and the sparse lights of the homes scattered along the Rio Grande valley below. The helo set down at the Santa Fe airport just long enough for Harry and the two others to jump out. Bent double, they dashed through the cloud of dust thrown up by the rotor wash. As soon as they were clear, Harry shed his coat and pulled his body armor out of his gear bag. A dark, lightweight windbreaker with “U.S. Marshal” emblazoned on the back covered the armor and identified him to the other players involved. After shoving spare ammo clips into his pockets, he checked his weapon, then went to meet the nervous airport manager waiting for him inside the distinctive New Mexico-style airport facility.

  In a deliberate attempt to retain Santa Fe’s unique character and limit its growth, the city planners had also limited the size of the airport that serviced it. To make access even more difficult, high mountain peaks ringed its relatively short runway. Consequently, no large-bodied jetliners landed in the city. The millions of tourists a year who poured into Santa Fe from all over the world usually flew into Albuquerque and drove the fifty-five-mile scenic route north. Even the legislators who routinely traveled to the capital to conduct their business did so by car or by small aircraft.

  The inconvenient access might have constituted an annoyance for some travelers, but it added up to a major plus for Harry and the team members who gathered within minutes of his arrival. With only one north-south runway and the parallel taxiway to cover, he quickly orchestrated the disposition of his forces. They melted into the night like dark shadows, radios muted and lights doused.

  After a final visual and radar check of their handheld secure radios, Ev headed for the tower to coordinate the final approach and takedown. Harry and Fay climbed into the airport service vehicle that would serve as their mobile command post. When the truck pulled into its customary slot beside the central hangar, Harry stared into the night.

  A million stars dotted the sky above the solid blackness of the mountains. Richard Johnson, aka Paul Gunderson, was out there somewhere. With any luck, that somewhere would soon narrow down to a stretch of runway in the high New Mexico desert.

  A shiver rippled along Harry’s spine, part primal anticipation, part plain old-fashioned chill. Even in mid-June, Sante Fe’s seven-thousand-foot elevation put a nip in the night air. He zipped his jacket, folded his arms. His eyes on the splatter of stars to the south, the hunter settled down to await his prey.

  The minutes crawled by.

  The secure radio cackled as Ev gave periodic updates on the aircraft’s approach. Forty minutes out. Thirty. Twenty.

  The Blackhawks swept over the airport, rotors thumping in the night, and touched down behind the hangars. One would move into position to block any possible takeoff attempt should anything spook the quarry once it was on the ground. The second would come in from the rear.

  Quiet settled over the waiting, watching team. Even Ev’s status reports were hushed.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Ten.

  This was for Dean, Harry promised the dark, silent night. For the man who’d razzed him as a rookie, and stood beside him at the altar, and asked him to act as godfather to his son. And for Jenny, who’d cried in Harry’s arms until she had no more tears left to shed. For every marshal who’d ever died in the line of duty, and every son or mother or husband or wife left behind.

  Without warning, an image of Sheryl formed in Harry’s mind. Her hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her eyes wide with excitement and the first, faint hint of worry on his behalf. It struck him that he’d left Sheryl, as Dean had left Jenny, to chase after Paul Gunderson.

  Dean had never returned.

  Harry might not, either. Dammit, he shouldn’t have made that rash promise to Sheryl. Even without the hazards inherent in his job, success bred its own demands. If Gunderson stepped off an airplane in Santa Fe in the next few minutes, as Harry sincerely prayed he would, he’d climb right back on a plane, this time in handcuffs and leg irons. Harry would go with him. He wouldn’t be driving back to Sheryl’s place to give her a play-by-play of the night’s events...or to redeem the promise of the hard, swift kiss he’d left her with.

  He had no business making her any kind of promises at all, he thought soberly.

  Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t offer her much more than a choice between short bursts of pleasure and long stretches of loneliness. And a husband whose job might or might not leave her weeping in someone’s arms, as Dean’s had left Jenny.

  Suddenly, the radio cackled. “He’s on final approach. Check out that spot of light at one o’clock, ‘bout two thousand feet up.”

  Harry blanked his mind of Sheryl, of Jenny, even of Dean. His eyes narrowed on the tiny speck of light slowly dropping out of the sky.

  The takedown was a textbook operation.

  Following the tower’s directions, the twin-engine King Air rolled to a stop on the parking apron, fifty yards from where Harry waited in the service vehicle. As soon as the engines whined down and the hatch opened, the Blackhawks rose from behind the adjacent hangar like huge specters. They dropped down, their thirty-million-candlepower spotlights pinning the two figures who emerged from the King Air in a blinding haze of white light. The helo crews poured out.

  Harry clicked the mike on the vehicle’s loudspeaker and shouted a warning. “This is the U.S. Marshals Service. Hit the ground. Now!” He was out of the vehicle, his weapon drawn
, before the echoes had stopped bouncing off the hangar walls.

  The two figures took one look at the dark-suited figures converging on them from all directions and dropped like stones.

  Harry reached them as they hit the pavement. Disappointment rose like bile in his throat. Even from the back, he could see that neither of the individuals spread-eagled on the concrete fit Paul Gunderson’s physical description.

  Ev Sloan reached the same conclusion when he panted up beside Harry a moment later.

  “He’s not with ‘em. Damn!”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Harry got out through clenched jaws. Raising his voice, he issued a curt order. “All right. On your feet. We need to inspect your cargo.”

  A two-man Customs team went through the King Air’s cargo with dogs, handheld scanners and an array of sophisticated chemical testing compounds. A second team searched the plane itself, which had been towed into a hangar for privacy.

  By the time the first streaks of a golden dawn pierced the darkness of the mountain peaks outside, unbaled sheepskin hides lay strewn along one half of the hangar. Barely cured and still wearing a coat of gray, greasy wool, they gave off a stench that had emptied the contents of several team members’ stomachs and put the drug dogs completely out of action.

  The plane’s guts lay on the other side of the hangar floor... along with a neat row of plastic bags. Even without the dogs, the stash in the concealed compartment in the plane’s belly had been hard to miss.

  The senior Customs agent approached Harry, grinning. Sweat streaked his face, and he carried the stink of hides with him.

  “Five hundred kilos and a nice, new King Air for the Treasury Department to auction off. Not a bad haul, Marshal. Not bad at all.”

  “No. Just not the one we wanted.”

  The agent thrust out his hand. “Sony you didn’t get your man this time. Maybe next time.”

  “Yeah. Next time.”

  Leaving the other agency operatives to their prizes, Harry walked out into the slowly gathering dawn. Ev leaned against the hood of a black-and-white state police car, sipping coffee from a leaking paper cup. Then he tossed out the dregs of his coffee and crumpled the cup.

  “Well, I guess it’s back to the damned computer printouts and postcards. You get anything more from Sheryl when you were up at her place last night?”

  “No.”

  And yes.

  Harry had gotten far more from her than he’d planned or hoped for. The need to return to her apartment, to finish this damnable night in her arms, tore through his layers of weariness.

  He thought of a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t go back...and one consuming reason why he should.

  Chapter 11

  Sheryl curled in a loose ball on top of the black-and-white blanket Button lay sprawled beside her. She stroked his silky fur with a slow, light touch, taking care not to wake him while he snuffled and twitched in the throes of some doggie dream. Her gaze drifted to the small crystal clock on the table beside her bed.

  Five past six.

  Seven hours since Harry had left. Seven hours of waiting and worrying. Of wondering when...if...he’d come back. He’d been gone for only seven hours, yet it seemed as though days had passed since he’d rolled out of this bed and raced into the kitchen in response to Button’s attack on the pizza.

  Until tonight, Sheryl had never really appreciated the loneliness that had turned her mother into such a bitter, unhappy woman. She’d seen it happening, of course. Even as a child, she’d recognized that her father’s extended absences had leached the youth from her mother’s face and carved those small, tight lines on either side of her face. Mentally, she’d braced herself every time her father walked out the door. She’d shared her mother’s hurt and dissatisfaction, but she’d never felt the emptiness deep inside her, as she had these past hours. Never experienced this sense of being so alone.

  Despite the hollow feeling in her chest, Sheryl could summon no trace of bitterness. Instead of hurt, a lingering wonder spread through her veins every time she thought of the hours together with Harry. Her breasts still tingled from his stinging kisses. One shoulder still carried a little red mark from his prickly mustache. She’d never experienced anything even remotely resembling the explosions of heat and light and skyrocketing sensation the marshal had detonated under her skin. Not once but twice.

  Recalling her fumbling attempt to thank him for services rendered, Sheryl almost groaned aloud. Talk about putting her foot in it! Harry had bristled all over with male indignation. For a moment, he’d looked remarkably like Button with his fur up.

  Smiling, she combed her fingers through the soft, feathery ruff decorating the paw closest to her. The shih tzu snuffled and jerked his leg away. One black eye opened and glared at her though the light of the gathering dawn.

  “Sorry.”

  He gave a long-suffering look and rolled onto his back, all four paws sticking straight up in the air. Sheryl speared another glance at the clock. Sixfifteen.

  Too restless to even pretend sleep any longer, she tickled the dog’s pink belly. “Want to get up? You can finish off the pizza for breakfast.”

  Black gums pulled back. A warning growl rumbled up from the furry chest. Hastily, Sheryl pulled her fingers out of reach.

  “Okay, okay! You don’t mind if I get up, do you?”

  Silly question. Before she’d was halfway across the bedroom, Button was already sunk back into sleep.

  A quick shower washed away the grittiness of her sleepless night. Since it was Saturday, Sheryl didn’t even glance at the uniforms hanging neatly in her closet. Instead, she pulled out her favorite denim sundress. With its thin straps, scooped neck and loose fit, it was perfect for Albuquerque’s June heat. Tiny wooden buttons marched down the front and stopped above the knee, baring a long length of leg when she walked. The stonewashed blue complemented her tan and her streaky blond hair, she knew. Now all she had to do was erase the signs of her sleepless night. Making a face at her reflection in the mirror, she applied a little blush and a swipe of lipstick. A few determined strokes with the brush subdued her hair into a semblance of order. Clipping it back with a wooden barrette that matched the buttons on the dress, she padded barefoot into the kitchen.

  The first thing she saw was the pizza carton on the counter. Instantly, she started worrying and wondering again.

  Where was Harry? What had happened after he’d left her last night?

  Leaning a hip against the counter, she filled the automatic coffeemaker and waited while it brewed. Slowly, a rich aroma spread through the kitchen. Even more slowly, the soft, golden dawn lightened to day.

  The sound of Button’s nails clicking on the tiles alerted her to the fact that he’d decided to join the living. He wandered into the kitchen and gave her a disgruntled look, obviously as annoyed with her early rising as he’d been with her tossing and turning.

  “Do you need to go out? Hold on a sec. I’ll get the paper and pour a cup of coffee and join you on the back patio.”

  Sheryl flicked off the alarm and went outside to hunt down her newspaper. As usual, the deliveryman had tossed it halfway across the courtyard. She didn’t realize Button had slipped out the front door with her until his piercing yip cut through the early morning quiet.

  Startled, Sheryl spun around. From the corner of one eye, she saw Button charge across the courtyard toward the silver-haired Persian that had been sunning itself at the base of the small fountain. The cat went straight up in the air, hissing, and came down with claws extended.

  “Oh, no!”

  Oblivious to her dismayed exclamation, Button leaped to attack. His quarry decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Streaking across the tiled courtyard, it disappeared through the arched entryway that led to the parking lot. The shih tzu followed in noisy pursuit.

  The darned dog was going to wake every person in the apartment complex with that shrill bark. Dropping the paper, Sheryl joined in the chase.

&
nbsp; “Button! Here, boy! Here!”

  She rounded the entryway corner just in time to see both cat and dog dart across the parking lot. Another cluster of apartments swallowed them up. Sheryl started across the rough asphalt. Suddenly, her bare heel came down on a pebble. Pain shot all the way up to the back of her knee.

  “Dammit!”

  Wincing, she took a few limping steps, then ran awkwardly on the ball of her injured foot. To her consternation, the noisy barking grew fainter and fainter. A moment later, it disappeared completely, swallowed up by the twisting walkways, picturesque courtyards and multistory buildings of the sprawling complex.

  Seriously concerned now, Sheryl ran through archway after archway. Button would never find his way back through this maze. Stepping up the pace as much as the pain in her heel would allow, she searched the apartment grounds. Her dress skirt flapped around her knees. The wooden barrette holding her hair back snapped open and clattered to the walkway behind her. Sweat popped out on her forehead and upper lip.

  “Button!” she called in gathering desperation. “Here, boy! Come to Sheryl!”

  Her breath cut through her lungs like razor blades when she caught the sound of a crash, followed by a yelp. She tore down another path and through an archway, then came to a skidding, one-heeled halt. If she’d had any breath left, Sheryl would have gasped at the scene that greeted her. As it was, she could only pant helplessly.

  An oversized clay pot had been knocked on its side. It now spilled dirt and pink geraniums onto the tiles. Beside the overturned pot lay a tipped-over sundial. Colorful fliers and sections of a newspaper littered the courtyard. In the midst of the havoc, not one but two silver Persians now stood shoulder to shoulder. Fur up, backs arched, they hissed for all they were worth. Their indignant owner stood behind them, flapping her arms furiously at the intruder. Button was belly to the ground, but hadn’t given up the fight.

  By the time Sheryl had scooped up the snarling shih tzu, apologized profusely to the cats’ owner, offered to pay for the damages and listened to an irate discourse on dog owners who ignore leash laws, the sun had tipped over the apartment walls and heated the morning. Limping and hot and not exactly happy with her unrepentant houseguest, she lectured him sternly as she retraced her steps to her apartment. She took a wrong turn twice, which didn’t improve her mood or Button’s standing. Unconcerned over the fact that he was in disgrace, the dog surveyed the areas they passed through, ears up and eyes alert for his next quarry.