Far in the distance, the thin wail of a siren cut the air.
“Three-ten, three-oh-eight.”
Estelle pulled the handheld out of its holster. “Three-ten.”
“I’m about eight south. What’s the deal?”
“Ten-fifty-five, Pasquale is down. Be advised that he thinks the suspect fled north. He didn’t pass us, so he’s either cut off on back trails or took shelter somewhere to let us pass. He’s on the dirt bike, but I don’t hear it, so he’s not pushing it. And Tom says he may be hampered by an ankle injury.”
“What about Hansen?”
“He’s here in the arroyo. I’m headed that way now. Hang on.”
“Ten-four. Lemme know ASAP.”
“You gotta be kiddin’,” Pasquale murmured as Leona knelt beside them.
“Hush,” Estelle said. At the sight of the blood and torn shorts, Leona’s heavy blond eyebrows furrowed into thunderclouds. In short order, she had a hefty pad of gauze, and deftly pressed it into place. “Can you move the hip?” the county manager asked Tom, and the young deputy made a face.
“Hurts too much to try,” he said.
“Do you think it’s broken?”
“Don’t know. I think so.”
“Can you feel your toes?”
“Sure.”
“Well, then, that’s good.”
“Can you stay with him for a few minutes?” Estelle asked, and Leona nodded.
“Surely.”
“I’m going to check down in the arroyo,” she said. “The ambulance will be here in just a few minutes.” As she stood, the bike racers appeared, clattering around the switchback. She stood up and as they began to slow, waved them to a stop.
“Did any of you see a man on a dirt bike?” she asked. “Headed northbound? A red bike. Older guy.”
All three shook their heads in unison, eyes glued to the fallen Tom Pasquale. “Is he going to be all right?” one of them asked.
“We’re fine,” Estelle said, motioning for them to pass by. “An ambulance is on the way. Be careful and stay on the road.”
In a moment, the riders disappeared, taking advantage of the relative smoothness of the open meadow down below.
Even a single stride from the arroyo edge, the sides were so sheer that Estelle could not see the bottom. Careful to avoid the scuff marks in the dirt, she stepped past Pasquale and Leona and carefully approached the edge. Ten feet deep at that point and twice that wide, the arroyo had started from the smallest head-cut up on the flank of the hill, and only a single storm would have been necessary to wash out the soft earth.
Chet Hansen lay in the arroyo bottom, flat on his back, staring sightlessly up into the blank blue sky. He still wore his helmet, but the wreckage of his lower face canceled out any expression. His fancy bike, apparently undamaged, lay in the arroyo bottom a few feet beyond, invisible from the road. Tom’s machine had been hurled a dozen yards upstream.
Without taking another step, Estelle turned in place, and a dozen paces to her right saw a hefty piece of piñon limb wood, about a foot longer than a baseball bat and uniformly steel gray. Swung hard at a bike rider, it would have been lethal.
The undersheriff walked along the arroyo’s edge until she found a spot where she could slide down, then walked back along the bottom. Reaching Hansen, she knelt and placed a finger on the side of his neck. As she did so, she noticed the single hole just above the bridge of the victim’s nose. The strike with the limb wood had caught Hansen flush in the mouth, shattering teeth and jaw. The blow would have been so incapacitating that he would never have seen the final bullet coming.
She keyed the phone again, and waited for three rings until Gayle could answer.
“Gayle, we’ll need the ME out here,” she said. “And I need anyone else you can spare.”
“Okay. Stand by.”
“Affirmative.” But standing by was the last thing she wanted to do. Tapia was cunning. She granted him that much. That Pasquale had taken a bullet in the hip was no accident. Tapia knew that a wounded Pasquale required more manpower than a dead man. One shot, just enough to put the young man out of commission, and requiring another person or two to care for him.
Estelle stood up, turning in place. And where had Manolo Tapia gone? Bob Torrez was northbound on the county road, but Tapia could have seen his vehicle approaching and hidden with ease. She had been southbound. Tapia had avoided them. But to what end? The Mexican border lay twenty-five miles south. Any of a dozen routes would take him there, but no matter which way he went, pavement or dirt, there were only two gateways through the San Cristóbal Mountains to Mexico—one over Regál Pass directly south of her current location, or through the flimsy, barbed-wire border fence at María, on the east side of the county. They could slam those two doors shut easily enough.
How much did Tapia know? Estelle squatted silently by Hansen’s lifeless body. “What did you do?” she whispered. There had been a violent settling of accounts here. In a terrifying instant, Hansen might have recognized Tapia—maybe not. He would have seen the cudgel hefted and swung so swiftly that ducking away was impossible.
Had Tom Pasquale not seen the incident, Hansen’s corpse might have lain in the arroyo for hours, perhaps even days. Tapia was an opportunist, but as cunning as he might be, what did he know about Hector Ocate, the boy in custody? Would Tapia head back to the village? Back to old man Estrada’s house? Was he assuming that the boy would fly him to Mexico?
Estelle’s pulse hammered in her ears. For days, they had assumed that the killer was putting miles behind him, that the trail was growing colder by the hour. And now those days and miles had been reduced to a scant handful of minutes. She found herself holding her breath, listening for the high-pitched snarl of a dirt bike.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It began to feel as if everyone else was trudging slowly toward her position. She was trapped in this patch of sunshine while Manolo Tapia motored blithely away. For the first time since the discovery of the three shooting victims, the killer had proved that he was still in Posadas County—and just as obviously, Estelle knew that in minutes, their small advantage could evaporate.
Not about to leave the injured Pasquale, nor willing to abandon the crime scene, Estelle chafed at the delay—and knew that was exactly what the killer wanted. She had retrieved a blue tarp from the Expedition and covered Hansen’s corpse, then unreeled a length of yellow tape to protect the area along the roadway—not that there was much to see, other than gravel and a few crunched grass clumps.
Tom Pasquale had not moved, marking the minutes with his eyes shut while Leona murmured comfort, unable to do anything else but keep him in the shade. The county manager had taken a quick look down into the arroyo herself, turned pale, and concentrated on Pasquale.
All the while, Estelle tried to imagine Tapia’s progress. Her guess was that the killer would ride carefully, perhaps even slowly. If Tapia had an injured ankle, as Pasquale thought was the case, that would take some of the starch out of his effort. But even fifteen minutes’ head start would change the game.
“He was on the bike when you charged him?” Estelle asked.
“Just going to it,” Pasquale said. “I saw him hit Hansen when I was fifty yards away, maybe more. I shouted, but he ignored me. Tapia did, I mean. Then Hansen crashed right by the lip of the arroyo, and Tapia just sort of kicked him in. Just that fast,” Tom whispered. “I bailed into him, and down he went. I didn’t see the gun right away, or I might have given…I might have given the situation more thought.”
“He could head for the border now,” Leona said. “Taking any number of routes.”
“He’s not going to make it across,” Estelle said. “You’re okay?”
“No,” Tom Pasquale said. “But that ain’t going to change.”
“I need to look at the map,” Estelle said. “I’ll be right back.” She jogged to the truck and dug a county map out of her briefcase, folded it so that their patch of prairie was in the
center, and returned to the arroyo edge. She knelt and flattened the map on her thigh.
“He could have cut off to the east,” Leona said. She sat beside the injured Pasquale, a protective hand on his shoulder. “There are two-tracks and ranch trails all over out here.”
“And most of them not on the map,” Estelle said. Tapia could wind across the prairies, dodging this way and that, always out of sight of the main routes, always able to keep an eye out for dust trails thrown up by chasing vehicles.
“We need a chopper,” Estelle said, and a moment later had Gayle Torrez on the phone. “If a State Police unit isn’t available,” she said, “see if you can find someone else. Even Channel Eight is better than nothing.”
“They’d like that,” Gayle said. “I’ll see what I can do. How’s Thomas holding out?”
“He’s tough,” Estelle said. “I think he’ll be all right.”
“Linda’s here,” Gayle said. “She wants to know if she can head out there.”
“Ay,” Estelle said, and glanced at Pasquale. He and Linda had lived together for nearly three years. “Tell her no. We need her camera out here, but if she comes out, she’ll miss him. He’ll be inbound in the ambulance here in just a minute. Have her meet him at the hospital. And will you reach Lieutenant Adams and ask if we can have some help from his mobile unit? We don’t know what Tapia’s intentions are at this point, or if he knows about Hector. Make sure you have a couple of people there with you.” When Gayle was hesitant in acknowledging, Estelle added, “I’m serious. Right now, Hector is the only witness to what happened out at the airstrip.”
“Eddie was here just a minute ago,” Gayle said. “We’ll be fine.”
“No, not was, Gayle. I want him in the building with you right now,” Estelle insisted. “And whoever is free needs to stay central. Let’s keep our eyes open.”
Gayle acknowledged, sounding as serene as ever.
“And here we wait,” Leona said; putting her finger on the pulse of things with her usual unerring accuracy. As crime scenes went, this one was pretty simple. But some dark corner of Chester Hansen’s life had been ripped open, and the repercussions no doubt would reach far beyond this spot. The investigation would have to be meticulous and thorough.
Estelle felt a chill thinking about Tapia. Calculating was an understatement. Wounding the deputy was a perfect touch, effectively hog-tying their pursuit efforts until the wounded were cared for. Everyone else, all of their other personnel, were splattered about the county, watching bike riders sweat themselves pounds lighter, closing sections of highway and intersections as the riders approached.
Estelle looked up from the map. Pasquale opened his eyes and grimaced at her, disgusted by his incapacity.
“Tell me again what happened,” Estelle said, more to keep him occupied than anything else.
The young man tried to shift position and groaned miserably. “I came around the curve just in time to see this guy swing a chunk of wood and catch Hansen right in the face.” He closed his eyes again, trying to stretch a little. “That old guy can really move on a bike, and he was goin’ so fast down this hill that there was no way he could avoid it. He went off the bike hard. Wobbled and swerved first, but then he went off right up here.” He pointed behind them, toward the road. “I’m comin’ down the road toward ’em, and I see the guy kick Hansen’s bike into the arroyo, then he starts to drag the guy over here.”
“Toward the arroyo?”
“Yes. I thought first that it was some guy who had passed us earlier, or something like that. Someone with a beef with Hansen. It didn’t even snap that it could be the guy we’re looking for.” He stretched again, trying to find some relief, and hissed through his teeth.
“Bike riders normally don’t take off after each other with baseball bats, do they?” Leona asked.
“You never know,” Pasquale said, attempting a grin. “I just rode straight at him, and we went down in a tangle. Shit.” He stopped, shaking his head. “That guy is strong, Estelle. I got to him a little, though. He’s got a hurt ankle. I heard it pop. Then he threw me and next thing I know I’m in the arroyo. That’s when he pulls the gun.”
“He hadn’t shot Hansen yet? Not when you tackled him?”
“No. He points the gun at me and says, ‘This is none of your affair.’ And then he shoots me in the hip. Real careful and calculated. Then he takes his time and shoots Hansen in the face, just like that. The old guy didn’t even move or nothin’. I think he was out cold already…Maybe he was already dead. Then Tapia pointed the gun back at me and I thought, Now, this is it. But he just says, ‘You stay right there,’ and then he’s gone. A second or two later, my bike comes flyin’ into the arroyo. Then I hear his motorcycle start, and he rides off that way.” Pasquale pointed back to the north. “And that’s it.” He sat up a little straighter.
“It was a semiauto, Estelle,” the deputy said. “I think it was a Beretta, with a suppressor. Casings are off to the left, there. I figured that my hip was going to start hurtin’ pretty bad, so I concentrated on climbing out.” He pointed upstream a bit, where the edge of the arroyo was caved in, providing a ramp out. “I pulled myself out, and that’s as far as I got when you showed up.”
“You did good,” Estelle said. “How many minutes’ head start does he have?”
“Maybe ten by now. Maybe fifteen.”
“Company,” Leona said.
A clump of five cyclists was speeding down the hill toward them, kicking up dust. Since the riders couldn’t see down to the carnage in the bottom of the arroyo, they had no reason to do more than glance at Estelle, who rose and walked back to the truck where she leaned against the front fender as if this remote spot was somehow the choicest race seat in the house.
After another couple of minutes, Estelle heard a vehicle and turned to see Bob Torrez’s aging pickup truck vault over a rise, almost putting daylight under its wheels. To the north, the thin wail of the ambulance siren grew louder.
Estelle met the sheriff as his truck slid to a stop on the road. “Hansen,” she said urgently. “He’s dead. Tommy’s okay, but took a 9mm through the hip. He can’t walk. I think Tapia is headed back toward Posadas. Tom said he took off back to the north.”
Torrez jammed the gear lever into neutral, set the parking brake, and got out. He strode to the arroyo, glanced at the footing, and then slid down the bank a dozen feet west of Hansen’s corpse. Flipping the corner of the tarp to one side, he looked impassively at the dead man. After a moment, he dropped the cover and climbed back out of the arroyo. He looked down at Pasquale.
“You makin’ it?”
“I’ll be okay. I mean, maybe I’ll be okay.”
“Did you see this happen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was Tapia?”
“Yes, sir. He matches that picture you circulated to all of us.”
Torrez looked back up the dirt road. “He was waitin’ for him here, or what?”
“Yes, sir. I was far enough behind that I didn’t see where he actually was standing before he swung. When I first saw him, he was already out by the road. But I saw him swing, just like a big baseball bat. He stepped out into the road real quick, and just like that. Wham. Right in the face. He threw the stick over there,” and he pointed upstream. “I can see it from here.”
“Huh. How long ago did this happen?”
Pasquale moved his hand with great care, and looked at his watch. “It’s goin’ on about fifteen minutes now.”
Torrez looked quickly at Estelle. “He didn’t pass you on your way in?”
“No one’s passed us,” Estelle said. “Not on the road.”
“He must have seen you comin’,” Torrez said. “That’s if he stayed on the road. Enough trails around. And he sure as hell didn’t pass me. You sure he went back north?”
“Yes, sir,” Pasquale said.
“Huh. Mexico’s the other way,” Torrez said. “So where’s he goin’?”
“He may kn
ow that Hector is in custody,” Estelle said. “It would be important to spring him out. Or shut him up.”
The sheriff looked sharply at her. “Who’s central?”
“Eddie’s at the Public Safety Building. I told Gayle to round up some others.”
“Okay. I’m going to head that way, then. Who else you got comin’ out here?”
“I’ve asked for Adam’s team, and a chopper.”
“Fair enough.” He rose and started back toward his vehicle without further comment. He stopped with a hand on the door handle, turning back toward them. “I’m goin’ straight back in. The kid is the only link we have to all this shit, and there’s no way we want anything to happen to him. You’re all right with that?”
Estelle nodded. The ambulance siren wailed louder. “As soon as Tomás is headed in, and we have some coverage here,” she said.
Torrez nodded and swung up into his truck. “I’ll make sure the border is buttoned up,” he said. “Keep in touch.”
The approaching siren was not the ambulance, but a State Police cruiser, and Torrez swerved his truck off the road without slowing, passing the cruiser and then the ambulance that lumbered behind.
“Well, thank heavens,” Leona breathed.
“Do you want to head back into town with them?” Estelle asked. “You picked a great day for a ride-along.”
Leona shook her head emphatically. “My goodness no,” she said and managed a brave smile. “I’m having all kinds of constructive budgetary thoughts. I find myself wishing that some of the county commissioners were with us now. What’s our next step?”
“The village is covered. We’ve got coverage here, and Tom will be in good hands. Now we can go hunting.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“The lieutenant said whatever you need,” the young state officer called from his black and white. He didn’t step off the roadway, and turned to flag the approaching ambulance to a stop. “Where do we want things?”
Short of a sky-hook, there was no way to remove the wounded Pasquale without causing him great distress, or without further disturbing evidence, but that was the trade-off. Chester Hansen’s body would remain in place awhile longer, until the scene had been thoroughly documented.
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