Blood Sweep (8 page)

Woods made the turn when the aircraft was inching along at walking speed, and as the plane swung onto the taxiway, the copilot nodded. “Very nice,” Estelle heard the young woman co-pilot say.

“Talk about out of nowhere,” Woods muttered. He touched his boom-mike. “Posadas Unicom, one eight eight November Mike is clear the active.”

Pulled along by one engine, the King Air swung onto the broad apron in front of the office. The right engine sighed to a stop.

Woods pried himself out of the narrow cockpit confines. He held up both hands in apology as he saw Estelle out of her seat and bending down near the foot of Gastner's gurney. “I'm glad one of you had your rabbit's foot engaged,” he said with a rueful grin. Gastner opened one eye, raised an eyebrow at Estelle, and promptly dozed off. The pilot looked at the two EMTs, busy with the equipment.

“We encountered an antelope or two,” Woods said. “I don't know what our delay will be, but I'll see what I can do to make other arrangements. I think our chopper is in Farmington. We'll just have to see.”

Through the window, Estelle saw the airport manager jogging toward them, and then sunshine blasted into the cabin as Connie Tingley wrenched the door open and lowered the steps.

Seeing that Gastner was zoned out on his drip with the two EMTs hovering nearby, Estelle clambered down from the plane. Woods and Bergin were standing near the left propeller. The Beechcraft's characteristically long turbo-prop engine nacelles put the propellers well forward of the cockpit, within easy view of the flight crew. Six feet or so behind the props, the landing gear and gear doors were tucked under the shadow of the wing.

Bergin knelt, his bronzed and lined face scrunched in grimace. “Antelope burger.” He looked at the undersheriff as she joined him. Sure enough, a large mess of bloody remains, some of the fur still tawny with a trace of white, complete with a portion of skull attached, was jammed against the landing gear strut above the wheel. A portion of the retractable landing gear door was bent back against the strut.

“Sure glad I took that drive to clear the runway,” Bergin growled. “Miserable little bastards. Had to be hidin' behind the brush, just waitin' to commit suicide.”

“There were two,” Woods said. He knelt and stroked the fuselage belly, and then looked at his fingers. “A little spray this way. It's the prop I'm worried about, though.” He backed out carefully from under the wing, and watched as Bergin ran his hand down the leading edge of each blade, hand-turning the big three-bladed propeller gently. Shaking his head, he wiped his hand on his trousers.

“So how did he do that?” Bergin said. “That takes some skill. Get hit by the prop and go straight back into the gear.”

“Only some of him went straight back,” Woods offered. “I think he turned at the last minute. Not enough.” Woods saw Estelle's camera. “I need to do that, too,” he said. “For our flight office.”

“He did hit the prop, though,” Bergin said. “Prop overhaul at the minimum, with a run-out on the shaft. That's if you're lucky.”

“We've already been lucky,” Woods said.

Chapter Nine

The ambulance, lights flickering in a garish kaleidoscope, lumbered westbound to the airport turnoff just seconds ahead of Bob Torrez. The sheriff hadn't heard a radio call for an ambulance at the airport, and he could see the med-evac King Air parked on the apron, a group of people standing nearby. His first thought was that some medical emergency had prompted Bill Gastner's sudden off-loading, with the old man headed back to the hospital for emergency treatment. Whatever it was, it had drawn Dr. Francis Guzman, along with a full ambulance crew.

He frowned as he drew closer, since while the medical crew's attention appeared focused on what was going on
inside
the aircraft, the flight crew members, along with airport manager Jim Bergin, were concentrated around the left engine and landing gear.

Parking well out of the way, he stepped out of the truck in time to hear Dr. Guzman call to the crew from the top boarding step as he nimbly deplaned, “No chance of a departure with this aircraft, then?”

“None,” the four-striper replied. Torrez recognized Ben Woods, who turned to Estelle and added, “If the med-evac chopper is clear to come down here, he's three hours north. And then with the return flight adding time to that? Hell, you might as well drive up. Straight shot up I-25.”

Estelle Reyes-Guzman caught Torrez's eye and then looked heavenward.

Matty Finnegan, the EMT who had been in on the initial rescue at Gastner's garage, looked expectantly at Dr. Guzman as he approached. “Let's change the game plan, then,” the physician said into his phone. “If you're willing to do that, that's wonderful.” He grinned broadly at something the other person said. “I owe you big-time, Barry.”

He took a deep breath to collect his thoughts, beckoning Estelle. “Game plan calls for Las Cruces,” the physician said. “Las Cruces is just a little more than an hour. By the time we get there, they'll be ready for us.”

“I hear that.” Finnegan's face lit up. “Let's rock and roll.”

Guzman nodded and strode back to the airplane, taking a second to reach across to squeeze Torrez's arm in greeting. “Round and round we go,” he said, and didn't wait for a reply, ducking up the narrow stairs into the King Air.

The undersheriff held up both hands in surrender, shaking her head as she joined the sheriff.

“So what now? Ambulance to Cruces?” Torrez asked. Estelle nodded, and Torrez added, “Let me talk at him.” The cramped aircraft was awkward for such a large man, and once inside, Torrez had to turn sideways. He moved up close to Dr. Guzman, who was himself no petite figure. The physician was kneeling near Gastner's head, eyeing the monitors above him.

“You hanging in there?” Guzman asked, and Gastner's eyes fluttered.

“How long is this day?” the older man murmured.

“Just relax and in a few minutes we'll have you out of this crate and into the Cadillac. Is there any pain?”

“Aches.”

“It's going to do that,” the physician said. “Look, we had an argument with a couple of antelope, and they changed our plans. We'll be vacationing over in Cruces.”

Gastner opened his eyes and regarded Guzman with clear skepticism, and then his gaze drifted over to Bob Torrez.

“I thought you had killed off all those critters,” he said weakly.

“I'm tryin'.”

“Look, Dr. Cushman will meet us either later this evening or tomorrow morning, just before the surgery,” Guzman assured him. “He's the best.” The physician grinned. “We're playing some musical chairs here. Cushman
was
in Albuquerque, but the cards fell just right for him. He's on his way downstate right now. And his jet is a whole lot faster than our ambulance.”

“What a goddamn waste,” Gastner muttered. “Just screw me together, give me some aspirin, and let it go at that.”

Guzman laughed and moved aside. “I don't want to disappoint Cushman. He looks for any excuse to fly that fancy jet he has. He can make the trip, and then write it off his taxes.”

Matty Finnegan had ducked halfway through the door, glowering at Torrez. “You big lugs are going to have to vacate,” she said sternly. She dug a fist into Torrez's ribs. “God, the high sheriff himself, the undersheriff too?” She reached down and waggled Gastner's toes as Guzman and Torrez made their way out of the cramped confines. “How do you rate all this attention?”

“It's all who you know,” Gastner whispered.

Torrez approached Estelle as she watched the careful transfer from airplane to ambulance.

“He's not talkin' for a while,” Torrez observed.

“No. Way too much juice sloshing around in his system. What did you need to know?”

“Just…” Torrez let the thought go with a shrug. “So what now for you?”

“I'll take my car down,” she said. “I'll be right behind the ambulance.”

“You're worryin' too much,” he said gruffly.

Estelle punched the sheriff in the middle of his chest, none too lightly. “I'll remind you of that next time you're down with a rifle bullet through the butt,” she said. When that episode happened a decade before, it had been Bobby Torrez being littered out of a landfill pit and med-evaced to Albuquerque.

He grimaced at the reminder, and saw the dark worry circles around Estelle's eyes. “He's tough,” he said. “Give me a call later on when things are settled down there. I got some things goin' on right now and I ain't going to break away.” He turned at the sound of an approaching car. “Oh, shit. Here she is.”

A boxy, compact Ford Transit with government plates and the county logo on the doors swept into the parking lot and parked beside Estelle's sedan. Leona Spears, the county manager, made notations on her dash-mounted computer before getting out, then donned her purple hard hat—a perpetual on-site trademark for the theatrical woman. Rather than her sunflower patterned muumuu cascading from throat to ankle, Leona was a fashion statement for utility workers everywhere. Sharply pressed tan chino trousers and shirt showed not a drop of perspiration dampness. Her name over the right breast pocket, and her title,
Posadas County Manager,
over the other, left no room for doubt.

“She precedith herself,” Gastner had once remarked about Leona's bosomy figure.

She stood for a moment, surveying the scene. When she was sure she wasn't going to walk into the middle of something, she gave the aircraft a wide berth and made her way toward the officers. She favored Torrez with a bright smile.

“Don't tell me,” she said with an expressive wave of the hand. “Aircraft problems?” She reached out and rested a hand affectionately on Estelle's shoulder.

“We had some antelope damage to the aircraft,” the undersheriff replied. “We'll be heading over to Cruces here in a minute or two with the ambulance.”

“My word. That would have been easier in the first place.” Leona managed to say it so that it didn't sound like a criticism.

“It would have,” Estelle replied. “But the surgeon Francis wanted was in Albuquerque.” She smiled at Leona. “And by plane, it would have been an easier trip for Bill. Now he's headed over to Cruces by ambulance. So there we are.”

“How is he?”

“Bill? He'll be all right. Heavily sedated, so the world's just a blur. His hip is a jumble of pieces, unfortunately.”

“But now you have to settle for a second choice in doctors?”

“No. Cushman is flying to Las Cruces. He'll be there before we are.”

Leona's eyebrows shot up. “My word.
Somebody
owes
somebody
a favor or two, don't they now?” Leona didn't fish for a response, but sighed and surveyed the airport. A former highway engineer for the state highway department, she had found a beloved niche with the county when she retired. A woman easy to underestimate at first meeting, those working with Leona found out soon enough that her insightful mind included a broad streak of the artistic, mixed with a clear understanding of what was practical. The little van was a case in point. It accommodated her rack of maps, her computers, her CAD printer, her transit, and a host of other gadgetry and paperwork that she referred to collectively as her “necessities of life outside the office.”

“Well, when you are able, I hope you'll pass my best wishes along to our patient for a speedy and complete recovery.”

“He'll appreciate that.”

“When he's back home, we'll have to be sure to visit. Keeping the spirits up is so important at a time like this.”

Sheriff Torrez muttered something, looking impatient. Estelle added, “I'm sorry that I have to stand you up this afternoon.”

“Oh, bosh. Don't give it a second's thought. Just budget
stuff
, if you know what I mean. I had to come out to ask Jimbo a couple of questions.” She nodded across the fuel apron toward the airport manager. “We need to move a little faster constructing the airport perimeter fencing so this doesn't happen again. Mercy.” She touched Estelle on the shoulder again. “And one little tidbit that perked my ears. Homeland Security wants to give us a 1.2 million-dollar grant to change Mr. Waddell's narrow-gauge railroad to standard gauge. Just that one little change.” The powdered crinkles around her eyes deepened slightly, perhaps because Torrez's interest was immediate. “Actually, it was just a message of exploration on their part. I mean, they
offered.
I didn't seek them out. Apparently they don't fully understand that Mr. Waddell's mesa project—and such a lovely name for it, too—is a matter of private enterprise. They get their standard gauge approach, then it will be something else. I took the liberty of telling them that we had no interest in their grant, and no authority over Mr. Waddell's private property, and that if they wanted to deal with our gentleman rancher directly, then that's what they should do.”

“I can't imagine that Mr. Waddell's
NightZone
project either wants or needs a standard gauge railroad,” Estelle said. “The narrow gauge route is giving him problems enough.” Miles Waddell had made dozens of changes in his proposed railroad route out to the mesa-top observatory from the village of Posadas, the thirty-seven-mile line now in the final planning stages.

“I do see their point,” Leona added. “I mean,
narrow
gauge is totally useless to anyone other than Mr. Waddell. HSA tends to think always about improving infrastructure. If they think of his mesa as some kind of potential installation,” and she said the word as if it had an astringent aftertaste, “then rail access is certainly something to consider. And if you don't think
that
will raise some hackles…”

Matty Finnegan had approached, and now stood deferentially to one side, waiting for the county manager to wind down.

“We're ready, Sheriff,” she said. Torrez knew who she meant, since no one bothered with the cumbersome title
undersheriff,
and rarely was anyone confused. He didn't acknowledge Matty's presence.

Estelle reached out and touched Leona's arm. “Excuse me, please.”

Her husband glanced up as she approached. “I think I'll just ride back here with Bill and the folks,” the physician said. He patted his own chest, a motion that was not lost on Estelle. “You're taking your car, right?”

“I'll be right behind you.”

As the ambulance doors closed, shutting off any chance to finish conversations, Estelle Reyes-Guzman realized that during all the comings and goings, in all the hustle, she had never explained to her husband about the second enormous worry in her life…their son in Mazatlán. She had mentioned the eight thousand dollars and they had joked about what Francisco might be planning to do with it, but she hadn't discussed the conversation that she'd then had with her mother and the potential for disaster in Mexico.

As they pulled away from the airport, taking the seven-mile loop back into town and then down to the interstate, Estelle tapped into the sound system of the county car, activating the little telephone icon on the steering wheel spoke. In a moment, Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler was on the line, his voice boosted by the car's sound system.

“No word from anyone,” he reported. “Did you happen to speak with the sheriff?”

“I just left him at the airport.”

“Oh…good. Then you guys had a chance to talk.”

“Actually not much. Someone took a shot at him and broke his beloved rifle. We don't know who or why. That's what I know.”

“Well, that's about what they know, too. Linda has a ton of pictures, and Sergeant Taber found the spot where the shot came from. I just talked with the sheriff, and he's coming back to the office to sort through all the stuff. And Gayle was going to insist that he see the doc about his eye.”

The line fell silent, and then Wheeler, sounding less sure of himself, said, “He told you, no?”

“Told me
what
, Ernie?”

“A piece of the broken scope nicked him over the eye. Might need some stitches.”

I saw no nick over his eye,
Estelle thought. Torrez was Torrez, the rock. Her concerns hadn't been directed at him, even when they spoke face to face. As usual, he wore his baseball cap pulled low over the bridge of his nose, military fashion.

“Look, when he comes into the office, tell him that I'm going to call. I'll get the full story from him then.” She switched off with a burst of irritation aimed at herself for not noticing, at Sheriff Robert Torrez for being such a taciturn, uncommunicative oaf, and finally at her immediate concern, the dimwit drivers on the interstate.

Ahead, the boxy shape of the ambulance paced them down the highway, smoothly moving in and out past the endless cavalcade of traffic. Most of the time, drivers darted out of the way as the dazzle of red lights caught up with them. Others were loath to give up the passing lane. Just outside of Deming, unbidden and unexpected, they were joined by a New Mexico State Police unit. As the black sedan roared past, Estelle recognized Lieutenant Mark Adams, who raised a hand in salute. He pulled several car lengths ahead of the ambulance and aggressively ran interference.