Steven Havill - One Perfect Shot

The phone was patient, its insistent ringing imperative.

“Gast…” I coughed and tried again. “Gastner.” The stove clock blinked, which told me the power had been off. I looked up at the clock over the counter and saw that it was close to midnight.

“Sir, this is Marcus Baker,” my swing shift dispatcher said. No doubt my fine diction told him I’d been blowing z’s.

“Sure enough,” I managed ungratefully. I had collapsed into my chair after dropping Miss Reyes off at her modest little apartment behind the school. I hadn’t bothered to promise her a normal day tomorrow…today, now. Who the hell knew what would happen. I’d managed to read half a Chapter about Chichamauga, then dropped off, book in my lap, pages rumpled.

“Sir, they found Mo Arnett’s car up in Albuquerque,” Ernie reported. “In the long-term parking lot at the Sunport.”

“Well, son of a bitch.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want me to call the sheriff?”

“No, I don’t,” I said quickly. “The Pontiac, but no Mo?”

“No, sir. It’s a Sergeant Patterson who called from the APD. Would you like his numbers? He said he’d be available until two.”

“Absolutely.” I copied the number, thanked Ernie for calling, and dialed. In a moment, Patterson’s light voice came on the line. He sounded as if he were twelve years old.

“Airport security made the identification,” he acknowledged. “None of the flight manifests show your subject boarding any flight within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Shit,” I said, and Patterson chuckled.

“Security made a sweep of the airport. Mr. Arnett doesn’t appear to be on the premises.”

“Any corners he can hide in?”

“I don’t think so, sheriff. Of course, it’s a big place.”

A big place, indeed. The high school photo we’d included with our bulletin showed Mo as he was the year before, and he happened to have been particularly scruffy in that portrait…long hair, with what passes for a teenage beard, not as pudgy as he was now. He could blend in with a family, or sit in a quiet, dark corner of the restaurant, waiting for his flight.

“But no hits on the manifests,” I repeated.

“No, sir. But we’ll keep after it. We have the car. A teenager isn’t going to stray far from his wheels.”

“We can hope not.” But with this particular teenager? Who knew where he’d stray.

“By the way, sarge, there was a handgun in the glove compartment. I need to know if it’s still there.”

“I’ll get back to you on that. The vehicle was locked, and it’s going to be a few minutes yet while they process it.”

“I need to know if the kid has the gun with him. You sure as hell do too. And it’d be nice to know if there’s a body in the trunk.”

He laughed. “I hear ya.”

“We never know.”

“Well, according to the ticket on the dash, it was in the hot sun all day, and nothing smells. But I’ll get the team on that ASAP. He hasn’t boarded a flight, and he sure as hell wouldn’t try carrying a gun on board.”

I was skeptical about that, but didn’t burst the sergeant’s bubble.

With the sleep driven away by the phone call, I stayed vertical and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. By the time I took the first sip, wondering where my cigarettes were before recalling that I was trying to quit, the clock had ticked to twelve fifteen.

Parked in the Sunport, but not on a flight. Airport Security said that Mo Arnett wasn’t on the premises, but I didn’t believe that as a given. It’s easy to hide in a huge facility, easy to slip here and there, away from prying eyes. If that was the case, what was the boy waiting for? The sooner airborne, the better, if he was on the run. If he hadn’t grabbed a flight, odds were good he was still in Albuquerque, a place that must seem incomprehensibly huge after the tiny confines of Posadas.

With a full mug of coffee, I left the house, enjoying the quiet of the village. Lights from the trailer park down the street and from the interstate interchange ruined the view of the star canopy overhead, but I could see a few being squired around the heavens by Orion. No wind, mild-a magnificent night.

The middle of the night is a cruel time for the cops to show up on the doorstep, but I knew that the Arnetts wouldn’t be asleep. They deserved to know that the Pontiac had been found in the big city, and that information might jog their memories. And sure enough, they lived on a block where they weren’t alone with their worries. The lights were ablaze in the front rooms of the Arnetts, and across the street at the Zipoli residence. A bright light drifted out from Jim Raught’s back yard. Maybe they’d all joined forces to find the errant Mo.

I parked in the street half a block down from Arnetts’ and sat for a bit with all the windows open. The lights might have all been blazing, but that was the extent of any activity I could hear. I cracked the door and when I swung my boot out and planted it on the asphalt, it was as if I’d grounded a faulty connection, throwing a switch on my car radio.

“Three ten, PCS. Ten twenty.”

Home in bed, I almost said, but the graveyard dispatcher, Ernie Wheeler, already knew that wasn’t true. He would have called the house and chatted with my answering machine. And he knew my habits, habits fueled by a persistent insomnia that most of the time I found both useful and pleasant.

“PCS, three ten is ten eight on Fourth Street.”

“Ten nineteen if you’re not busy.”

“Ten four.” I’d already said I was ten eight, or in service…hence “not busy.” I swung the door shut and started the car, leaving the neighborhood to its own thoughts and worries. As soon as I swung into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, I saw the little sedan tucked into a spot between two department cruisers. Estelle Reyes hadn’t listed insomnia as one of her virtues.

I trudged inside using the side entrance, and saw the young lady over in the lobby, hands thrust into her pockets, gazing at the huge county map that was framed in walnut. The six foot square map had been prepared by Enuncio Baca, a county assessor and artist, based on the most recent data at the time. The “time” happened to be 1936, which meant that the map was now functionally useless, but a historical treasure. I had a long list of questions to ask Enuncio, history being one of my passions. But Enuncio had died in 1951, so my questions would have to wait.

Estelle turned as I stepped into the dispatch island. Ernie Wheeler, tall and lanky and one of those guys who looks thirty going on sixty-five, nodded toward the young lady.

“She has a question for you,” Ernie said. “I think that she wants to use the phone.”

“Our phones are restricted now?” I asked, puzzled. “She doesn’t need to ask permission from me.”

“She wanted to talk with you first, sir, but then went ahead and used the one in the conference room.”

Not more saint stuff, I almost said, but instead held up my now empty coffee cup. “Anybody fueled the pot?”

“Fresh an hour ago,” Ernie said, and I beckoned to Estelle as I headed for the work room.

“Good night’s sleep?” I asked as she followed me into the room. “We need well-rested staff, you know.” If I successfully managed a touch of amused reproof, she didn’t acknowledge it. Besides, she appeared fresh and well-rested. Even her tan pants suit was wrinkle free. Did she own a rack of the damn things?

“I got to thinking, sir.”

“Uh oh. You need to know, by the way, that they found Mo Arnett’s car in Albuquerque International’s long-term parking lot. No Mo yet.”

That brought no response, and I glanced at the young lady as I snapped off the coffee flow. I held up the cup, offering her some.