Steven Havill - Final Payment

Estelle searched the prairie on either side of the airstrip, looking for breaks in the shadows. At one point, a jackrabbit broke cover and flashed away, and Estelle scanned the area from which the rabbit fled. Without pulling the throttle, Tapia let the plane sink in the turn until it appeared he intended to buzz the three vehicles on the rise. The Cessna shot over them, no more than fifty feet over the surprised faces. Estelle had a clear view, and saw Eddie Mitchell, Tom Mears, and a State Police officer.

She felt the ache of tension in her spine and tried again to settle back. Sheriff Robert Torrez would not stand back with his arms folded, simply allowing this event to happen-while Estelle wanted to believe that the sheriff wouldn’t take an unnecessary gamble, he would try something. She had no clue what. In the best of all possible worlds, one did not simply let a killer escape-or his son.

As they thundered over the top of the hill, she scanned the brush and rumpled landscape surrounding the airstrip. South of the macadam, the ground dropped away a bit, then rose in a series of rills. Although the scrub vegetation rarely grew more than four or five feet high, it provided plenty of cover.

Estelle twisted, trying to look behind them. Hector Ocate continued to plod down the center of the runway, approaching a point a third of the way along the tarmac. Without a glance at the dash, Tapia reached out and manipulated the throttle, mixture, and prop, and Estelle felt the aircraft sink. The flaps spooled down a notch, and Tapia pulled himself upright, shifting in his seat.

They paralleled the runway, and then as they sank toward the prairie, Tapia smoothly fed in power. This time, the turn was uncomfortably tight, the plane practically standing on one wing, engine bellowing. If Manolo Tapia could fly this well with a broken ankle, it was easy to imagine that under less trying circumstances, the trip across the border was simplicity itself. And what had he needed his son for? When the plane rolled out of the turn, the nose was pointed down the center of the runway.

Ahead of them, Hector Ocate had stopped walking, and now stood quietly. Follow in your father’s footsteps, Estelle thought. The boy had proved he could steal an airplane, had proved he could fly with the best of them. Maybe that was all he had ever wanted-to prove himself to his father.

More flaps wound down, great rattling barn doors that produced as much drag as lift. Shedding speed as Tapia bled off power, the Cessna sank toward the strip. For a moment, it appeared that they were going to sink right into the vegetation short of the runway, but a burst of power brought them to the pavement not a dozen feet from the two little yellow marker cones at the verge of the asphalt. Tires smacked the pavement hard and smooth, without a trace of bounce.

Tapia let the aircraft roll without braking, the slight uphill gradient serving to slow the aircraft. Estelle extended her feet, touching the set of rudder pedals on her side. She could slam one to the floor now, and the plane would in all likelihood careen off the runway, perhaps ripped off the landing gear-and then just as likely go cartwheeling in a pile of junk before exploding in a fireball.

With a roar of pain, Tapia braked hard, this time using his bad foot on the left brake. He let the airplane drift toward the right side of the runway, and as he did so, Estelle saw Hector walk away from the center, toward the opposite side. Tapia pounded his left fist on the dash cowling so hard that he left dents, but the smooth braking didn’t waver. When the Cessna had slowed to a fast walk, he swerved to take up the last inch of macadam, then shifted feet and pushed the left rudder/brake pedal to the floor with his right foot, toeing the brake hard.

The aircraft had enough momentum remaining that it spun in a smooth circle, once more facing southwest. Hector ran to the plane, ducked under the trailing edge of the wing, and opened the cargo door on the right side. At the same time, Tapia reached across with Estelle’s keys.

“Thank you,” he said, and it sounded as if he meant it. Estelle took the ring and maneuvered the small key. The cuffs came loose and she straightened up. The Beretta eyed her, no longer in the door boot. Still, she hesitated to open the door.

“You are free to go,” Tapia said. “Get out of the airplane. Now.” Without wavering the muzzle of the gun away from Estelle, he turned to his son. “You will fly.” Ready and willing, Hector moved to a position between the front seats, one hand on each, ready to vault into place in the left seat, behind the wheel. Estelle opened the door, immediately feeling the strong wash of air from the windmilling propeller. Even though the engine was at idle, the thrust was strong enough that opening the door required effort.

As she started to slide out, the airplane jerked a little as Tapia shifted his feet. Not wasting a second, Hector was already wedging himself forward toward the pilot’s seat. Her feet touched the tarmac and Estelle felt the airplane begin to drift forward. She took an awkward step to catch her balance, waiting for an instant of opportunity. It came as the boy shifted his weight forward so he could maneuver into the pilot’s seat. Estelle drove toward his extended left arm with the loose end of the handcuffs. The steel connected with his wrist with a sharp crack but he jerked backward before the ratchet could snap closed.

Estelle lunged back into the plane and grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt with both hands. He flailed wildly as he lost his balance, trying not to crash forward into the control yoke or instrument panel. She pulled backward with all her weight. He tumbled toward Estelle, striking out at her with one hand while the other made a wild grab at the control wheel.

A burly arm shot around the boy’s body as Manolo Tapia tried to grab him. Hampered as he was by his own seat belt and shoulder harness, he could not equal Estelle’s attack. Instantly realizing that, he brought the Beretta around, the barrel dangerously close to Hector’s head. Even as the boy lost his grip and was hauled headfirst and flailing out of the airplane, Tapia fired.

Estelle did not hear the oddly muted snap of the gun, so concentrated was she on the boy. The round struck her squarely in the center of her vest, a sharp blow that only added momentum to her backward struggle and knocked the wind out of her. As her body twisted away, a second blow struck her, but now, disregarding the airplane or the boy struggling on top of her, she concentrated on only one thing. Grabbing his right arm as he aimed a punch at her face, she smashed the handcuffs on his left wrist and crunched them closed.

Scrabbling wildly, Ocate shouted for his father, and his right hand grabbed for the landing gear strut as they crashed to the ground.

For an instant, they were an awkward heap-both of them fully out of the airplane, with Estelle trying to rise to her hands and knees, slipping on the pebbles of rough asphalt while Hector Ocate tried his best to hold on to the landing gear strut. With a cry, Tapia stabbed the brakes, and the plane lurched sharply to a stop.

Something struck the passenger window above Estelle’s head at the same time that she heard a sharp pop, like someone clapping his hands, or slapping a ripe melon. She flinched down, assuming that Tapia had fired at her again, this time through the thin aluminum skin of the airplane. Hector lost his grip on the landing gear and tried to regain his feet.

Estelle scrabbled hard as the airplane once more started to drift forward, and she lurched toward the approaching horizontal stabilizer with the sole thought of putting distance between herself and the aircraft. But her body refused to obey, and she dropped to all fours again, unable to move the anchor of the boy on the handcuffs.