Steven Havill - Heartshot

He nodded and offered the Beretta to me, butt first. I shook my head. “That’s not necessary, Benny. Take it back to wherever you bought it tomorrow. For now, just unload it and shove it under the seat. Go home and get some rest. Let us work. Hell, I may be fat and old, but I’m pretty damn good at what I do. The deputies are better still. We’ve got some leads. The sheriff told me today that he’s planning to bring in a specially trained dog. The beast sniffs drugs, believe it or not. Even if you just smoked a single joint as much as forty-eight hours ago, this critter will nail you. We’re going to publicize that, and some people are bound to get nervous. The Drug Enforcement Agency is working with us.” That was a lie, but Fernandez didn’t need to know. “Something’s going to break, believe me. Soon.”

He nodded and sighed heavily. “You just feel so helpless sometimes,” he said.

“Sure.” I groped for something to lighten his spirits a little before sending him down the hill. “And my bet is that when this is all over, it’ll be obvious that Ricky wasn’t involved as anything other than maybe an innocent bystander. You’ll be proud of him.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yup. I know what kind of a home he came from.” Even if I didn’t buy that one, Benny Fernandez did. He looked grateful. I pressed the advantage. “I’ll pull back so you can get out of here, Benny. There’s other things I need to check up here. You go on ahead. Go down and get some rest. Being the midnight vigilante isn’t your style.” He laughed and sounded a little relieved.

“Thanks, Bill. I’ll get rid of this thing tomorrow, first item of business. Sell it back to George Payton.”

“I’m sure he’ll give you back every nickel,” I said.

“A man can be stupid sometimes,” Fernandez said.

It was only in retrospect that Benny’s last line really haunted me. If I had been able to replay that scene, I would have grabbed that Beretta at the first offer. But when I next saw the weapon, it was in a plastic evidence bag.

Meeting Fernandez had set me on edge. I was as wide-eyed as one of those lemurs you see in picture books about the jungle. Any notion that this night might be one with six or eight hours of sleep was just that…a notion. The road down the hill was empty. The night neckers had gone elsewhere. About five miles north of town, I jogged west on State 78. A housing development of new ranch styles sprawled up the side of the mesa. Most of them had “For Sale” signs in front, and a few looked pretty ragged. The mine and mill closing had caught many developers overbuilding. Maybe drug trafficking was the new industry, I thought as I followed the road up the mesa until it topped out by the airport. With headlights off, I drove along a hundred yards of fencing and passed the airport parking area and an apron access gate for pedestrians. The main gate that led to the hangars was wide open. That was normally the case during the daytime when the airport manager, Jim Bergin, was on the premises. But at midnight or after, it was a little unusual unless some charter flight had just come in.

I drove through the gate and saw that the big padlock was hooked loosely through the chain link above the gate latch. Farther on, one arc light blazed, casting hard shadows around the hangars. Light streamed out from one, and I drove over. Bathed in the harsh fluorescent wash from overhead was a pretty tan-and-white Cessna. Its cowl was off, and from an open door on the passenger side a leg and foot projected. As I stopped the car, Jim Bergin pulled himself up far enough so he could see my car, and then he untangled his long frame from the innards of the airplane. I got out and walked over. My left hand groped automatically at the cigarette pack in my shirt pocket.

“Don’t smoke in here,” Jim said immediately. In mock threat, he waved what looked like wire nippers.

I laughed. “You know me pretty well, Jim. How you doin’?” I patted the pocket flap back in place, fighting that strange reflex that smokers have when they’re meeting someone and about to talk. I saw the pan of oil under the plane’s nose and the neat cans of Aeroshell lined up on the floor.

“I’m tired and cranky and tryin’ to keep the customers happy. How about yourself?” Bergin said.

I glanced at my watch. It was twelve forty-six. “Damn picky customers to make a man work this late.”

Bergin offered one of his easy smiles. “Nah. There’s a big bird coming in to pick up about five tons of milling parts from Consolidated. Maybe you saw the truck over on the north side of the parking lot?” I shook my head and Bergin added, “Their plane blew a tire in Pueblo, and that, plus thunderboomers, puts them about five hours late.” He glanced at his watch. “So I figure about three o’clock.”

“And you get stuck waiting for them, huh?” I ran a hand over the smooth alloy of the Cessna’s prop.

Bergin shrugged and wiped his hands on a clean rag. “They want a fast turnaround and fuel. I’ll help get them squared away and sell ’em a few hundred gallons of fuel besides. Hell, might as well make a dime. I don’t have anything else to do.” He grinned. “Corporate schedules assume people are not mortal, you know. What are you sniffin’ around after?”

“Just out, Jim. Swung by here and saw a light. Whose plane is this, anyway?”

“Doc Sprague’s.”

“No shit?” I thumped the end of the spinner. “I didn’t think he was still flying.”

“Oh, yeah. He quit for a little while. About the time his daughter died. Just as well. A man’s got to keep his mind on business up in the air. He just wasn’t in any shape. But he picked it up again about eight months ago. In fact, he just bought this bird in June.”

“Bunch of moola.”

“You’d better believe it.”

I walked around and looked inside at the fancy fabric and all the dials, knobs, and levers. “Wow.” There was a messy hole in the middle of the dash, though, where Bergin had obviously been working. “Something break?”

“Putting in a new radio. He’s got to have the best, you know. I figured I might as well change the oil while I was working and waiting for the charter. It’s due.”

I muttered some pleasantry in agreement and looked back along the fuselage.

“You seen anything of the government yet?” Bergin looked quizzical, and I added, “The DEA is going to be running a plane out of here.”

“That’s good news,” Bergin said, and flapped his eyebrows. “There’s nothing like government credit cards to boost gas sales. I hope they use a helicopter, and not some gas-sippin’ bird. They’re going to push the border again, huh?”

“Yup.”

“I wish ’em all the luck. But unless they can cover the whole thing twenty-four hours a day, it isn’t going to do much good. What are they flying, do you know?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it. Just that they’re coming.”

Bergin nodded. “Probably bringing in one of their mix-masters. Complete waste.” He shook his head sadly. “You know, if they’d go down into Mexico and bribe the right people, they’d probably be provided with a flight plan for each drug runner. But what the hell.” He waved the wire cutter in disgust, then grinned again. “At two dollars and nine cents a gallon for av-gas, I hope they work the border for about six months. Then I can retire.”

I was about to say something when I heard a car blasting down the state road past the airport. It caught my attention because the sound was that of a big engine being pushed until it howled. About the time I half-turned to look outside toward the road, we saw the flash of red lights. It was a county car, and flying low.