Steven Havill - Heartshot

“Mexico,” I added.

“Right. That’s three hundred miles from here.”

“He goes fishing at Bahia Kino. That’s about eighty miles up the coast from Guaymas.”

“Right. It’s just that I can’t help thinking-this last flight. Seven hours in a turbo Centurion would get you pretty deep in Mexico.”

“Mazatlan. Guadalajara. Any of those, even at tree top level.”

“You think there’s enough cause to link him with David Barrie?”

“I can see him laying a trap for Barrie, maybe even blowing him away, if he discovered the man was a drug dealer and responsible for his daughter’s death. But working with him? Hardly.”

“Any ideas?” Estelle asked.

“Yeah, I got an idea. I’ll ask him.” I outlined what I planned to do, and Estelle hesitated. “Hey, look, Holman says I need a vacation, right?”

“Not like this.”

“Sprague has offered to take me fishing in Mexico anytime. When we’re up in the plane, he’s a captive audience. No better time.”

“I hope he doesn’t ask you to step outside. At twenty thousand feet.”

I laughed. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“You’ll let me know if you do something like that?”

“Yes, mother. In the meantime, you keep nosing around. You’re doing good.” I rang off feeling better. Maybe it was just misplaced intuition, but I fell asleep again with the notion that Dr. Harlan Sprague would tell me things on a Mexican beach that he wouldn’t in Posadas.

I didn’t tell Holman what I was planning. I didn’t want to hear the song and dance about my health. Besides, I had a few gnawing suspicions left about Martin Holman himself, among them a certain uneasiness about the paired arrival of Sprague and Holman at the hobby shop. I chalked most of Holman’s actions up to being ignorant of investigation procedures, but still…

I gave my plan a couple more hours of thought. The most intelligent move would have been to summon all the heavy-iron help our department could find. But I followed my intuition, and that dumb feeling told me that the root of the abscess was right in Posadas and that I was perfectly capable of rooting it out. And call it pride, but I didn’t want strangers proving to Holman that he was right about aging undersheriffs not being able to handle their own counties.

I made my preparations with some care, and they included a call to my son. At least in that respect, the cards were in my favor. With only ten minutes of waiting and three or four shunts, Buddy came on the line, sounding nervous. “Dad?”

“Forget what they told you, Buddy. I’m fine. I just had to tell some lies to get through to you. It’s like talking to Fort Knox.”

Buddy laughed, but when he heard what I had to say, he turned serious quickly. “You’re not really going to do this, are you?”

“Yep,” I said.

“No way I can talk you out of it?”

“Nope. But you can help. You can answer me some questions.” We talked for almost twenty minutes, and when we were finished, I was pleased and he was more apprehensive than before. “Relax, Buddy. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“Easy for you to say. I think I’ll check me out a T-thirty-eight and ride tail on you.”

“You do, and I will be, as they say, most annoyed. I can take care of myself. Just hang loose.”

Late that afternoon, I made another telephone call. As it turned out, Harlan Sprague couldn’t resist the opportunity to catch a few fish. If what little that was left of his medical practice was an inconvenience, he didn’t let it bother him. When I called, Sprague was initially startled, but then enthusiastic. He asked if my visa was in order or if I’d have to get a visitor’s permit. I assured him I had the necessary papers. I didn’t ask him about his own.

I added to my mental file the nagging uneasiness I felt about Sprague’s sudden agreement that a trip was in order. And it was only when I parked at the airport at dawn the next day that I remembered that the good doctor hadn’t made much of an issue about my precarious health, a welcome change, but unusual nevertheless. I patted myself on the back for having had the presence of mind to call my son.

The weather was still soft and cool when I met the doctor at the airport, and Sprague looked at my small duffel bag critically. “I’m glad you can travel light,” he said. He loaded the airplane, taking special care that nothing rested on two heavy fishing rods. “I made these,” he said as he jockeyed them into place. “Wait until you try one.” He looked at the small Pan Am flight bag I carried. “You’re going to keep that up front?”

I nodded, and then pointed at the Cessna. “This thing has enough room inside for a boat and motor,” I said. I stowed the flight bag on the floor in front of the right-hand seat. Harlan Sprague took his time with the preflight check. I walked around with him and watched. After fingering every rivet and seam, and after the airplane had sprayed out three or four urine samples into Sprague’s plastic specimen cup, the doctor seemed satisfied. We climbed in.

I’ve never seen an airplane engine start eagerly. This one was no exception. The prop kicked lethargically several times against the prime and then the big engine coughed, belched, and settled into a powerful rumble.

Some minutes later, the lift-off from Posadas County Airport was smooth and certain. One seven eight Mike Bravo was virtually empty-just the two of us and light baggage in a six-seat airplane, and Sprague held the Centurion in a powerful climb so steep that my ears clicked and popped. When we were well clear of surrounding mesa tops, he let the nose settle so we could see ahead.

“It’s going to be a perfect day,” Harlan Sprague said with relish. He scanned the sky, and then keyed the mike on the control yoke. He wore one of those nifty arrangements where the pickup is on a slender boom that curves around from the headset, ending right in front of the pilot’s mouth. As I listened to him file and open his flight plan, I thought that kind of radio should be in police cars. Just push the button on the steering wheel and talk into the boom mike-nothing to pick up and fumble. According to what he was telling the FAA, we would be cruising at ten thousand feet. I thought that was on the low side for a powerful airplane that was probably capable of scrambling up to airliner country, but the flight was reasonably short. Maybe even semi-retired doctors felt the need to economize.

While he was talking, I reached down for my small travel bag. I found a pair of sunglasses, and while my hand was in the bag, I punched down the dual switches of the cassette recorder. I glanced at Sprague. He was still reeling out numbers to some soul on the other end. I heard him say, “That’s negative,” and then he turned and looked at me. “Paperwork’s done. Now we can relax,” he said. “We’ll be flying down to Tucson first. I filed for there. Then we hop across to Nogales and clear Mexican customs there.” He pointed out to my right, and I saw the silver dart and twin contrails of a commercial jet heading south ahead of us.

“What altitude is he at?”

“Probably thirty-five or forty thousand feet,” Sprague said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to fly much higher than we are, though. Not with a cardiac patient aboard.” He smiled faintly. “Plus it’s not far to Tucson. You comfortable?”

“Sure,” I said. I was tired and my fingers and toes tingled a little, but then it was early in the day. Until my first gallon of coffee, everything was out of whack.

“So,” he said, as if we had reached a point in the sky for which we had both been waiting. He was messing with his headset, turned slightly away from me. “What was it you wanted to know?”