radar stations were and what they covered, and how flying too low involved a risk of encountering the pilotless drones and their cameras, which sent what they were viewing back to television screens in Border Patrol stations.
Budge took the Falcon toward El Paso, low, and far enough south to avoid radar, then gained altitude and crossed the border on a direct route toward Albuquerque until, fifty miles over New Mexico, he turned west as if headed for Tucson, explaining the little jet to Diego as he did.
The flight took time, and Budge needed time. He wanted to get acquainted with this Mexican who, he sensed, might be useful, might be subject to persuasion that killing a Border Patrol cop was not a wise idea. And he had to decide what to do about the cop herself, no matter what. And, finally, he couldn’t get Chrissy off his mind.
She had brought her luggage with her that black day—that last day he’d seen her—excited, nervous, happy as she watched him fitting the bags into the limo’s trunk.
“Did Rawley tell you where we’re going this morning?”
“He didn’t say,” Budge said. “And that’s very unusual. I want you to sit up front with me so we can talk about it.”
“Sure,” Chrissy said. “We’re going out to the airport. To his airplane, and we’re going to fly down to Mazatlan, down to that Mexican resort on the Pacific. And guess what?! Rawley and I are going to get married down there.”
Now, flying east toward El Paso and the morning sun, he remembered every second of that day. He had closed the limo door behind her, walked around the front, got in, started the engine, and rolled down the drive to the street, trying to collect his wits. Even though he’d known this was going to happen, had been trying to form a workable plan for dealing with it, this had left him speechless-enraged, engulfed in hatred for Rawley Winsor. It hadn’t occurred to him Winsor would use a ruse like this marriage idea. The man’s cruelty amazed him.
“Aren’t you excited for me?” Chrissy said. “I’ve never been to Mexico before. I’ve never even seen the Pacific Ocean.”
“Chrissy. What did he tell you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he must have said something about why he wasn’t flying down there with you. How did he explain that? Is he flying down later? Do I go back and get him? He’d told me he wants me ready to fly him down to El Paso, or maybe somewhere in New Mexico, and all on very short notice. What’s the plan here?”
“Budge. What’s wrong? You sound funny?”
He stopped for a red light, signaled a turn. How could he tell her what Winsor planned for her? How could he tell her so she would believe him. She would think he was jealous. Lying. He couldn’t just abduct her with force. If he did, what then. And if he told her, and she didn’t believe him, she’d call Winsor. And Winsor would pretend to believe her, assure her that Budge was just crazy jealous. Then Winsor would get him out of the picture and dispose of Chrissy another way. He’d have to find a way to show her the truth.
“Did Mr. Winsor tell you when he was coming down? Do you have a date for the wedding? Any of that?”
“He had a job he had to finish. Just another day he thought. He said you’d be bringing him down tomorrow.” She paused. “But I guess you already knew that. He must have mentioned it to you. Didn’t he?” Chrissy’s tone had wavered from angry to uncertain.
“Tomorrow? That’s not possible unless he changes his other plans. Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said. But now she didn’t sound sure. She sounded shaken.
“Is someone meeting you when we get to Mazatlan? At the airport. Maybe a hotel limo service? Which hotel?”
“He didn’t tell you that?” She reached into her purse, extracted a card, read from it: “Hotel la Maya, 172 Calle Obregon, Mazatlan.”
She stared at him. “I guess I go down there and check in, and when Rawley arrives tomorrow I’ll ask him when he gets there. But what do I ask him? Ask him why he forgot to tell you about this? You could ask him yourself when you’re flying him on the way down.”
He sighed. Said: “Chrissy—” But he cut it off. Her tone was stiff again. She didn’t want to know. He’d have to show her.
He’d expected to find that Winsor had not bothered to make a reservation at Hotel la Maya, and to use that solid, concrete evidence to add some credibility to what he had to say. Then he would explain that Winsor hadn’t expected her to reach Mazatlan, that Winsor had told him that she was blackmailing him, that she had copied confidential materials from his legal files, that she had evolved an extortion plot, and that he had ordered Budge to dispose of her. He imagined Chrissy hysterical, demanding to know why he was lying to her. He imagined her rushing to a telephone to call Winsor. What could he do to stop her? And what would happen next?
Winsor, however, proved to have been overconfident.
Chrissy sat in the passenger seat behind him on the flight down, silent. No hotel limo was awaiting them. He took the cab with her from the airport to the hotel, told the cabbie to wait, and surrendered her bags at the entry to the greeter.
“I’ll take care of things from here, Budge,” she said. “It was nice of you to worry about me, but go home now.”
“I’ll make sure your reservations are correct,” Budge said, and followed her in.
Of course they weren’t.
The desk clerk’s English was perfect. He looked puzzled. “We seem to have a mistake,” he said. “Some confusion, I think. Was there a second reservation? A Mr. Rawley Winsor, of Washington, D.C., often keeps a suite here and I believe he is here now.” He glanced down at his record again. “No, Mrs. Winsor is in occupation. She arrived last week. According to this, she will stay here until next Tuesday, I believe.”
“He reached for the telephone. “I will call Mrs. Winsor. Was she expecting you to join her?”
Budge glanced at Chrissy standing motionless and speechless beside him. She looked faint. He took her arm.
“No,” he said. “We’ve made a mistake.”
He recovered her luggage, ushered her out to the cab, and told the driver to take them to the airport. En route, he told her everything, how Winsor had ordered him to kill her and dispose of the body. She listened, wordless.
“That’s all of it,” he said, and noticed she was shaking. “Now, ask me any questions, and if you don’t have any, just tell me what you want to do.”
“I wonder why you are telling me all this.”
“Because it’s true, Chrissy,” he said. “And because no one should be treated like this. Certainly nobody like you. Do you believe me.”
“I don’t know. Some of it, I guess. Maybe a lot of it.”
He thought a moment. “Remember that day you showed me that ring? His grandmother’s ring he told you, with the huge diamond. Do you have it with you?”
“No,” she said.
“Where is it?”
“Do you want it?”
“No, Chrissy. I don’t want it. But why don’t you have your engagement ring with you? Why aren’t you wearing it.”
“He asked for it back. So he could have the jeweler clean it and fit it to my finger size.”
“When?”
“Tuesday afternoon.”
“It was Wednesday morning he told me to get rid of you. To dispose of you. Permanently.”
“Why are you—” She cut off the question, shuddered, and said, “Oh,” in something like a whisper.
He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him. “In a little while we’ll be at the airport. I don’t want to take you back to your apartment because if you go there, he will hear about it. He’ll know I didn’t follow my orders. He’ll still think you’re dangerous to him. I’m not sure you’d be safe there. But what do you want to do?”
“I don’t care,” Chrissy said, still in a whisper.
