Heartshot by Steven F. Havill

eager beavers,” I replied. The door of 310 was closed, and I hadn’t bothered to put the radio on PA. “I better go give a listen.”
    “Take care.” Bergin went back inside the airplane and I walked out to the car. He called after me, voice muffled, “There’s coffee if you want it.” I waved a hand and then pulled open the door. The night air instantly was filled with radio traffic.
    “Three-oh-eight, what’s your ETA?” The voice was shaky, and I recognized it as one of the village part-timers.
    “Posadas, three-oh-eight is six minutes out.” It had been Torrez who flashed by.
    I was already in gear when Gayle Sedillos came on the air, finding Deputy Bishop as well. “Three-oh-seven, ten-forty-nine Posadas Village Park code three. Three-ten, PCS.”
    I keyed the mike as I swerved around the hangar and out the gate. “Three-ten.”
    “Three-ten, ten-forty-nine Posadas Village Park code three. Ten-seventy-one.”
    “Ten-four. ETA seven minutes.” Every muscle in my body was steel-tight. The innocent numbers Gayle enunciated so clearly on the air meant that somebody had just put bullets into somebody else…and maybe was ready to continue doing so.
    I concentrated on driving, nervous because I knew Bob Torrez would arrive at the park first. The part-timer wouldn’t provide much backup. His chief, Dan Martinez, wouldn’t either, since he was off on a week’s vacation. I reached the intersection of State 78 and County 43 and swept down the yield ramp at close to eighty miles an hour. There were three miles of straight paved road to the outskirts of Posadas, and after the first one, 310 felt light on its toes. I didn’t bother to look at the speedometer.
    The village park was a triangular affair of two acres, grass and swing sets and a statue or two. It even sported a welded-up, World War I vintage tank—supposedly left over from Pershing’s fruitless dashes across the border after the outlaw Pancho Villa. If Pershing had used that tank in hot pursuit, it’s amazing Villa hadn’t laughed himself to death. The tank faced Pershing Street, and that’s where I saw Torrez’s car, parked diagonally in the street, lights flashing. Beyond was the village car, headlights askew. Pulling in from the other direction was a state police cruiser, no toplight bar but the grille lights pulsating. I skidded 310 to a stop altogether too close to 308. A crowd of people were gathered over on the grass about thirty yards behind the tank. I saw Torrez push someone hard, and the deputy gesticulated toward the village car.
    Only after I had gotten out and was trotting across the grass did I recognize the man Torrez had pushed as the village cop. He ran past me, eyes wide. “Ambulance,” he yelped, and sprinted on.
    I reached the first knot of people, folks from nearby houses and the rapidly gathering cars. “Move it, move it,” I snapped, and shoved through. The victim was lying on his face, but I recognized him immediately. My gut wound itself into a painful ball. The Beretta was in the grass, under the victim’s left shin. Benny Fernandez didn’t need an ambulance.
    I stood up. “Now I want you people back. Way back,” I shouted. The state trooper didn’t hesitate to cooperate. He was five times bigger than me, and probably twice as mean. Crowd control was his thing, and he pitched in. I let him work, because Bob Torrez had me by the sleeve.
    “Sheriff, over here,” he said. I turned quickly and almost fell, suddenly and violently dizzy. I stopped in my tracks and took a deep breath, waiting for my eyes to clear. The night air hadn’t felt so close and stuffy before.
    “Who’d Fernandez tangle with?” I managed, but Torrez just pulled me along. I recognized one of the paramedics from the fire department, crouched and working furiously. He was off duty, and didn’t have much to work with. Just as intent, and obviously in charge, was Dr. Harlan Sprague, Jr. I recognized first his unruly white hair. His face,