Blue Heaven (45 page)

Singer rubbed his nose again. “We can use this to our advantage,” he said.

Newkirk wondered how.

Snatching the mike from the cradle, Singer keyed it and spoke, “Sheriff, this is Singer. Do you read me?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Carey answered. “I didn’t realize you were on the frequency.”

Newkirk listened for skepticism or anger in Carey’s tone. He heard neither, only a profound bone-weariness.

“Yes, Sheriff,” Singer said. “I’ve been monitoring communications. Right now, our position is directly across from the Rawlins Ranch. We think he has them in his house.”

Silence. Newkirk could imagine Carey, suddenly confused, wondering what to do next.

“Sheriff, we’ve cut off the power and communications to the subject’s home. We’re waiting for him to come out.”

“For God’s sake, Lieutenant,” Carey sputtered, “who authorized you to do that? Who do you have there with you?”

Newkirk saw the faint smile form on Singer’s lips. “Sergeant Gonzalez and Officer Newkirk are with me. Officer Swann is here, too. He checked himself out of the hospital so he could be of service. As for authorization, no one, sir. We took it upon ourselves as deputized officers. We want to make sure the subject doesn’t escape before you and the FBI arrive.”

“What if he’s listening to us now?” Carey said.

“I repeat, all power and communications have been cut off. There’s no way he can hear us, Sheriff.”

“Oh, yes, you said that. I don’t know, Lieutenant …”

“Would you like us to withdraw, sir?” Singer asked reasonably. “We can do so, but we risk the possibility of the subject escaping, or further hurting those kids and the mother. But we’ll withdraw if you give us the command, sir.”

Newkirk found himself marveling at Singer’s ability to turn Carey any way he wanted. The sheriff couldn’t risk making another mistake.

“I’m just not comfortable with you up there,” Carey said, his voice hesitant. “We don’t know if we’ve got the right guy.”

“Again, sir,” Singer said, “we will withdraw upon your command.”

“You shouldn’t have gone up there in the first place without talking with me.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. It was a decision we made after we saw Mr. Swann in the hospital, beaten within an inch of his life by the subject.”

Gonzalez turned away from Singer’s window, and Newkirk could hear him snort with laughter.

The radio remained silent for a few moments. Then: “Okay, Lieu-tenant. But stay put. Do not engage the subject in any way until we get there. I repeat, do not engage the subject.”

Singer looked up, made an exaggerated face of disappointment. “Roger that, Sheriff. We will remain in place without engagement unless the subject confronts us.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything about …”

“Roger that, Sheriff,” Singer said, talking over him, then hanging up the mike and reducing the volume to zero.

“Okay,” Singer said, looking at his watch. “We’ve got about an hour before dawn.”

Singer looked up. “Gonzo, you ready?”

Gonzalez nodded. Newkirk could see starlight reflect from his teeth.

“Newkirk?”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

“We’ve been given our hunting license,” Singer said. “Let’s go finish this. Gonzo, do you have the bolt cutters in your truck?”

J
ESS NOW LAY on top of the rock ridge he had explored as a child, amid the slate, the dampness of the grass long since soaked into his jeans and ranch coat. His scoped .270 hunting rifle was next to him, as was the Winchester .25-35 saddle carbine and a box of bullets. He watched the sky lighten, felt the dawn breeze start to move along the ground with an icy pulse. He thought about how Monica and Hearne had been connected all of these years. How he’d hoped, as Monica told him the story, that it had been J.J. He was surprised how he’d unburdened himself to her in the barn like that. How his words had tumbled out as if he’d rehearsed them. Of course he’d said too much. But by saying what he had he felt somehow cleaner now, pleased he had a mission. It felt good.

His heart hardened when he saw the riderless horse cantering across the meadow toward the barn. He could see the saddle had slipped upside down, and could see the stirrups flapping as the horse ran. He knew how unlikely it was that Jim Hearne, ex–rodeo cowboy, had been bucked off.

Jess knew what it meant. He thought about Annie, and Monica. Jim Hearne had been a good man.

But now, they were on their own.

A BRANCH snapped up in the timber, in the direction of the road. Shortly after, a rock was dislodged, and he heard it tumble down the hill until it stopped with a
pock
sound against a tree trunk. He didn’t see anyone in the darkness of the timber, but he knew someone was up there, scouting.

Now there was a ping of metal, faint but distinct. And familiar. It was the sound of a link of chain being cut.

A moment later came the throaty sound of engines starting. Jess shifted where he lay and studied the timber where the road was. No headlights winked through the trees. Either the vehicles hadn’t begun to come down the road, or they were rolling with their headlights off. He guessed the latter.

He looked quickly toward his house. It was dark and still. He wondered if Monica and Villatoro could hear the vehicles idling.

There was no way to stop it now.

N
EWKIRK NERVOUSLY rubbed his thumb along the wooden hand-grip of the shotgun on the seat next to him. It was still too dark to make out the two-track road, and the trees on each side of him were so dark and tall that it felt like he was moving through a tunnel. They were creeping down the hill, the Escalade in four-wheel-drive low so the lieutenant wouldn’t have to apply the brakes and flash brake lights. How could Singer even see where he was going?

The AR-15, a fully automatic rifle with a banana clip, was on the seat as well, next to Singer.

A pine branch scraped the side of the Escalade and showered needles through the open passenger window. Newkirk brushed them from his lap, and Singer corrected the wheel to the left.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Newkirk could tell they’d cleared the trees. The terrain opened up in front of them, lightened, but it was still too dark to see clearly. The sky to the east was gunmetal gray, though, as dawn approached.

Singer brought the vehicle to a gentle stop, having to tap the brakes.

Newkirk looked back, hoping Gonzalez had seen the flash of light and wouldn’t drive right into them.

“We’ll wait here until we can see better,” Singer whispered, almost imperceptibly.

JESS WATCHED the two vehicles emerge from the timber and stop, saw a blink of a brake light. Even though they were there, as he expected they would be, a part of him couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

Nosing the .270 over a piece of slate, he looked at the trucks through his rifle scope, thankful that it gathered more light than his naked eye. The white of the first vehicle was more pronounced against the dark, but he still couldn’t see inside. Minutes went by before he thought he could make out two forms in the front of the white car, and another two in the pickup behind it.

The crosshairs rested on the driver’s side window of the white SUV. It was too far for an accurate shot. Nevertheless, he worked the bolt of the rifle and chambered a round. The sound of the bolt action in the still morning jarred him, but he didn’t think it could be heard by the men in the trucks.

NEWKIRK CHECKED the time obsessively. He felt cold all over, and his nose ran freely. The ranch house, the barn, the other outbuildings began to take shape at the bottom of the hill. To their left was a grassy ridge with broken rocks on top. On their right was a gentle saddle slope with black fingers of pine reaching down the hill.

He looked over at Singer, who sat still, his eyes surveying the valley below. The man was so cool, Newkirk thought. Newkirk wished it would rub off.

A shiver started in his chest, ran up his neck, made his teeth chatter. He clamped his mouth shut, waiting for the shiver to run out. It had nothing to do with the cold.

JESS BREATHED in a long, quivering breath. The crosshairs trembled on the driver’s side window. He realized he had been holding his position too long, that his legs and arms were cramping up, causing him to
shake. He tried to relax, tried to breathe normally to steady himself, flatten out his aim.

When had he last sighted in the rifle? He couldn’t remember. Jesus. It might be completely off.

Again, he glanced down at his house. No movement, no light. Good.

In the barn, the calf he had delivered the night before bawled for its mother.

Then the vehicles were moving forward, down the switchback. The white SUV was picking up speed, the men inside not nearly so worried about stealth now. The black pickup, the same vehicle Jess had seen the day before in front of his house, was right behind it.

There was a curve in the road about 250 yards away from Jess, where the intruders would need to slow down to make the turn safely. It would be close enough for a decent shot, but not a sure shot. Jess pulled the stock tight to his shoulder, eased his eye to the scope, saw the crosshairs bounce around on the side of Singer’s face. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

“Shit!” he said, remembering to thumb the safety off. But by the time he did and sighted through the scope again, the trucks had turned away from the curve and were barreling down the road away from him. He couldn’t believe he’d made such an amateur mistake in such a critical circumstance, and was furious with himself.

NEWKIRK REACHED up through the open window and clamped onto the roof with his hand to steady himself as Singer upshifted and the engine roared and they reached the bottom of the hill where the road straightened out. He saw the ranch house fill the windshield and Singer drove toward it. Gonzalez and Swann shot past them in the pickup on Newkirk’s side.

Both vehicles slid to a stop in the gravel, facing the front door of the house.

Training took over now, and Newkirk bailed out of the Escalade, keeping the open passenger door between him and the structure, aiming his shotgun at the front door of the house over the lip of the open window. In his peripheral vision, he saw Singer do the same after snapping back the bolt to arm the AR-15.

Gonzalez was out of his pickup, racking a shell into the chamber of his shotgun, the sound as sharp and dangerous as anything Newkirk had ever heard. Swann had stayed inside.

While Newkirk and Singer covered him, Gonzalez jogged across the lawn, up the porch steps, and flattened himself against the wall of the house next to the door. Newkirk shot a glance at the picture window. The curtains were pulled closed except for a narrow space between them. Another window on the far side of the house was covered inside with tightly drawn blinds. There was no movement behind either of the windows.

Gonzalez held his shotgun at port arms, then spun and used the butt of it to pound the front door.

“Jess Rawlins! This is the sheriff’s department. Come out of the house right now!”

The sound of the pounding and Gonzalez’s deep voice cut through the silence of the morning.

Newkirk racked the pump on his own shotgun, aimed again at the front door. Waited.

Gonzalez shot a glance to Singer, asking with his eyes, What now?

Singer nodded:
Do it again.

This time, Gonzalez pounded the door so hard with the shotgun, Newkirk expected the glass to fall out of the panes of the window. He saw Swann open the truck door and slide out, stand unsteadily on the lawn with a pistol in his hand.

“Jess Rawlins! We need you to come out right now! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

Nothing. The pounding echoed back from the wall of timber to the north.

“Jesus Christ,” Gonzalez said, looking again at Singer. Swann limped across the lawn, climbed the steps to the porch, and struggled toward the corner of the house.

Newkirk thinking,
They’re not there. No one’s inside. The chopper’s on the way. We’re fucked, but thank God it’s over. Thank God for that. But no
…