Dead or Alive (18 page)

“What kind of question is that?” Kerney asked.

“An important one. I know you're no happier living in England than Patrick is.”

“We're still adjusting,” Kerney replied.

“That's a pretty slick answer, mister.”

“Then I'll give it to you straight,” Kerney said with a grin.

“The best possible place for Patrick and me to be is with you in London. Living in Europe for three years will give Patrick experiences few children are fortunate to get. It would be tragic not give him a chance to learn firsthand about the world outside the United States. He may complain about London now, but give him time and he'll make some good friends in his new school and start enjoying himself.”

“You mean that?”

“I do, although you can count on me to occasionally bitch about missing New Mexico, Santa Fe, the ranch, the sky, the mountains, the smell of the high desert air after a rainstorm, and green chili.”

Sara jumped off the stall gate and gave Kerney a hug. “I'm holding you to everything you just said.”

“Including my bitching?”

“As long as you keep it to a minimum.”

“I'll try.”

In the tack room with Sara at his side, Kerney knelt down, gently picked up his sleeping son, and carried him in his arms toward the house. He knew he was lucky to have his family intact, knew that circumstances beyond his control could easily rip his world apart just as it had the Burkes'. That didn't stop him from making a silent vow to do all in his power to keep Sara and Patrick safe.

 

 

The day after Paul Hewitt had called in his resignation as Lincoln County sheriff from his Albuquerque hospital bed, with Linda holding the phone for him, Clayton Istee sat in his cramped lieutenant's office entering numbers into a desk calculator to discover how deep in the hole the department was for paid overtime.

He ran the totals again, just to be sure, and then began examining the fiscal year line-item budget to see where he could find $8,000 to cover the current overtime shortage and another $6,000 to pay for anticipated overtime through the end of the budget cycle. He decided the only way he could make up the difference would be to drop one of the three new police vehicles Paul Hewitt had budgeted for. He hated the idea of delaying the replacement of even one cop car, but saw no alternative.

A knock on his open office door made him look up. Steve Durbin, the chair of the county commission, a man with an ingratiating façade and a viperous personality, smiled warmly at him.

“Clayton,” Durbin said by way of a greeting as he sat in the straight-back chair on the other side of the desk. He had a fleshy face and a wide mouth with thick lips. “I thought at least you would have moved into the vacant chief deputy's office after your appointment.”

“I haven't had the time,” Clayton replied. “What can I do for you, Mr. Durbin?”

“Please, it's Steve. I wanted to tell you personally that the commission has just appointed Rudy Aldrich to fill out Paul's term in office.”

“I was expecting that.”

Durbin turned on his most sugary smile. “Of course, it was hardly a secret who the majority of the commission favored for the job. However, you do understand that Sheriff Aldrich's appointment in no way diminishes our appreciation of the wonderful work you've been doing here during these difficult times.”

Clayton said nothing.

Durbin kept the smile going. “In light of that, we want you to attend our commission meeting next week so that we can present you with a commendation recognizing the contribution you've made to the citizens of Lincoln County.”

“That isn't necessary.”

“Perhaps not, but it's well deserved nonetheless. Now, on to a more sensitive subject.” Durbin's smile blossomed wider but his eyes narrowed. “Sheriff Aldrich has decided to fill the chief deputy position with someone other than yourself and has asked that we keep his choice confidential until he makes a public announcement later in the week.”

“I was expecting that also,” Clayton said.

“The commission unanimously asked me to tell you that we very much want you to remain with the department at your permanent rank of sergeant.”

“Sheriff Hewitt promoted me to lieutenant.”

“True enough, but you are some weeks shy of completing the mandatory six months' probation period. Thus, under current personnel rules, your permanent rank is sergeant. It will be up to Sheriff Aldrich to decide if he wants you to continue to serve as a lieutenant.”

Aldrich had always been weak-kneed and two-faced, but until now Clayton hadn't realized how spineless the man truly was. He reached for a writing tablet on the desktop and tore off a piece of paper. “Let's end this charade.”

He wrote out his resignation effective the end of the month and handed it to Durbin, who scanned it quickly.

“I'll take annual leave until then,” he added. “Tell Aldrich I'll clean out my desk by the end of the day and turn in my department-issued equipment on Friday.”

Durbin waved the resignation at Clayton. “You don't have to do this, you know.”

Clayton stood. “Yes, I do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to finish up.”

Durbin left with no further appeal for Clayton to remain with the department, confirming that resigning had been the right thing to do.

He looked at his watch. He had half a shift to wind things up and clean out his desk. He decided not to call Grace at work with the news. It could wait until he got home.

Chapter Seven

Larson planned on several more giddyups with Ugly Nancy after he'd gotten some sleep. He left her securely tied up before raiding the well-stocked liquor cabinet in the living room and then crashing in the smaller, second bedroom. He slept twelve hours, woke up refreshed, and wrapped himself in a bathrobe before making coffee in the kitchen. While the coffee brewed, he transferred his wet clothes from the washer to the dryer and went to check on Ugly. He found her where he'd left her, spread-eagled on the bed, but lying in a smelly mess of excrement and piss.

Disgusted, Larson untied her, forced her into the shower, and had her scrub down. He marched her dripping wet and naked back to the bedroom and made her strip the blankets and sheets off the bed and put them in the washing machine.

In the light of a new day and with a clear head that wasn't groggy with lack of sleep, Larson found Ugly Nancy even more nasty and horrid-looking than he'd remembered. Her little titties sagged flat against her skinny chest, there was an unattractive fold of wrinkles across her lower abdomen, her pubic hair looked like a dirty wire scrub pad used to scour pots, and she had unsightly underarm hair.

As she poured laundry detergent into the washing machine, she asked Larson if she could dress and have something to eat and drink.

He looked for any sign of emotion in her face and saw nothing. “You're a butt-ugly old bitch,” Larson said in response.

Ugly Nancy laughed between clenched teeth. “Don't you want any more giddyup with me, Mister Killer?”

Larson slapped her hard across the face. “Don't piss me off, bitch.” He pushed her back into the bedroom and threw her clothes in her face. “Get dressed.”

While Ugly Nancy put her clothes on, Larson considered what to do with her. The idea of more sex with her was repulsive, and if the cops found him and killed him before he could find a better-looking, young woman to play with, Ugly Nancy might wind up being his last piece of nooky. That just wouldn't do.

“What if I let you go?” he asked.

Ugly Nancy looked at him suspiciously as she sat on the mattress and pulled on her boots. “You'd do that?”

“I'm thinking about it. But I'm keeping your Subaru, so you'll have to walk back to the ranch.”

“Why not just take my car and leave me here?”

“That's not what I'm thinking I want to do,” Larson hissed as he pulled her to her feet. He tied her hands behind her back, found some duct tape to cover her mouth, and hobbled her legs with rope. He yanked her to the front door and pushed her outside.

“I figure you've got a three-hour walk,” he said. “Get going.”

She stood rooted to the ground, shoulders hunched, glaring at him.

“Want me to make it more interesting? How about I blindfold you and make you go barefoot?”

Slowly she turned and started walking.

Larson watched her for a moment, went inside, picked up the Weatherby Mark V bolt-action rifle he'd taken from the gun cabinet at the ranch headquarters, loaded it, and walked to the open front door, expecting to see Ugly Nancy hobbling along no more than fifty feet from the lodge. Instead she was nowhere in sight.

He cursed, slipped his bare feet into his boots, and went looking for her. He found her hiding behind her Subaru.

“You're stupid as well as ugly.” Larson kicked her feet out from under her, pulled off her boots, dragged her back to the lodge, and used more duct tape to blindfold her. He spun her around and pushed her in the direction he wanted her to go. “Now get moving,” he ordered.

He watched Ugly Nancy walk gingerly away from the lodge, zigzagging a little but keeping a fairly straight line as she hobbled slowly across the mesa. Larson giggled when she ran into an occasional cholla cactus, stumbled over some gopher mounds, and stubbed her toes on some rocks. He hollered at her to keep moving.

When she was about a hundred yards out, Larson raised the Weatherby, sighted the target through the scope, and squeezed the trigger. Ugly Nancy fell hard and didn't move. From all appearances, it was a clean kill, and Larson congratulated himself on another fine piece of marksmanship.

He went back inside the lodge, drank some coffee, dressed in his clothes fresh from the dryer, and went to check on good old Ugly. The bullet that entered her back had pierced her heart.

He grabbed the hobble rope tied around her ankles and dragged her tiny, bony body back to the lodge, where he left it under a cottonwood tree while he fixed breakfast and figured out what to do with her. He decided to walk to the stolen truck he'd left at the edge of the mesa, drive it back, load up Ugly, and take her to an old nearby water tank where coyotes could feast on her when they came to drink. Then, when it was time to leave, he would torch the truck, burn down the lodge, and drive away in the Subaru.

He waited until the cool of evening to fetch the truck and take Ugly to the water tank. He rolled her out of the bed of the truck thinking that what the coyotes didn't want the vultures and crows would consume. She'd be nothing more than scattered, picked-over bones in a day or two.

Back at the lodge with a bottle of Scotch at his side, Larson sipped single malt and watched TV until the local late night news came on. He was pleased to see that the manhunt for him wasn't the top story, although after the first commercial break the news anchor did remind viewers that “escaped fugitive Craig Larson is still at large and armed and dangerous.”

He switched channels and found the other local newscasters were also giving the manhunt story less broadcast time. Somewhat reassured that things were quieting down a bit, Larson decided to stay put overnight, but not any longer than that. Although Ugly had told him nobody was due at the ranch for some days, he didn't know if she'd been lying or not. Best not to take any chances.

In the morning, he'd work out a really good plan, maybe heading north. Since the federal government was building fences and stationing National Guard troops along the Mexican border to keep out the wetbacks, it would probably be far easier and a lot safer to sneak into Canada.

Larson had read stories about escaped convicts who'd lived normal lives for twenty years or more. They'd taken on new identities, held down jobs, and raised families. And he'd heard about guys who'd broken out of prison and never been seen or heard from again.

He had enough money and jewels to get himself set up once he got to Canada and learned his way around. But he didn't want to make a major move until the manhunt fizzled out a bit more. He needed to find another place to stay where there wasn't an old biddy caretaker to deal with or any nosy nearby neighbors.

He'd cogitate on it overnight, but the one thing he already knew he needed to do was stop killing people for a while until things calmed down.

He poured another double shot and switched the channel to a late night movie.

 

 

It took Grace nagging Clayton for a full day about his foolish pride before he broke down, called Kerney, and gave him the news about his impending departure from the Lincoln County S.O.

“I'm meeting with Andy Baca tomorrow morning to get sworn in as a special investigator with the New Mexico State Police,” Kerney replied without missing a beat. “How would you feel about coming on board to help catch this scumbag?”

“Sara doesn't mind you coming out of retirement?” Clayton asked.

“Not for this. She said she doesn't want to see hide nor hair of me until Larson is planted in the ground.”

“She actually said that?”

“When it comes to the people she loves, the woman doesn't have a mean bone in her body. But if you're her enemy, watch out. How about you? Will Grace and the kids put up with you being gone for a while?”

“That's not a problem. She thinks Paul Hewitt should be inducted into a national top cop hall of fame, if one existed.”

“And she's right. Get yourself up here tonight. You can stay with us. I'm scheduled to meet with Andy early in the morning. I'll let him know that you're coming on board.”

“Isn't that his call to make?”