Dead or Alive (26 page)

Clayton turned to Kerney. “Want to wait for him here?”

“Hold on.” Kerney leaned around Clayton. “How many beers has he had?” he asked the officer.

“Let me check.” The officer keyed his microphone and repeated Kerney's question. The reply came back that the subject had just opened his fourth brewski.

“Am I sensing a DWI stop here?” Clayton asked.

“With a good cop, bad cop twist to it,” Kerney replied with the smile. “If I remember correctly, Kerry has one prior DWI, which means a conviction will cost him his license and some jail time. That gives us a bargaining chip.”

He got on the radio to Major Vanmeter and arranged to have Kerry Larson stopped by a uniformed officer in a marked vehicle after he left the cemetery.

“Tell the officer to be hard-nosed, but to do it by the book,” Kerney added. “Have him taken to the substation after he fails the field sobriety test. We'll pick it up from there.”

“I have a patrol supervisor nearby,” Vanmeter replied. “I'll have him stop the subject when he gets to the main drag. That way it shouldn't arouse any suspicions.”

“Excellent,” Kerney replied.

 

 

Inside the Springer state police substation, a low counter separated the public waiting area from several desks used by officers to do shift paperwork and make phone calls. An unhappy-looking Kerry Larson sat in a chair next to one of the desks, his hands cuffed behind his back, watching the officer who'd arrested him fill out forms. On the desktop were the empties he'd thrown in the bed of his truck before leaving the cemetery, and the one unfinished beer he had been drinking when the cop pulled him over.

The cop, a tough-looking sergeant with a nasty, pushy personality, wasn't one of the regular officers who worked out of Springer. Kerry didn't know him, but the name tag on his uniform read “Shaya.” Sergeant Shaya had put Kerry facedown on the pavement before making him stand on one foot, put his finger on his nose, count backward, and do some other stupid stuff. Then he drove Kerry to the state police office and had him blow into a machine that could tell whether he was drunk or not. According to Sergeant Shaya, the machine proved that he was legally drunk. But Kerry didn't feel that way, just jumpy and worried.

“Maybe I should have come here instead of buying that six-pack,” Kerry said.

Shaya looked at Kerry with interest. “Were you thinking about talking to somebody here?”

“Gary,” Kerry said. “He's a state cop like you but I can't remember his last name.”

“LeDoux.”

“Yeah, that's right. LeDoux.”

“What did you want to talk to Officer LeDoux about?”

Kerry licked his lips and shrugged. “Nothing special.”

“You're sure about that?” Shaya asked.

Kerry glanced away from Shaya's stare. “Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Listen, whatever you wanted to tell Officer LeDoux, you can tell me.”

Kerry shook his head. “Nope. I don't like you.”

“Suit yourself.” Shaya returned his attention to his paperwork.

“Are you going to put me in jail?”

Shaya grunted without looking up. “That's what happens when you drink and drive.”

“Can't I just pay a fine? I've got cash money in my wallet.”

“No, you can't. It's not that simple.”

The front door opened and two men wearing holstered handguns and police badges clipped to their belts entered. One looked like a rancher and the other looked Indian. If Kerry had seen them on the street without their guns and badges, he would have figured them to be just ordinary cow people.

“Who are they?” Kerry asked.

Sergeant Shaya got to his feet. “Stay put.”

He went over and greeted the men, who talked in low voices so Kerry couldn't hear. When the jawboning stopped, the two men came around the counter, stood him up, and took off his handcuffs.

“I'm Kevin Kerney,” the rancher-looking cop said. He nodded at the Indian. “And this is Clayton Istee. Let's go in that office and talk.”

“About what?”

“Why you were drinking and driving,” the Indian cop named Istee said.

Kerry stared suspiciously at him. “You Navajo?”

“Apache.”

“I'm not gonna say anything to you about my brother.”

“You don't have to,” the rancher cop named Kerney said with a smile.

“Then what are we going to talk about?”

“How we can keep you out of jail.” Kerney led Kerry by the arm into the office. “Did you know the law has changed since your last DWI conviction?”

“Changed?” Kerry asked, rubbing his wrists.

Clayton Istee sat him in a chair. “Jail time is mandatory now,” he said. “So paying a fine won't keep you out of the pokey. Because this is your second offense, you could get six months to a year.”

Kerry looked startled. “I can't go to jail for a year.”

Kerney nodded sympathetically as he perched on the edge of the desk. “I understand. You'd probably lose your job at the ranch and get kicked out of your house to boot.”

Kerry lowered his gaze and shook his head. “That's not good. Not good.”

“No, it's not,” Kerney said. “But it could get even worse for you.”

Kerry looked at Kerney cautiously. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“Not at all. We believe that you didn't know Craig was on the run from the police when he came to see you.”

“Well that's the truth of it,” Kerry replied hotly.

“But if you know where he is now, or where he might be, that's a totally different story,” Kerney said.

“I told you I'm not talking about my brother.” Kerry sounded much less emphatic.

“We're not talking about Craig,” Clayton said, picking up a cue from Kerney to take the lead. “We're talking about you. Your life, your freedom.”

“I haven't done anything wrong to nobody.”

“We believe you,” Clayton said. He pulled up an empty chair and sat close to Kerry. “But if Craig keeps breaking the law, kidnapping and killing people, stealing and destroying property like he has been, and you have helped him in any way, or even refused to tell the police what you knew about his whereabouts, that makes you guilty of all those crimes.”

Kerry gave Clayton a sullen look but said nothing.

“Do you understand what I'm saying?” Clayton prodded, leaning closer.

“Yeah. That's crazy.”

“No, that's the law,” Kerney chimed in.

Kerry bit his lips. “Show me.”

Clayton got to his feet. “Wait right here.”

He left the office, got a New Mexico criminal statutes book from Sergeant Shaya, found the appropriate sections, and flagged them with pieces of paper. He returned to the office and gave the book to Kerry.

“Go ahead,” Clayton said, “read them for yourself.”

Kerry lowered his head, ran a finger along the page, and read, his mouth forming words as he went along.

He finished one excerpt, stopped, and looked up at Clayton. “This uses different words than you did.”

“But it means the same thing.”

Kerry closed the book. “What if I didn't want to help him so instead I just ran away?”

Kerney leaned forward. “Is that what happened?”

“Maybe,” Kerry replied softly.

“What made you want to run away?” Kerney said.

“Nothing.”

“When did this happen?” Clayton asked.

“Today, just after quitting time.”

Kerney and Clayton exchanged glances. The surveillance logs on Kerry Larson, summarized at the debriefing meeting, indicated that he'd stayed at the ranch all day, spending most of his time repairing a truck.

“Come with us,” Kerney said, lifting Kerry by the elbow to his feet.

“Where to?”

“The ranch,” Kerney said. “That's where you saw Craig today, right?”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, you didn't,” Kerney replied. “And I'll make sure everyone knows that you didn't squeal on your brother.”

On their way toward the front door, Clayton told Sergeant Shaya to alert the officer on surveillance duty at the ranch that Craig Larson might be on the property and to get a lot of people rolling to that twenty pronto.

“Are you kidding me?” Shaya asked, reaching for his handheld radio.

“Not even,” Clayton said.

“Do I still have to go to jail?” Kerry asked.

“Not even,” Kerney echoed as he hustled Kerry out the door to the unit.

 

 

Even with every law enforcement agency in the northeast quadrant of the state on high alert, it took a fair amount of time to put enough officers in place to surround the immediate buildings and grounds where Kerry Larson lived and worked. Once the perimeter was sealed, a SWAT team cleared the garage, barn, stable, and corral before moving on to the main house. Once that had been cleared, Frank Vanmeter set up his command post at the top of the lane overlooking the main house and cottage, ordered the cordon tightened around Kerry Larson's residence, and brought a state police helicopter on standby in Springer to light up the exterior with its high-powered searchlight.

With the chopper rotors thudding in the night sky a hundred feet overhead, the cottage washed in harsh, white light, and sharpshooters zeroed in on every window and door, Vanmeter waited for his SWAT commander to report on any sign of visual or thermal movement.

“The only thing giving off a significant heat signature inside that structure is the kitchen refrigerator,” the SWAT commander said by radio after checking with his team. “Are we good to go?”

Vanmeter turned to Kerry Larson, who stood between Kerney and Clayton. “Does your cottage have a basement?”

Kerry shook his head.

Vanmeter keyed his radio. “Go.”

The SWAT commander gave the word, and the team moved in under the protection of covering snipers. Within minutes the cottage was declared clear.

Vanmeter pulled SWAT back and ordered the chopper pilot to sweep and light up the surrounding area, in the hope that Larson might be hiding nearby.

“Did you see which way your brother came from?” Clayton asked Kerry.

“No.”

“Okay.” Clayton motioned to a nearby uniformed officer to come forward. “Wait with this officer in his vehicle.”

“Why can't I stay here?” Kerry demanded.

“You can,” Clayton replied, “if you want me to forget we weren't going to bust you for that DWI.”

“You said I didn't have to go to jail.”

Clayton nodded at Kerney. “He said that, not me. Go with the officer.”

After the officer and Kerry moved away, Clayton said, “That's twice we've come up empty.”

“But now we're only hours behind him,” Kerney said. “Let's take a look around the cottage.”

Shining his flashlight on the ground, Clayton took the lead as they walked down the lane. When he got to the parking area in front of the cottage, he squatted down, looked closely at some tread marks and hoofprints, and quickly stood up.

“What is it?” Kerney asked.

“Ten-to-one odds our man is on horseback,” Clayton said. “There are hoofprints on top of Kerry Larson's tire tracks, and they're very recent.”

He followed the tracks up the backside of the hill with Kerney following. “Two horses,” he said.

Vanmeter's voice came over Kerney's handheld radio. “The chopper pilot has spotted a vehicle under a grove of trees. Says it looks like the stolen Buick. I'm going in with SWAT.”

“Ten-four,” Kerney replied as he kept pace with Clayton, who continued to move up the hill in the direction of the horse barn. “It's likely Larson left the ranch on horseback, trailing another animal. Have Kerry brought to us at the barn.”

“Will do.”

At the barn, they found ten tidy, clean stalls, only eight horses, and empty spaces in the tack room for a saddle and a pack frame. Kerney met Kerry at the barn door and asked how many horses were stabled inside.

“Ten,” Kerry answered.

“Two are missing,” Clayton said, “along with some tack.”

Kerry stepped past them. “Let me see.”

Clayton pulled him back by the arm. “Only if you tell us what else is missing here and at your house.”

“No jail?” Kerry asked, looking at Kerney.

“No jail,” Kerney replied with a smile.

“Okay.”

After a quick tour, Kerry told Kerney and Clayton that the best riding horse and pack animal were gone, along with the necessary tack to load up and travel cross-country. At his cottage, a pillowcase had been removed from his bed, and the venison steaks he'd taken out of the freezer were gone, along with a bunch of food from his pantry and refrigerator.

After reassuring Kerry once again that he wouldn't go to jail, Kerney turned him over to a uniform, got on his handheld, and asked Vanmeter what was happening at the Buick.

“The Buick is empty and it looks like you were right about the horses. He took whatever he had in the vehicle and left. The tracks head west as far as we can tell.”

“Frank, we need eyes in the sky at daybreak,” Kerney said. “As many as we can get. State Police aircraft, Civil Air Patrol, State Forestry, Game and Fish—whoever's willing. Have Andy ask the governor for Air National Guard assistance. If Larson gets to the mountains before we find him, it's going to be a hell of a lot tougher to track him. Let every rancher in the area know that Larson may be traversing their property. Tell them to hunker down overnight and stay close to home tomorrow.”