Dead or Alive (31 page)

When he did get to working again, he was bothered by an Albuquerque television news reporter who barged in asking for an interview while a truck with a satellite dish on top of it idled outside. Kerry clammed up, closed the barn doors, and wouldn't open them until the reporter and his truck left.

When he was finally alone except for the cop on the ranch road watching him, he locked up the garage, walked back to his house, gathered up a coat, a rifle, and some ammunition, and put it all in his truck along with some bottled water, crackers, and a jar of peanut butter in a small backpack. By force of habit, he checked his oil, coolant, and tire pressure before climbing into the cab.

One summer long ago when they were kids, they had been loaned out by the rancher they worked for as summer help to fix up a corral at the Vermejo Resort Ranch. It was on a high-country pasture deep in the forest an hour off a jeep trail by horseback. They'd camped out at the corral for two nights, and in their free time had found a small cave in the mountainside hidden by thick underbrush. It had all kinds of Indian paintings on the walls and ceiling, and from the looks of it nobody had used if for years.

Kerry figured if Craig was really in the high country and the cops were all around him like the radio said, he would head for the cave to hide out because that's where they had talked about what fun it would be to live like the old-time mountain men.

He would go there to look for him. Maybe he could talk Craig into giving himself up. Then people would stop thinking bad things about him.

He fired up the truck and took off. Half a mile down the highway one of those unmarked state police cars came up behind him, but Kerry didn't mind. Where he was going, the cop couldn't follow.

He turned off at the first ranch-road gate along the highway, locked it behind him, and kept going. In his rearview mirror he saw the car stop, turn around, and head back toward town.

As he drove Kerry wondered what had happened to make Craig so bad-sick in the head.

 

 

Craig Larson stuck to the trees for cover and followed the highway for several miles in both directions just to check things out. There were cops everywhere watching and waiting for him. He faded deeper into the woods and traveled in the general direction of the Vermejo Resort Ranch. Back when he was a kid, the ranch catered in the fall and winter months to rifle and bow hunters looking to bring home a trophy-size elk, bear, or deer. In the spring, the bird hunters came for the wild turkey season. During the summer, the lodge operated as a dude ranch and nature study center for wealthy vacationers. Guests could go on fake cattle roundups complete with campfire sing-alongs at night, take horseback camping trips into the wilderness, go on guided nature and wildlife hikes, or just stay put at the ranch headquarters, where they could play tennis, swim in the Olympic-size pool, get spa treatments, and drink martinis in the bar. He doubted anything had changed.

Larson had only been there once, years ago, when he and Kerry had fixed up an old corral in a bad state of repair. At the time, the owners were planning to buy a small herd of buffalo and graze them on a broad high valley tucked between two peaks. A sturdy fence had been built to keep the buffalo from straying, and the repaired corral would be used to cull a few head every now and then for slaughter so the lodge could serve up gourmet buffalo steaks, burgers, and roasts to the paying guests.

Larson wondered if he could find his way to that valley. It would be a hell of a lot of fun to stampede the animals and shoot them down just like the old buffalo hunters used to do. He wondered how many he could kill in an hour or so.

As he continued toward the ranch, the canyon narrowed. Staying out of sight of the highway became more and more difficult. Time and again he had to dismount and climb upslope at a steep angle to avoid being seen. About the only traffic on the road was cop cars going back and forth and some dump trucks traveling down the canyon toward Raton.

At the high point of one crest, Larson found himself looking down at a rock quarry where gravel and stone were being mined and loaded on the dump trucks. He eyeballed the grade at the back end of the mine and decide it was too steep to traverse with the horse. But if he backtracked, he would be in sight from the road when he went around the entrance to the quarry. That wouldn't do.

The Omega wristwatch Larson had inherited from Pettibone by way of murder told him the quarry would probably shut down for the day in another hour. He decided to wait. He found a fairly level area under a big pine tree that had been hit by lightning some time back, and stretched out for a nap. It had been another draining day.

 

 

Other than a bad gut stemming partly from an old gunshot wound that had cost him a few feet of his small intestine, a persistent cold and sore throat with postnasal drip, and an accompanying fever, the doctors at the hospital couldn't find anything wrong with Kerney. They asked questions, had a nurse draw blood, checked his vitals, and tried to keep him overnight for observation. Kerney wasn't having any of it.

They let him go with a prescription for antibiotics, told him to get some over-the-counter meds to deal with the gut and nasal symptoms, and gave him a referral to see a specialist in Santa Fe for a colonoscopy. The thought of it held little appeal.

After picking up his meds at the hospital pharmacy, Kerney met Frank Vanmeter in the parking lot next to the empty helicopter landing pad.

“Where's the chopper?” he asked. “I need to get back up the mountain pronto.”

Vanmeter shook his head. “You're not going anywhere tonight; Chief Baca's orders. Even if the chief was inclined to let you return to duty, Agent Istee said he wouldn't be able to meet up with you until morning.”

“Have you and Clayton snookered me?”

“You could say that,” Vanmeter said with a smile as he opened the passenger door to his unit. “I'll give you a ride to the motel. Take a hot shower, call your wife, get a good night's sleep, and if you're better in the morning, maybe Chief Baca will let you return to duty.”

Kerney settled into the seat. “What else did Agent Istee have to say for himself?”

“Seems our boy Larson is leading him on quite a merry chase. He's doubling back and stopping frequently to cover his tracks. Clayton says he's no closer to him than he was when you got airlifted from the coal mine. But now things are a bit more complicated.”

“How so?” Kerney asked.

“Kerry Larson is on the loose,” Vanmeter replied. “Going where, we don't know. He left the ranch, passed through a locked pasture gate with a key, and slipped his tail. If he's not careful, he could get shot by somebody who thinks he's his brother.”

“Great,” Kerney said as they pulled up to the motel.

In his room, Kerney followed Vanmeter's advice and took a hot shower before calling Sara.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“In a motel room in Raton.”

“It's not like you not to call.”

“Sorry about that. I've been tracking Larson on horseback with Clayton the last two days.”

“Have you got him?”

“Not yet, but he's almost surrounded. Does that sound as lame to you as it does to me?”

“I'm trying not to scoff.”

“We'll get him.”

“You sound all stuffed up and congested. Are you okay?”

“Just the sniffles, nothing more.”

“You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“I was on the phone with Grace earlier. She's worried about Clayton. You do know that Paul Hewitt died in his sleep?”

“We heard. Clayton took it pretty hard, but he's coping.”

“He needs to call home.”

“I'll let him know in the morning.”

“Isn't he with you at the motel?”

“No, he's camped out on Larson's trail, and Larson's hiding somewhere on a resort mountain ranch that stretches to the Colorado state line. We've got over two dozen officers up there with him.”

“Patrick and I are leaving in the morning for London.”

“So soon?”

“My emergency leave is up, Kerney. Jack and Irene are driving us to the airport.”

“How are they doing?”

“A little bit better. When you get back to the ranch, Lynette wants to talk to you about taking over the breeding program.”

“Did she say anything more about it?”

“No, but two days ago she found out she's pregnant.”

“That's heartbreaking,” Kerney said.

“In a way. But in another way she's delighted. So are Jack and Irene. When will you be joining us in London?”

“As soon as this gets wrapped up.”

“You're sure?” Sara asked.

“I'm sure.”

“Hold on, there's a young man here who wants to talk to you.”

Sara turned the phone over to Patrick, and Kerney spent a few minutes reassuring his son that he'd see him in London. He promised to take him riding in Hyde Park soon after he got home. He said good night to Sara, took his meds, set the alarm clock, and went to bed, determined to be rid of what ailed him by morning.

 

 

Clayton made camp at dusk, fed the horses, fixed a big meal, and settled in for the night. He remembered his conversation with Paul Hewitt in the hospital and the comment the sheriff had made about going skydiving without a parachute as soon as he finished his rehab. He couldn't shake the thought that somehow Sheriff Hewitt had found a way to kill himself. Maybe he'd just willed himself to stop breathing. He wondered what the autopsy would reveal, and if it would ever be made public.

Clayton worried about Kerney until Frank Vanmeter called him on the handheld to say the illness wasn't serious, and that unless Kerney's symptoms worsened, he would rejoin the search in the morning. He'd missed Kerney's company. The last two days with him chasing Larson to hell and gone had been the best time he'd ever spent with his father. The man who only a few short years ago had been a stranger was now a true friend.

He tried to call Grace on his cell phone but couldn't get a signal. He raised Vanmeter on his handheld and asked him to relay a message to Grace letting her know he was okay.

“Anything else you'd like me to pass on?” Vanmeter asked.

“Tell her I'll call as soon as I can,” Clayton replied.

“Ten-four.”

Clayton ended the transmission, spread open a map on his sleeping bag, and used a flashlight to study it. Except for one drink in a streambed, the horses had gone without water since afternoon. In the morning, he needed to get them to the nearest water source before setting out on Larson's trail. He noted the closest water to his position, judged it to be less than two miles away, folded the map, and turned off the flashlight. He'd skip breakfast and get started before daybreak. That way he'd be back on Larson's trail early.

 

 

Where the rangeland ran against the foothills, a Forest Service road cut through a canyon and traveled deep into the mountains before ultimately hooking up to a state road that led to the tiny village of Costilla, just south of the Colorado border. There were some primitive campgrounds along the way, up around Ash Mountain, but for the most part the area was mainly wilderness.

For all his adult years, what Kerry Larson loved to do best with his free time was hunt, and time and again he had gone into the backcountry looking to take his annual buck during deer season. In the last twelve years he'd rarely failed to bring a big one home for the freezer.

Kerry knew every Jeep trail, game trail, old abandoned mining road, footpath, and backcountry trace in those mountains. And by nightfall he was five miles beyond where he'd hidden his truck, sitting next to the bank of a crystal-clear stream that fed into the Vermejo River, wrapped in his coat to keep away the chill, eating peanut butter and crackers for his supper.

He figured to be north of the lodge at the ranch by mid morning, and no more than two hours away on foot from the valley where he and Craig had found that cave so long ago. If Craig wasn't already there, he would wait for him. And when he came, Kerry would make him give himself up to the police.

Kerry washed down his peanut butter and crackers with some water, curled up on a bed of pine needles he'd fashioned next to the streambed, and let the sound of rushing water lull him to sleep.

 

 

Craig Larson slept well but woke hungry. Hiking up and down ravines, canyons, and mountains, sometimes having to almost drag his horse to come along behind him, had given him quite an appetite. He checked the supply of food he'd taken from the pantry at the line camp in Dawson where Truman Goodson had caught his bullet. He was down to one can of sardines. He ate it quickly and saddled his horse. It was time to get more provisions, and that meant paying a visit to the ranch lodge. But first, he needed to find water and grass for the horse.

After two hours of difficult riding over rocky ground and through dense tree cover, Larson broke clear into a long finger-like meadow ringed by tall pines, causing a startled doe and her fawn to bolt for the woods. He dismounted and walked the horse to a stream where they both drank before he turned the animal loose to graze on the tall grass.

Larson wasn't exactly sure of his location, but he knew he was beyond the coal mine and the gravel pit and more or less parallel to the pavement that dead-ended at the ranch. Eventually he would top out on a summit that overlooked the valley where the lodge nestled. Once there, he'd stop and make a plan on how to conduct his attack.

He thought about Truman Goodson and decided to give him the moniker of “Good Old Truman.” That way he could join Kid Cuddy, Ugly Nancy, Cowgirl Tami, and Porky Pettibone as victims firmly entrenched in Larson's mind. And how could he forgot
la cucaracha,
Bertie Roach, whose neck he'd snapped in that Albuquerque motel? An idea surfaced that he needed to come up with nicknames for all the people he'd killed. It would make the memorial plaque that much more historically interesting.