Dead or Alive (35 page)

Up ahead, the sound of a deep, short blow by the chestnut, followed by a loud whinny, got Larson's attention. He found it with the reins hung up in some thick underbrush, still carrying the Weatherby and the ammo bag. He got it untangled, mounted up, and headed in a direction that would take him around the valley and into higher, rougher country closer to the Colorado state line.

Off in the distance, Kerney heard the whinny of Larson's horse. He broke into a steady jog toward the sound of it. In the dense, overgrown forest, Larson had little advantage over a man on foot. In pursuit, Kerney dodged trees and skirted groves of mountain mahogany bushes until he came upon a faint game trail. He followed it, running faster, pushing aside the branches of new-growth pine trees that crowded the trace. After about a quarter mile, the trail widened and became more distinct. There, he found fresh hoofprints.

Kerney slowed to a walk, his heart pounding and his chest heaving from running in the thin mountain air. There were tail hairs from the horse in some of the pine branches that overhung the trail, and up ahead a warm pile of dung. He stopped, put a fresh clip in the Browning, switched off the safety, and started moving, treading lightly, breathing as quietly as he could, his eyes scanning for the slightest movement.

 

 

The chestnut was completely done in. It walked with its head lowered, mouth open, and showed bared teeth as though prepared to bite. It lashed its tail in irritation and slowed to a stop even after Larson spurred it. He slid out of the saddle, took the Weatherby and ammo bag, turned the animal loose, and watched it wander slowly down the trail.

He was about to follow along on the trail when he heard a sound behind him. He turned to find the cop who used to be the Santa Fe police chief holding a Browning semiautomatic rife on him.

“How many more cops are there?” Larson asked.

“Enough,” Kerney said, “and they all want to kill you.”

Larson dropped the Weatherby and ammo bag. “So, I give up. That way none of you can kill me.”

“Why spoil all the fun?” Kerney asked, pointing the Browning at the Glock semiautomatic stuck in Larson's waistband. “Are you sure you don't want to go for that Glock?”

“Against your Browning?” Larson shook his head. “No way.”

“I'll lose the Browning. Fair enough?”

Larson considered the offer. Maybe he had a chance if he could pull the Glock and get a round off while the cop was losing the Browning. He needed time to think about it. But adding another cop's name to the plaque of his kills at the St. James Hotel would be really bitching.

“Did you guys kill my brother?” he asked.

“Don't change the subject,” Kerney replied. “Do you want a chance against me, or a lethal cocktail mixed up especially for you at the state penitentiary?”

The cop looked like a dangerous mother. All of a sudden the idea of prison didn't seem so bad to him. He raised his hands over his head. “I know you. You used to be the police chief in Santa Fe, right?”

“Right.” Kerney shot him in the midsection with the Browning.

Larson sunk to his knees and clutched himself. “You weren't supposed to do that.”

Kerney walked up, pulled the Glock from his waistband, and tossed it aside. “Why not?”

The first wave of shock hit Larson hard. “Rules,” he sputtered. “You're supposed to follow the rules.”

“In your case, I made an exception.”

Larson shivered. “Get me help. Please.”

“You're liver shot, Larson. You'll be dead in under twenty minutes.”

“Please,” Larson begged. “Help me.”

Kerney backed away from Larson and waited for him to lose consciousness. Then he called Clayton and told him the hunt was over.

“Larson's just about dead,” Kerney added.

“How dead is that?” Clayton asked.

“Ninety-five percent dead.”

“Ninety-five percent. That's good.”

“I think so. How are you doing?”

“Officer Hurley says if the rescue team doesn't drop me when they haul me off this mountain, I should survive with no permanent damage to my leg or my thick head.”

“I like your odds.”

“Yeah, me too,” Clayton said. “Thanks for making Larson mostly dead.”

“I had no choice,” Kerney replied.

Chapter Thirteen

Kerney stayed with Clayton as the rescue team carried him safely down the mountain and put him on a helicopter for a short flight to the Raton hospital. The remainder of the day he spent wrapping things up. Convinced that Kerry Larson had not deliberately or knowingly colluded with his brother, Kerney released him from custody and had an officer drive him to where he'd hidden his truck. He took statements from the young woman Larson had battered and the guests who'd witnessed the murder of the ranch employee on the trail. He debriefed with the SWAT team, made arrangements to return the borrowed horses and equipment used to track Larson, and talked to the ranch owner about compensation for the roan that had been shot out from under Clayton.

Late in the afternoon, Andy Baca flew in from the Santa Fe headquarters with his boss, the governor's cabinet secretary for public safety, and the state police captain in charge of internal affairs. The trio stopped by the Raton hospital to check on Clayton before making the short hop to the lodge, where the resort manager turned over his office for Kerney's use. Although Pat Hurley had reassured Kerney that Clayton's injuries were not serious, he was relieved to hear Andy report that Clayton was alert, fidgety, and eager to go home.

Kerney spent a good hour briefing Andy and his boss on the conclusion of the manhunt and the shoot-out. After the brass left to talk to Vanmeter and the SWAT team leader, the IA captain came in. He advised Kerney that any official statement he might wish to make regarding the use of lethal force in the shooting death of Craig Larson would be viewed by the department as a pro forma exercise. He turned on a small tape recorder and asked Kerney to describe the events leading up to and during the shooting. Kerney took the cue and said that he'd come upon the heavily armed subject in the forest and had been forced to shoot him to stop the action and protect his own life.

The captain nodded, turned off the tape recorder, told Kerney he would report to Chief Baca that it had been a righteous shooting, shook his hand, and went off to take statements from Vanmeter and the SWAT team leader. As far as Kerney knew, it was possibly the shortest official investigation ever into a deadly shooting by a police officer.

In Raton, Kerney went to visit Clayton at the hospital while Andy Baca, the cabinet secretary for public safety, the county sheriff, and the local police chief held a press conference on the steps of the county courthouse to officially announce that Craig Larson had been killed during an intense gunfight in a remote mountain valley. Television reporters from stations in Colorado, Oklahoma, West Texas, and New Mexico were on hand sending live feeds to all the broadcast networks and cable news channels.

The ER staff had put Clayton in a wheelchair and parked him in a room where he could watch the proceedings on television.

“The brass are making some big political hay out of this one,” he said as Kerney entered the room, “big-time.”

“As well they should,” Kerney replied. “It's a gripping story with a good ending. Justice prevails. Order is restored, and folks are once again safe in their home. Have you called Grace yet?”

“Yep.” Clayton pushed the mute button on the TV remote. “She knows I have a sore head and a broken leg. She knows it, but doesn't like it.”

Kerney laughed. “I wouldn't think so. You're officially on medical leave. Andy has arranged to have you sent home by ambulance tonight. He also wants to talk to you about staying on with the department once you're fully recovered.”

Clayton shrugged a shoulder. “I'm not sure about that.”

“I know, but it's quite a compliment nonetheless. The state police don't often bring officers from other departments into their fold without making them start at the bottom of the ladder.”

“It's not a decision I can make alone.”

“Call Grace and tell her you're coming home.”

After Clayton called Grace, the two men watched the tail end of the news conference until a male nurse stuck his head inside the open door to announce that Clayton's ride was ready. Outside the entrance to the ER, Kerney helped the driver load Clayton into the ambulance, said good-bye, closed the rear doors, and told the driver to run with his emergency lights on all the way to the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation.

At the motel, he stood under the shower for a good ten minutes, letting the hot water wash away some of the tension in his muscles and bones. He hadn't eaten all day, but he was too tired to care and really didn't feel all that hungry anyway. He swallowed some of the over-the-counter medicine the doctor had told him to take for his gut, rolled into bed, and was asleep within minutes.

 

 

A week into Clayton's convalescent leave, Andy Baca paid him a visit at home while Grace was at work and Wendell and Hannah were at their grandmother's house for the afternoon.

“How soon do you get off the crutches?” he asked.

“Another two weeks. The doc says I'm healing up nicely.”

“Have you thought any more about staying on with us?” Andy asked. “I have an investigator slot open in Las Cruces, but I could transfer the position to the Alamogordo office. It would shorten the work commute for you. And the pay is a hell of a lot better than what you were making with the sheriff's department.”

“It's tempting,” Clayton said as he walked to an easy chair, leaned his crutches against the armrest, and eased himself onto the cushion.

Andy settled on the couch. “What's holding you back?”

“If the Capitan police chief gets elected sheriff in November, and his chances are pretty good, he wants to bring me back at my old rank of lieutenant in January.”

“Does that possibility appeal to you?”

“I'm not sure.”

“How about this idea until you do decide,” Andy said. “Finish your convalescent leave and continue to work for me in the Alamogordo office. If you feel you must rejoin the Lincoln County S.O. when the new sheriff gets sworn in, so be it.”

Clayton's eyes widened in surprise. “You'd do that?”

“Yep, for selfish reasons only.”

“Such as?”

“Well, aside from the fact that you're a hell of a good detective, it would be bad PR if you weren't working for me when we pin the departmental Medal of Valor on your chest.”

Clayton looked stunned. “What?”

“We're giving one to Kerney also.”

“He deserves it.” Clayton shook his head. “But me . . .”

“Do you have a problem with this?”

“Giving me a medal for getting my horse shot out from under me, breaking a leg, and knocking myself unconscious doesn't make much sense.”

“That's not quite how the citation will read,” Andy replied with a chuckle. “Don't be so modest. The cabinet secretary wants to present the medals to you and Kerney at a Santa Fe ceremony.”

“When?”

“We haven't set a date yet. It depends on when we can get Kerney back from London.”

“Does he know about this?”

“Not yet, but I suspect he'll be just as cantankerous as you about it.” Andy rose and stepped over to Clayton. “Do we have an agreement?”

“It's an offer I can't refuse,” Clayton replied with a grin. He pulled himself upright, stuck the crutches under his arms, and gave Andy his hand. “Thank you, Chief.”

Andy patted Clayton on the shoulder. “I'll let the Alamogordo office know to start making room for you. Call me as soon as you have a date when you can return to work. We can put you on light duty for a while, if need be.”

“Yes, sir,” Clayton replied.

He walked Andy to the door, watched him drive away, and returned to the easy chair. Clayton hadn't told Chief Baca that the tribal council had approached him to take over as police chief. But as he'd discussed with Grace, he planned to let the tribal administrator know before the end of the day that he was declining the offer.

He'd worked for the tribal police for over five years before joining the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office, and the chief's position was a job he didn't want to tackle, at least not yet. Perhaps when he had a full law enforcement pension that could buffer him from all the intricate tribal politics, he would consider taking it on. Or maybe then he might run for election to the tribal council.

He knew turning down the tribal council's offer would make his mother unhappy. Ever since he was a kid, she had harbored ambitious plans for him. She had never approved of his decision to get a degree in criminal justice and go into law enforcement. But it was Clayton's life to live and his mother's dream of wanting to see her only child installed as a tribal leader would have to wait.

He reached for the phone to call Grace and decided against it. He would talk to her about all of the important news of the day after dinner, when the children were asleep.

 

 

Lynette Burke, Riley's pregnant widow, had agreed to take over the cutting horse enterprise with the understanding that the animals owned jointly by the partnership would be moved to Jack and Irene Burke's spread. None of the Burkes was ready to spend a lot of time at the ranch where Riley had been gunned down.

Kerney leased some pastureland to a local organic beef producer, who wanted to finish a few head each month on native grass before taking the animals down the road to a small slaughterhouse in Moriarty, a short distance away. He offered State Police Sergeant Russell Thorpe free rent to stay in the guest quarters in return for looking after his remaining horses and keeping an eye on the place. Thorpe jumped at the chance.