Dead or Alive kk-12 Page 12

  Kerney smiled tightly. “I can’t help it. I keep thinking that I put him in harm’s way.”

  “Actually, you gave him a chance to do something he loved. He told you that time and time again.”

  “I know I’m being illogical.”

  “That’s okay. I understand the feeling.” Sara had lost soldiers in ambushes and firefights during her tour of duty in Iraq, and still felt she could have done more to save them. She looked out the car window at the brilliant ribbon of red sky on the western horizon. “I’d almost forgotten how big and beautiful the New Mexico sky is. I really miss it.”

  “Maybe you should take Patrick’s advice and leave the army. Then we can all come back home to the ranch and enjoy the sunsets.”

  Sara poked him on the arm. “Don’t you start in on me too.” “Okay, I take it back. London will be our home until you retire.”

  “I hope you mean that.”

  “I do,” Kerney said, trying to sound convincing.

  At the ranch, they dumped the carry-on luggage on the couch, put Patrick to bed, and sat silently at the kitchen table holding hands and talking.

  “We’re very lucky,” Sara finally said, thinking that she would fall to pieces if anything bad happened to Kerney or Patrick.

  “Let’s keep it that way,” Kerney replied, remembering the moment when he’d learned that Sara had been wounded in Iraq. The thought of it made him shudder.

  Sara laughed.

  “What?”

  “Just how do you plan to keep us safe from the perils of life?”

  “By managing contingencies and limiting unintended consequences,” Kerney answered with a grin.

  “My, my,” Sara replied, raising an eyebrow. “Where were you when the administration needed help planning the war on terror?”

  “Serving my country on the home front as your local chief of police.”

  Sara laughed again, rose to her feet, and kissed Kerney on the mouth. “I’m pouring myself a glass of wine and calling Irene,” she said. “See what’s in the garage freezer that I can thaw and cook up in a hurry to take with us tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure Irene doesn’t expect you to bring anything.”

  “Maybe not,” Sara replied, “but my mother would.”

  Paul Hewitt’s wife, Linda, had called Clayton and asked him to meet with the sheriff as soon as he could break away and drive to Albuquerque. Clayton had promised to be there in the morning, and he left Mescalero before dawn, arriving in the city just in time to get slowed down by the last of the rush hour traffic crunch on the interstate. He had no idea why Paul wanted to see him, so as he lurched along in the stop-and-go traffic a quarter mile from the exit ramp that would take him to the hospital, he tried to avoid guessing. But it was irresistible. Perhaps Paul simply wanted to be personally briefed on the manhunt for Craig Larson, or maybe he wanted to share some encouraging news about his chances for recovery. Whatever the reason, Clayton stopped speculating as he left the interstate, drove the few blocks to the hospital, and made his way quickly to Hewitt’s room, where he found the sheriff alone.

  “You just missed Linda,” Hewitt said as Clayton approached the bed. “She went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat.”

  Clayton nodded. It was still a shock to see a man who had once been so vital and active now able to move only his facial muscles and eyes. “How are you doing?” Clayton asked.

  “Just fine,” Paul replied with a touch of sarcasm. “As soon as I get out of the hospital and finish my rehab program, I’m gonna go skydiving without a parachute to celebrate my newfound freedom.”

  Clayton raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re not laughing at my little joke.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  Hewitt grunted. “You never did have much of a sense of humor.”

  “Apaches believe that humor should never cause embarrassment.”

  “Whom am I embarrassing?” Hewitt asked.

  “Yourself.”

  Hewitt chortled. “Damn, you’ve gotten uppity since I promoted you to chief deputy.”

  “I’ve always been just another uppity Indian. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Know what I like about you, Clayton? You’re the only person who comes to visit who doesn’t treat me like a cripple.”

  “The politically correct words, Sheriff, are ‘handicapped’ and ‘disabled.’ ”

  Hewitt’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Neither word adequately expresses my present and permanent reality. ‘Cripple’ comes close. It has more clarity.”

  “I can tell you’ve given it a lot of thought, Sheriff.”

  Hewitt made a grumpy face. “What a polite way to tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself.”

  Clayton said nothing.

  Hewitt grimaced. “Okay, I’ll get right to the point. Linda and the doctors have convinced me that I should resign as sheriff, and they’re right. With what I’m facing, I can’t see myself being able to get my head around the job anytime soon. I wanted to tell you in person before I make it official. I spoke to the county commission chairman and asked him to keep you on as chief deputy.”

  Hewitt paused.

  “And?” Clayton asked.

  Hewitt snorted. “I got a lot of mumbo jumbo about how the commission wanted to leave all internal personnel and administrative decisions to the interim sheriff, whoever that will be.”

  “I’m sure it will be Sergeant Rudy Aldrich,” Clayton ventured.

  “Most certainly. It was also pointed out to me that a majority of the commissioners don’t like the idea of the chief deputy living outside the county limits.”

  The Mescalero Apache Reservation where Clayton lived was in neighboring Otero County. “Is it that they don’t like me residing outside the county, or that I’m an Apache from the Rez?” Clayton queried.

  “It wasn’t put that way, but feel free to take it as evidence of a combination of not so subtle racism and some political maneuvering to give Aldrich a leg up in the general election. By replacing you with a chief deputy who has some drawing power at the polls, he’ll have a better chance of getting elected. However, I was assured that you would be allowed to revert to your permanent rank of lieutenant once Aldrich is installed and appoints a new chief deputy. Isn’t that generous of them?”

  Clayton shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Hewitt echoed. “That’s it?”

  Clayton smiled at Paul Hewitt. “Don’t worry about me, Sheriff. Just do the best you can to get better.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ve been told there are a whole lot of electronic gadgets I can learn to operate by using a breathing tube that’s no bigger than a soda straw. Even wheelchairs can come equipped with them. Modern science. Amazing.”

  “You’ve got to stop sounding so negative,” Clayton counseled, stone-faced. “It makes talking to you really grueling.”

  Hewitt grinned. “You do have a sense of humor.”

  Linda Hewitt stepped into the room before Clayton could respond. She greeted him warmly, but the smile on her face was forced and tiny lines tugged at the corners of her mouth. She talked for a time about plans to take Paul home, including what needed to be done at the house to make it more accessible and comfortable for him. Paul chimed in that she’d been wanting an excuse to redecorate, and they all shared an uneasy laugh.

  After a few more minutes of small talk and a farewell hug from Linda, Clayton took his leave and made his way down the brightly lit hospital corridor to the elevators and outside to his unit. Grace had asked him to call after his meeting with Paul. He sat in the unit holding his cell phone and wondering what to say. Should he tell her that Paul was the most miserable son-of-a-bitch on the planet and would gladly kill himself if he could? Should he tell her that Linda was working hard to be strong, upbeat, and supportive, but every second of her life since Paul had been shot and their world collapsed was now permanently etched on her face? Or should he tell her that by the end of the week—if that lo
ng—he’d be unemployed because he would not, could not, work for Rudy Aldrich.

  He put the cell phone down and headed south toward Lincoln County, hoping that along the way he could come up with something positive to say to Grace before he called.

  The fancy wrought iron gate controlled by a solar-powered electronic keypad wasn’t what Craig Larson had expected to find upon his arrival at the entrance to Martha Boyle’s ranch road, nor was the nearby sign behind the fence announcing that the Lazy Z was closed to unannounced visitors. On the sign was a phone number to call for permission to enter.

  Larson snorted at himself for being so stupid. The last time he’d had any word about Martha must have been ten, maybe fifteen years ago. What made him think that time or Martha had stood still? He figured she must have sold the place to some rich, out-of-state cowboy wannabe, because no New Mexican raised on a ranch would ever lock a gate to keep out the neighbors and post a phone number on a sign to call for access.

  He sat in the truck and considered what to do. It was too risky to go back on the highway in the stolen pickup, or even drive the dusty back county roads looking for a place to hole up. Because he knew the lay of the Lazy Z land, it made sense to stick to his plan no matter who now owned the spread.

  Larson knew three different ways to get to the ranch headquarters that bypassed the fancy solar-powered wrought iron security gate. He popped the clutch and headed toward a jumbled rock outcropping, wishing he’d kept the Marlin .22 rifle. No telling how many folks would need killing in order to make his plan work once he got there, and the additional firepower would have been helpful.

  Just beyond the outcropping, Larson downshifted and entered an arroyo that deepened quickly as it snaked through rolling rangeland. It finally petered out at a boundary fence to the Lazy Z where a rutted track followed the tightly strung barbed wire. He rattled the old truck up a shallow draw to a rickety old gate, stopped, got out, undid the chain that held the gate closed, pushed it open, and drove through. Within twenty minutes he was on top of a mesa looking down at the ranch headquarters.

  The old stone ranch house, with its rounded, mission-style doors and windows under a low-pitched roof, and the matching stone barn looked pretty much as Larson remembered them. But the bunkhouse where Larson had once slept and the white clap-board foreman’s cottage were gone, replaced by two fairly large flat-roofed, pueblo-style houses, separated by a wide, landscaped courtyard with a kidney-shaped swimming pool, two tennis courts, a cabana, and a freestanding veranda with an outdoor kitchen and dining area.

  A short way beyond the old barn stood an enclosed circular metal structure and several corrals made of expensive steel pipes painted white. Within easy walking distance was a horse barn with stalls that opened onto individual paddocks. There were no animals in the corrals or paddocks.

  Larson didn’t like the changes he saw. It made him think about Melvin and Viola Bedford and their showy attempts to act and live like Westerners, when in fact they were nothing but an elderly, retired rich couple from Minnesota. He figured the Lazy Z had maybe been turned into some sort of corporate retreat or a rich bitch’s equestrian fantasy come true.

  Larson’s thoughts wandered back to Melvin and Viola and how he laughed behind their backs when they went off to some highfalutin Santa Fe social function wearing their matching cowboy hats, shirts, and boots, and sporting expensive Indian turquoise and silver jewelry. Aside from being old, both were short, fat, and unattractive. They looked like rejects from Munchkinland. When they climbed into their pristine, never-been-off-the-pavement, extended cab 4x4 pickup truck, their heads barely showed above the dashboard. The notion to steal a chunk of their wealth and kill them had grown in Larson’s mind the more he came to see them as ludicrous, undeserving posers.

  He scanned the ranch headquarters for a while looking for a sign of movement. Only an older model Subaru at the front of the ranch house and a shiny silver Hummer parked by the circular structure, which Larson took to be an enclosed horse arena, gave a clue that someone might be about. As he walked down the narrow, overgrown switchback trail, he pictured a good-looking woman wearing jodhpurs and riding boots exercising a horse in the riding arena, and that got him thinking about sex.

  He held off any further thoughts about the woman as he reached the bottom of the mesa and quickly went from house to house knocking on locked doors and getting no answers. The old stone barn was locked as well, so he made his way to the silver Hummer. It wasn’t locked and the key was in the ignition.

  Through the open door to the riding arena he could hear the sound of hoofs on dirt. He waited until the horse passed by before quietly slipping inside and crouching at the side of the door with the semiautomatic in his hand. He focused hard on the horse and rider cantering on the far side of the arena, but it took a minute for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. At first he thought the rider was a young boy, but it was a woman, a skinny old hag at that, in her sixties, with leathery skin and stringy long gray hair that flopped against her face as she rode. She wore tight jeans, boots, and a loose-fitting halter top that covered a flat chest. About the only positive things about her were that she sat a horse well and seemed to have a nice ass.

  Larson hid the semiautomatic behind his leg when the woman saw him. She reined the horse to a walk and rode over.

  “Can I help you?” she said, looking down at him as the horse, a nervous gray mare, snorted and pawed the ground.

  Larson pointed the handgun at the mare’s forehead. “Get down or I kill the mare.” He pulled back the hammer for effect.

  The woman’s hands tightened on the reins.

  “Try to run and I’ll kill you too,” he added.

  The woman dropped the reins and dismounted. She was small, not more than five-foot-two, but the boots made her seem taller.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “Food? Money? The Hummer? Take it.”

  She had a prominent chin and a missing tooth just visible at the right side of her mouth. Her upper lip was heavily wrinkled.

  “You work here?” Larson asked, somewhat surprised at the woman’s cool demeanor.

  The woman nodded. “I’m the caretaker.”

  “Is anyone else here?”

  “Not today.”

  “Tell me the truth now,” Larson said, pointing the gun at her eye, trying for a reaction.

  “I’m not lying,” she said flatly.

  Larson gave it a rest. The woman seemed totally unruffled by him, like getting killed didn’t matter. “Who else lives here?” he asked.

  “No one, full-time. When guests are here, a wrangler takes care of the horses and stays in an apartment in the old stone barn.”

  “What horses?” Larson demanded. “The only horse I’ve seen is this mare.”

  “She’s mine,” the woman answered. “The other horses are boarded at a neighboring ranch when no one is here.”

  “Who owns this place?”

  “A multinational corporation headquartered in Germany. It’s used as an executive retreat. The CEO’s wife is a horse lover.”

  “Do you live on the ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I have rooms in the main house.”

  Larson waved the gun at the open door. “Take me there.”

  The woman reached for the reins. “First I need to unsaddle the mare and put her in the corral.”

  “Stop stalling,” Larson barked. “The mare is fine as she is. Let’s go.”

  The woman hesitated. “I have some money, if that’s what you want.”

  Larson stepped up to the woman and bitch-slapped her. “Just do as you’re told.”

  She rubbed her cheek and shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  “That’s a good girl,” Larson said as he pushed her outside into the bright sunlight. “Is the old line camp on Point of Rocks Mesa still standing?”

  The question caught the woman by surprise. She stopped and gave Larson a quizzical glance that
slowly turned to a look of recognition.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” Larson demanded.

  “I don’t know you at all,” the woman replied.

  Larson laughed. “Smart answer.” He poked the gun barrel in her ribs. “I asked you about the line camp.”

  “Yes, it’s still there, and used as a hunting lodge.”

  “Good deal.” He pointed the handgun at the old stone ranch house. “Get moving. What’s your name?”

  “Nancy Trimble.”

  “Stay in front of me, Nancy.” He walked behind her, thinking that from the backside, she didn’t look that bad at all. In some ways, she reminded him of manic-depressive Jeannie Cooper in a down phase, but there was a toughness to her that Jeannie never had. “You don’t rattle easy, do you?”

  Nancy walked on with no comment.

  “I like that in a woman,” he added, touching his genitals.

  She looked back at him and broke into a hard run, veering in the direction of the stables. He caught up to her and slammed her facedown to the ground.

  “Get up,” he ordered.

  She gave him a dirty look, got to her feet, and brushed the dirt off her face. “Just shoot me,” she said without emotion.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Larson replied with a chuckle, trying not to concentrate on her old hag face. “No such luck, Antsy Nancy. I got plans for you.”

  He prodded her along to the ranch headquarters, where he hogtied her securely with electric extension cords he found in a pantry, taped her mouth shut, and left her on the kitchen floor while he did a quick look around the old house.

  The place had changed a lot. The large kitchen was equipped with restaurant-size appliances; walls had been knocked out to make the living room bigger; two bedrooms had been converted into a master suite; the bathrooms were all redone. It didn’t look anything like the house Martha Boyle had grown up in.

  Back in the kitchen, Larson raided the refrigerator, made himself two big sandwiches, and popped open a bottle of imported German beer. He sat on a stool at the kitchen island and started eating, keeping an eye on Nancy, who was lying on her side at his feet. He decided to call her ugly instead of antsy.