Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 21

  Not able to see a damn thing with his head tucked below the dashboard, Steve lateraled the request over to Flavio, who suggested two promising locations, both about three-quarters of a mile out with good cover and direct line of sight to the shooter’s location.

  “That’s what I need,” Thorndike replied coolly.

  The welcoming wail of sirens echoed up from the valley, signaling arriving backup units led by Sergeant Jessie Gomez, the on-duty shift supervisor.

  Campos keyed his microphone. “When you get here, set up out of sight from the double-wide.”

  “Roger,” Gomez replied. “You okay?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “And SO Seven?”

  That was the call sign for Little’s unit. Campos paused. He hadn’t reported Jim’s death, half hoping it might go away like a bad dream. But the puddle of blood on the seat dripping from his wound was now splashing onto the floorboard. It was too much blood for make-believe.

  “SO Seven?” Gomez repeated.

  Campos answered in a whisper. “Negative.”

  Gomez’s radio went silent.

  The thudding sound of a chopper’s rotor began to fill the air, and the pilot called for an LZ location.

  “You’re good on either side of the road,” Flavio said. “But come in fast and low, the shooter’s using a fifty-caliber.”

  “Hot LZ,” the pilot replied calmly. “Ten-four.”

  Sporadic fire from the double-wide continued, but it was no longer coming at Campos. After the next round he snuck a look. The shooter was framed in the open window lighting what looked like a hand-rolled joint. He watched as the man took a long drag before settling back behind the scope. After the next shot, he repeated the same behavior. He radioed his observation to Thorndike.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Thorndike replied. “A sniper with bad habits.”

  “He’s either already stoned or getting there,” Campos said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Thorndike said.

  The second chopper came in fast and low, creating a brief dust storm that swirled dried weeds, grass, and dirt into the air. Small pebbles pelted the roof of Campos’s battered unit like hail, punctuated by the booming sound of the fifty-caliber. He unracked his pump shotgun, loaded it with slugs, and radioed Thorndike he’d distract the shooter with cover fire.

  “Affirmative,” Thorndike replied. “Are there any other shooters?”

  “None visible.”

  “Any other perps?”

  “Unknown.”

  “I’m on the ground, moving into position now,” Thorndike said.

  The shooter was firing erratically at the choppers and several firefighters who’d broken cover to load Kerney. Campos couldn’t wait.

  “Get there soon,” he snapped, dropping the microphone. Gripping the shotgun, he rolled out, rose to his knees behind the partially demolished driver’s door, and pumped three slugs into the open double-wide window. Before he could duck, the fifty roared twice and something that felt like a rocket slammed into his chest.

  I’m dead, he thought, eyes closed, as the sound of the choppers began to recede. Still breathing, he opened his eyes to the remains of the vehicle door resting on his chest. Dizzy from the impact, he pushed it off and crawled backward, eyes on the shooter, who took another hit before settling down behind the scope.

  Okay, now I’m dead, he thought just as the man’s head blew apart, spewing a geyser of blood and brains.

  Thorndike’s voice came over the car radio. “You okay?”

  Campos crawled to the rear of his unit, felt his chest, and didn’t find any holes. He keyed his handheld and replied, “I’m good, I think.”

  “I’ve got you covered. Medics are on the way.”

  “Okay,” Campos replied, fighting back a wave of double vision that didn’t want to let go.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Thorndike said.

  “What?”

  “There’s an old woman—I mean a really old woman—teetering on the top step of the double-wide.”

  “Unarmed?” Campos felt woozy, about to faint.

  “Seems to be,” Thorndike noted.

  “Don’t shoot her.”

  “She just collapsed on the step.”

  “Rescue her,” Campos said before he lost consciousness.

  From the sidelines, Flavio watched technicians, uniformed personnel, and investigators work the crime scene. It would be hours before they finished, likely lasting long into the night. Although his truck was drivable, it wouldn’t be released to him until all the forensics were wrapped up. That could take days. Until then it would be impounded.

  He didn’t give a hot damn. After what had happened to Kerney, he’d never step inside that vehicle again, no matter how perfectly restored it might be. The minute it was fixed, he’d tow it to the dealer and get a new set of wheels. He was overdue for a new ride anyway.

  If it meant delaying the Yellowstone trip, so be it. That was a minor inconvenience. Rosemary would understand, without explanation. Thirty-plus years a cop’s wife, she knew all his coping mechanisms.

  He’d resisted the impulse to call her in Albuquerque. He’d do that after he got home, had a shot of tequila, and could calm down and tell her the whole story.

  A reserve deputy was coming to drive him to Deming. Flavio didn’t mind the wait. But it was hard not having anything to do except give a statement. For the first time in years, he didn’t enjoy being retired. This was no time to be a civilian.

  As EMTs painstakingly removed Corporal Little’s body from the bullet-ridden unit, all activity ceased. Standing stone-silent, everyone watched as he was carried to a fire rescue vehicle and driven away, the flashing emergency lights washed out by a fierce sun that somehow felt angry.

  Flavio’s spirits lifted when word came from the hospital Kerney had survived the first round of surgery. If he remained stabilized in post-op, he’d be medevaced to the university hospital in Albuquerque. His prognosis remained guarded, and his identity had not yet been released. According to Campos, state police were in the process of contacting Kerney’s family. Corporal Little’s wife would learn of his death within the hour when a knock came at her door. Flavio didn’t envy the bearers of such horrible news.

  Badly bruised but intact, Campos refused medical treatment and remained on-scene and in charge. Flavio watched him work with a certain amount of pride. He’d recruited him as a rookie with the Deming PD, and now he was a seasoned commander, doing the job and doing it damn well.

  Evidence collected from inside the double-wide identified Todd Marks as the shooter and Lucille Trimble, Kim Ward’s mother, as the old woman. In transit by ambulance to the hospital, Trimble had been unable to confirm her identity and broke down in hysterics.

  Flavio wanted to be there when Kerney learned that Todd Marks had been living with the mother of the woman he’d allegedly murdered. Whatever the reasons, it was more than a little bit weird.

  He also wanted to be a fly on the wall when state police bigwigs learned their team of crack agents had been bested by two retired, over-the-hill cops. There’d be butt-chewing galore up and down the chain of command, of that Flavio was sure. The thought made him smile briefly.

  Nasario Valdez, the deputy assigned to drive him home, was a sixty-year-old retired Spanish professor who’d joined the reserve deputy program to do something different. He wasn’t chatty on the bone-jarring ride out of the canyon. Flavio appreciated the silence.

  A roadblock at the mouth of the canyon kept a gathering crowd of newshounds and curious citizens at bay. Waved through by a member of the state police mounted patrol, and thankfully back on pavement, Flavio asked Valdez to make a quick stop at the Mimbres post office.

  In the parking lot, Flavio borrowed Valdez’s miniature digital recorder, switched it on, stuck it in his shirt pocket, and went inside. He waited patiently while Deanna Madrid, the postmistress, retrieved a package from the back room for a patron. She was a heavys
et woman in her fifties, with a perpetual frown etched across her forehead.

  The patron left, and Flavio stepped to the counter. “Remember me, Ms. Madrid?”

  Madrid’s face turned florid. “Why, yes. What’s going with all the sirens and helicopters?”

  Flavio ignored her question. “Earlier in the day, I showed you my badge, told you I was a retired police officer, and asked you about TM and Lucille Trimble. Do you remember that?”

  Madrid’s lower lip trembled slightly. She nodded her head. “Yes.”

  “You called him, didn’t you?”

  Madrid dropped her shaking hands below the counter, out of sight. “No.”

  “You called and told him a police officer was asking questions.”

  Madrid shook her head.

  “Answer me,” Flavio demanded.

  “No.”

  “TM told us you did,” Flavio lied.

  Madrid’s eyes teared. “He told you?”

  Flavio stared at Madrid until she looked away.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Madrid’s voice cracked.

  “Did you warn him?” Flavio snapped.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s better,” he said consolingly.

  “What happens now?” Madrid pleaded.

  Flavio shrugged. “A police officer is dead. Get ready to have every cop in the state pissed off at you.” He paused, hand on the exit door. “Did you know the typical driver violates the traffic code on average once every five minutes? Or is it five times, every five minutes? I forget.”

  “I didn’t mean anybody any harm.”

  Flavio smiled with his teeth. “I’d watch my driving very, very carefully from now on, if I were you. And stay available. The police will want to talk with you.”

  In Nasario Valdez’s unit, Flavio played back the conversation and asked him to make sure Lieutenant Campos got it.

  Nasario groaned in dismay. “Good God, she caused Corporal Little’s death.”

  “Or contributed to it,” Flavio replied, thinking maybe he had, too, by asking Madrid about Trimble in the first place.

  He sank back against the passenger seat and closed his eyes. He really needed to talk to Rosemary. “Take me home, please, Nasario.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Kerney woke up slowly in an anesthetic daze. Sara was sitting at his bedside holding his left hand.

  “Hey, you,” she said gently, relief flooding her voice.

  “Hey.” Kerney squinted in the dim light of the room, trying to get his bearings. “I got shot, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “What hospital am I in?”

  “University Hospital, Albuquerque.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “A day.”

  Gradually, his mind began to clear. “What did the doctors do to me?”

  “They cut you open, fixed what was broken, and stitched you back up.”

  Sara’s lighthearted answer made Kerney smile. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “Your smashed right shoulder has been repaired, but you’ll need additional surgery later. A bullet fragment penetrated your chest and did some muscle damage. The surgeon successfully removed it. A tiny piece of shrapnel lodged in your skull has also been removed. The surgeon thinks it was a glass shard from Flavio’s truck.”

  Kerney touched his forehead. It was covered with a bandage. “Was Flavio hurt?”

  “Not a scratch. He may have saved your life.”

  Kerney looked at his right arm. It was in a cast and he couldn’t feel any sensation. “Is the arm going to be any good?”

  “Eventually, with more surgery and physical therapy.”

  Kerney groaned. “I’m a mess.”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “But I’m gonna live, I take it.”

  Sara smiled. “Yes, and everyone wants to see you, starting with your son.”

  “What about the two sheriff’s officers?”

  “One deputy died, the lieutenant is okay.”

  “Damn.” Kerney took a deep breath. “Is Todd Marks in custody?”

  “He’s dead, shot by a state police sniper. Lucille Trimble is alive and in the Silver City hospital under guard. According to the doctors, she has Alzheimer’s or alcoholic dementia, and may not be much help to us.”

  Kerney swallowed his disappointment. A bouquet of fresh flowers rested on the dresser under the wall-mounted television. “Who sent the flowers?”

  “Flavio. It came with a note.” She flipped open the card and read it. “ ‘Dear Kerney, Thanks for helping me decide it was time to buy a new truck. Get well soon.’ ”

  Kerney laughed. “What a warmhearted guy. Who’s here with you?”

  “Patrick, my parents, Grace, and Gary Dalquist.”

  “Where’s Clayton?”

  “When we got word you’d been shot, we had a family powwow in Mescalero and decided Clayton will take over the investigation while I get you settled at home. Dalquist will pitch in to help Clayton as needed.”

  “What’s left to investigate?”

  Sara patted his hand. “Don’t despair, Kerney. I lied to the feds about Earl Matson Page. I left them a voice message that our lead turned cold.”

  Kerney couldn’t repress a laugh. It made his chest hurt. “You lied?”

  “I did. Hopefully they’ll lose interest. Clayton will follow that thread.”

  “You mean our last thread,” Kerney replied grimly.

  Sara smiled. “We’ll see.”

  “I’m sorry I ruined the weekend.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Sara stood and kissed him on the lips. “That’s from Isabel. She sends her love.”

  Kerney’s eyes widened in amazement. “Really?”

  Sara nodded. “Yes. I believe you’ve been the love of her life forever.”

  “I’m flabbergasted.”

  “You shouldn’t be. I feel the same way about you. I’m very glad she gave you up.” She kissed him again. “That one was from me. I’ll get Patrick. The doctor says to keep the visits short.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sara opened the door and Patrick burst in, his face a mask of worry.

  “Hey, sport,” Kerney said.

  Patrick slid to a sudden stop next to the bedside chair. “I’ve been waiting to see you for hours.”

  “I guess I needed my beauty sleep.”

  Sara stepped back inside and closed the door to the corridor.

  Patrick’s gaze jumped from the bandage that covered his dad’s head to the cast on his right arm, the drip tube connected to his other arm, his drawn, ashen face, and the bank of instruments above the bed flashing vital signs. “I was worried you’d never wake up.”

  Kerney smiled. “I’m not going anywhere, sport. I’ve been thinking, when I get back on my feet, we should get a dog or two and buy a couple more ponies to train as cutting horses, like my pa used to do. Would you be up for that?”

  Patrick grinned with delight. “That would be okay by me.”

  “We’ll cancel the grazing lease and run some of our own cows. But I’m gonna need a good hand to help me.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Good.” Kerney stuck out his good hand. “Shake on it.”

  Smiling, Patrick grabbed it tightly. “I’m not going to the Montana ranch this summer,” he announced.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Sara corrected from the foot of the bed.

  Patrick’s smile faded as he searched Kerney’s expression for support. “I should stay here to help you and Mom. We’re firing Juan, right? Somebody has got to do all the chores. And what if the trial starts while I’m away?”

  “The trial won’t start while I’m stove up like this,” Kerney said. “And the chores will get done as soon as we hire Juan’s replacement.”

  “Who’s going to fire him?” Patrick asked.

  “I’ll have Mr. Dalquist do it.”

  “But I’m the one who caught him.”

  “Yes
, you did, and you get a lot of credit from me for the smart way you pulled it off. But Mr. Dalquist can do it in a way that helps my case and makes the police look as dumb as they are.”

  Patrick nodded. “Got it.”

  Sara opened the door. “Out, mister,” she ordered. “There are others waiting their turn.”

  Patrick leaned over and kissed Kerney on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re gonna get better.”

  “Me, too,” Kerney said, trying to recall the last time his fourteen-year-old son had kissed him. Quite some time ago, he reckoned.

  Kerney spent a few minutes reassuring Dean and Barbara that he was going to be just fine, and then chatted with Grace about rescheduling the aborted family gathering in Mescalero. When Grace left, Sara ushered in Gary Dalquist. She remained in the room, as she had during all the visits.

  “The media is calling what happened the ‘Shoot-out at Barranco Canyon,’ ” Dalquist said. “The coverage has been relentless.”

  “Is that the name of the place?”

  Dalquist shrugged. “I guess so. They’re reporting that you impersonated a police officer. Several staff members at the Fort Bayard Veterans Center came forward and gave TV interviews to that effect. True?”

  “True.”

  Dalquist groaned. “Did you impersonate a police officer at Barranco Canyon?”

  “Absolutely not. The police were there at my request. Tell me about the deputy who was killed.”

  “Corporal Jim Little,” Dalquist answered. “Married, father of a four-year-old girl. Six-year veteran of the department.”

  Kerney remembered Campos and the corporal jawing at the mouth of the canyon with the easy camaraderie common between good friends. “Find out what we can do for his family,” he said.

  “Of course,” Dalquist said solemnly. “On a different matter, I’ll arrange a meeting with Juan Ramirez posthaste. I’ll record it and get a transcript to you. It should be informative and entertaining, at the very least.”

  “I need some light reading,” Kerney joked.

  Dalquist stood, and peered down at Kerney. “You look in need of a nap.” He turned to Sara. “When will he be discharged?”