“Sara doesn’t mind you coming out of retirement?” Clayton asked.
“Not for this. She said she doesn’t want to see hide nor hair of me until Larson is planted in the ground.”
“She actually said that?”
“When it comes to the people she loves, the woman doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. But if you’re her enemy, watch out. How about you? Will Grace and the kids put up with you being gone for a while?”
“That’s not a problem. She thinks Paul Hewitt should be inducted into a national top cop hall of fame, if one existed.”
“And she’s right. Get yourself up here tonight. You can stay with us. I’m scheduled to meet with Andy early in the morning. I’ll let him know that you’re coming on board.”
“Isn’t that his call to make?”
“Andy will jump at the chance to put a shield in your hand. I’ll even bet you a steak dinner that, before this is over, he’ll offer you a permanent position.”
“We’re not about to move away from the Rez. Not yet, anyway.”
“That’s your call to make,” Kerney replied.
“You haven’t asked for details about what went down at the S.O.”
“I don’t need to. Paul Hewitt called me, told me he’d resigned and was putting in his retirement papers, and mentioned what he thought might happen to you as a result. From what he said about the slacker the county commission appointed as the interim sheriff, I figured you’d turn in your walking papers sooner or later.”
Clayton laughed. “Tell me truthfully, did you call in a favor from Chief Baca to get him to agree to hire me?”
“If that had been necessary, I might have,” Kerney replied. “But you don’t need a leg up; your record speaks for itself. See you tonight.”
The following morning, Kevin Kerney and Clayton Istee arrived in Andy Baca’s spacious office at the Department of Public Safety building on Cerrillos Road.
After greeting his visitors, Andy perched on the edge of his big oak desk, built for a predecessor years ago by convicts at the old penitentiary before it erupted into a murderous riot, and studied his visitors.
Kerney and Clayton sat on the leather couch facing the desk and waited him out.
“We have evidence of one sort or another that links Larson to a whole slew of crime scenes,” Andy finally said. “From the attack on the corrections officer, to a kid on the schoolbus who saw him walking along the highway just north of Gallegos where the pickup truck was stolen from the Dripping Springs Ranch two days ago, we’ve got solid physical evidence, substantial eyewitness accounts, and excellent circumstantial evidence. What we don’t have is a single sighting of Larson or the stolen Dripping Springs vehicle during the last forty-eight hours.”
He picked up two thick case files, brought them to the large coffee table in front of the couch, and plopped them down. “That’s everything we’ve got on Larson, including the crime scene investigations, and all the field interviews and interrogations from every participating law enforcement agency in New Mexico and West Texas. The page count is just slightly less than War and Peace but we’re adding to it every day.”
Kerney lifted one of the bulky files wrapped with thick rubber bands. “Well, by volume it certainly does show a good-faith effort to catch him.”
“And isn’t that just hunky-dory,” Andy replied sarcastically as he sat in an easy chair at the side of the coffee table. “I have over two dozen officers and investigators spread out over the northeastern quadrant of the state, trying to get a line on Larson. As you know, once you get outside of the towns, villages, and settlements, it’s remote, isolated, and largely unpopulated country up there. I could put two hundred officers in the field and it would still take months to cover all the ground. We can’t really be sure that Larson is still even in New Mexico.”
“What do you want us to do?” Clayton asked.
Andy nodded at the case files on the conference table. “First, read the case files and get up to speed. Second, target any gaps in the investigation needed to be filled in, people who need to be interviewed again, and do the necessary follow-up. Talk to the lead investigators on the various cases to see if there are any loose ends that might give us a clue to Larson’s whereabouts. I want you two operating independently from the task force. But coordinate with it as needed and keep me personally informed of your activities.”
“Okay,” Clayton said.
Andy went to his desk, returned with two special investigator shields, and handed one each to Clayton and to Kerney.
Kerney weighed the shield in his hand. “From what I can see, Larson is spiraling more and more out of control with each fresh kill. He’s become totally erratic and unpredictable. I think we need to dig into his personal history to get a handle on him.”
“And completely bypass the existing investigations?” Andy asked.
“Not at all,” Kerney answered. “We’ll analyze both the historical and the current facts.”
“Okay,” Andy said. “What else?”
“If we turn up anything of value,” Clayton said, “I want in on the hunt.”
Kerney nodded in agreement.
Andy looked hard at both men. Because of Larson, he had lost an excellent young officer, Kerney had lost a young friend and partner, and Clayton’s boss, Paul Hewitt, a fine man and a super cop, was now totally dependent upon his wife and caregivers for every aspect of his continued existence. It was ugly all the way around.
“Personal vendettas cloud judgments,” he cautioned.
“Don’t worry about me, Chief Baca,” Clayton replied. “If I find Larson, I promise to bring him back, dead or alive.”
“Me too,” Kerney chimed in.
Andy shook his head in mock dismay. “I’ve never hired a father and son act—I mean team—before. I hope I’m not making a big mistake. Stand up so I can swear you two in.”
Kerney and Clayton got to their feet, raised their hands, and took the oath of office as special investigators with the New Mexico State Police.
At his desk, Andy signed the commission certificates and asked his secretary to send in a lieutenant who would take Kerney and Clayton to have official photo identifications made, get department weapons and equipment issued, have vehicles assigned, and qualify with their weapons at the range.
“I’ll have an empty nearby office set up for your use when you get back,” he added, “and my secretary will make sure you have any and all support and assistance you need.”
“Let’s get started,” Kerney said as a young female lieutenant in a crisp uniform knocked and entered the office.
“Good hunting,” Andy said as the lieutenant ushered Clayton and Kerney out.
Craig Larson woke up lying on a Navajo rug in a pool of vomit. He pushed himself to a sitting position and tried to figure out where he was, but his spinning head and fuzzy vision made it hard to focus. He rolled away from the pool of puke, closed his eyes, and tried to think. All he could concentrate on was a pounding ache in his head that made him want to scream.
Slowly he opened his eyes, sat up again, and recognized the hunting lodge living room. There were two empty Scotch bottles on the end table next to the leather couch. The bolt-action Weatherby he’d used to bring down Ugly Nancy sat on the fancy Mexican tile-top coffee table. On the opposite side of the room, the big-screen television had a bullet hole in it. Larson tried to think of what had made him want to kill the TV, but he drew a blank. There must have been something on the tube he really didn’t like.
He got to his feet, went to the kitchen, soaked his head in the sink, and sucked down water from the faucet. Partially revived, he sat at the kitchen table and tried to sort out what he’d done before he started hitting the sauce. As far as he could recollect, he’d walked across the mesa, fetched the truck, driven Ugly’s body to the water tank, dumped it, and returned to the lodge.