Perverted Justice

by Michael Arches

  “Great. If you run into trouble, be sure to call our office for help.”

  I agreed, but their office in Glenwood was a half-hour away from Carbondale. I called Skip. He was just heading out the door with the family to church. Randy cleared him working more overtime, claiming I needed adult supervision at all times. He had to be talking to Willow on the sly.

  Chapter 13

  At eight a.m., I met my pal and campaign manager outside the open gate to Gregor’s ranch. A gray Appaloosa with black spots on its hindquarters was grazing in the pasture. We had no warrant because we had no probable cause to show that the disturbed vet had done anything wrong. I hoped he hadn’t because I was sympathetic to anybody who’d returned from the Sandbox with parts missing—like I had.

  Our best-case scenario was that Gregor would have a great alibi, his trailer would be broken, and none of his horses would be missing a shoe. A girl could dream.

  The gate had no intercom, so the only way to speak to Gregor would be to drive up to his old ranch house. According to his county case worker, he had no house phone, and there were no cell towers nearby.

  Being extra cautious, Skip and I put on bulletproof vests and helmets. Before I drove us up to the house, I turned on the in-vehicle camera to record whatever happened next.

  We parked in front of the covered front porch. I was about to get out when someone with a megaphone said through an open window, “Stay where you are! If you get out of the car, I’ll shoot.”

  Not a promising start.

  I lowered my window. “Mr. Gregor, we are deputies Henrietta Morgan and Sylvester Tantor from the Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office. We just want to talk.”

  “Heard that bullshit before,” he yelled back. “I know who you really are. Tell your masters I’ve lost the formula. Don’t make the forever potion anymore.”

  I asked Skip in a whisper, “What the fuck do I say to that?”

  “You got me.”

  Too late, I realized this was a big mistake. “Slowly reach for the radio. We need backup right away.”

  “No shit.” His hand eased forward and took the mic. Using the channel for the local cops in Carbondale, he said, “Officers need assistance at the Gregor ranch. Suspect acting bizarre—”

  The rest was cut off by a bullet through the windshield. Slammed into Skip’s vest, center of his chest.

  I yelled, “Stop shooting!” Started the SUV and backed it up in a circle to turn and leave.

  Before the vehicle came around enough to drive out, someone fired several more shots. At least one hit the engine. Screeching…metal…grinding.

  I kept turning as I backed up—until the engine died. My side of the SUV faced the house. A couple rounds hit my door. Didn’t get through.

  The firing stopped for a moment. He had to be reloading.

  I needed to get behind the vehicle. Jumped out and dashed around the back to the opposite side. Pulled Skip’s door open and dragged him to the dirt behind the SUV.

  Couldn’t see any blood. Checked his breathing. Nothing!

  But he still had a pulse at his neck. I pulled his head back to open the airway. Mouth-to-mouth, blew in several deep breaths.

  He coughed, began gasping.

  Relief flooded through me. “Pant, just pant, buddy. Got the wind knocked out of you.”

  Thank God, he listened. Took quick, short breaths.

  Now I could worry about the bastard inside the house.

  The mic had landed on the floor on Skip’s side. My short shotgun pointed upwards in its mount.

  I grabbed the weapon and the mic. Made sure I stayed behind the SUV and below the windows.

  The rear passenger windows were tinted but I could see the house well enough to know he wasn’t sneaking up on us. I depressed the button on the mic. Whatever I said next might end up on the evening news, particularly if these were my last words.

  “I’m Deputy Henrietta Morgan, Pitkin County. Requesting officers assist and medical. Shots fired at Gregor Ranch. My partner’s been hit. Ballistic vest stopped the round, but he couldn’t breathe. I resuscitated. Shooter remains active. We’re trapped behind our disabled vehicle.”

  I let go to hear the response. “Deputy Morgan, five officers responding. ETA on the first unit—seven minutes. Hang on. EMTs fourteen minutes out.”

  “Roger that. Not a hero. Waiting for backup.”

  Now that Skip and I were temporarily safe, I hoped we could hold off on any aggressive moves—as long as the shooter stayed holed up in the house. I wasn’t even sure how many we faced.

  But then, behind the home, a large engine roared to life. Something clanged and rumbled. Came closer.

  A front-end loader zoomed around the south side of the house, moving at us quickly. The bucket had been raised to hide the cab and operator.

  He couldn’t see me either but still drove straight for my SUV. A cloud of dust swirled around the machine.

  I aimed my shotgun at the left front tire and fired. The tire popped, but the loader kept coming. But now, it wobbled from side-to-side.

  Boom! Popped the other tire. He still came on. Tires shredded. Big chunks flew off. The smell of burning rubber filled the air.

  The loader bounced up and down, still advancing on the disintegrating strips of rubber.

  I held the shotgun in position, waiting for a human target. The giant machine kept coming. A bolt of fear shot through me.

  But I held my ground. The loader bucked forward for an instant as it bounced over several landscape timbers. The movement revealed Gregor’s huge head and shoulders. I fired.

  His glass windshield shattered. He roared. Couldn’t see him because the bucket blocked my view again.

  With my free hand, I grabbed Skip’s vest behind the neck and pulled him away from the SUV. Seconds later, with a loud clang, the loader slammed into my vehicle.

  Metal kept screeching. Parts flew off, some almost hitting us.

  With one hand, I trained the shotgun on Gregor from the side, but he’d already slumped forward, his head hidden. Motionless.

  I let go of Skip to check Gregor.

  The engine died as the loader ground to a halt. I ran up to the cab. For once, my fake foot held firm when I needed it to. This one was more reliable in an emergency than the high-tech one.

  Gregor didn’t move as I approached. I hesitated, could put another round into him at point blank range.

  I pulled open the cab’s glass door. Gregor was limp. Out cold. I dragged him down from the cab, and he flopped on the ground. Rolled him onto his stomach and cuffed him.

  His face was pockmarked with several shotgun pellets, but the windshield seemed to have blocked most of them. Rapid pulse, shallow breaths.

  I checked him for weapons and grabbed the six-shooter in a holster on his hip. Smelled the barrel. Hadn’t been fired recently.

  Then I ran back to Skip. He was sitting up on his own, rubbing his chest. “It feels like someone hit me with a cannonball.”

  “I’m just thrilled you’re alive. Help should be here any minute.” In fact, in the distance, I heard that familiar wail. “Stay calm. Gregor’s alive but unconscious.”

  A thought hit me. What if this was all for nothing? This crazy fuck could’ve killed us just because he thought we were demons.

  More than anything, I wanted to check for evidence that he was the vigilante or at least a helper. But I couldn’t do a thing until help arrived. Others might’ve stayed in the house and still posed a threat.

  Before I forgot, I texted Willow—Still alive, no matter what you hear.

  Not elegant, but it got the job done.

  -o-o-o-

  A Carbondale cop arrived first. “I thought Jenkins was exaggerating about how crazy you are. Obviously not. What the fuck happened here?”

  I pointed at the crushed front end of my SUV. “I’m not the crazy one here. Hoping we got it all on camera. Just wanted to ask a few questions. Gregor wen
t berserk. Why the fuck did you leave a lunatic like him out in the wild?”

  “He was doing fine until you showed up.”

  The last thing I needed was another enemy. Instead of responding, I took a couple of deep breaths. Then, in as even a voice as I could manage, I said, “Let’s both dial it back. And before you stand in front of a bunch of cameras, think harder about the question I asked. Don’t give them the answer you gave me.”

  He blew out a deep breath as Garth Bowman, the Garfield County Sheriff, showed up. “Okay, truce. Let’s start again from the top.”

  He nodded.

  I gave both men the two-minute version of what happened and answered their questions.

  Then, I checked on Skip. A pretty, young EMT was checking his vital signs while her partner worked on Gregor.

  Skip smiled at me. His vest and shirt were open and revealed an ugly purple bruise in the center of his chest.

  “You gonna survive?” I asked.

  He glanced at the EMT.

  She said, “We guarantee our work, deputy. So far, when it comes to cops, we have a perfect record. If you’re breathing when we get to you, you keep breathing until something else gets you.”

  Relieved at that news, I called Randy using Garth’s radio and filled him in. He was on the way, but he’d been caught behind a big accident on Highway 82.

  That seemed like a lucky break for me. I’d have a chance to look around before someone with the authority to put me on admin leave sent me home. The Carbondale cop told me he checked the house for more trouble, but found no one.

  The gray Appaloosa wasn’t visible in the pasture anymore. It had to be in the barn. My next stop.

  It was an old, two-story, wooden structure with weathered gray walls and a metal roof. It stood solid, no sagging roof or buckling sides. I opened the nearest door and stepped into almost total darkness.

  Outside, there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky. Inside, it could’ve been midnight. I flicked on a light switch near the door, but nothing happened.

  The air was heavy with the stink of manure. From somewhere in the gloomy depths, I heard a nervous whinny. At least, one horse was worried about the stranger.

  I clucked my tongue in a way that used to soothe our ranch animals back in Gunnison. Turned on the light app on my phone.

  The place was a mess, with loose straw and trash scattered on the dirt floor. Various pieces of farm equipment and supplies were strewn haphazardly.

  A couple of large pit bulls strode up to me. I put my hand on my gun but didn’t draw it. “Easy, buddies. I don’t got no beef with you.”

  They were on the gaunt side but seemed to be in good condition. Didn’t growl or bare their teeth. After a moment, they wandered back into the darkness.

  I wove my way through the gear, supplies, and trash littering the floor. Found a dozen stalls. Most were empty, but I spotted four horses. They pranced and snorted as though unsure about me. They had to know I wasn’t Gregor by my smell. That could be a problem, or an advantage.

  I searched around for some kind of treat to offer, like hay or oats. Nope.

  I’d have to win them over with charm alone. Not my strong suit, but I was better with animals than people.

  These poor horses were too thin. Had probably been surviving on pasture grass alone, but it was already dead for the year. We’d have to arrange for animal rescue to collect both the dogs and the horses.

  The stalls were open in the back, so the horses could bolt at any time. But they didn’t.

  I stood on a low rail to reach over the top of the stall the Appaloosa had chosen. A mare. I scratched behind her ears. She held still, obviously loving it. She stood in several inches of manure. Gregor apparently didn’t muck the stalls out much.

  When I’d built a little rapport, I walked around the back of the stall to enter. Kept to one side to avoid any flying hooves. Petted her gently.

  Checked her hooves. The shoes were badly worn but all present.

  The other horses, including a dark brown gelding, came over to see what I was up to. I patted his neck for a moment then checked his hooves. The left front was missing a shoe.

  A thrill of excitement coursed through me, even though I knew that wasn’t definitive. This could be a completely different animal from the one who’d left its tracks above Ashcroft. But I noticed this horse had the same narrow hoof as the one that’d carried gear for Shermie and his killer.

  I might’ve finally stumbled onto the right trail, but much of the evidence I was finding didn’t make sense. Mostly, I couldn’t see Shermie spending hours in the deep forest with Gregor. He was too smart to trust someone so obviously disturbed.

  Next, I searched the barn for weapons, particularly a bow and arrows. I knew exactly what kind of arrow had ended Shermie’s life. No luck, but I did find a bag of dog food and fed the pit bulls. That made their tails wag.

  -o-o-o-

  By the time I made it back to the house, Gregor and Skip had both been transported to a hospital in Glenwood. In addition, Randy had arrived. Unfortunately, so had Jenkins.

  I briefed both on the bizarre gunfight. Our sheriff listened without comment and walked away.

  I explained to Randy my theory about the horses. He had a good relationship with Garth and convinced him to lend me a lab tech to take plaster casts of the horses’ hooves.

  That took a while, but I also found a bale of old hay to feed the horses. More happy critters.

  After the tech completed the casts, I compared the one made with the shoeless hoof to my photo from early Monday. A crack in the hoof had left a distinct mark on the cast, and I saw the same crack in my photos. In fact, they looked like an exact match. I’d found the packhorse who’d participated in Shermie’s fateful hunt.

  Two of the other horse’s hooves also seemed to match up with some of my pictures, but I couldn’t be as sure. There were only a limited number of companies still making horseshoes, and they only came in certain sizes.

  My mind kept going back to the gunfight. I used the radio in Randy’s rig to call Linda and asked first about Skip.

  “I just checked with the hospital,” she said. “He seems to be doing great. His family’s already there.”

  “God, what a relief. He scared the living shit out of me. Can you find out what condition Gregor is in? He might be able to fill in the final step between us and the killer.”

  A few minutes later, she came back on the radio. “Don’t get your hopes up about Gregor. He’s in a coma. One of your pellets penetrated his skull and caused significant internal bleeding. An ER nurse told me that, even if he survives, his memories might be gone.”

  Not what I wanted to hear.

  I headed to the trailer. Getting prints there was a long shot because people usually used gloves when attaching and detaching a trailer. Even so, I made sure the techs dusted every exposed surface near the hitch, particularly around the wiring. We struck out.

  I headed into the house, which was swarming with cops and techs. The place was eerily similar to the old home I’d grown up in. If anything, this house was more rustic. I didn’t see anything that looked like it’d been built within the last fifty years. Lots of Gregor’s possessions and trash laying around here, too.

  The TV was an ancient RCA console with an attached radio and phonograph. At least, my mom had forced Dad to upgrade to satellite TV. I turned this one on, and it worked, showing Glenwood’s only local channel. A rerun of the Lone Ranger. The radio didn’t do anything when I turned it on.

  In the kitchen, all the appliances were museum pieces, except for a small drip coffee maker and a toaster oven covered with food stains. I opened the cupboards and found his food, mostly house brands. That didn’t surprise me. I knew how pitifully small a VA disability check could be.

  The last cupboard contained a bottle of generic vodka and an almost full handle of Glenlivet single malt scotch. That looked so out of place that I found a lab guy and f
orced him to dust the bottle. He collected several prints.

  When I ran into Garfield County’s lead detective, I asked, “Where’d Gregor keep his weapons? I’m particularly looking for a hunting bow and arrows.”

  She shook her head. “Lots of firepower, but no archery equipment. His Browning A-Bolt is lying on the floor of his parlor. Really did a job on your rig.”

  “Almost did a job on Skip, too, even though he was wearing a ballistic vest.”

  She blushed. “Sorry, Hank, didn’t mean to sound flippant. I hear Skip’s going to be okay.”

  “Yeah, thank the Lord. By the way, what caliber was the asshole shooting?”

  “A .338 Win Mag. Thankfully, they were hollow points.”

  “Amen.” Hollow points were popular for big game hunting because they expanded easily when they hit soft tissue in a game animal. But the bullets were too fragile to penetrate sheet metal or body armor. That difference had probably saved Skip’s life. Our vests weren’t designed to stop high velocity rifle rounds with a full metal jacket.

  After seeing what I could, I noticed a wicker furniture set on the front porch. The buzz from adrenaline was wearing off. I needed to sit and think for a few minutes.

  I collapsed in one of the chairs and held my hands over my face to block out all the movement around me. If I couldn’t get Gregor to tell me the name of the buddy he’d lent his horses and trailer to, I’d need to figure out another way to find the vigilante.

  Chapter 14

  A chair across a small coffee table from me creaked as someone settled into it. I looked through my fingers. Randy.

  “You don’t look nearly as happy as I’d expected,” he said. “Why don’t you think Gregor’s good for all three murders?”

  “I don’t think he’s good for any of them. Start with the junkie, Heather. How’d he hear about her? His only TV station broadcasts ancient reruns, not news. His radio’s broken. I saw no evidence that he gets any newspapers. No computer. Hell, he doesn’t even have a phone.”

  “Maybe friends dropped by to shoot the breeze,” Randy said. “I hear a lot of news that way. Oh, and he could go to the library to read papers.”