Skeleton Picnic

by Michael Norman

  This part of the road climbed gradually and was filled with twists and turns. Books kept the Tahoe moving as fast as the terrain would allow, all the time worrying that he would come around some blind corner and find the Bucks standing in the road ready to pepper him with automatic weapons fire. Nevertheless, he closed rapidly on the vehicle ahead until he could see it well enough to ascertain that it was a Volkswagen bus and that it was a dead ringer for the one described by the eyewitness.

  Books gave dispatch the information as well as his location. He was told not to attempt to stop the vehicle until backup arrived. Good advice, he thought, but sometimes bad guys had been known to take that decision out of the cop’s hands.

  “BLM 1 to dispatch.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “ETA on back up?”

  “Stand by.”

  The radio chatter that followed told Books two things. First, he had backup coming from two different directions. And second, both were at least ten to twenty minutes away. He was on his own for the next little while, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Books cursed his declining vision. Nearsightedness forced him to close on the bus before he could read the license plate number. He passed that information along to dispatch.

  Flowered curtains covering the back window moved slightly. Seconds later, the Volkswagen’s rear window was smashed and the barrel of a shotgun protruded from the broken window. Books hit the brakes and the Tahoe went into an immediate slide, forcing him to let up on the accelerator in order to regain control. In that instant, Books heard the explosion of the shotgun and saw flame dance from its barrel. The buckshot struck the grill and the front windshield on the Tahoe’s passenger side. He slowed again, deliberately putting more distance between himself and the bus.

  Considering the circumstances, his options were limited. Returning fire at a moving vehicle was almost never a good idea, and firing at one with a hostage inside was a major no-no. About all he could do was follow at a safe distance, keep dispatch informed, and wait for help.

  What happened next came as no surprise. The driver ahead slammed on the brakes, and the bus ground to a sudden stop, spitting dirt and rocks everywhere. Books hit his brakes and slid to a stop, turning the front of the Tahoe at a forty-five-degree angle. He knew what was about to happen, and he wanted as much of the trucks’ engine block in front of him as possible.

  He jammed the Tahoe into park, threw open the door, and dove to the ground just as a second blast from the shotgun struck the front windshield where his upper torso had been moments before. He scrambled on all fours to the rear of the Tahoe and removed a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun from its gun rack. The shooter fired twice in rapid succession, and Books clearly heard the sound of one of his front tires explode. Buckshot struck the Tahoe’s front-end. They were going for the tires and radiator in an attempt to disable the truck. Two could play that game. He dropped to the ground and returned fire from under the Tahoe. He blew out the Volkswagen’s rear tires. While the Tahoe had been effectively disabled, so now had the Volkswagen bus. The suspects wouldn’t be able to drive far on two flat tires.

  Using his hand-held radio, Books called dispatch and reported that he was under fire. He looked for better cover and spotted a cluster of rock and sandstone boulders next to the Tahoe but off the road. If he could make it, that position offered better protection than remaining behind the Tahoe. He took a couple of deep breaths, jumped up, and ran for the safety of the rocks. He made it just before one of the suspects began a steady round of fire from a weapon that sounded like a semi-automatic. Then, as quickly as it started, the shooting stopped. Things went errily quiet save a muffled cry from Mrs. Grant inside the bus. Suddenly, the shooting resumed, and a sporadic volley of shots sprayed the area around him. A small piece of flying rock struck Books under his left eye, drawing blood.

  He heard the engine start and then saw the bus lurch slowly forward. They were trying to drive away and Books wasn’t going to let that happen. He spotted another rocky outcropping and ran for it, remaining parallel to the bus as he ran. He shouldered the shotgun, and fired one round at the driver’s side window, hoping he didn’t hit Mrs. Grant. The glass exploded and he heard the driver scream in pain. The bus abruptly shuddered to a stop.

  “Stop your shooting right now, or so help me God, we’ll blow this fuckin squaw to kingdom come,” shouted a gravelly voice from inside the bus. “You’ll need a spatula to scrape her off the walls.”

  “I hear you. What do you want?” shouted Books.

  “We’re leavin, and you’re letting us go.”

  “Not with the woman, you’re not.”

  “Then she’s a dead cunt.”

  Books heard more crying, hysterical sobs this time.

  “Tell you what,” said Books. “I’ll let you go, but the woman stays. I won’t try to stop you. You’ll probably have a ten- or fifteen-minute start, and then this place will be crawling with cops.”

  There was a short pause and Books could hear muffled voices. “Okay. It’s a deal. You set that scatter gun down and walk over here unarmed. We’ll give you the woman, and then we’ll leave.”

  “Not happening. You leave her in the van unharmed. In return, I’ll let you leave unmolested. That’s the best I can do.”

  “All right. We’ll do it your way, but understand this, if you open fire while we’re trying to leave, we’ll come back to the van, kill you and the woman, and then make our stand right here. Do we understand each other?”

  “We do. I won’t shoot. You’re safe to leave—my word on it.”

  “Somehow, officer, that ain’t too comforting.”

  “Best you boys get a move on it. You’re burning time.”

  Books heard movement from inside the bus. He cautiously peeked over the rocks and saw the passenger door standing open, and two suspects dressed in military fatigues moving off to the northeast, one half-carrying the other.

  “Mrs. Grant, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she said her voice barely audible.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Is anyone inside the bus with you?”

  “No.”

  Books didn’t like his options. Nothing prevented them from lying in wait somewhere near the bus and catching him in the open as he approached the Volkswagen. And what if the suspects had rigged the bus with explosives? There were no guarantees.

  “Can you walk, Mrs. Grant? If you can, I want you to come out through the driver’s side door.”

  “I can’t. My hands are tied behind my back and my ankles are bound.”

  “Okay, sit tight. I’m coming for you. You’re going to be all right.”

  Books calculated the distance at no more than twenty yards between himself and the Volkswagen. If he kept the bus between himself and where he’d last seen the suspects, he would have only momentary exposure. For at least a minute, he watched and listened. Everything seemed quiet. With shotgun in hand, he dashed for the bus, entered through the driver’s door, and dove headfirst to the rear floor where Mrs. Grant lay. Books used a pocket knife and had her wrists and legs cut loose in seconds. He considered waiting for the cavalry to arrive, but the possibility that the suspects might possess armor-piercing bullets that could penetrate the skin of a VW bus made him decide otherwise.

  “We’ve got to get away from the bus, Mrs. Grant. It’s not safe here.”

  “Can’t we just wait until help arrives?

  “Not a good idea, I’m afraid. These guys could be lurking nearby, and this tin can would be a bad place to have to make a stand. We’re safer in the rocks. Now here’s what we’re going to do.”

  As Books eased out of the driver’s side door, he noticed copious amounts of blood splattered o
n the dashboard, instrument panel, and windshield. He’d definitely hit one of the suspects. That was a good thing. Mrs. Grant slid out beside him and waited for the signal to run. Books scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. Seeing none, he told her to go. He waited until she had reached the safety of the rocks and then he followed.

  The sound of approaching sirens in the distance convinced Books that reinforcements were closing fast and that he and Grant were going to get out of this predicament alive, and for the most part, unhurt.

  Books remained vigilant while waiting for help to arrive. He notified dispatch that the suspects had fled on foot in a northeasterly direction with one man seriously wounded and both heavily armed.

  He couldn’t help but admire Mrs. Grant for her courage, toughness, and stoicism during her captivity. She had betrayed little emotion throughout the ordeal.

  Books had several questions for her and decided he’d better ask them before the cavalry arrived or he might not get the chance.

  “Mrs. Grant, which of the suspects was shot, the younger man or the older one?”

  She glanced at him from her position crouched down behind a large sandstone rock.

  “The older one.”

  “Where was he hit? Could you tell?”

  “I tried not to look, but most of the blood was running down his face and neck. He was screaming and cursing. I started praying, certain that he was about to kill me.”

  “About how old would you say he was?”

  “Late forties, early fifties.”

  “Did you recognize either of them?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never seen them before, but I think I heard the older one call the other guy Jimmy.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Within an hour, the manhunt had begun. Sheriff Sutter was among the first to arrive, accompanied by Beth Tanner. Soon after, BLM Special Agent Randy Maldonado showed up, having finally made it from Salt Lake City. Books, who had previously been reticent about turning over control of the investigation to Maldonado, was now almost giddy at seeing the man. Giddy because somebody was going to have to take control of what probably would be an exhaustive search, and it was a job Books had little experience at and even less interest in. He had a different agenda in mind for himself.

  Sutter and Maldonado assumed command of the crime scene and began marshaling resources for the search. Books didn’t see how the Bucks could make it very far or travel very fast considering the old man’s injuries. But it didn’t mean that they were any less dangerous or without options. They might choose to stand together and make a fight of it, or they could choose to separate, giving Jimmy Buck a greater chance of escape.

  Ruby Grant, although badly shaken, had come away from the incident with only minor bruising. She was driven in a fire department vehicle back to the hospital in Kanab, where emergency room staff would examine her. And Books knew the FBI would also be waiting to swarm this case. He had been surprised that the FBI hadn’t been sniffing around the investigation before now. From the information Mrs. Grant had provided about her assailants, Books was now convinced more than ever that her abductors had been the father-and-son duo of Earl and James Buck.

  After providing as much information as he could about the chase and subsequent shootout, Books caught a ride back to Kanab with a Utah Highway Patrol trooper who dropped him at his office. Beth Tanner came with him. He hoped the events of the past several hours would convince Benally that it was time to cooperate. Considering what had just happened to his mother, along with his own brush with death the day before, it was impossible for Books to imagine that the kid might still refuse to give up his co-conspirators.

  At headquarters, Books found a set of keys to another BLM vehicle. The Tahoe was going to be out of commission for some time. He also picked up a tape recorder and the list of questions he planned to use in Benally’s interrogation. He found two voice messages had been left on his office phone. One was from fingerprint examiner Greg Jasper while the other was from his boss, Alexis Runyon.

  “You’re never going to ask me to do anything for you again,” said Jasper. “Those prints you had me look at belonging to Brett Gentry do not match anything we lifted from the Ford Explorer or the note sent to Benally. Wish I had better news for you. Call me if you need anything else.”

  “Damn,” said Books.

  “What?” replied Tanner.

  “That was Greg Jasper. He couldn’t find any latent prints belonging to Brett Gentry on the stolen Explorer or the note sent to Benally.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s not up to his neck in this thing.”

  “True, but we’ve got to find proof somewhere. All we have at the moment is theory and conjecture.”

  The second message from Runyon informed him that starting Monday, his holiday from normal patrol duties, was over. The BLM ranger who had covered his calls the past week was leaving for a week of in-service training. That meant he’d have to juggle the Rogers investigation with his normal duties, although, with Maldonado in town, some of that workload could be passed along to him.

  Books leaned back in his faux leather chair pondering this latest development. He’d have bet hard cash that Brett Gentry’s fingerprints would be found on either the note to Benally or the stolen Explorer. Maybe he had been wrong about Gentry all along. On the other hand, it was possible that he ran the operation, pulling the strings behind the scenes while keeping his own hands clean.

  Even the information he’d recently learned about Jason Buck was largely speculative. It was true that the timeline for the burglary coincided with Buck’s presence in Kanab. And there was little doubt that Benally and Buck were together in the hours preceding the break-in. Ruthie Todd had confirmed that. Yet so far there were no witnesses or physical evidence linking him to the burglary.

  Books remained convinced that father and son, Earl and James Buck, along with Joe Benally, were deeply involved in the case and probably formed the nucleus of the rogue pot-hunting gang that worried Sergeant Walker of the Four Corners Task Force. The priority now was finding them. Their military training and outdoor survival skills made them more than capable of disappearing into the desert wilderness and living off the land indefinitely.

  And finally there was the matter of his brother-in-law, Bobby Case. What was his relationship with Brett Gentry? Was he only peripherally involved in the crimes, as he had so adamantly insisted? For his own sake and that of their family, Books hoped so.

  He got up and started for the door. “Come on, Deputy Tanner. Let’s go see if Mr. Benally has had a change of heart about talking to us.”

  ***

  When Books and Tanner arrived at the hospital, they found a small cadre of people gathered outside Benally’s room talking in hushed tones. There were a couple of uniforms present along with Becky Eddins and District Attorney Virgil Bell. Several other people, who Books surmised were Benally’s family members, were also there, however, he didn’t see Mrs. Grant anywhere.

  As they approached, Eddins broke away from a conversation with Bell and rushed to him.

  “Oh, my God, you’re hurt.” She touched his face where the cut on his face had already started to scab over.

  “Nothing serious. It’s just a scratch.”

  “How do you manage to get yourself into so much trouble?” asked Eddins, squeezing his hand.

  “I was wondering that very thing myself. It seems like I’ve been dragged into more life-threatening situations here in less than two years than I did in more than eleven in Denver.”

  He nodded toward the small knot of people. “What’s with the small mob?”

  “Ruby’s husband is here with their two children. I called Virgil and suggested he drop by. We’re down to two cops now, but after you called in the warning, we had cops everywhere.”

  “I don’t see Mrs. Grant anyplace.” />
  “That’s because she’s in with Joey. They checked her out in emergency and then released her. She’s been in with him for about ten minutes.”

  “So where do we stand? Is he going to cooperate or not?”

  “Unless he has a last-minute change of heart, he’s accepted the deal, and you can sit down with him as soon as his mother finishes up.”

  “Good. I’m ready to go. Do you plan to sit in?”

  “I do.”

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Could you keep Mrs. Grant out of the room while we do this?”

  “I think so, but why?”

  “I’ve learned that you get more information from young offenders when you keep their parents out of earshot.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Books pulled Virgil Bell aside. “I guess he’s accepted your offer and is going to cooperate.”

  Bell nodded. “About time. My patience has worn pretty damn thin. The deal was about to come off the table, and defense counsel was tearing her hair out.”

  “Can’t say that I blame her. There’s a lot at stake. Are you planning to join us?”

  “As long as you’re okay with it. I don’t plan on asking him any questions. I’ll leave that to you.”

  “I don’t have a problem if you do.”

  “I do have a problem with it. I prefer not to end up being called as a witness in my own case.”