“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.
After wolfing down half a sandwich, he removed the tape from the old bitch’s mouth so she could talk. “Is that old Subaru yours?” he asked.
When Ugly Nancy didn’t answer, Larson kicked her in the stomach. “Is it, Ugly Nancy?”
Trimble gasped out a yes.
“Good girl,” Larson said, retuning to his meal. “Now, I’m gonna ask you a lot of questions, so don’t piss me off and make me kick you again.”
By the time he finished eating, Larson had learned that the Subaru could easily make it to the old line camp on Point of Rocks Mesa, and that the lodge was fully stocked with food, drink, bedding, and necessities. After another slightly harder kick to the stomach, Ugly Nancy also told him that no one was expected at the ranch for two weeks, that she had no appointments off the ranch in the next few days, and that he could find the key to the gun case in the living room on top of the cabinet.
Larson taped Ugly Nancy’s mouth shut, left her on the floor, opened the gun cabinet, and picked out a lever-action Winchester 30.06 rifle, a six-shot .357 Ruger handgun, two nice hunting rifles, and enough ammunition to keep a SWAT team at bay for several days. He loaded everything in the back of the Subaru before returning to the kitchen, where he cleaned up the mess from his meal. He regretted not being able to take the Hummer, but everything had to appear normal if anyone came looking for Ugly Nancy.
He finished putting things away, dragged Ugly Nancy by the hair outside the house, locked the front door, carried her to the Subaru, stuck her facedown on the backseat, and drove to the horse arena, looking for the mare, but it was nowhere in sight. He’d planned to unsaddle it and put it in a corral with feed and water, but decided not to bother with it. After some playtime with Ugly Nancy, he’d come back and round it up.
The smooth gravel road to the line camp was a far cry from the set of ruts that had once snaked along the back of the mesa and climbed to the top. Larson felt pretty damn lucky. He was on his way to a well-provisioned hideout packing a decent arsenal and bringing along some company, even if she was old, ugly, and unwilling. When the line camp came into view, he wasn’t surprised to see that it had been enlarged and fixed up. The solar panels and television dish antenna on the roof meant he’d have electricity, access to the outside world, and hot water for a nice long shower. Compared to camping out in the Capitan Mountains in dead Janette’s pickup truck, it was gonna be Valhalla.
He parked the Subaru behind the lodge, under a small stand of old cottonwood trees that partially hid the vehicle from view, opened the back door with a key off Ugly Nancy’s key ring, and carried her inside. He dumped her facedown on a bed in one of the two bedrooms, and tapped her unconscious with the butt of his semiautomatic to keep her quiet, careful not to hit her too hard like he had Kid Cuddy. He checked to make sure she was still breathing, and then took a look around the cabin. The living room had a big stone fireplace and a flagstone floor covered by some Navajo area rugs. On the walls were mounted deer, elk, and antelope heads. Flanking the fireplace were two oversize leather chairs and a couch with a thick pine wood frame. In front of the couch was a Mexican tile coffee table. Matching lamp tables were at the ends of the couch.
The kitchen was as well supplied as Ugly Nancy had promised and the bathroom had a separate shower stall that Larson couldn’t wait to try out. He held off on stripping down butt naked on the spot and finished his tour. Inside a large linen closet was a washer and dryer, and on a coatrack in the mudroom by the rear door, he found a coil of good rope.
He took the rope into the bedroom where he’d left Ugly Nancy, undid the electrical cords that bound her, stripped her naked, and tied her up again with the rope, this time facedown and spread-eagled.
Larson put a pillow under her stomach to prop up her rump and gave her the once-over. Her shoulder blades were like fins in her skinny back and her arms were thin yet muscular, but from the waist down, old Nancy had a very nice, juicy-looking butt and slender, well-formed legs. From the way she looked at this angle, Larson figured it wasn’t going to be hard at all to forget about her face.
He left her, went to the bathroom, and spent a good fifteen minutes in the shower. He toweled off and put his dirty clothes in the washing machine. Aroused, he padded naked into the bedroom, where he found Ugly Nancy wide awake.
“What perfect timing.” Larson hopped on the bed, positioned himself between her legs, grabbed her hips, pulled her to him, and slapped her ass. “Giddyup,” he said.
An overflow crowd of tearful, somber mourners packed the church for Riley Burke’s funeral. Ranch families from all corners of the state were in attendance, along with family, neighbors, local friends, and Riley’s old college buddies from New Mexico State University. Eulogies brought smiles and more tears to many of the mourners, and through it all Patrick sat quietly on Kerney’s lap not saying a word.
After the services ended, Jack, Irene, Lynette, and Lynette’s parents were escorted through a side exit, and although Jack had his head bowed, Kerney was close enough to see tears on his friend’s face. He nudged Sara, who had also been watching Jack, and she whispered to him that it was a good sign.
At the graveside, Kerney, Sara, and Patrick held hands and watch
ed and listened as Riley was laid to rest under a bright, cloudless sky. After the minister read the final scriptures and asked all in attendance to remember that Riley was now at peace with his Lord, the mourners dispersed, except for the immediate family, who lingered near the casket.
Because of the large size of the gathering, the wake was held under the shade of massive cottonwood trees outside the Burkes’ old hacienda. There were tables loaded with home-cooked food and ice chests filled with beer and soft drinks. Patrick ran and played with other children while the grown-ups shared memories of Riley and recounted family stories. The Burkes were Irish-American on both sides of the family tree, and fond laughter replaced at least some of the tears that had been shed at graveside. The party continued long into the afternoon, and it wasn’t until most people had left that Kerney got a chance to talk with Jack.
“Did you see me fall apart at the cemetery?” Jack asked as the two men lifted one of the tables rented for the gathering into the bed of a truck.
“I saw you cry a little before we left,” Kerney replied as he slid the table all the way in. “But I’d hardly call it falling apart, although your eyes are still pretty red,”
Jack smiled wanly as they folded up the last table and carried it to the truck. “I bawled like a baby after most folks had left the cemetery. Couldn’t hold it in. After we got home, I had to go inside and break down a couple more times while people were here.”
“Good for you,” Kerney said.
Jack closed the tailgate and leaned against it. “The pain is never going to go away, Kerney.”
“I expect not.”
“I’ve just been so damn angry. I want to find the man who killed my son and break him in two with my bare hands. You know what I mean?”
Kerney nodded. “I do.”
“When do you and the family go back to England?”
“I’m not quite sure, but Sara and Patrick will probably leave before me. I’ve got some things to take care of before I can follow along.”
“If you’re worried about the horses and your ranch, we can look after things.”
“Let’s talk about that in a day or two,” Kerney replied. He still hadn’t talked to Lynette about whether or not she’d be interested in taking on the responsibilities of the partnership. If not, he’d sell off most of the horses and hire a caretaker to look after the place until Sara retired and they could return home permanently.
Sara came out of the house with Patrick in tow, waved in his direction, and walked toward Kerney’s pickup truck parked in front of the old toolshed.
“Seems like it’s time to leave,” Kerney said, nodding in Sara’s direction and shaking Jack’s hand.
Jack gripped Kerney’s hand hard in return. “I appreciate all you’ve done these last few days.”
“No thanks are necessary, amigo,” Kerney replied as he thumped Jack on the back and stepped away, thinking it would really help them both feel better if he could catch and kill that son-of-a-bitch Larson before he returned to London.
During the short drive home on the ranch roads, Kerney let Patrick stand between his legs on the driver’s seat and steer the truck.
As they poked along at a top speed of ten miles an hour, Sara asked Kerney about Jack.
“He’s had a couple of good cries.”
“That’s a start.”
“And Irene?” Kerney asked.
Sara shook her head. “Her heart is broken, but her sisters are going to make sure she doesn’t go into a state of permanent depression. They’re already planning to take her to Ireland on vacation in the fall.”
“Good deal.”
“Wasn’t Clayton supposed to call you yesterday?”
“Yep, and I haven’t heard a word from him. I’m sure he’s busy.”
“I want another brother besides Clayton,” Patrick announced, looking back at Kerney. “One that’s younger than me and not all grown up.”
“Keep your eyes on the road, sport,” Kerney cautioned.
“How about a baby sister?” Sara asked.
With his eyes firmly fixed on the road, Patrick considered it. “Okay, just as long as we all stay at the ranch and don’t go back to London.”
“Aha,” Sara said. “So that’s your scheme, is it?”
“What’s a scheme?” Patrick asked.
“Your mother means that it’s a sneaky idea,” Kerney answered.
“It’s not sneaky, because I already told you about it,” Patrick replied indignantly as he glanced at his mother.
“Good point,” Kerney said. “Pay attention to your driving.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied, gripping the wheel tightly with his little hands.
At the ranch, Patrick refused to take a nap, so Kerney put him to work in the horse barn helping him clean out stalls. Soon Patrick ran out of steam. Kerney spread a horse blanket on the floor of the tack room and told his son to take a little break. Patrick stretched out and within a few minutes fell fast asleep.
Kerney had just finished spreading fresh straw in the last stall when Sara appeared.
“Have you lost track of our son?” she asked as she hitched her feet on the bottom rung of the open stall gate and swung on it.
“He’s sleeping soundly in the tack room.”
“Good, now we can talk. If you stay behind at the ranch, will you really return to us in London?”
“What kind of question is that?” Kerney asked.
“An important one. I know you’re no happier living in England than Patrick is.”
“We’re still adjusting,” Kerney replied.
“That’s a pretty slick answer, mister.”
“Then I’ll give it to you straight,” Kerney said with a grin.
“The best possible place for Patrick and me to be is with you in London. Living in Europe for three years will give Patrick experiences few children are fortunate to get. It would be tragic not give him a chance to learn firsthand about the world outside the United States. He may complain about London now, but give him time and he’ll make some good friends in his new school and start enjoying himself.”
“You mean that?”
“I do, although you can count on me to occasionally bitch about missing New Mexico, Santa Fe, the ranch, the sky, the mountains, the smell of the high desert air after a rainstorm, and green chili.”
Sara jumped off the stall gate and gave Kerney a hug. “I’m holding you to everything you just said.”
“Including my bitching?”
“As long as you keep it to a minimum.”
“I’ll try.”
In the tack room with Sara at his side, Kerney knelt down, gently picked up his sleeping son, and carried him in his arms toward the house. He knew he was lucky to have his family intact, knew that circumstances beyond his control could easily rip his world apart just as it had the Burkes’. That didn’t stop him from making a silent vow to do all in his power to keep Sara and Patrick safe.
The day after Paul Hewitt had called in his resignation as Lincoln County sheriff from his Albuquerque hospital bed, with Linda holding the phone for him, Clayton Istee sat in his cramped lieutenant’s office entering numbers into a desk calculator to discover how deep in the hole the department was for paid overtime.
He ran the totals again, just to be sure, and then began examining the fiscal year line-item budget to see where he could find $8,000 to cover the current overtime shortage and another $6,000 to pay for anticipated overtime through the end of the budget cycle. He decided the only way he could make up the difference would be to drop one of the three new police vehicles Paul Hewitt had budgeted for. He hated the idea of delaying the replacement of even one cop car, but saw no alternative.
A knock on his open office door made him look up. Steve Durbin, the chair of the county commission, a man with an ingratiating façade and a viperous personality, smiled warmly at him.
“Clayton,” Durbin said by way of a greeting as he sat in the straight-back chair on the other sid
e of the desk. He had a fleshy face and a wide mouth with thick lips. “I thought at least you would have moved into the vacant chief deputy’s office after your appointment.”
“I haven’t had the time,” Clayton replied. “What can I do for you, Mr. Durbin?”
“Please, it’s Steve. I wanted to tell you personally that the commission has just appointed Rudy Aldrich to fill out Paul’s term in office.”
“I was expecting that.”
Durbin turned on his most sugary smile. “Of course, it was hardly a secret who the majority of the commission favored for the job. However, you do understand that Sheriff Aldrich’s appointment in no way diminishes our appreciation of the wonderful work you’ve been doing here during these difficult times.”
Clayton said nothing.
Durbin kept the smile going. “In light of that, we want you to attend our commission meeting next week so that we can present you with a commendation recognizing the contribution you’ve made to the citizens of Lincoln County.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Perhaps not, but it’s well deserved nonetheless. Now, on to a more sensitive subject.” Durbin’s smile blossomed wider but his eyes narrowed. “Sheriff Aldrich has decided to fill the chief deputy position with someone other than yourself and has asked that we keep his choice confidential until he makes a public announcement later in the week.”
“I was expecting that also,” Clayton said.
“The commission unanimously asked me to tell you that we very much want you to remain with the department at your permanent rank of sergeant.”
“Sheriff Hewitt promoted me to lieutenant.”
“True enough, but you are some weeks shy of completing the mandatory six months’ probation period. Thus, under current personnel rules, your permanent rank is sergeant. It will be up to Sheriff Aldrich to decide if he wants you to continue to serve as a lieutenant.”
Aldrich had always been weak-kneed and two-faced, but until now Clayton hadn’t realized how spineless the man truly was. He reached for a writing tablet on the desktop and tore off a piece of paper. “Let’s end this charade.”
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