Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel

by Michael McGarrity

  Sheriff Merlin Root had called Page the day before about Dalquist’s request for a morning meeting in Glenwood, so he knew the wolves were circling. Late into the evening, after attending to final details, he spent hours with Loretta, holding her hand, reminiscing when she was awake, listening to her labored breathing while she slept. She was almost gone now, her once-sparkling eyes a thing of the past.

  After breakfast, Jack refused to stay at the house, even when Page told him he’d be leaving the gate open.

  “Makes me no never-mind,” Jack said. “I’ll put a shot over their bow, or into their keel, when they come sailing past.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Page said. Jack shuffled behind his walker out the front door to his truck, beeped his horn, and drove away.

  Page stacked dishes in the sink and was about to look for Alice when she appeared. “I’ve been thinking we should move Loretta into the safe room with you,” he suggested.

  “There’s no need,” she replied, with tears in her eyes.

  Page dropped the pan he was holding and took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. Last night he’d promised her to be there when the time came. An empty prescription bottle stood on the bedside table. She’d deliberately left the world without him.

  Did he have time to bury her? He kissed her and covered her face with a sheet. His phone rang. The screen displayed Jack’s number. Before he could tell him about Loretta, Jack told him that Merlin Root was at the gate.

  “Says he needs to see you right away,” he added.

  Page decided it was better not to tell Jack his daughter was dead. “I’ll let him in. Hold him at your place for a few minutes, if you can.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, disconnecting.

  Page turned to find Alice, her face tear-stained, standing behind him, a suitcase in hand. “I won’t stay in the safe room. I can’t. I want to leave now.”

  “Okay, but do it quick and don’t stop for anybody.”

  “She made a video on her phone for the police.”

  “She told me.”

  “I have a copy. Who should I give it to?”

  “I don’t care, but do as she asked. And thank you, for all you’ve done.”

  Alice nodded, turned, and left, her heels clicking down the staircase.

  Page watched her car speed down the ranch road and glanced at his phone screen. Root was in his patrol vehicle at the gate. He waited until Alice left the property and Root passed through, then hit the code to keep the gate open.

  There was no time to bury Loretta. He’d put her in the fireproof safe room. It would be her tomb, and he’d burn the damn house down around her.

  He picked Loretta up, carried her gently downstairs, and arranged her on the bed. She’d dressed for the occasion, wearing a lovely gown he’d bought her in London. On a sleeve she’d pinned an envelope addressed “To whom it may concern.” The contents had to be about Kim Ward’s murder.

  He sealed the safe room door wondering who would bury her. Maybe it didn’t matter.

  In the library, he stuck a fifteen-round semiautomatic Beretta in his waistband at the small of his back, went to the kitchen, and opened all the gas valves on the stove. He did the same at the boiler and water heater in the garage and the barbecue grill on the back deck. He closed all the doors and windows and set his phone to the app icon that would ignite the kitchen stove burners.

  Finished, he stood and waited at the top of the driveway, wondering what made Merlin Root think he could kill him, and who would be next in line.

  A blowout on the highway a quarter mile before the county road turnoff that led to the ranch gate slowed Avery down. As he threw the shredded tire and jack into the trunk of his unit, a black Explorer with U.S. government plates flew past, its left turn signal flashing. Avery got a partial look at the license plate. It matched one of the DEA units that had been registered at the cabins.

  He cranked the engine and followed. On the washboard county road, the Explorer kicked dust and small pebbles that gouged his windshield. Up ahead, it turned off and barreled through an open gate. Avery stayed with him. Behind, he could see a faint dust cloud and wondered if he had a tail.

  Merlin Root had one simple goal: kill Page before any cops could talk to him. After he’d lied to Dalquist about being unable to meet, his secretary had barged in with a fax printout of a new DEA fugitive warrant advisory on Earl Matson Page from the U.S. attorney in El Paso. Within minutes he was on the twisting mountain highway running silent code three to Alma.

  He’d been on Page’s payroll for seven years, pulling in enough money to cover his son’s drug rehabilitation and put a large chunk aside. He wasn’t about to let his life go down the tubes.

  As Root sped past, Jack Page was out in front of his house trying to wave him down. He needed Page dead first, then he’d come back for Jack.

  A mile in, dirt coating his cracked windshield, Avery saw a timber-frame house close to the road, and an old man standing outside behind a walker firing shotgun rounds at the Explorer. Up ahead, out of range, a sheriff’s unit, lights flashing, accelerated.

  The old man swung the shotgun on Avery, and he ducked low behind the wheel. A round shattered the right passenger-door window. He drove faster, waiting for another round, trying to close on the Explorer. In his rearview, he saw the old man pushing his walker toward a pickup truck, the shotgun resting on the handrails.

  Merlin Root heard gunfire. In his rearview mirror he saw a swerving black Explorer followed by an unmarked state police cruiser. Behind it was Jack Page’s pickup truck. Cursing, Root punched the accelerator.

  Sara had followed Avery on the winding county road, staying as far back as possible, following the dust kicked up by his vehicle. She barreled through the open gate to the ranch, with the sound of gunfire echoing up ahead in the distance.

  Clayton retrieved his Glock 9mm and Sara’s SIG Sauer 9mm from the glove box. They were locked and loaded. “What are we in for?”

  Sara shook her head. “Nothing good.”

  Page watched the approaching vehicles. Merlin Root in his SO unit was barely in the lead, a black Explorer on his heels, followed by what surely had to be an unmarked state police vehicle. Jack, in his truck, was back a ways, but gaining ground, firing an occasional .45 round out the open driver’s-side window. That old boy just never quit. Behind him, dust from the ranch road signaled more company.

  Page smiled. It was turning into a perfect recipe for a great exit.

  Root screeched his unit to a stop ten feet away, emergency lights flashing, and ran toward Page, grabbing for his holstered weapon, shouting at him to surrender.

  Page shot him in the head.

  The black Explorer ground to a halt next to the SO vehicle, and Muniz stepped out, standing behind the vehicle door, handgun at the ready through the open window.

  Page put the Beretta back in his waistband. “Oliver, what a surprise,” he said genially.

  “Don’t move,” Muniz ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Of course.”

  A car door to the unmarked unit slammed shut.

  “Who’s behind me?” Muniz demanded.

  “A man with a gun,” Page answered.

  “State police,” Avery yelled, his weapon trained on Muniz’s back. “Drop the weapon.”

  “DEA,” Muniz shouted. He pulled his badge case and held it up. “Either assist me or stay the fuck out of my way.”

  Jack arrived before the state cop could respond, firing .45 rounds from his truck in the general direction of the state cop. His handgun empty, Jack threw it away and reached for his shotgun.

  The cop shot him through the windshield. Jack’s head snapped back, blood splattering the rear window.

  Muniz looked away long enough for Page to find cover at the SO unit. He bent low and squeezed off two rounds that dropped the state cop like a rock.

  “That wasn’t smart, Earl,” Muniz said.

  “He shouldn’t have killed Jack,�
�� Page replied.

  “Tough shit,” Muniz replied.

  An SUV rolled to a stop ten yards from the downed cop. A woman and man took cover behind their vehicle.

  “Identify yourself,” Sara demanded.

  “Special Agent Oliver Muniz, DEA.”

  “Who else is here?” Sara yelled. “Speak up.”

  Page stood, the Beretta discarded where Muniz couldn’t see it, cell phone tucked in his back pocket. “The old man in the truck was Jack Page. Sheriff Root came here to kill me, so you wouldn’t find out I’d been bribing him for years. I shot him for being stupid. The state cop got his for killing Jack. You’ve already met the man with his gun pointed at me. I’m Earl Page. Oliver, do you know those people?”

  “The woman is Sara Brannon, and I’m guessing the man with her is the ex–police chief's Apache son. Didn’t Jack get a big government check after you were declared legally dead?” Muniz asked.

  “Yeah, and I felt so bad about it, I almost asked him to send it back.”

  “I recently discovered he never cashed it,” Muniz replied. “Isn’t it interesting how little things like that slip through the cracks? If a clerk had reported the check had never cleared, I would have been looking for you years ago.”

  “Well, here you are now.”

  “Quite the place.”

  “You like it? I put a conservation easement on the ranch, so it can’t be subdivided. That should give the government fits when they try to seize it as unlawfully gotten gains.”

  “You’ve always been inventive. I’ll pass that information along to our lawyers.”

  “Do that,” Page said.

  “We need to speak to Loretta Page,” Sara called out.

  Since exiting the vehicle, Clayton hadn’t moved from behind the rear of the SUV, his semiautomatic pointed at Page’s chest.

  “Is she inside?” she asked.

  “Yes, she is.” Page reached for the phone.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Muniz ordered.

  “It’s just my phone.” Page turned sideways so Muniz could see it protruding from his back pocket. “I’ll call her.”

  Page hit the icon on his phone and the house blew up behind him, flames blowing out windows, crawling up exterior walls to the roofline.

  He ducked, retrieved the Beretta, stood, and, just as he’d planned, let Muniz kill him neat and quick.

  Frozen by the action, Sara watched flames engulf the structure. Clayton had moved to Paul Avery’s side, checking for a pulse. He looked up, shook his head, and reached for his friend’s lifeless hand.

  Sara called it in, police and fire, code three, wondering how in the hell they were ever going to clear Kerney’s name.

  CHAPTER 32

  The video left at the Grant County Sheriff’s Office showed a thin old woman in a hospital bed, claiming to be Loretta Page, and swearing Kim Ward had been with her the day after Kevin Kerney reported her missing. By evening, it was all over YouTube, posted by an anonymous source, getting thousands of views.

  It wasn’t enough to convince NMSP Deputy Chief Robert Serrano to ask the DA to dismiss the murder charge against Kerney.

  First, there was no proof the woman on the recording was who she said she was. Second, there was no way to know if she was telling the truth. Last, an unidentified person dropping off a video to the police that conveniently exonerated Kerney and posting it on YouTube might be nothing more than a well-played ruse dreamed up by a lawyer given to dramatics. Gary Dalquist fit that profile perfectly.

  Serrano’s reasoning vaporized when the female corpse recovered from the intact safe room at the destroyed ranch house was positively identified as Loretta Page. In an envelope found with the body was a handwritten note from Kim Ward, thanking Loretta for the loan of thirty dollars and a ride to the Deming bus station. Handwriting experts confirmed the note was authentic, corroborating Page’s video statement.

  Serrano received the findings before leaving to attend Paul Avery’s funeral in Las Cruces. It soured his already dampened mood. Despite his recent unhappiness with Avery’s performance, he’d been one of his agents, doing the job. He imagined Luis Mondragon felt the same.

  At the church service for Avery, members of the state police honor guard stood solemn watch over the closed casket in the center of the transept, U.S. and New Mexico flags bracketing the officers. Family members, including Avery’s ex-wife, his two children, his parents, and his three siblings sat in the reserved front row. Directly behind them, Serrano joined his chief and other high-ranking officials. Mondragon, with his officers and staff, filled the third and fourth rows. Over a hundred and fifty men and women in uniform from police and sheriff departments across the state and nation crowded into the nave.

  When the eulogies ended, Serrano stood with the congregation as the casket was carried slowly down the aisle. He turned in time to spot Clayton Istee in the vestibule slipping out the front entrance. He’d heard Avery had been Istee’s friend. He wondered what pain gnawed at his gut.

  Outside, as the congregation dispersed for the drive to the cemetery, Chief Deputy DA Henry Larkin approached.

  “Sad day,” Larkin said.

  Serrano nodded his assent.

  “I’ve deposed Kerney, his wife, and Clayton. Even Dalquist gave a voluntary statement.” Larkin paused to look at the crowd that had waited outside during the standing-room-only service. “We’re dropping the charges against Kerney. I’ll release a statement to the news media tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Serrano said. On the street in front of the church, TV satellite news teams were uploading live feeds. Little did they realize today’s news would be nothing compared to tomorrow’s headlines.

  He spotted Mondragon on the curb and walked over.

  The shoot-out at the Page ranch had all the ingredients to make the national television news outlets send their A-team reporters to cover the event. The drama of a DEA agent who’d disappeared into the Colombian jungle decades ago with stolen drug millions, the ex-partner who tracked him down and shot him dead, the murder of a corrupt county sheriff, and the killing of a relentless state police officer searching for the truth, were good enough. But wrap it around the shocking exposé of incest, and an astonishing deathbed revelation that cleared a retired New Mexico police chief of a forty-five-year-old murder, and it became the stuff news editors dream about.

  And it was all recorded at the crime scene by reporters in front of the burned-out ranch house where the smoke-stained safe room stood like an ancient crypt amid the charred rubble and debris of a once-magnificent home.

  The public couldn’t get enough. Documentary TV specials were being pitched to broadcast executives. Hollywood screenwriters had scripts in development, and major national magazines had cover stories in the works.

  Harassed by endless phone calls and requests for interviews, Kerney and his family, including his in-laws, fled to Mescalero, where they unplugged from the outside world. Isabel had arranged for them to stay at a lodge owned by the tribe that was tucked away near the village. Used primarily for tribal functions and ceremonies, it occasionally served as temporary lodging for family members who lived off the rez.

  Soon they’d be joined by Clayton and his family, who would be staying with Isabel.

  Kerney was feeling stronger every day, but he still needed additional surgery and long-term physical therapy. The muscle damage to his chest had healed nicely, as had the small puncture wound to his head. Today, none of that mattered. He had his family intact and together, his reputation restored, and a whole lot of unexciting days ahead to enjoy.

  On the afternoon of their arrival, Sara, her mother, and Isabel made a grocery run to town. Dean strolled down to see the famous church that overlooked the village, while Kerney and Patrick took a hike to a decades-old burn area, now a lovely meadow reseeded and brought back to life with young, healthy trees and native grasses.

  “I’m glad you’re not a criminal anymore,” Patrick sa
id.

  Kerney laughed. “I’ve been a lot of things, but never that.”

  “You know what I mean. Now that you’re better, what are you going to do?”

  Kerney stopped in his tracks. “I thought we made a deal to ranch together, at least until you go to college.”

  Patrick grinned. “Just checking.”

  Kerney wrapped his good arm over his son’s shoulder. “Come on, partner, I’m good for at least another half mile before we turn around. We’ve got some serious thinking to do about what kind of critters to raise and what kind of puppy to get.”

  Later that evening, after a good meal and relaxed conversation, Dean and Barbara retired, Patrick retreated to read, and Isabel went home to wait for Clayton and the family. Wrapped in blankets, Kerney and Sara sat on the porch, listening to a coyote chorus.

  “Are you doing okay?” he asked her.

  Sara took his hand. “I’m getting there. I thought civilian life was supposed to be serene and mellow. Big joke.”

  Kerney knew if Sara needed to talk about the ranch shoot-out or the plane crash, she would. “Didn’t you once say you married me because I made life interesting?”

  Sara laughed. “I did, but you can dial it back a couple of notches now, cowboy.”

  Kerney chuckled. “Gladly.”

  “Will we ever conclusively know if Todd Marks killed Kim Ward?” she asked.

  “Probably not, but the circumstances point firmly at him. But why bury her at Erma’s to make me the suspect?”

  “Jealousy?” Sara proposed. “Perhaps she told him about sleeping with you to punish him for beating her and cheating with other women.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “In the end, it was a destructive, drug-fueled relationship,” Sara said. “When it finally disintegrated, Todd Marks killed her.”

  “And wound up living with the mother of the woman he murdered.”

  “How could they do that?” Sara shivered and snuggled in the ­blanket. “Do you think it was sexual?”