Colorado's Finest

by Lynn, Sheryl

  “I put out inquiries. Nevada, Arizona, Utah and Colorado. We’ll hear sometime today if she’s wanted.”

  She picked at minuscule crumbs on the tray and deposited them in the salad bowl. Shaking her head, she huffed through her nose. “I need to be more careful what I wish for. Just the other day I was thinking I needed a bit of excitement.”

  “The forest service, state police, tribal police and our sheriff’s department are blanketing the area. We put flyers into circulation. I got through to the attorney in Arizona. If she contacts him, he’ll let us know immediately. Bernadette has nowhere to go. That makes her dangerous.”

  “You don’t think I should go home.”

  “Right.”

  “What about my animals? The goats and chickens need to be fed twice a day. I can’t leave Tippy all alone. He’s just a baby.”

  He didn’t know whether to express disgust or laugh. He did intuit that neither reaction would change her mind. He rubbed his scratchy eyes. “Pray,” he said.

  “Hmm, you’re right,” she said agreeably as if she hadn’t noticed his sarcastic tone. Her eyelids slid closed. Her lashes were short, lush and copper-colored.

  Maybe, he mused, she had a point about not wearing makeup. It would be a real shame to goop up those pretty eyes and flawless skin.

  TATE STARTLED, CAUGHT inside a dream. He held on tight to a rope or a vine while Diana, naked and glowing, stood on the far side of a wide canyon. A river roared through the canyon. White water pounded the canyon walls. Diana was yelling at him to swing across. And God help him, but he wanted to try. Her voice rose higher and higher, shrill and louder than the roaring waters.

  The dream released its hold and he propped himself on an elbow.

  The telephone jangled. He groped for the handset and gave his head a shake. He couldn’t tell by the light if it was morning or evening. “Raleigh.”

  “Hey, jarhead, did I catch you napping?”

  It was his friend, Ric Buchanan. No official emergency. Tate flopped back down on the futon. He brought his wristwatch close to his face. He’d caught almost three hours of sleep. Not enough, but it would have to do.

  “Pulled an all-nighter, man.” He yawned noisily. “What’s up?”

  “I heard you were working a big case. A problem up at Diana’s. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. What’s up with you?”

  “I wanted to know if we’re still on for tomorrow. Your roof?”

  “Oh, right.” He scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He forced himself to a sitting position. His whole body ached. Almost forty, a nasty little voice reminded him, getting old. “Truth is, buddy, I don’t know if I’m coming or going right now.”

  “Tell you what. Drop off the keys with Uncle Walt, then he and I will come over tomorrow and work on the roof.”

  “Good of you, man, but—”

  “Never turn down an offer, jarhead. ’Sides, it’s not like I have anything better to do. Nothing good on television, and the girls went with Lillian to Denver for the weekend.”

  Tate grinned. Ric’s mother-in-law liked nothing better than roping her two daughters and granddaughter into a major shopping spree. Then it sank in who exactly he was talking to. He sat straighter and his toes curled, catching the shabby carpeting.

  “Is your old trailer still hooked up to utilities?”

  Ric lived on McClintock Ranch with his wife and daughter. He also owned ten acres north of town. Before he married Elaine, he’d lived up there in a trailer. He’d built a barn on the property, and someday intended to build a house. The property also boasted the fanciest hot tub setup Tate had ever seen.

  “It’s got electricity, and I can turn on the propane. No telephone, though. Why?”

  Tate explained Diana’s situation.

  “If she needs to,” Ric said, “she and her animals are more than welcome to hang at my place. I don’t mind. In fact, if you need help moving her, let me know.”

  Tate almost asked if the hot tub was operational, but bit back the words. He had no intention of using the thing, or inviting Diana to use it with him. He refused to even imagine her soaking and sweating in the steaming water. “You’re too good, my man. I’ll call you back after I clear this with Diana.”

  He disconnected and stared at the telephone. Diana’s prayers were mighty powerful things.

  He dressed, pulled on shoes and tamed his hair the best he could. As soon as he opened the apartment door, the noise from the dining room hit him. It wasn’t even a payday weekend, or after dark, and the place sounded packed to the rafters. Who’d have imagined a corpse in a stolen car would be good for business?

  In the kitchen, Consuela shouted at a skinny young man who was chopping onions. Another young man scrubbed dishes. They were Consuela’s grandsons, recruited to help out. A waitress, bearing a tray of dirty glasses and a handful of order tickets, banged through the batwing doors. She spotted Tate and shot him a dizzy smile.

  “Busy?” he asked innocently.

  “Half the town has been in today, and I think the other half is coming.” She laughed. “You go out there and you’ll be mobbed. Everybody wants to know about the big fugitive hunt.”

  Consuela snatched the order tickets out of the waitress’s hand. “You gonna stand there while my chilies get cold, girl?”

  “Is Diana still here?” Tate asked.

  “I have never seen her frazzled like that. Guys were actually grabbing her so they could ask about her sister. She split a while ago.”

  Consuela turned blazing eyes on Tate. “You gonna waste this girl’s time all day? Rellenos shriveling, hamburgers drowning in cold grease. What kind of way is that to treat good food, eh?”

  Tate held up his hands and backed away. “Okay, okay, I’m out of here.”

  “We can manage, Tate,” the waitress assured him. “Go on back to sleep or whatever. We’ll call if the place catches fire.” She loaded plates on a tray and hustled out of the kitchen.

  Tate decided now would be a good time to visit Diana and tell her the good news. He holstered a Glock 9mm on his hip, and affixed his cell phone on the other side of his belt. He slipped out via the back door.

  On the drive to Diana’s farm, he called the sheriff. Gil hadn’t heard back on Robertson’s autopsy yet. Bernadette seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

  “If we find out,” Gil said, “that Robertson died before he hit the Colorado border, I’m finding somebody to dump him on.”

  Tate laughed.

  “You think I’m kidding. I’m not. I can’t afford a murder investigation.”

  On that happy note, Tate hung up, then turned into Diana’s sorry excuse for a driveway. Despite the lack of sleep, he felt great. Nothing fired his engines faster than a good investigation.

  He topped the hill and spotted a man seated on Diana’s front porch. Even at a distance, Tate recognized the huge yellow straw cowboy hat with a bright red band as belonging to Moe Sherwood, a volunteer deputy. Diana was in her garden plot. A floppy purple hat shaded her face from the sun. She sat back on her heels and waved to him.

  Holding a rifle, Moe stepped off the porch. He had the loose walk and bowed legs of a horseman. When he wasn’t volunteering for the sheriff’s department, he grew hay and outfitted big-game hunters.

  Tate parked his old Bronco. The truck shivered, the engine rattling to a stop. Tate tensed at the sound. He couldn’t afford repairs right now. The door sagged when he shoved it open—the hinges were nearly shot. “You on watch, Moe?”

  “10-4. Any sign of the perp yet?” Moe loved cop lingo. He wore his silver deputy badge with pride.

  “Not a hair. I take it things are quiet here.”

  “No problems.” A smile creased his leathery face. “That Diana is one heck of a cook. Consuela best watch her back.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so.”

  The smile vanished, and Moe’s eyes widened. “Just joshing. Don’t you be ratting me out to Consuela. She’ll spit
in my stew.”

  Tate gave him an evil grin. He wasn’t the only man in town who ran scared of the hot-tempered cook. Heading for the garden plot, he whistled a sappy tune.

  Diana knelt in the dirt, using a hand rake to scrape up weeds. Her puppy was helping by digging enthusiastically. His snout and forelegs were black with dirt.

  “Get enough sleep?” she asked.

  “No, but I did find a place for you to stay.”

  “Gil is shipping me to Siberia?”

  “He probably considered it, but no. Ric Buchanan has land north of here. It’s got a trailer and barn. He says you can use it as long as you like. And all your beasts, too.”

  “Isn’t that sweet?” She rose and swiped dirt off her cotton gloves. “You did tell him my beasts are goats, right?”

  “No problem.”

  “I am most grateful then.” She pulled off the hat and armed hair off her forehead. She left a smudge on her skin. “As I imagine you are. Will you continue to post people here in case Bernie returns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. They can feed and water my chickens. It only takes a few minutes.”

  He turned his back on her distracting smile and called Ric. His friend promised to hook up the propane for the trailer.

  Tate slid the phone back into its holster. He held barbed wire strands apart for Diana to leave the garden.

  “Guess I ought to pack a few clothes and supplies. Ever rounded up goats before?”

  “I’ve never even touched a goat.”

  “You’re in for a treat then.”

  With Moe’s help, they loaded Tate’s Bronco with supplies. Diana would transport the goats in her pickup. Tate noticed the way Moe seemed starry-eyed around Diana. Moe had never been married, never intended to marry and, like many old bachelors, was innately suspicious of all things female. Yet, he grinned like an idiot whenever she smiled or spoke.

  Tate didn’t like it. He didn’t like that he didn’t like it. It almost felt like jealousy, which was crazy since he didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. Not that he had any proprietary interest in Diana to jealously protect. And the way his thoughts kept returning to things like that annoyed the devil out of him.

  Hands on her hips, Diana frowned at a roll of wire fencing. “I better bring this, just in case. Those little boogers are escape artists. A regular stock fence won’t hold them.”

  Moe all but tripped over himself in his rush to grab the fencing and hoist it on his shoulder. He grunted with the weight and staggered toward the Bronco.

  Show off, Tate thought darkly. He helped Diana wrestle a stock rack into place around the bed of her pickup.

  Diana started her truck. “I have to drive in on the far side. I’ll meet you boys in the pasture.”

  It was only after she headed down a rutted path that it occurred to Tate that goats could be dangerous. He turned to Moe. “Do goats bite?”

  Moe scratched beneath his hat. “Don’t rightly know.” He walked up the rocky hill toward the pasture.

  Tate had never owned a pet. He liked dogs, tolerated cats, but until he moved to Colorado, the closest he’d ever come to livestock was in a butcher shop. Goats. Shaking his head in trepidation, he followed Moe up the hill.

  By the time the men reached a gate, Diana had already pulled the pickup into the pasture. The puppy was chasing the goats. Belly nearly to the ground, he stalked across the rocky field, then darted in and out. The tricolored goat bleated and shook nubbin horns threateningly at the dog. Head and tail low, the dog faced the goat squarely.

  “She’s got herself a good pup there,” Moe said.

  “Because it chases goats?” He made sure the gate was closed securely behind them. He hoped the dog kept the goats far away from him.

  “He ain’t chasing, he’s herding. Look at that! Just like he knows what he’s doing.”

  Tate realized Moe was right. The puppy was trying to intimidate the goats into moving where he wanted them to move. He was almost succeeding.

  Diana’s laughter rang across the rocky pasture. “All right, Tippy, cut it out. Come!” She held a bucket. She shook it hard. As one, the goats turned to her and began bleating. They ran toward her, their legs stiff, rocking along like windup toys.

  By the time the men reached her, she was surrounded by seven goats of various sizes, all trying to get their heads into the bucket. Their tails flipped furiously. Tate thought they were cute. Especially the black goats with their big floppy ears.

  Then he saw their eyes. The pupils were dark rectangles in yellow irises, expressionless and alien. They reminded him of cat’s eye marbles he played with as a boy. They gave him the willies.

  “Do they bite?” he asked.

  “No, but they do nibble,” Diana answered.

  As if to prove the point, a white goat began chewing on Tate’s gun holster. He shooed it, but it merely stared with those creepy eyes and went after the holster again. Exactly what he needed, his Glock 9mm eaten by a goat. “Are you sure they don’t bite?”

  “No front teeth. But don’t stick your fingers in their mouths. Those molars will take your skin off.”

  He couldn’t think of anything in the world that could induce him to stick his hand in a goat’s mouth. He shooed the persistent animal again. “How do we do this?”

  Diana spread grain on the ground, then climbed into the truck bed. “If you gentleman will hand them up to me, that will work. They don’t weigh much.”

  Tate tried to dodge the white goat. It seemed enamored of the taste of the holster. It bleated at him and followed, lips flapping and tail flipping.

  Moe grabbed a black goat around the belly. It baa-ed and bleated and kicked its hooves, but the man hoisted it over the truck gate to Diana. She eased it onto the metal bed. Its hooves rang and rattled.

  Tate cast Moe a look askance. If the old coot could do it, then Tate surely could. He grabbed for the white goat. It skipped away. “C’mere you,” he growled and lunged for it. It sprang into the air as if made of rubber. The puppy joined the game, cutting off the goat’s escape. When the animals engaged in a staring contest, Tate grabbed the goat. It bleated in surprise. Grinning, Tate lugged it to the truck. As he lifted it over the gate, it flung its head back and struck his jaw.

  The damn thing’s head felt like a brick. Tate grunted, but hung on. Diana pulled it out of his arms.

  “Good job,” she said.

  Rubbing his sore jaw, he turned for another goat. Moe grabbed a white goat. Tate picked up a black one. It was so fixated on the grain its neck strained and its lips nibbled even as Tate hoisted it into the truck.

  A piercing shriek rent the air. Tate froze, staring toward the house where the scream had originated. Another screech ripped the sudden silence, then another which trailed into a strangled wail.

  Diana jumped out of the truck and hit the ground running. Her speed astonished Tate. He wasted precious seconds gawking. Then it hit him that she could be rushing into danger. Drawing the Glock, he flicked off the safety and ran.

  Chapter Five

  Tate topped the ridge and bounded downhill. Jutting rocks and hummocks of grass threatened his footing. He kept the Glock held high and his eyes wide open. Once past the garage, he took in the scene in a sweeping glance. The front door of Diana’s house was wide open. Diana stood in the middle of the driveway. A man ran down the driveway, toward the road.

  Tate planted his feet in a shooter’s stance and yelled, “Halt! Sheriff’s department! Stop!”

  The man stumbled and turned. Tate automatically assessed the man’s appearance. Average height and weight, dark shirt, dark trousers. Dark glasses formed a featureless band across his upper face. Sunshine glinted on something metallic and black he held in both hands. A gun! Tate dived for Diana.

  He locked an arm around her shoulders and sent her spinning toward the porch. He braced for the sound of gunfire, but the man was running again and disappeared over the hill. “Take cover! He’s armed!” He ran after the intru
der.

  He hadn’t even reached the hilltop before Diana screamed his name. He dug in his heels, torn between the chase and her cry for help. She was leaping in the air, waving both hands wildly.

  He could catch the guy. He knew he could. But Diana needed him. “Damn it,” he ground through his teeth.

  Diana ran past the house, waving and yelling his name, her cries frantic. He ran back to join her. Sweat stung his eyes. His heart pounded. He hated letting that scumbag get away. Moe reached the driveway. He’d retrieved his rifle, but lost his big yellow hat.

  Moe ran to the corner of the house. He dug the heels of his cowboy boots into the ground and skidded to a stop. He held his rifle across his chest. His eyes were as round as quarters. Tate would have run past him, but Diana yelled.

  “Stop!” She faced the men, both hands thrust forward. “Don’t move!”

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins, souring his mouth and sharpening his senses. He smelled his own sweat and sun-warmed earth. Diana’s eyes were wide, but not panicked. Behind her a dark cloud swirled and broke and gathered.

  “Bees,” Moe said. “Lots and lots of bees.”

  The gate on the dog run stood open. One of the hives was overturned. Bees swarmed around Diana, their angry buzzing vibrating the air. About ten feet from the fence, a man lay face down on the ground.

  “Are either of you allergic to bee stings?” Diana called.

  A shudder rippled through Tate’s muscles. He hated bees. “No.”

  “Positive?”

  “Positive.”

  “Moe?”

  He swallowed hard, but answered that he was positive he wasn’t allergic to bee stings.

  “I need your help.” She spoke calmly now, as if she didn’t notice the bees swirling around her. “Tate, take off your shirt.”

  “What?”

  “Black excites the bees. You’re better off without the shirt. Please. Then walk normally and don’t swat or wave your arms around. They’re calming down. Let’s keep them calm. Okay?”

  He looked at Moe, Moe looked at him. No matter how creepy this was, that mope on the ground needed help. He holstered the Glock, grasped the hem of the black T-shirt he wore and ripped it over his head. He called himself an idiot for giving up even the thin protection the shirt offered. Moe gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing, then placed his rifle gently on the ground. They walked into the swarm.