Dead or Alive

Chapter Six

For three days, Jack Burke dealt with the loss of his son by working himself into a state of exhaustion. Friends, neighbors, and relatives who stopped by the ranch to voice their sympathy, or offer support, found Irene at home while Jack labored outside at some task that suddenly, desperately needed doing. During those days, from sunup to sundown, Kerney worked alongside his friend. He showed up at the ranch house early in the morning, learned from Irene where Jack had gone, joined him, and along with several of Jack’s close buddies from neighboring ranches, pitched in to help. Talking only when absolutely necessary, the men cut fire-wood for the winter, repaired fence lines, patched water tanks, greased windmills, tuned up the ranch vehicles, and replaced rotted wood siding on the horse barn. It seemed that whatever needed fixing around the ranch, Jack Burke was determined to get done before he had to bury his son.

Not once during those days did any friend, neighbor, or family member suggest that Jack needed to get in touch with his feelings, see a counselor to deal with his grief, or have himself a good, long cry. Everyone saw that Jack was coping the best way he knew how.

Each day at lunch, Kerney sat with Jack and his pals at the table in the Burkes’ kitchen and talked about the tasks ahead in the afternoon, while Irene, red-eyed and hollow-looking, occupied herself cooking food to feed all the folks who kept dropping in during the day to offer help, comfort, and sympathy.

So Jack toiled, Irene cooked, and Lynette, Riley’s widow, escaped to Kerney’s ranch to care for the horses her husband had been raising and training, so that she could grieve privately. One evening, Kerney came upon her in the tack room of the horse barn on his ranch, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, hands to her mouth, sobbing quietly. He backed away unnoticed, wondering why grief always seemed to be such a solitary affair, no matter how many people surrounded you. His passing inquiry into the nature of personal suffering didn’t make Kerney feel one damn bit better about Riley’s death. Each time he saw the spot in front of his house where Riley had been senselessly gunned down, he winced.

On the morning of Sara and Patrick’s scheduled late afternoon arrival at the Albuquerque airport, Kerney worked with Jack and his friends clearing out some invasive young juniper trees in otherwise good pastureland that bordered a wide arroyo. After the last of the junipers had been chained, pulled out by the roots, and piled in mounds at the edge of the pasture, he told Jack he needed to go home, clean up, and get down to the airport.

Jack pulled off his work gloves and shook Kerney’s hand. “Thanks for your help. It’s meant a lot to me.”

“Anytime,” Kerney replied, looking at Jack’s tired and empty face. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

“Tomorrow,” Kerney repeated, thinking that was about as close as Jack could get to admitting that he would soon bury his son.

At the airport, Kerney learned that the connecting flight out of Chicago had been delayed by bad weather. He passed the time people watching, unscientifically proving to himself once again that the majority of Americans, as recent statistics indicated, were indeed overweight, if not outright obese.

When Sara and Patrick finally came through the security checkpoint, it was getting on to dusk. He greeted them with hugs and kisses, grabbed their carry-on luggage, and walked them to the short-term parking garage where he’d left the rental car. A hot yellow sun hung on the western horizon, lighting up a dust-laden golden sky.

After Sara strapped Patrick into the child’s seat of the car, he asked Kerney what had happened to his mother’s Jeep.

“A bad man took it and broke it,” Kerney replied.

“Why?” Patrick asked.

“Because he does bad things, like stealing your mother’s Jeep. But it’s getting fixed.” Kerney paid the parking lot attendant and waited for his change.

“Can I take Pablito for a ride when we get home?” Patrick asked as the attendant raised the gate and Kerney drove on.

“No, it will be dark by then,” Sara replied.

“In the morning?” Patrick asked hopefully.

Sara shook her head. “Tomorrow morning we have something else to do, remember? We talked about it on the airplane because it’s the reason we came home to Santa Fe so unexpectedly.”

Patrick nodded seriously. “We have to go to church and say good-bye to Riley, because he died.”

“That’s right,” Sara said.

“And he can’t work with Daddy anymore.”

“Right again,” she noted.

“But I can help Daddy with the horses,” Patrick said brightly.

“Only until we go back to London,” Kerney said as he merged into northbound traffic on I-25.

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t like London.”

“You like horseback riding in Hyde Park,” Kerney countered.

“Yeah, but . . .”

“And you like the zoo,” he added before Patrick could continue, “and London is where your mother has her job. We promised that we would all stay together, remember? Not like the last time when she went to Iraq all by herself.”

“I don’t want Mom to be a soldier anymore,” Patrick announced. “She doesn’t even wear her uniform to work, so why does she have to stay in the army?”

“Let’s change the subject,” Kerney said, thinking his son was no slouch when it came to mounting an argument, no matter how unreasonable it might be.

“Okay.” Patrick yawned in reply and fell silent. Through the rearview mirror, Kerney saw his son’s eyes close and his head droop.

Sara turned her head and looked back at Patrick. “He’s almost asleep,” she whispered.

“Good,” Kerney whispered back.

“What’s happening with the manhunt for the killer?”

“Officially, it’s still going full bore. Unofficially, it has stalled. Larson may have gone into hiding up in his old stomping grounds around Colfax County. That’s the theory, anyway. As far as the police know, he hasn’t murdered anybody since the Muleshoe, Texas, killing. Because the hunt is concentrated up north, most of the smaller departments in the central and southern part of the state have scaled back on the search. But Andy Baca is keeping dozens of his state police officers, agents, and investigators assigned to the case. He’s even pulled central office supervisors away from their desks and sent them into the field hunting for Larson.”

“He’s lost an officer, so he’ll be a bulldog on this one,” Sara said. “What’s Paul Hewitt’s status?”

“Not good,” Kerney said glumly. “I’ve seen him once and I’ve talked to Linda by phone several times. He knows that he’ll never have the use of his arms and legs again, and according to Linda he’s been talking a lot of negative crap about not wanting to live. Clayton’s driving up to Albuquerque tomorrow from Lincoln County to see him. He said he’d call and fill me in afterwards.”

“That’s so sad,” Sara said. “It must be scary for both of them.”

“I’d hate to be facing their future,” Kerney said.

“And Jack, Irene, and Lynette? How are they holding up?”

“They’re coping in their own way,” Kerney answered in a somber tone. “Jack works himself to a nub sunup to sundown, Irene cooks frantically in her kitchen day and night, and Lynette hides out with the horses at our place and falls apart when no one is looking.”

“Have you signed on with Andy to join the hunt for Larson?”

Kerney shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve been sticking pretty close to Jack these last few days. Family and friends will be gathering at Jack and Irene’s after the burial. They’re expecting quite a crowd.”

“I’ll call Irene when we get home and offer to help,” Sara said.

“I’m sure she’d like that. Did you tell Patrick the particulars of how and where Riley died?”

“No, I thought it best not to until he’s older.” Sara reached out and touched Kerney’s cheek. “Are you still feeling responsible for Riley’s death?”

Kerney smiled tightly. “I can’t help it. I keep thinking that I put him in harm’s way.”

“Actually, you gave him a chance to do something he loved. He told you that time and time again.”

“I know I’m being illogical.”

“That’s okay. I understand the feeling.” Sara had lost soldiers in ambushes and firefights during her tour of duty in Iraq, and still felt she could have done more to save them. She looked out the car window at the brilliant ribbon of red sky on the western horizon. “I’d almost forgotten how big and beautiful the New Mexico sky is. I really miss it.”

“Maybe you should take Patrick’s advice and leave the army. Then we can all come back home to the ranch and enjoy the sunsets.”

Sara poked him on the arm. “Don’t you start in on me too.” “Okay, I take it back. London will be our home until you retire.”

“I hope you mean that.”

“I do,” Kerney said, trying to sound convincing.

At the ranch, they dumped the carry-on luggage on the couch, put Patrick to bed, and sat silently at the kitchen table holding hands and talking.

“We’re very lucky,” Sara finally said, thinking that she would fall to pieces if anything bad happened to Kerney or Patrick.

“Let’s keep it that way,” Kerney replied, remembering the moment when he’d learned that Sara had been wounded in Iraq. The thought of it made him shudder.

Sara laughed.

“What?”

“Just how do you plan to keep us safe from the perils of life?”

“By managing contingencies and limiting unintended consequences,” Kerney answered with a grin.

“My, my,” Sara replied, raising an eyebrow. “Where were you when the administration needed help planning the war on terror?”

“Serving my country on the home front as your local chief of police.”

Sara laughed again, rose to her feet, and kissed Kerney on the mouth. “I’m pouring myself a glass of wine and calling Irene,” she said. “See what’s in the garage freezer that I can thaw and cook up in a hurry to take with us tomorrow.”

“I’m sure Irene doesn’t expect you to bring anything.”

“Maybe not,” Sara replied, “but my mother would.”

Paul Hewitt’s wife, Linda, had called Clayton and asked him to meet with the sheriff as soon as he could break away and drive to Albuquerque. Clayton had promised to be there in the morning, and he left Mescalero before dawn, arriving in the city just in time to get slowed down by the last of the rush hour traffic crunch on the interstate. He had no idea why Paul wanted to see him, so as he lurched along in the stop-and-go traffic a quarter mile from the exit ramp that would take him to the hospital, he tried to avoid guessing. But it was irresistible. Perhaps Paul simply wanted to be personally briefed on the manhunt for Craig Larson, or maybe he wanted to share some encouraging news about his chances for recovery. Whatever the reason, Clayton stopped speculating as he left the interstate, drove the few blocks to the hospital, and made his way quickly to Hewitt’s room, where he found the sheriff alone.

“You just missed Linda,” Hewitt said as Clayton approached the bed. “She went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat.”

Clayton nodded. It was still a shock to see a man who had once been so vital and active now able to move only his facial muscles and eyes. “How are you doing?” Clayton asked.

“Just fine,” Paul replied with a touch of sarcasm. “As soon as I get out of the hospital and finish my rehab program, I’m gonna go skydiving without a parachute to celebrate my newfound freedom.”

Clayton raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not laughing at my little joke.”

“It’s not funny.”

Hewitt grunted. “You never did have much of a sense of humor.”

“Apaches believe that humor should never cause embarrassment.”

“Whom am I embarrassing?” Hewitt asked.

“Yourself.”

Hewitt chortled. “Damn, you’ve gotten uppity since I promoted you to chief deputy.”

“I’ve always been just another uppity Indian. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Know what I like about you, Clayton? You’re the only person who comes to visit who doesn’t treat me like a cripple.”

“The politically correct words, Sheriff, are ‘handicapped’ and ‘disabled.’ ”

Hewitt’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Neither word adequately expresses my present and permanent reality. ‘Cripple’ comes close. It has more clarity.”

“I can tell you’ve given it a lot of thought, Sheriff.”

Hewitt made a grumpy face. “What a polite way to tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself.”

Clayton said nothing.

Hewitt grimaced. “Okay, I’ll get right to the point. Linda and the doctors have convinced me that I should resign as sheriff, and they’re right. With what I’m facing, I can’t see myself being able to get my head around the job anytime soon. I wanted to tell you in person before I make it official. I spoke to the county commission chairman and asked him to keep you on as chief deputy.”

Hewitt paused.

“And?” Clayton asked.

Hewitt snorted. “I got a lot of mumbo jumbo about how the commission wanted to leave all internal personnel and administrative decisions to the interim sheriff, whoever that will be.”

“I’m sure it will be Sergeant Rudy Aldrich,” Clayton ventured.

“Most certainly. It was also pointed out to me that a majority of the commissioners don’t like the idea of the chief deputy living outside the county limits.”

The Mescalero Apache Reservation where Clayton lived was in neighboring Otero County. “Is it that they don’t like me residing outside the county, or that I’m an Apache from the Rez?” Clayton queried.

“It wasn’t put that way, but feel free to take it as evidence of a combination of not so subtle racism and some political maneuvering to give Aldrich a leg up in the general election. By replacing you with a chief deputy who has some drawing power at the polls, he’ll have a better chance of getting elected. However, I was assured that you would be allowed to revert to your permanent rank of lieutenant once Aldrich is installed and appoints a new chief deputy. Isn’t that generous of them?”

Clayton shrugged. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Hewitt echoed. “That’s it?”

Clayton smiled at Paul Hewitt. “Don’t worry about me, Sheriff. Just do the best you can to get better.”

“Yeah, right. I’ve been told there are a whole lot of electronic gadgets I can learn to operate by using a breathing tube that’s no bigger than a soda straw. Even wheelchairs can come equipped with them. Modern science. Amazing.”

“You’ve got to stop sounding so negative,” Clayton counseled, stone-faced. “It makes talking to you really grueling.”

Hewitt grinned. “You do have a sense of humor.”

Linda Hewitt stepped into the room before Clayton could respond. She greeted him warmly, but the smile on her face was forced and tiny lines tugged at the corners of her mouth. She talked for a time about plans to take Paul home, including what needed to be done at the house to make it more accessible and comfortable for him. Paul chimed in that she’d been wanting an excuse to redecorate, and they all shared an uneasy laugh.

After a few more minutes of small talk and a farewell hug from Linda, Clayton took his leave and made his way down the brightly lit hospital corridor to the elevators and outside to his unit. Grace had asked him to call after his meeting with Paul. He sat in the unit holding his cell phone and wondering what to say. Should he tell her that Paul was the most miserable son-of-a-bitch on the planet and would gladly kill himself if he could? Should he tell her that Linda was working hard to be strong, upbeat, and supportive, but every second of her life since Paul had been shot and their world collapsed was now permanently etched on her face? Or should he tell her that by the end of the week—if that long—he’d be unemployed because he would not, could not, work for Rudy Aldrich.

He put the cell phone down and headed south toward Lincoln County, hoping that along the way he could come up with something positive to say to Grace before he called.

The fancy wrought iron gate controlled by a solar-powered electronic keypad wasn’t what Craig Larson had expected to find upon his arrival at the entrance to Martha Boyle’s ranch road, nor was the nearby sign behind the fence announcing that the Lazy Z was closed to unannounced visitors. On the sign was a phone number to call for permission to enter.

Larson snorted at himself for being so stupid. The last time he’d had any word about Martha must have been ten, maybe fifteen years ago. What made him think that time or Martha had stood still? He figured she must have sold the place to some rich, out-of-state cowboy wannabe, because no New Mexican raised on a ranch would ever lock a gate to keep out the neighbors and post a phone number on a sign to call for access.

He sat in the truck and considered what to do. It was too risky to go back on the highway in the stolen pickup, or even drive the dusty back county roads looking for a place to hole up. Because he knew the lay of the Lazy Z land, it made sense to stick to his plan no matter who now owned the spread.

Larson knew three different ways to get to the ranch headquarters that bypassed the fancy solar-powered wrought iron security gate. He popped the clutch and headed toward a jumbled rock outcropping, wishing he’d kept the Marlin .22 rifle. No telling how many folks would need killing in order to make his plan work once he got there, and the additional firepower would have been helpful.

Just beyond the outcropping, Larson downshifted and entered an arroyo that deepened quickly as it snaked through rolling rangeland. It finally petered out at a boundary fence to the Lazy Z where a rutted track followed the tightly strung barbed wire. He rattled the old truck up a shallow draw to a rickety old gate, stopped, got out, undid the chain that held the gate closed, pushed it open, and drove through. Within twenty minutes he was on top of a mesa looking down at the ranch headquarters.

The old stone ranch house, with its rounded, mission-style doors and windows under a low-pitched roof, and the matching stone barn looked pretty much as Larson remembered them. But the bunkhouse where Larson had once slept and the white clap-board foreman’s cottage were gone, replaced by two fairly large flat-roofed, pueblo-style houses, separated by a wide, landscaped courtyard with a kidney-shaped swimming pool, two tennis courts, a cabana, and a freestanding veranda with an outdoor kitchen and dining area.

A short way beyond the old barn stood an enclosed circular metal structure and several corrals made of expensive steel pipes painted white. Within easy walking distance was a horse barn with stalls that opened onto individual paddocks. There were no animals in the corrals or paddocks.

Larson didn’t like the changes he saw. It made him think about Melvin and Viola Bedford and their showy attempts to act and live like Westerners, when in fact they were nothing but an elderly, retired rich couple from Minnesota. He figured the Lazy Z had maybe been turned into some sort of corporate retreat or a rich bitch’s equestrian fantasy come true.

Larson’s thoughts wandered back to Melvin and Viola and how he laughed behind their backs when they went off to some highfalutin Santa Fe social function wearing their matching cowboy hats, shirts, and boots, and sporting expensive Indian turquoise and silver jewelry. Aside from being old, both were short, fat, and unattractive. They looked like rejects from Munchkinland. When they climbed into their pristine, never-been-off-the-pavement, extended cab 4x4 pickup truck, their heads barely showed above the dashboard. The notion to steal a chunk of their wealth and kill them had grown in Larson’s mind the more he came to see them as ludicrous, undeserving posers.

He scanned the ranch headquarters for a while looking for a sign of movement. Only an older model Subaru at the front of the ranch house and a shiny silver Hummer parked by the circular structure, which Larson took to be an enclosed horse arena, gave a clue that someone might be about. As he walked down the narrow, overgrown switchback trail, he pictured a good-looking woman wearing jodhpurs and riding boots exercising a horse in the riding arena, and that got him thinking about sex.

He held off any further thoughts about the woman as he reached the bottom of the mesa and quickly went from house to house knocking on locked doors and getting no answers. The old stone barn was locked as well, so he made his way to the silver Hummer. It wasn’t locked and the key was in the ignition.

Through the open door to the riding arena he could hear the sound of hoofs on dirt. He waited until the horse passed by before quietly slipping inside and crouching at the side of the door with the semiautomatic in his hand. He focused hard on the horse and rider cantering on the far side of the arena, but it took a minute for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. At first he thought the rider was a young boy, but it was a woman, a skinny old hag at that, in her sixties, with leathery skin and stringy long gray hair that flopped against her face as she rode. She wore tight jeans, boots, and a loose-fitting halter top that covered a flat chest. About the only positive things about her were that she sat a horse well and seemed to have a nice ass.

Larson hid the semiautomatic behind his leg when the woman saw him. She reined the horse to a walk and rode over.

“Can I help you?” she said, looking down at him as the horse, a nervous gray mare, snorted and pawed the ground.

Larson pointed the handgun at the mare’s forehead. “Get down or I kill the mare.” He pulled back the hammer for effect.

The woman’s hands tightened on the reins.

“Try to run and I’ll kill you too,” he added.

The woman dropped the reins and dismounted. She was small, not more than five-foot-two, but the boots made her seem taller.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Food? Money? The Hummer? Take it.”

She had a prominent chin and a missing tooth just visible at the right side of her mouth. Her upper lip was heavily wrinkled.

“You work here?” Larson asked, somewhat surprised at the woman’s cool demeanor.

The woman nodded. “I’m the caretaker.”

“Is anyone else here?”

“Not today.”

“Tell me the truth now,” Larson said, pointing the gun at her eye, trying for a reaction.

“I’m not lying,” she said flatly.

Larson gave it a rest. The woman seemed totally unruffled by him, like getting killed didn’t matter. “Who else lives here?” he asked.

“No one, full-time. When guests are here, a wrangler takes care of the horses and stays in an apartment in the old stone barn.”

“What horses?” Larson demanded. “The only horse I’ve seen is this mare.”

“She’s mine,” the woman answered. “The other horses are boarded at a neighboring ranch when no one is here.”

“Who owns this place?”

“A multinational corporation headquartered in Germany. It’s used as an executive retreat. The CEO’s wife is a horse lover.”

“Do you live on the ranch?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I have rooms in the main house.”

Larson waved the gun at the open door. “Take me there.”

The woman reached for the reins. “First I need to unsaddle the mare and put her in the corral.”

“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 watched 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 side 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.”

He wrote out his resignation effective the end of the month and handed it to Durbin, who scanned it quickly.

“I’ll take annual leave until then,” he added. “Tell Aldrich I’ll clean out my desk by the end of the day and turn in my department-issued equipment on Friday.”

Durbin waved the resignation at Clayton. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Clayton stood. “Yes, I do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to finish up.”

Durbin left with no further appeal for Clayton to remain with the department, confirming that resigning had been the right thing to do.

He looked at his watch. He had half a shift to wind things up and clean out his desk. He decided not to call Grace at work with the news. It could wait until he got home.