Dead or Alive

Chapter Nine

Either Larson had remembered the wrong road or it had badly deteriorated over the many years he’d been away. On a narrow, deeply rutted, rocky strip, he attempted to turn around and high-centered the Buick on some large rocks. Additionally, he’d smashed the tailpipe like an accordion and seriously damaged the muffler.

He was out in the Big Empty with nobody around for miles, and there was no way he could pack out all his gear, weapons, and valuables in one trip. He would either have to get himself unstuck, or leave most everything behind and make the long, grueling trek to Kerry’s cottage in ninety-five-degree heat.

Larson crawled under the Buick for a closer look at the problem. The front tires were two inches off the ground and the transmission housing was hung up on a humongous rock. He got the jack out of the trunk and cranked it up as high as it would go. Even at the fullest extension it couldn’t reach to lift the Buick off the boulder. He put some flat rocks underneath the jack and tried again, but with the Buick’s nose angled in the air, he couldn’t get leverage to budge it off the rock.

A second look in the trunk revealed a towing strap tucked in the spare-tire well. He wrapped it around a nearby tree, secured it to the rear axle, revved the engine, put it into reverse gear, and tried to pull the car loose, using the axle as a reel. The rear tires spun, the Buick lurched back several inches, and the towing strap broke.

Disgusted, Larson broke a stout branch off a down and dead juniper tree, crawled back under the Buick, and started loosening the soil around the rock with the stick. It was tough, dirty work, and after an hour he was breathing hard through a cotton-dry mouth.

Wishing he’d brought some water with him, he crawled out from under the car and rested his aching back against the rear bumper. His forehead throbbed from hitting his head repeatedly on the undercarriage, and his knuckles were bruised and bloody.

Groaning at the thought of being stuck in the middle of nowhere all night, Larson put rocks under the elevated front tires and placed more rocks behind the rear tires to prevent it from rolling backward and crashing down on him while he was underneath it. He dug into the rocky soil with the juniper branch again, and used the loosened dirt to build up a platform for the jack under the front axle. If he could raise the front end another inch or two, maybe he could push the car loose from the boulder and slide it free.

After jacking the car up, he could see just the barest clearance between the boulder and the transmission housing. Hoping that was enough, he removed the rocks from behind the rear wheels, put the transmission into neutral, released the parking brake, and pushed the car from the front end as hard as he could. Metal screeched against rock as the Buick rolled back and all four tires dropped down.

Body aching, hot and sweaty, dirt and dust embedded in every pore of his face and hands, Larson grabbed the bottle of twenty-year-old whiskey he’d liberated from the Lazy Z, took a long swig, and poured some of the liquor on his bruised and bloody fingers.

After a careful inspection to avoid getting stuck again, he got behind the wheel and slowly backed up to where he could turn the Buick around. He headed toward Springer, hoping that the broken muffler wouldn’t attract any undue attention from the cops when he got there.

On the main street, two state police cars were parked in front of a small hotel that had a popular eatery favored by locals and tourists alike. Up the street, he passed by the old courthouse, which had been turned into a museum and contained as a main attraction the only electric chair ever used in New Mexico—or something like that.

It reminded him of old gangster flicks he’d seen on television where James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, or some other screen villain called their guns gats and their women molls and vowed never to let the screws fry them.

Murderers on death row in the state pen didn’t get fried anymore. Instead, they got injected with a lethal cocktail, which was supposedly a more humane way to die. Larson thought forcing the cops to gun him down by shooting some of their own would be a far better way to go.

Even though there were no cops in view, he stayed just under the speed limit as he continued down the main drag. There was one other back way to Kerry’s place, but to use it he’d have to trespass across part of one of the biggest spreads in the state. He’d also have to drive right by the prison and skirt an artificial lake fed by the Cimarron River that supplied the town with water and also served as a recreation area for fishing.

There was some risk, but he was armed and dangerous like the television reporters said, so why not?

He made the turn onto the prison road, and within a few minutes the high, double chain-link fences topped with concertina wire came into view. He gave the prison the bird as he drove past, at the same time silently thanking the nameless, dumb-shit guard at the Bernalillo County lockup who’d mistakenly scheduled him to be transported to Springer in the first place.

Where the pavement gave out, the road swung toward the lake, and soon Larson was clunking over a rocky surface that wasn’t much better than the route he’d abandoned earlier. With no other alternative, he pressed on. Only a few people were at the lake, two elderly couples and a family of four, all fishing from the shore. They paid little attention as he drove by. After the lake, the dirt road smoothed out some, and Larson relaxed a bit as he drove deep into lush rangeland that stretched for miles, right up to the foothill canyons and mountains beyond.

If he remembered correctly, a ranch road up ahead paralleled the wagon-wheel ruts of the historic Santa Fe Trail for a time, and then turned east toward Kerry’s place. Larson doubted the pasture gates would be locked, but if they were, he would bust his way through them one way or another.

He turned on the radio when he reached the ranch road, just in time to catch a news bulletin from a Raton AM station that reported police were investigating a crime scene at a ranch in the Springer area. No other information was available.

Larson wondered if the cops were at the Lazy Z or the other place on the Canadian River, and decided he really didn’t give a shit. It had been another hell of a day and he hadn’t even killed anybody yet.

Kerry Larson finished installing a rebuilt starter in the ranch manager’s three-quarter-ton truck and cranked the engine. It started up fine, just like he knew it would. He would drive it over to ranch headquarters in the morning and catch a ride back to his garage from one of the manager’s two sons, who were home from college for the summer.

Kerry had changed the engine and transmission oil, drained and flushed the radiator, lubricated the chassis, and rotated the tires. Although the three-quarter-ton had seventy-five thousand hard miles on it, Kerry kept it running in tip-top condition, just like he did with all the ranch vehicles.

Following his normal routine, Kerry carefully cleaned the tools he’d used, cleared the debris off his workbench, and washed his hands at the small laundry sink. He stepped out of his stained and greasy overalls, hung them on a wall peg next to the barn doors, and looked up the ranch road that led to the state highway, where a police car was parked under one of the old shade trees.

He’d told the police that he didn’t know where Craig was, but it didn’t seem to matter. They’d sent a head doctor to talk to him, and Chief Dorsey had come around again asking a lot of questions. And now cops were up there on the road watching day and night, just in case Craig showed up. They’d never catch his older brother like that.

Kerry’s last chore of the day was the one he enjoyed the most, feeding and caring for a small herd of riding and pack horses the ranch used to take paying sportsmen out on camping hunts. The herd was made up of mostly geldings and a few mares, all of them gentle and suited for inexperienced riders.

On his way to the horse barn in the bone-dry, calm early dusk, he waved at the officer in the police car, thinking that when the day was done he could do with a meal at the diner on the outskirts of town. Maybe chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, a big slice of apple pie, and a cup of fresh, hot coffee.

He thought about it hard as he put out feed, filled water troughs, cleaned up the manure, and spread fresh straw in the stalls. Going to town was no fun anymore. People he’d known all his life had started looking at him funny after Craig started shooting people and killing cops. It got worse when Chief Dorsey kept telling folks that Kerry had told Craig about Lenny Hampson’s tipping off the cops on his whereabouts. All of a sudden it seemed like Kerry had done something bad, when he hadn’t even known that Lenny had told the cops where to find Craig in California.

He’d explained to Everett Dorsey that he didn’t have cause to see Lenny hurt, and didn’t know when Craig came by the house that he’d escaped from a prison guard. But that part of the story didn’t come out, and now he was getting the cold shoulder from just about everybody. Even folks at the ranch headquarters, who’d always treated him with respect, weren’t looking him in the eye anymore.

Kerry finished up with the horses, said good night to every one of them, and walked down the hill to his house. Inside, he grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, sat at the kitchen table, and took a long swallow. The old, squeaky plank floor in the front room made him look up just as Craig stepped into view.

Kerry took in his brother’s shaved head, his beard that looked like barbwire, and his grimy, dirt-crusted face. “How come you look like that?” he asked. “What happened to you?”

Craig pulled his brother to his feet, gave him a hug, and laughed. “I did it so people can finally tell us apart. You got any more beer in the fridge?”

“That’s a joke, right?” Kerry grinned and got Craig a brew. “You look like you’ve been rolling around in a manure pile.”

“Not quite.” Larson popped the top and took a swig.

“There’s a cop up on the ranch road.”

“I know that, little brother,” Craig replied.

“People have been asking me to help find you.”

“What people?”

“A head doctor that came up from Santa Fe, and Everett Dorsey, the town police chief.”

“And what did you tell them?”

Kerry crossed his heart. “Nothing. I swear. I said if you didn’t want to be found, to just forget it.”

“What did the head doctor ask you?”

“He wanted to know about all the places we liked to go to when we were kids. Secret or special places.”

“What else?”

“Folks you liked that maybe you would go and visit.”

“Was that it?”

“Yeah, except for telling me that I’d be helping you if I told him what he wanted to know. But I didn’t, because I didn’t like him much. Did you really kill all those people?”

Craig smiled and nodded. “I surely did. Want to help me kill some more?”

Kerry twisted his mouth into a grimace and shook his head. “That’s a bad thing to ask me. The police want to catch you for shooting all those people, and blowing up places in Texas, like they showed on the TV news.”

Larson chuckled. “Tell me about it. I thought my baby brother liked to go hunting.”

Kerry’s expression brightened at the thought. “Yeah, but nothing’s in season right now unless you want to go plunk at some jackrabbits. We could do that.”

“People are always in season.”

“That’s not hunting.”

Larson shook his head in dismay. “Damn, you’re no fun, baby brother. I thought we’d be like Frank and Jesse James. Maybe become mountain men and live up in the high country, like we used to dream about doing when we were kids. But if you don’t want to come along, I could just shoot you.”

Kerry gave a forced laugh. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Shoot you, take your truck, and pretend I’m you.”

Kerry reached into his jeans pocket and took out his keys.

“You don’t have to shoot me for that. If you need the truck to get away, take it. Tell anybody you meet that you’re me.”

“That’s awfully nice of you, little brother, but not without a shower, change of clothes, and a hot meal. Have you got anything you can cook up for me?”

“I’ve got some venison steaks in the freezer from an eight-point buck I took last year.”

“In season, I bet.”

“Yep.”

“Get them out and fry them up for us while I jump in the shower.”

Kerry hesitated. “Would you really shoot me?”

Larson shook his head, showed his teeth, and smiled. “That would just be like shooting myself, now wouldn’t it, little brother?”

“I guess so,” Kerry said as he reached into a cupboard for the frying pan. “I knew you were just funning around,” he added, trying to sort out why he felt so scared.

With the shower spray beating on his head, Larson mulled over possible ways he could kill Kerry, assume his identity, and get far enough away before the cops figured out the switch. Better yet, what if he could get the cops to kill Kerry, thinking it was him? He couldn’t hit on a good idea on how to make it work. But if he came up with a feasible plan, wasting baby brother wouldn’t be a problem.

He got out of the shower, toweled off, dressed in some clean clothes from Kerry’s closet, and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The scabs from shaving his head had healed over and his hair was growing back. His beard looked hoboscraggly and it itched. He thought about shaving his head again and decided not to waste his time.

He opened the bathroom door expecting to smell venison steaks sizzling in the frying pan. But there was no scent in the air and no noise coming from the kitchen. He called out to Kerry and got no answer. In the kitchen he found the frying pan on an unlit stove burner and the venison steaks in a freezer bag sitting in the kitchen sink.

Holding the 9 mm Glock autoloader just behind his right leg, Larson called Kerry’s name again. He moved quickly to the front room. Through the open door he could see Kerry’s truck was missing.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Larson said. Had little brother turned on him? Or had he been frightened away by his threat to kill him?

Larson didn’t have time to wait and find out. He left the cottage, walked through a grove of trees to the horse barn, circled around the back of it, and took a quick look up the ranch road. In the fast-fading dusk the cop car was out of sight. Working as swiftly as possible, he saddled one of the geldings, put a pack frame on one of the mares, got some additional gear out of the tack room, and quietly led the animals behind the barn and back through the grove of trees to the cottage, where he filled a pillowcase with food, including the venison steaks.

He was twenty minutes away from the Buick, and if Kerry hadn’t sent the cops after him, on horseback he could make it safe into the high country by daybreak. To get there, he’d have to cross open country, and even in the darkness he would need to keep to the dry washes, arroyos, and streambeds.

Larson decided to move west toward the settlement of Miami and then cut north across a big spread to avoid the huge Philmont Scout Ranch, where thousands of Boy Scouts and their adult leaders were camped for the summer. Once beyond the town of Cimarron, he would turn west again and enter the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. There was hard riding ahead, but he could make it.

At the Buick, he packed up quickly, listening for the sounds of wailing sirens in the night, but all was quiet. He mounted the gelding, tugged on the mare’s bridle, and started out, feeling pumped about the trip ahead. It was like being one of the old Western desperados, like Jeremiah Johnson, or Tom Horn, or maybe Clay Allison, the gunslinger who had terrorized Cimarron back in 1870s.

He’d be like Clay Allison, Larson decided. At the old St. James Hotel in Cimarron, there was a plaque on the wall listing all the men that Allison had killed. Maybe when everything was said and done, they’d put a plaque on the wall for him. But if memory served, he’d have to kill a bunch more people to equal the number Allison had gunned down.

Although he’d thought about telling the cop parked on the ranch road that his brother was down at his house taking a shower, instead Kerry had waved and passed by without stopping. He knew there was something wrong with Craig, something bad-crazy, just from how he’d looked and talked. It was like Craig wasn’t his brother anymore. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the police.

For the past half hour he’d been stopped in front of the marquee of the old Springer movie house, which had been turned into a church. The marquee read “NOW SHOWING: JESUS CHRIST.” While he wasn’t much of a churchgoer, Kerry had occasionally attended with Lenny Hampson and his family. They were trying to help him become a believer. He had thought about talking to the preacher, but the place was locked up tight and he couldn’t remember the preacher’s name and didn’t know where he lived.

The state police substation was just a few doors up the street in what was once an old mercantile store, and a black-and-white patrol car was parked out front. Light from inside the station shone through the large plate glass window onto the sidewalk.

Kerry’s stomach grumbled. Maybe a plate of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes would help him figure out what to do. He always did better thinking with a meal in his belly. He cranked the engine, put the truck in gear, and drove off.

The Raton Police Department was housed in an ugly mid-twentieth-century, single-story municipal building that had a series of large windows below a boxy, yellow aluminum façade. The department shared a waiting area with the municipal court, and the part of it reserved for police business consisted of four beat-up chairs, three vending machines, one side table with a stack of dog-eared, out-of-date magazines, and a one-way privacy window where you spoke through a hole in the glass to state your business to a woman who doubled as dispatcher and receptionist. Kerney doubted that it could have been made any less inviting to the general public.

After announcing themselves and showing their shields, Kerney and Clayton were passed through quickly and led down a hallway to a briefing area that also served as a conference room. There, seated at tables lined up facing a speaker’s rostrum, were Sergeant Joe Easley, the Raton police chief, Everett Dorsey, Major Frank Vanmeter, three of his state police lieutenants in charge of the field search and interview teams, the regional state game and fish law enforcement supervisor, and the Colfax County sheriff. All had assembled to debrief on the Pettibone-Phelan murders and fine-tune the next phase of the manhunt for Craig Larson.

The Raton police chief nodded to Joe Easley and said, “Let’s get things started.”

“A BOLO on Pettibone’s Buick and another armed-and-dangerous advisory on Craig Larson have been sent out nationwide,” Easley said.

“We’re increasing patrols along major highways and the north-south interstate,” Frank Vanmeter said. He passed around a sheaf of papers and continued, “There’s a list included of the roadblocks we’ve got staggered throughout a four-county area.”

After reporting the tentative conclusions of the medical investigator regarding the causes and times of death for Phelan and Pettibone, and noting that family members had been duly informed, Easley summarized the crime scene investigation findings at the vacant ranch, Pettibone’s motel room, and Phelan’s vehicle. With that out of the way, the conversation turned to the advisability of intensifying field searches, increasing close patrols of rural properties and ranches, and making house-to-house welfare checks and follow-up visits again. “That’s just more of the same-old same-old,” Dorsey said.

“And we’ll keep doing it until something breaks or we get a brainstorm,” Vanmeter replied. “That reminds me, Chief Dorsey: Did you get anything out of Kerry Larson?”

Dorsey dropped his gaze. “Nada.”

“In that case,” Vanmeter said, “I suggest we get back on the job with the troops.” The Raton police chief nodded agreement and Vanmeter stood up. He grimaced in frustration at Kerney as he walked out the door.

As the others followed him out of the room, Kerney cornered Dorsey. “What was Kerry’s mood like?” he asked.

“Not good,” Dorsey said sourly. “He’s just clammed up tight.”

“You said you thought there was a chance he’d open up. What changed?”

Dorsey fidgeted with his car keys, but Kerney stayed planted in his way. Finally Dorsey swallowed and said, “Seems he got this notion in his head that I’ve been telling folks that he’s in cahoots with his brother.”

Kerney raised a questioning eyebrow. “Have you?” he asked, but from the look on Dorsey’s face, he figured he already had the answer.

“Don’t give me any crap, Kerney. Fact is, Kerry has gotten plain paranoid about all of this, to the point he thinks just about everybody in town has turned against him.”

“So you thought you’d play good cop and bad cop with Kerry?” Kerney asked, unable to suppress his dismay. The room was empty except for Joe Easley and Clayton, who were having a conversation by the door.

“Jesus, you can be a real prick. I’ll admit public sentiment isn’t on his side right now. But that’s because folks are feeling jittery about Larson running loose, and Kerry is a convenient target for their frustration.”

“Such understanding souls.”

Dorsey shrugged.

“How about your second go-round with Larson’s old cronies and former friends?” Kerney inquired.

“It’s a dry well,” Dorsey replied, “and priming it got me nowhere.”

Kerney nodded. “Okay. Thanks for the update.”

“Not a problem. Just don’t try to jack me around next time we talk.”

“I didn’t realize you were so sensitive, Everett,” Kerney said, finally stepping aside to let Dorsey pass.

“Screw you,” Dorsey said and headed for the door.

Outside, Kerney found Clayton, who was looking up at a large illuminated star, a big American flag bathed in light, and a glowing “RATON” sign on the peak of a hill that towered over the city.

“That’s Goat Hill,” Clayton said.

“It that something you learned while studying the white man’s ways?”

Clayton laughed. “Nope, Joe Easley told me.”

“So that’s what you two were talking about.”

“Oh yeah. You can learn a lot from the natives. The flag was added to commemorate 9/11. He also told me that the MI determined that Tami Phelan was raped. He’d forgotten to mention that in his briefing. What about you and Dorsey?” Clayton asked.

“Dorsey got nowhere with Larson’s twin brother. I’m thinking he blew it with Kerry. He got real defensive when I questioned him about it.”

“If that’s the case,” Clayton said, “maybe we should go and have a little chat with Kerry.”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s leave your car at the motel and ride together.”

Kerney stifled a yawn. “Suits me.”

“And you can nap along the way,” Clayton added as he stepped off toward his unit.

Kerney shook his head and groaned in dismay as he followed. “To quote Everett Dorsey, ‘Don’t jack me around.’”

“You’re right,” Clayton replied, over his shoulder. “Teasing one’s elders is disrespectful.”

On the ranch road, Clayton pulled his unit up next to the parked state police vehicle, and asked the officer if Kerry Larson was at home.

“Nope, left two hours ago,” the officer replied, “but he’s got a plainclothes tail on him.”

“What has he been doing since he left the ranch?” Clayton.

“He spent some time just sitting in his truck outside a church a few doors down from our substation. At first, we thought he was working up the courage to talk to us, but he just sat there and did nothing. Then he went and had a meal up at the diner on the north end of town. From there he bought a six-pack of beer at the convenience store, and for the last forty-five minutes he’s been at the Springer cemetery near the high school, drinking Bud Light at his mother’s grave.”

Clayton turned to Kerney. “Want to wait for him here?”

“Hold on.” Kerney leaned around Clayton. “How many beers has he had?” he asked the officer.

“Let me check.” The officer keyed his microphone and repeated Kerney’s question. The reply came back that the subject had just opened his fourth brewski.

“Am I sensing a DWI stop here?” Clayton asked.

“With a good cop, bad cop twist to it,” Kerney replied with the smile. “If I remember correctly, Kerry has one prior DWI, which means a conviction will cost him his license and some jail time. That gives us a bargaining chip.”

He got on the radio to Major Vanmeter and arranged to have Kerry Larson stopped by a uniformed officer in a marked vehicle after he left the cemetery.

“Tell the officer to be hard-nosed, but to do it by the book,” Kerney added. “Have him taken to the substation after he fails the field sobriety test. We’ll pick it up from there.”

“I have a patrol supervisor nearby,” Vanmeter replied. “I’ll have him stop the subject when he gets to the main drag. That way it shouldn’t arouse any suspicions.”

“Excellent,” Kerney replied.

Inside the Springer state police substation, a low counter separated the public waiting area from several desks used by officers to do shift paperwork and make phone calls. An unhappy-looking Kerry Larson sat in a chair next to one of the desks, his hands cuffed behind his back, watching the officer who’d arrested him fill out forms. On the desktop were the empties he’d thrown in the bed of his truck before leaving the cemetery, and the one unfinished beer he had been drinking when the cop pulled him over.

The cop, a tough-looking sergeant with a nasty, pushy personality, wasn’t one of the regular officers who worked out of Springer. Kerry didn’t know him, but the name tag on his uniform read “Shaya.” Sergeant Shaya had put Kerry facedown on the pavement before making him stand on one foot, put his finger on his nose, count backward, and do some other stupid stuff. Then he drove Kerry to the state police office and had him blow into a machine that could tell whether he was drunk or not. According to Sergeant Shaya, the machine proved that he was legally drunk. But Kerry didn’t feel that way, just jumpy and worried.

“Maybe I should have come here instead of buying that six-pack,” Kerry said.

Shaya looked at Kerry with interest. “Were you thinking about talking to somebody here?”

“Gary,” Kerry said. “He’s a state cop like you but I can’t remember his last name.”

“LeDoux.”

“Yeah, that’s right. LeDoux.”

“What did you want to talk to Officer LeDoux about?”

Kerry licked his lips and shrugged. “Nothing special.”

“You’re sure about that?” Shaya asked.

Kerry glanced away from Shaya’s stare. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Listen, whatever you wanted to tell Officer LeDoux, you can tell me.”

Kerry shook his head. “Nope. I don’t like you.”

“Suit yourself.” Shaya returned his attention to his paperwork.

“Are you going to put me in jail?”

Shaya grunted without looking up. “That’s what happens when you drink and drive.”

“Can’t I just pay a fine? I’ve got cash money in my wallet.”

“No, you can’t. It’s not that simple.”

The front door opened and two men wearing holstered handguns and police badges clipped to their belts entered. One looked like a rancher and the other looked Indian. If Kerry had seen them on the street without their guns and badges, he would have figured them to be just ordinary cow people.

“Who are they?” Kerry asked.

Sergeant Shaya got to his feet. “Stay put.”

He went over and greeted the men, who talked in low voices so Kerry couldn’t hear. When the jawboning stopped, the two men came around the counter, stood him up, and took off his handcuffs.

“I’m Kevin Kerney,” the rancher-looking cop said. He nodded at the Indian. “And this is Clayton Istee. Let’s go in that office and talk.”

“About what?”

“Why you were drinking and driving,” the Indian cop named Istee said.

Kerry stared suspiciously at him. “You Navajo?”

“Apache.”

“I’m not gonna say anything to you about my brother.”

“You don’t have to,” the rancher cop named Kerney said with a smile.

“Then what are we going to talk about?”

“How we can keep you out of jail.” Kerney led Kerry by the arm into the office. “Did you know the law has changed since your last DWI conviction?”

“Changed?” Kerry asked, rubbing his wrists.

Clayton Istee sat him in a chair. “Jail time is mandatory now,” he said. “So paying a fine won’t keep you out of the pokey. Because this is your second offense, you could get six months to a year.”

Kerry looked startled. “I can’t go to jail for a year.”

Kerney nodded sympathetically as he perched on the edge of the desk. “I understand. You’d probably lose your job at the ranch and get kicked out of your house to boot.”

Kerry lowered his gaze and shook his head. “That’s not good. Not good.”

“No, it’s not,” Kerney said. “But it could get even worse for you.”

Kerry looked at Kerney cautiously. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“Not at all. We believe that you didn’t know Craig was on the run from the police when he came to see you.”

“Well that’s the truth of it,” Kerry replied hotly.

“But if you know where he is now, or where he might be, that’s a totally different story,” Kerney said.

“I told you I’m not talking about my brother.” Kerry sounded much less emphatic.

“We’re not talking about Craig,” Clayton said, picking up a cue from Kerney to take the lead. “We’re talking about you. Your life, your freedom.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong to nobody.”

“We believe you,” Clayton said. He pulled up an empty chair and sat close to Kerry. “But if Craig keeps breaking the law, kidnapping and killing people, stealing and destroying property like he has been, and you have helped him in any way, or even refused to tell the police what you knew about his whereabouts, that makes you guilty of all those crimes.”

Kerry gave Clayton a sullen look but said nothing.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Clayton prodded, leaning closer.

“Yeah. That’s crazy.”

“No, that’s the law,” Kerney chimed in.

Kerry bit his lips. “Show me.”

Clayton got to his feet. “Wait right here.”

He left the office, got a New Mexico criminal statutes book from Sergeant Shaya, found the appropriate sections, and flagged them with pieces of paper. He returned to the office and gave the book to Kerry.

“Go ahead,” Clayton said, “read them for yourself.”

Kerry lowered his head, ran a finger along the page, and read, his mouth forming words as he went along.

He finished one excerpt, stopped, and looked up at Clayton. “This uses different words than you did.”

“But it means the same thing.”

Kerry closed the book. “What if I didn’t want to help him so instead I just ran away?”

Kerney leaned forward. “Is that what happened?”

“Maybe,” Kerry replied softly.

“What made you want to run away?” Kerney said.

“Nothing.”

“When did this happen?” Clayton asked.

“Today, just after quitting time.”

Kerney and Clayton exchanged glances. The surveillance logs on Kerry Larson, summarized at the debriefing meeting, indicated that he’d stayed at the ranch all day, spending most of his time repairing a truck.

“Come with us,” Kerney said, lifting Kerry by the elbow to his feet.

“Where to?”

“The ranch,” Kerney said. “That’s where you saw Craig today, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t,” Kerney replied. “And I’ll make sure everyone knows that you didn’t squeal on your brother.”

On their way toward the front door, Clayton told Sergeant Shaya to alert the officer on surveillance duty at the ranch that Craig Larson might be on the property and to get a lot of people rolling to that twenty pronto.

“Are you kidding me?” Shaya asked, reaching for his handheld radio.

“Not even,” Clayton said.

“Do I still have to go to jail?” Kerry asked.

“Not even,” Kerney echoed as he hustled Kerry out the door to the unit.

Even with every law enforcement agency in the northeast quadrant of the state on high alert, it took a fair amount of time to put enough officers in place to surround the immediate buildings and grounds where Kerry Larson lived and worked. Once the perimeter was sealed, a SWAT team cleared the garage, barn, stable, and corral before moving on to the main house. Once that had been cleared, Frank Vanmeter set up his command post at the top of the lane overlooking the main house and cottage, ordered the cordon tightened around Kerry Larson’s residence, and brought a state police helicopter on standby in Springer to light up the exterior with its high-powered searchlight.

With the chopper rotors thudding in the night sky a hundred feet overhead, the cottage washed in harsh, white light, and sharpshooters zeroed in on every window and door, Vanmeter waited for his SWAT commander to report on any sign of visual or thermal movement.

“The only thing giving off a significant heat signature inside that structure is the kitchen refrigerator,” the SWAT commander said by radio after checking with his team. “Are we good to go?”

Vanmeter turned to Kerry Larson, who stood between Kerney and Clayton. “Does your cottage have a basement?”

Kerry shook his head.

Vanmeter keyed his radio. “Go.”

The SWAT commander gave the word, and the team moved in under the protection of covering snipers. Within minutes the cottage was declared clear.

Vanmeter pulled SWAT back and ordered the chopper pilot to sweep and light up the surrounding area, in the hope that Larson might be hiding nearby.

“Did you see which way your brother came from?” Clayton asked Kerry.

“No.”

“Okay.” Clayton motioned to a nearby uniformed officer to come forward. “Wait with this officer in his vehicle.”

“Why can’t I stay here?” Kerry demanded.

“You can,” Clayton replied, “if you want me to forget we weren’t going to bust you for that DWI.”

“You said I didn’t have to go to jail.”

Clayton nodded at Kerney. “He said that, not me. Go with the officer.”

After the officer and Kerry moved away, Clayton said, “That’s twice we’ve come up empty.”

“But now we’re only hours behind him,” Kerney said. “Let’s take a look around the cottage.”

Shining his flashlight on the ground, Clayton took the lead as they walked down the lane. When he got to the parking area in front of the cottage, he squatted down, looked closely at some tread marks and hoofprints, and quickly stood up.

“What is it?” Kerney asked.

“Ten-to-one odds our man is on horseback,” Clayton said. “There are hoofprints on top of Kerry Larson’s tire tracks, and they’re very recent.”

He followed the tracks up the backside of the hill with Kerney following. “Two horses,” he said.

Vanmeter’s voice came over Kerney’s handheld radio. “The chopper pilot has spotted a vehicle under a grove of trees. Says it looks like the stolen Buick. I’m going in with SWAT.”

“Ten-four,” Kerney replied as he kept pace with Clayton, who continued to move up the hill in the direction of the horse barn. “It’s likely Larson left the ranch on horseback, trailing another animal. Have Kerry brought to us at the barn.”

“Will do.”

At the barn, they found ten tidy, clean stalls, only eight horses, and empty spaces in the tack room for a saddle and a pack frame. Kerney met Kerry at the barn door and asked how many horses were stabled inside.

“Ten,” Kerry answered.

“Two are missing,” Clayton said, “along with some tack.”

Kerry stepped past them. “Let me see.”

Clayton pulled him back by the arm. “Only if you tell us what else is missing here and at your house.”

“No jail?” Kerry asked, looking at Kerney.

“No jail,” Kerney replied with a smile.

“Okay.”

After a quick tour, Kerry told Kerney and Clayton that the best riding horse and pack animal were gone, along with the necessary tack to load up and travel cross-country. At his cottage, a pillowcase had been removed from his bed, and the venison steaks he’d taken out of the freezer were gone, along with a bunch of food from his pantry and refrigerator.

After reassuring Kerry once again that he wouldn’t go to jail, Kerney turned him over to a uniform, got on his handheld, and asked Vanmeter what was happening at the Buick.

“The Buick is empty and it looks like you were right about the horses. He took whatever he had in the vehicle and left. The tracks head west as far as we can tell.”

“Frank, we need eyes in the sky at daybreak,” Kerney said. “As many as we can get. State Police aircraft, Civil Air Patrol, State Forestry, Game and Fish—whoever’s willing. Have Andy ask the governor for Air National Guard assistance. If Larson gets to the mountains before we find him, it’s going to be a hell of a lot tougher to track him. Let every rancher in the area know that Larson may be traversing their property. Tell them to hunker down overnight and stay close to home tomorrow.”

“I’ve got a lieutenant making those calls right now,” Vanmeter replied.

“Can you get Kerry’s boss to outfit Clayton and me with good horses and enough gear and supplies to stay on Larson’s trail for a week, minimum?”

“Starting when?”

“Right now,” Kerney replied. “But we want good, sturdy, endurance trail horses, not the ones for the tenderfoots that are stabled here at this barn.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Vanmeter said.

“Better have your lieutenant tell the folks at the scout ranch that they should mother hen all their Boy Scouts for a day or two.”

“Affirmative.”

“Thanks.” Kerney keyed off his handheld and looked at Clayton. “Are you ready for a midnight trail ride?”

Clayton nodded. “More than ready.”

When Larson reached Miami Lake, he checked the time on the nice Omega wristwatch he’d taken off Carter Pettibone’s pudgy dead body. It was just coming up on midnight and he was a little behind schedule, slowed down by the darkness, broken terrain, and a few locked gates he’d been forced to skirt. As he watered the horses, he kept an ear tuned to the sound of any traffic along the two-lane highway that passed by the lake, but all was quiet.

A little west of the lake, the dim outline of Kit Carson Mesa jutted into the night sky, barely lit by the Milky Way. Behind it stood the Cimarron Range, an inky black swath that Larson could feel more than see. But that would soon change, for in the east, the first hint of a rising three-quarter moon broke over the horizon. With it, Larson would have enough light to pick up the pace. He’d have to be careful of badger holes, but figuring six to eight miles per hour riding at a steady trot, he should be across Rayado Creek, beyond Hagerdon Lake, past Coyote Mesa, and entering Dawson Canyon well before dawn.

He decided to throw any trackers off by crossing the highway and heading in the opposite direction, toward the mesa south of the farming settlement of Miami before correcting course. Hopefully, if a search for him was mounted at first light, it would be concentrated there, while he would be a good twenty miles away, about to enter the high country.

Larson mounted up and spurred his horse into a trot, the pack horse following behind. For a time he’d actually be riding in the ruts of the Old Santa Fe Trail, crossing some of the most famous ranching land in the West.

He thought about the Clay Allison plaque in the St. James Hotel in Cimarron. If he remembered it correctly, along with the names of the men Allison had killed, it listed a number of unnamed Negro soldiers he’d gunned down.

While there weren’t any more Buffalo Soldiers around to kill, the idea of riding over to Philmont Scout Ranch and shooting a parcel of Boy Scouts held a certain appeal. But Larson dropped the idea. He’d already racked up one kill down at that Bible-thumping church camp in Lincoln County, and he didn’t like the notion of repeating himself by shooting more clean-cut all-American boys. Besides, his true calling now was to kill more cops.

All he had to do was find the perfect place and then draw them in.