Dead or Alive

Chapter Thirteen

Kerney stayed with Clayton as the rescue team carried him safely down the mountain and put him on a helicopter for a short flight to the Raton hospital. The remainder of the day he spent wrapping things up. Convinced that Kerry Larson had not deliberately or knowingly colluded with his brother, Kerney released him from custody and had an officer drive him to where he’d hidden his truck. He took statements from the young woman Larson had battered and the guests who’d witnessed the murder of the ranch employee on the trail. He debriefed with the SWAT team, made arrangements to return the borrowed horses and equipment used to track Larson, and talked to the ranch owner about compensation for the roan that had been shot out from under Clayton.

Late in the afternoon, Andy Baca flew in from the Santa Fe headquarters with his boss, the governor’s cabinet secretary for public safety, and the state police captain in charge of internal affairs. The trio stopped by the Raton hospital to check on Clayton before making the short hop to the lodge, where the resort manager turned over his office for Kerney’s use. Although Pat Hurley had reassured Kerney that Clayton’s injuries were not serious, he was relieved to hear Andy report that Clayton was alert, fidgety, and eager to go home.

Kerney spent a good hour briefing Andy and his boss on the conclusion of the manhunt and the shoot-out. After the brass left to talk to Vanmeter and the SWAT team leader, the IA captain came in. He advised Kerney that any official statement he might wish to make regarding the use of lethal force in the shooting death of Craig Larson would be viewed by the department as a pro forma exercise. He turned on a small tape recorder and asked Kerney to describe the events leading up to and during the shooting. Kerney took the cue and said that he’d come upon the heavily armed subject in the forest and had been forced to shoot him to stop the action and protect his own life.

The captain nodded, turned off the tape recorder, told Kerney he would report to Chief Baca that it had been a righteous shooting, shook his hand, and went off to take statements from Vanmeter and the SWAT team leader. As far as Kerney knew, it was possibly the shortest official investigation ever into a deadly shooting by a police officer.

In Raton, Kerney went to visit Clayton at the hospital while Andy Baca, the cabinet secretary for public safety, the county sheriff, and the local police chief held a press conference on the steps of the county courthouse to officially announce that Craig Larson had been killed during an intense gunfight in a remote mountain valley. Television reporters from stations in Colorado, Oklahoma, West Texas, and New Mexico were on hand sending live feeds to all the broadcast networks and cable news channels.

The ER staff had put Clayton in a wheelchair and parked him in a room where he could watch the proceedings on television.

“The brass are making some big political hay out of this one,” he said as Kerney entered the room, “big-time.”

“As well they should,” Kerney replied. “It’s a gripping story with a good ending. Justice prevails. Order is restored, and folks are once again safe in their home. Have you called Grace yet?”

“Yep.” Clayton pushed the mute button on the TV remote. “She knows I have a sore head and a broken leg. She knows it, but doesn’t like it.”

Kerney laughed. “I wouldn’t think so. You’re officially on medical leave. Andy has arranged to have you sent home by ambulance tonight. He also wants to talk to you about staying on with the department once you’re fully recovered.”

Clayton shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not sure about that.”

“I know, but it’s quite a compliment nonetheless. The state police don’t often bring officers from other departments into their fold without making them start at the bottom of the ladder.”

“It’s not a decision I can make alone.”

“Call Grace and tell her you’re coming home.”

After Clayton called Grace, the two men watched the tail end of the news conference until a male nurse stuck his head inside the open door to announce that Clayton’s ride was ready. Outside the entrance to the ER, Kerney helped the driver load Clayton into the ambulance, said good-bye, closed the rear doors, and told the driver to run with his emergency lights on all the way to the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation.

At the motel, he stood under the shower for a good ten minutes, letting the hot water wash away some of the tension in his muscles and bones. He hadn’t eaten all day, but he was too tired to care and really didn’t feel all that hungry anyway. He swallowed some of the over-the-counter medicine the doctor had told him to take for his gut, rolled into bed, and was asleep within minutes.

A week into Clayton’s convalescent leave, Andy Baca paid him a visit at home while Grace was at work and Wendell and Hannah were at their grandmother’s house for the afternoon.

“How soon do you get off the crutches?” he asked.

“Another two weeks. The doc says I’m healing up nicely.”

“Have you thought any more about staying on with us?” Andy asked. “I have an investigator slot open in Las Cruces, but I could transfer the position to the Alamogordo office. It would shorten the work commute for you. And the pay is a hell of a lot better than what you were making with the sheriff’s department.”

“It’s tempting,” Clayton said as he walked to an easy chair, leaned his crutches against the armrest, and eased himself onto the cushion.

Andy settled on the couch. “What’s holding you back?”

“If the Capitan police chief gets elected sheriff in November, and his chances are pretty good, he wants to bring me back at my old rank of lieutenant in January.”

“Does that possibility appeal to you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How about this idea until you do decide,” Andy said. “Finish your convalescent leave and continue to work for me in the Alamogordo office. If you feel you must rejoin the Lincoln County S.O. when the new sheriff gets sworn in, so be it.”

Clayton’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’d do that?”

“Yep, for selfish reasons only.”

“Such as?”

“Well, aside from the fact that you’re a hell of a good detective, it would be bad PR if you weren’t working for me when we pin the departmental Medal of Valor on your chest.”

Clayton looked stunned. “What?”

“We’re giving one to Kerney also.”

“He deserves it.” Clayton shook his head. “But me . . .”

“Do you have a problem with this?”

“Giving me a medal for getting my horse shot out from under me, breaking a leg, and knocking myself unconscious doesn’t make much sense.”

“That’s not quite how the citation will read,” Andy replied with a chuckle. “Don’t be so modest. The cabinet secretary wants to present the medals to you and Kerney at a Santa Fe ceremony.”

“When?”

“We haven’t set a date yet. It depends on when we can get Kerney back from London.”

“Does he know about this?”

“Not yet, but I suspect he’ll be just as cantankerous as you about it.” Andy rose and stepped over to Clayton. “Do we have an agreement?”

“It’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Clayton replied with a grin. He pulled himself upright, stuck the crutches under his arms, and gave Andy his hand. “Thank you, Chief.”

Andy patted Clayton on the shoulder. “I’ll let the Alamogordo office know to start making room for you. Call me as soon as you have a date when you can return to work. We can put you on light duty for a while, if need be.”

“Yes, sir,” Clayton replied.

He walked Andy to the door, watched him drive away, and returned to the easy chair. Clayton hadn’t told Chief Baca that the tribal council had approached him to take over as police chief. But as he’d discussed with Grace, he planned to let the tribal administrator know before the end of the day that he was declining the offer.

He’d worked for the tribal police for over five years before joining the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office, and the chief’s position was a job he didn’t want to tackle, at least not yet. Perhaps when he had a full law enforcement pension that could buffer him from all the intricate tribal politics, he would consider taking it on. Or maybe then he might run for election to the tribal council.

He knew turning down the tribal council’s offer would make his mother unhappy. Ever since he was a kid, she had harbored ambitious plans for him. She had never approved of his decision to get a degree in criminal justice and go into law enforcement. But it was Clayton’s life to live and his mother’s dream of wanting to see her only child installed as a tribal leader would have to wait.

He reached for the phone to call Grace and decided against it. He would talk to her about all of the important news of the day after dinner, when the children were asleep.

Lynette Burke, Riley’s pregnant widow, had agreed to take over the cutting horse enterprise with the understanding that the animals owned jointly by the partnership would be moved to Jack and Irene Burke’s spread. None of the Burkes was ready to spend a lot of time at the ranch where Riley had been gunned down.

Kerney leased some pastureland to a local organic beef producer, who wanted to finish a few head each month on native grass before taking the animals down the road to a small slaughterhouse in Moriarty, a short distance away. He offered State Police Sergeant Russell Thorpe free rent to stay in the guest quarters in return for looking after his remaining horses and keeping an eye on the place. Thorpe jumped at the chance.

Back in London, Kerney was not only glad to be reunited with Sara and Patrick, he also felt surprisingly more at ease in the city than he had before. A growing familiarity had something to do with it, but he also found himself enjoying all the amenities that one of the world’s most important cities had to offer.

After recovering from jet lag and spending a weekend running errands and grocery shopping with Sara and Patrick, Kerney pulled Patrick out of preschool for a week to make up for all the time they’d missed together while he’d chased down Craig Larson. During a glorious run of sunny, mild weather that had Londoners out in droves, the two of them rode horses in Hyde Park, took hikes along the River Thames, visited the children’s zoo at Battersea Park, watched an impromptu softball game played by expat Americans living in London, went boating in Regent’s Park, and explored neighborhoods adjacent to where they lived.

At the end of one afternoon jaunt, they met up with Sara and shopped for the required school uniforms Patrick needed when he entered private school in late August. Running a little late, Sara came rushing into the clothing store to join them, dressed in a black pantsuit and looking strikingly beautiful. Passersby on the street and shopgirls in the store would have never guessed her to be a highly decorated, combat-wounded career military officer.

Patrick didn’t like the summer uniform of rust-colored corduroy shorts and beige short-sleeved shirts, arguing that he should be allowed to wear blue jeans and cowboy boots like he did back at the ranch. Ganged up on by both parents, he quickly lost the squabble.

Because he was growing so fast, they decided to wait until fall to buy his winter school uniforms. Kerney paid the bill, still a bit shocked by what things cost in England compared to the States.

Packages in hand, they took a bus to within a short walk of the embassy for a prearranged tour and visit to Sara’s office. Kerney and Patrick had only seen the building from the outside, during one of their safaris around the city. It was a starkly functional structure except for a huge gilded eagle perched on the parapet and a statue of General Eisenhower anchoring a corner plot outside the building.

According to the embassy staff, in the aftermath of 9/11, the building had been surrounded by portable wire fencing with concrete-and-marble bollards to keep car bombers away. Armed police foot patrols had roamed the grounds and a temporary guard shack served to process visitors.

It had all rather offended the locals, who resented an armed fortification set in the middle of tranquil Mayfair, and they lampooned it as a failure of American aesthetics. Now the embassy was no less well protected, but the portable chain link barrier was gone, replaced by an attractive iron fence, the closed-off road in front of the building had been nicely landscaped, and new entry pavilions had been created to process the steady stream of visitors and visa seekers.

Sara took them through the pavilion reserved for American citizens, where Kerney and Patrick presented their passports and military dependent identification cards to a security clerk who checked their names against a list of authorized visitors. They walked through a formal reception area with a soaring ceiling and walls of bronze plaques to a bank of elevators and went up to a suite of offices housed behind a locked door.

Holding Patrick’s hand, Sara gave them a tour and introduced them to the one-star navy rear admiral who was her boss, and a few of her army, marine, and air force colleagues. Her own large, handsome office overlooked the lush lawn and majestic trees in Grosvenor Square.

Patrick immediately climbed into the chair behind the big desk and started asking his mother questions about the maps and pictures on the walls, the books and papers on the desk, all the people he’d just met, and what they did.

Sara sat with Kerney on the couch and patiently answered Patrick’s questions as he swiveled in the leather desk chair. When he stopped swiveling, he admired the framed desk photograph taken at the ranch, of himself on his pony, and asked his mother where the glass jar filled with seashells had come from.

“Your father and I gathered those seashells on beaches in western Ireland when we were first married,” she replied, remembering a honeymoon that now seemed so distant, given all that had happened over a few short years.

Patrick eyes widened. “I’d like to go to the beach and see the ocean again.”

“How about next weekend?” Sara proposed as she squeezed Kerney’s hand.

Patrick waited for Kerney’s response.

“The beach and ocean it will be,” Kerney replied.

Patrick beamed and resumed swiveling.

Kerney turned to Sara. “I got a call from Andy Baca today.”

“Really? What did Andy have to say?”

Sara’s telephone rang and she took the call before Kerney could reply. A concerned look quickly crossed her face as she reached for pen and paper and scribbled notes.

After thanking the caller, she hung up, gave Kerney a glum look, and said, “I’m going to have to cut our visit short.”

“Problems?”

“You could say that.” Sara scooted behind the desk and plucked Patrick out of the chair. “In the words of the Royal Army major who just called, one of my chaps has gone missing.”

Kerney raised an eyebrow as Sara passed Patrick to him. “That’s not good news.”

“No, it’s not,” Sara said in agreement. She gave Patrick a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I’ll walk you out. What did Andy want?”

Kerney set Patrick down on the floor. “Nothing that can’t wait,” he said.