After breakfast, Kerney cleaned himself up, called Jack Burke, and asked if he could pay a visit. Usually a man of unbridled enthusiasm, Jack sounded emotionally numb and dispirited as he told Kerney to stop by anytime.
Kerney said he was on his way and disconnected quickly to avoid blurting out anything about Riley’s death or Jack’s loss. He still had no idea what he might say, only that he needed to say it in person.
The Burkes lived on a ranch road fifteen minutes from Kerney’s place, in a two-hundred-year-old hacienda sheltered by ancient cottonwoods at the edge of a broad, sandy arroyo. Kerney felt a sudden sense of dismay when he saw Riley’s pickup truck parked in front of the small, enclosed yard that bordered the nearby foreman’s cottage where Riley and Lynette had set up housekeeping.
Jack greeted Kerney on the steps of the screened hacienda porch, shook his outstretched hand, and explained that Irene and Lynette were meeting with the pastor of their church to discuss the services for Riley.
“I’m sorry I’ve missed them,” he said.
Jack nodded listlessly as he ushered Kerney into the living room and gestured at the couch next to his favorite easy chair.
Kerney sat, waited for Jack to settle himself, and asked, “Have the services been set?”
“Not yet,” Jack replied. “We’re still arranging for family to come in. Mine from Deming and Lordsburg, Irene’s from Texas, Riley’s cousins from Spokane and Boise, and Lynette’s parents from Wyoming. It takes a while to get everybody together.”
“I don’t have any words for you, Jack.”
Burke held up his hand to stop Kerney. “That’s good, because there aren’t any, and they all ring hollow in my ears anyhow. Soon, we’ll gather to celebrate Riley’s life. You, Sara, and Patrick have to join us.”
Kerney nodded affirmatively. Last night on the telephone, Sara told him her boss, the admiral, had approved her leave request, and she was ready to book a flight as soon as Kerney gave her the date for the funeral. “We’ll all be there.”
“Good,” Jack replied, gazing down at his tightly clasped hands in his lap. “Good,” he said again, the word barely audible. He tried to brighten. “How is Patrick?’
“He’s fine, Jack.”
“Good. That’s good.”
For a long time, Kerney sat in silence with his friend, imagining how horrible it must feel to lose a son who’d grown into such a fine young man. Jack wasn’t crying or blinking back tears, but he was tensed up tight, every muscle in his hands, arms, face, and neck bunched and corded, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes.
Kerney wanted to tell Jack to let go, give in to the grief, and have a gut-wrenching cry, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he remained seated and unmoving on the couch for a long, uneasy time until Jack rose, excused himself, walked down the hallway to the bedroom he’d shared with Irene for over thirty years, and closed the door behind him.
Kerney waited awhile for Jack to return. When he didn’t come back, he quietly let himself out. He drove home with a great sadness pressing down on him.
After shooting the cop and the old lady on the highway outside Carrizozo, Craig Larson was camped out no more than thirty miles away in some mountains off a seldom-used Forest Service road.
He didn’t know much about Lincoln County, and he’d been anxious to get off the pavement as soon as possible in case a swarm of cops was converging on him. After passing through the village of Capitan, he left the highway for a well-maintained dirt-and-gravel road that ran directly toward some northerly mountains. For several miles he traveled through grassy rangeland before gradually ascending toward what appeared to be a mountain gap. Soon he was driving through woodlands and he felt safe enough to stop and see what exactly there was in the truck.
There were grocery bags on the floor in front of the passenger seat that he hadn’t had a chance to look into and others in the truck bed. He pawed through them and found an assortment of canned goods, coffee and other supplies, two large jars of spaghetti sauce, ground beef, eggs, carrots, potatoes, a large bag of apples, cheese, crackers, four gallon jugs of water, and basic toiletries including soap, shampoo, and women’s disposable razors. According to the sales receipt the woman had purchased them at an Albuquerque discount supermarket several hours before he’d shot her dead. The nice timing gave him a chuckle. What a bummer if he’d offed her before she’d done his shopping for him.
There were two old canvas tarps folded under the bench seat of the truck and a first aid kit with one of those shiny fold-up space-age emergency blankets that were supposed to keep you warm and did a fairly good job of it. There was also a shovel for digging out the truck if it got stuck. Apparently, the old biddy believed in being prepared.
The only thing she hadn’t provided was a mess kit. He’d have to improvise and empty some cans to cook in. It would be a sin to waste the fresh meat and eggs.
He drove through the forest and half a mile on, he came to a side road with a partially open gate. A wooden sign attached to the gate read “1 Peter 2:24.”
Larson wondered what in the hell that scripture passage said. He guessed some kindhearted Christians had a mountain ranch down that road. Maybe he could take them hostage and use their place as a hideaway until the heat cooled off.
He decided to do nothing and lie low for a while. He drove on and the road soon turned into a rough, narrow, seldom-used track that cut through a dense forest. About two miles beyond the gate, Larson found himself deep in the woods with no signs of any human habitation, no more gates, no additional side roads, and no hiking trails. His only reference point had been a faded Forest Service marker that told him what road he was on, but he didn’t have a clue if it traversed the mountains, joined up with another Forest Service road, or simply petered out into a dead end somewhere up ahead.
He slowed to a stop and thought over his situation. If he went deeper into the mountains only to reach a dead end, the cops could box him in if they picked up his trail, and he’d have no chance of eluding capture on foot. Even if there wasn’t a dead end up ahead, the fuel gauge on the truck was showing about an eighth of a tank, which meant he might be forced to hike out of the mountains even if the cops were nowhere around.
Larson reflected on the gate with the scripture sign. Maybe St. Peter was telling him it might be necessary to slaughter a few Christians. It would be a sin to waste that opportunity, he thought, and laughed long and hard at the repetition of the words in his mind. He turned the steering wheel and drove deep into the woods, until he was out of sight of any vehicles that might pass by.
He walked back to the road, scuffed out the tire tracks with his boots and a stick, and kicked duff over them to hide any sign that could lead someone to the truck. Then he set up camp using the truck as a shelter. He shoveled pine needles in the truck bed and covered them with one of the canvas tarps, stretched the other tarp across the bed, tied it taut with some rope he found in the glove box, and put some small dead and down twigs and small branches over the tarp to keep it from flapping in the wind.
Larson tilted the driver’s-side mirror and looked at his face. His beard was growing in nicely, and he figured if he let it grow and shaved his head, the combination might give him a reasonably good disguise. He started to hack away at his hair with the small pair of scissors from the first aid kit and soon realized it would take a while to get it cropped short enough to shave. With nothing better to do, he kept clipping until his fingers got sore and his empty stomach started grumbling. He got into the truck, sat down on the passenger seat, opened a can of tuna fish and wolfed it down, grinning at himself in the visor mirror. Already he looked different with his hair cut short.
He threw the empty tuna fish can into the trees, got back out of the truck, and started to work with the scissors again. When his hair was short enough, he took a disposable razor out of the pack, splashed some water on his head, lathered up, and started shaving the rest of it off.
By his second morning in the mountains, Craig Larson had an itchy head from a dozen or so small razor cuts, as well as a twitch to get moving. Not once had he heard a vehicle on the road since he’d arrived. A horse and rider had passed by late the first morning, but by the time Larson reached the road, they were out of sight.
He was pretty sure the cops had no idea where he was. With the truck’s radio turned down real low, he’d listened to the news just enough to learn that Paul Hewitt, the sheriff he’d shot, was a paralyzed cripple, and the old lady he’d killed, Janette Evans, a former Lincoln County clerk, had been loved and respected by all. Supposedly, every cop and concerned citizen in the state was looking for lovable Janette’s truck.
