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
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
