Shadows of Death

by David Sundstrand

  “What’s it say?”

  Bohannon frowned as he read the note. “ ‘I never saw a purple cow.’ ” He looked at the dark blood that filled the dead man’s eye socket. “What the hell is this about?”

  Frank shook his head. “Seventeen years ago, he killed a cow on the Hunter Liggett weapons range.”

  27

  •

  The lingering smell of beer and tobacco smoke permeated the Joshua Tree Athletic Club. Morning had yet to pierce the dark confines of the tavern; curtains were still drawn against the eastern light. Linda and Frank heard the faint sounds of kitchen noises as Jack Collins busied himself with breakfast preparations, bangers and bubble-and-squeak, a bit of comfort in a difficult time. At first the regulars had turned up their noses at Jack’s Continental cuisine, so Jack called it sausage and hobo potatoes. They ate it up with relish.

  “I’ll get some coffee.”

  “Jack’s kind of down in the mouth,” Frank observed.

  “That truck was his baby.” She gave him a small smile. “You know what that’s about, Flynnman.” Linda disappeared into the kitchen.

  At least she was still smiling at him, he thought.

  Frank cherished his ’53 Chevy pickup. He’d spent more than a year restoring it and the rest of his life guarding it. Something else from out of the past.

  Frank had just missed catching up with Parker in the Tehachapis. He wondered if Parker had been aware that Frank had been thirty minutes behind him. He didn’t think so. Parker had taken his time in dispatching Charlie Stuller, sure of himself, sure of his timing. Stuller’s death must have been as cruel as the cow’s those many years ago.

  Linda came back with coffee. “Here you go.” She served it at the bar from force of habit.

  Frank took a surreptitious glance at the TV at the end of the bar. The screen was filled with a shot of a freeway jam-up as background for an interview with a Pasadena police detective. “Mind turning the sound up?”

  Linda reached up and hit the mute button, restoring the sound. The newscaster was going on about someone called the Freeway Shooter. In the upper right-hand corner of the screen there was a police sketch of the suspected killer.

  Linda gasped. “Oh my God, that’s him.”

  Frank nodded and held up his hand.

  “. . . no trace so far of the suspected assailant believed to be the man responsible for the assault on Shane Robertson of Pasadena and the death of Robertson’s passenger, Orrin Dedrick, also of Pasadena. If you have any information regarding this suspect, call Secret Witness at . . .” Cindy Cho, the local news anchor, was interviewing a gawky kid standing in front of a craftsman cottage somewhere in the Linda Vista area of Pasadena. The kid was explaining about the little old lady—he waved his hand spasmodically toward the house—who had been “harboring a killer” for several years without knowing of his “homicidal killing sprees.”

  Then Cho shifted ground, introducing a story about the dangers of several diet products. She looked concerned. A tiny wrinkle furrowed her alabaster brow.

  “After the shootings on the 210, the police will be turning Pasadena upside down,” Linda said.

  “They’ll be too late. My guess, he’s already gone to ground.”

  Linda started to speak. “The place up on—”

  “Hunter Mountain.” Frank finished her thought. “Where we found the brass ring.” His face hardened. “This time we’re going to stop him, just the guys from the BLM. No FBI, no county cops. I think Dave will go for it, after this last fiasco.”

  “And no reporters who just happen to be driving around up in the pinyon country,” she said

  Frank gave Linda a meaningful look. “Parker is too good at killing people, and now he’s got a short circuit. The shootings on the freeway were different from the others, spur of the moment, reckless. He’s taking more chances. He must have been at Stuller’s place for fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  She looked at him from under dark brows. “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I’ll stay in town with Cece. We’ll crochet some doilies.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  She sighed. “I know, Flynnman. It’s the job.”

  Jack came out of the kitchen and opened the curtains, spilling morning light into the tavern. “You want something to eat?”

  “Oh yeah, huevos rancheros, and don’t spare the salsa,” Frank said.

  “Bangers and mash, coming up.” Jack looked over his shoulder at Linda. “Daughter, can you spare a little time for business?” He shoved through the kitchen door as Ben Shaw, Bill Jerome, Eddie, and the others came in from outside, drawn by the smell of potatoes, cabbage, and onions frying in butter.

  Linda raised her eyebrows at Frank. “Gotta go.” She came around from behind the bar and headed for the kitchen.

  “Me, too.” Frank exchanged good-byes with the others. “Say, Eddie. Could you maybe do me a favor?”

  “Sure.” Eddie nodded, looking pleased.

  “Maybe you could take a run up to Zeke Tucker’s place, check on the water and feed the animals. You know where it is?”

  “Sure, up in the Saline. That’s Shoshone country.” Eddie frowned. “You’ll take care of Prowler, okay?”

  “I can look in on Prowler, Eddie,” Linda said smiling. She loved Eddie for worrying about his cat. Her own, Hobbes, had migrated to the bar during the day since Ben and Bill had rescued a kitten someone had dumped along the highway near Lake Diaz. Bill had dubbed it 395, but Ben called it the Kid. The boys were hugely entertained by the kitten’s antics. She watched Hobbes march around with the kitten in tow, taking swipes at his tail.

  Eddie interrupted her thoughts. “Thanks, Linda. I really appreciate it.” He shifted his attention to Frank, keeping his voice low. “Uh, Frank, could I use your truck? Mine don’t run right now, and …” His voice trailed off.

  Frank felt his stomach tighten. Then he looked at Eddie’s face. “Yeah. Don’t pound her too hard on the chatter bumps.” Frank paused, thinking about his truck. “Take care of her, podner.”

  Eddie beamed. “I’ll bring her back good as new.”

  Frank hoped so. Jack’s truck hadn’t fared so well in Eddie’s hands. There was something of the Joe Bfstplk about Eddie, a good guy who brought along his own bad weather and everyone else got rained on.

  •

  Jack slipped out the back door, leaving the rest of the breakfast chores to Linda. He walked around his damaged truck, trying to make up his mind whether it was worth keeping or not. He’d owned the old monster for sixteen years, knew all its idiosyncrasies. Though the original blue paint had long ago faded to blotchy turquoise and the black fenders to dirty gray, he still thought of it as Big Blue. He’d even planned to have it repainted. He looked inside the familiar cab. It was in pretty good shape, except for where the back window had been broken out. That could be fixed easy enough. Maybe it wasn’t a total loss.

  28

  •

  “Frank has a hunch where Parker might be holed up.” Dave Meecham stood facing the three rangers in the small conference room at the BLM headquarters in Ridgecrest. “If he’s right and we bring him in, then we wipe the egg off our face.” The rangers nodded. They’d been made to look like fools. Nobody liked it.

  “Here’s the way it’ll work. We’ll drop off Greg and the pickup a couple hundred yards before the place where Frank thinks Parker might have gone to ground.” He turned to Greg Wilson. “It’ll be your job to keep him from bolting back to the turnoff. I know you know what to do, Greg, but let me make it clear. Pull the truck across the road and get in position behind it with the twelve-gauge. Don’t take chances.”

  Greg nodded. “Right.”

  “It’s as important to see that no one goes up the road as it is to keep Parker from coming down it. We don’t want some civilian in jeopardy or getting in the way.” Meecham looked at each of them. “Jesse, Frank, and I will drive on past the place and set up a roadblock a
t the other end. That’ll be you, Jesse. Frank and I will back-track and come in through the trees to the place where we think he is. If Frank is right about this being his hiding place, he’ll be boxed in, and we’ll have a good chance of taking him by surprise. That’d be good.” He paused, staring down at the ground for a few moments.

  “Like I said, don’t take chances if he decides to shoot it out. We’re all competent with firearms, but he’s a pro, trained courtesy of Uncle Sam.”

  Frank nodded in affirmation. “Sniper training and ranger school. He’ll be thinking combat, not like a civilian.”

  “What if he gets nervous and takes off and tries to crash through?” Greg wanted to know.

  “Take out his vehicle if you can, but don’t get in a duel. I don’t want anyone hurt or killed, God forbid.” Meecham’s jaw tightened. “According to Pasadena PD, he’s driving a late-model Dodge panel van, brown.” Meecham smiled. “You were right, Jesse, brown’s a suspicious color. Just be sure you don’t blast some camper’s van that we missed in the aerial sweep. If you’re not sure, get out of the way. It’s possible we missed someone already in the area, some family parked under the pines, and we don’t know about it. We didn’t see Parker’s van on the flyover, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t there. We didn’t want the plane buzzing in low and scaring him off.” Meecham glanced over at Frank. “Anything else?”

  “Don’t forget the pictures he posted of Jesse and Ellis sitting in the truck.” Frank smiled. “No shame there, Jesse. It was worth it. Ellis had his eyes closed, looked like he was asleep.” They all grinned. “Remember, though, we all missed him. Parker knows how to hide in plain sight. He wandered around the whole area, chatting with people, watching the vultures, and giving us the laugh. Then we didn’t have much to go on. Now we do. He looks harmless enough, tall, sort of gawky, a freckled redhead—but he kills people without giving it a lot of thought.” Of course, he may have altered his looks. When Linda saw him, he was wearing mirror sunglasses, and she couldn’t see his hair under his hat.”

  “He’s not to be underestimated,” Meecham added.

  “What’s he gonna think if he sees three guys in a BLM Expedition drive by?” Greg’s forehead wrinkled with the question.

  “Jesse and Frank will be scrunched down in the back, pretty much out of sight. A BLM vehicle with one man in it might make him alert, but this is BLM territory. He knows that, so seeing a BLM vehicle wouldn’t be out of the way. Besides, he has no reason to suspect that we know about his hidey-hole. My guess is he might not see it go by, but even if he does, I don’t think it’ll spook him. At least I hope not,” Meecham finished up.

  Greg nodded.

  “Okay, then.” Meecham shifted gears. “We’ll pull over at the point where you set up, Greg. We’ll do a radio check. When Jesse’s set, we’ll do another. Both Frank and I will have radios, but it’ll be me keeping you posted.” Meecham allowed himself a small smile. “This time, there won’t be FBI, county cops, or birders stepping all over each other—just us professionals.” His face turned serious. “So if it falls apart, it’s on us.”

  29

  •

  Seth Parker had pulled his working van under the pines, where it couldn’t be seen from the air. From where he sat on the top of the hill, just above the trees, he had visual command of a quarter-mile stretch of the road from the point where it topped the rise to where it dropped out of sight behind the grade that climbed up from the meadows in the west. His view to the east was more restricted. The road turned to the left and disappeared into pinyon pines less than a hundred yards from his position. On the other hand, he could hear vehicles coming from either direction before they came into sight. He heard one now, pulling up the grade from the west.

  A late-model Ford Expedition topped the rise. He studied it through the binoculars: white, with a light bar, Bureau of Land Management. The morning sun glinted off the windshield, making it impossible to see the driver. He tracked it eastward until it disappeared around the bend into the pines. He placed the binoculars on his overshirt, which he had spread on the ground, and poured some trail mix into the palm of his slender hand. Lunch: trail mix and apple juice. Maintaining energy was important. Otherwise, eating was low on Parker’s priorities.

  He munched slowly, listening to the stillness. Why didn’t he hear the vehicle? He should still be able to hear it. He stood up, cocked his head to one side, and listened. Nothing, not even a breath of air. Earlier this morning there had been a light plane. It crisscrossed the area a couple of times and then disappeared to the north. The plane made him feel uneasy, and now the BLM. He put the binoculars in their case, picked up the shirt and the daypack, and headed for his van. It was time to move. No point in taking unnecessary risks. Maybe he could find a place up around Jackass Flats. Less chance of wandering vehicles up there, at least until deer season opened. He started the van and eased it over the rocks toward the road.

  •

  So far, Greg Wilson had turned back two vehicles. He’d had to take an official stance with the hotshots in the red pickup. They had come up with the usual stuff about being taxpayers and their right to use the road whenever they felt like it. Greg had listened to them complain without expression. Frank had taught him that. Make your face hard to read, amigo. I’m not exactly an Indian, Frank. I’m not exactly an Indian either, Greg. He’d grinned at him. Just don’t tip your hand. Give ’em something to think about, nothing to react to. Man, it worked, too. He’d practiced in the mirror, the no-expression I-know-what-I’m-doing cop look. It even made him feel like he knew what he was doing.

  The men in the pickup kept on pushing, acting tough. “Hey, man, it’s our land. You work for us. We pay your salary.”

  “The road is temporarily closed. Turn your vehicle around and leave the area.”

  “Government rent-a-cops. You’ve got no right to push us around.”

  Greg had given them a steady look and then taken out his notebook and jotted down their license plate.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Leave now, or face arrest for interfering with federal law enforcement.” Greg straightened up to his full six-two, broad shoulders, narrow waist. It was one of his strong suits. He looked like an arm of the law. He was an arm of the law. Jesse Sierra looked like a Latin lover, and Frank looked like he ought to be running a leaf blower, except for his eyes and the way he moved.

  Greg had held up his hand. “No more discussion. Get in the truck and leave the area or get ready to be cuffed.” He said it very quietly, matter-of-fact.

  The yokels got into their truck and pulled back down the road, macho images intact. They’d told him off, talked back to the cop. Greg knew they were mostly talk, knowing they were safe precisely because he was a cop. He grinned to himself. Sometimes it was fun putting the butthooks in their places. He’d done it just right, too. Writing stuff in his notebook made them think twice, made them realize they weren’t invisible. He’d written down their license plate and under it added the word “assholes.” Even Dave Meecham would have approved of the way he’d handled the situation, cool, calm, and restrained. He looked up to his boss. He wanted the chief ranger to trust him in the same way he did Frank.

  Greg saw the van before he heard it, resting at the top of the rise. The adrenaline kicked in before his mind told him this was the guy, the van he had to stop. The van didn’t move. It was about a hundred yards away, just sitting there idling quietly as if it were watching him. He couldn’t see into the cab all that well, but there appeared to be just one person in it. He waited, listening to the blood thump in his ears. It had turned hot again, and the desert was still damp from the rains, strangely humid in the heat of the morning sun. Wisps of moisture rose from the road into the soundless air. He took some deep breaths. He had to do something, but he didn’t want to expose himself. He stepped to the front of the truck, keeping behind the hood, and waved the driver to come forward. He held the shotgun out of sight.

  The driver’s
door opened, and the driver stepped onto the road behind the open door, reached into the front seat of the van, and rested a rifle on the window frame. Greg dove behind the truck as the rifle cracked into the stillness. He curled himself up behind the front wheel, the shotgun clutched at the ready. The rifle cracked twice more, and then he heard the van coming—coming fast. Fear turned to anger. The son of a bitch shot at him, and now he was trying to get away. Greg rose up from behind the hood and fired into the oncoming van. He kept firing, five rounds of double-aught buckshot, before the van smashed into the rear of the pickup, wrenching it around and into the softness of Greg’s unprotected body.

  •

  Frank and Meecham had worked their way almost to the hidden clearing when they heard the first shot. They both stopped in their tracks.

  “Rifle.” Frank spoke in a low voice.

  Meecham nodded. Two more reports came in quick succession. “Shit. Greg’s in trouble.”

  Then they heard the steady booming of the shotgun. They both glanced back in the direction where they had left Sierra with the vehicle and realized it was too far away.

  “Come on.” Frank began running through the pines.

  Meecham snatched the radio from his belt. “Jesse, Greg’s taking fire.”

  “On my way.”

  Meecham followed in the direction Frank had taken before he disappeared behind an outcropping of granite, gray and unmoving in the brightness of the morning light.

  •

  Greg lay sprawled half under the smashed-up pickup. Frank couldn’t see the extent of his injuries. Jesse Sierra bent over the prostrate ranger, blocking his view.

  “He crashed through.” Greg’s voice was surprisingly strong.

  “Lie still.” Jesse leaned forward to look at the lower half of Greg’s body under the truck. He lifted a distraught face to Frank. Dave Meecham peered over Frank’s shoulder.