Skeleton Picnic

by Michael Norman

  Ten minutes later, Books parked the Sierra in the gravel driveway of the Case Cattle Company. Maggie met him at the side door and ushered him into the kitchen.

  “Bobby’s still asleep. We can talk in here.”

  She poured them both a cup of coffee then reached into the family liquor cabinet for a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. She poured a double shot into her mug and offered some to Books.

  Books shook his head. “Rain check—can’t do it while I’m on duty.”

  “Of course you can’t, I’m sorry.”

  Books glanced at his watch. “It’s a little early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

  “With things going like they are around here, it’s not even slightly too early.”

  “I can’t even imagine. I’m so sorry, Mags.”

  “Me, too, J.D. But as you sometimes like to say, ‘it is what it is.’ I don’t mean for that to sound like I’m indifferent or uncaring. It’s all so out of my control that I feel helpless to do much of anything. My emotions run the gamut from fear to frustration to intense anger, all of it directed at Bobby for being so damned stupid.” She sighed. “Anyway, what brings you by this morning? A social call I hope? I’ve had about all the bad news I can stand for a while.”

  Books felt instantly guilty realizing that he couldn’t tell her the truth, but knowing that more bad news was about to come knocking on her door.

  “Just wanted to check in on you—see how everybody’s doing. How are the boys holding up?”

  “They seem pretty oblivious to the whole thing, but it’s hard to imagine how.”

  “What makes you say that?” said Books.

  “Bobby’s stress level is off the charts. He’s withdrawn, depressed, and when he does interact with us, he’s usually abrupt and irritable. He seems to sleep forever—can’t get him up in the morning. He never used to be like that.”

  No wonder, thought Books. Bobby had a lot to be stressed about, far more than Maggie realized.

  “I called the hospital this morning—didn’t talk to Bernie—he was busy doing exercises,” said Books, changing the subject. “They’re pleased with his progress. He’s scheduled for release day after tomorrow, unless something unexpected occurs.”

  “That’s good. I spoke with him last night. He’s starting to sound like himself again. Unless you can get away, I’ll plan to go get him and bring him home.”

  “I still can’t get away, at least not for a few more days, but I know it’s not a good time for you, either. I could ask Ned to get Bernie. I’m sure he’d be willing to do it.”

  “I don’t think so, but let me think about it. I’ll give you a call. How’s your investigation going, by the way?”

  “Maybe you haven’t heard, but we finally broke the case wide open.”

  “Afraid I haven’t heard much of anything. We heard what you did to save that woman’s life. It took a lot of courage. I’m so proud of you, J.D.”

  “Thanks, sis—just doing my job. Yesterday, an FBI swat team cornered the man I wounded the day before in the Monument. His name was Earl Buck and we believe he was the ringleader of the group that kidnapped Rolly and Abby. He died in a shootout with the officers. We aren’t sure whether he killed himself or was hit by a member of the swat team. We’ll have to wait until we get an autopsy report to find that out.”

  “What about the others?” she said.

  “Earl Buck has two sons. We believe both of them took part in the kidnapping. The eldest is still at large. He seems to have slipped away from the search party and is probably holed up somewhere in the Monument. Yesterday in Blanding, we arrested the youngest son, a boy named Jason.”

  “So, other than the one who’s still at large, you’ve got everyone else in custody.”

  “That’s about it,” Books lied.

  “But you still have no idea what’s become of Rolly and Abby.”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Books finished his coffee and stood to leave. “Better get myself going. Runyon’s placed me back on regular patrol duty, and I’m off today chasing an anonymous tip about some yokel illegally harvesting timber on Hell’s Backbone Road.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  As Books gassed the Sierra, his cell chirped. He reached into the truck cab and grabbed the phone.

  “Hi Maggie, what’s going on?”

  “It’s Bobby. He’s disappeared, J.D.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He left a note apologizing for the pain and humiliation his actions have caused the family and telling me how much he loves the boys and me. God, J.D., I think he’s saying goodbye to us. I’m afraid he going to kill himself.”

  “What is he driving and when did he leave?”

  “He’s in his truck, the white Silverado. After you left, I ran into town for a few minutes to do a couple of errands, and when I got back, he was gone. I couldn’t have been gone for more than forty or forty-five minutes.”

  Books looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty. That meant Bobby had an hour plus head start. “His guns, Maggie, does he have any firearms with him?”

  “Hold on.” She dropped the phone but was back on the line a minute later. “He must have taken his .40 caliber Taurus with him. It’s gone.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Positive. His shotgun and hunting rifles are all here.”

  “Okay, stay calm and sit tight. I’ll be right along,” said Books.

  He called dispatch and placed an APB for Bobby in Kane, Garfield, and Washington Counties. He provided a physical description as well as a description of the Silverado. As painful as it felt, he told the dispatcher that Bobby was wanted for kidnapping and that he should be considered armed and dangerous, and possibly suicidal.

  Books drove the Sierra straight to the sheriff’s office where he pulled Maldonado and Sutter out of a meeting with a team of FBI agents. He explained what had happened.

  “Ah, shit,” sighed Maldonado. “I had a bad feeling about this. We should have picked him up last night.”

  “Water under the bridge now,” said Sutter. “He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  Books learned that Beth Tanner had prepared the arrest warrant for Bobby under the sheriff’s careful supervision and was, at this moment, at the courthouse getting it approved.

  Turning to Maldonado, Sutter said, “Why don’t you and Books head over to the Case ranch, and I’ll be right along as soon as Tanner gets here.”

  Maldonado followed Books to the home of Maggie and Bobby Case. Books knew they would search the home regardless of her insistence that Bobby had fled. When they arrived, they found her pacing back and forth in the kitchen. She had been crying. Her mascara had streaked the left side of her face and she dabbed at puffy eyes with Kleenex tissue. Books made the introductions.

  “Show me the note, sis.”

  She pointed behind him. “It’s behind you on the countertop.”

  Books read it while Maldonado read over his shoulder. “Is this where you found it?”

  “Yes. I haven’t touched it.”

  Books explained to her what was about to happen. “In a few minutes, Sheriff Sutter is going to show up here with an arrest warrant for Bobby.”

  “Oh, my God, what for?”

  “There’s evidence, Mags, that Bobby took part in the abduction of Rolly and Abby. They’re going to look around to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere here on the ranch. They’re legally entitled to search the premises for him. They will probably ask you some questions about his possible whereabouts. Answer them as truthfully as you can.”

  “Okay,” she muttered. Clutching a tissue in one hand and with tears streaming down her face, Books had never seen his sister look so distraught, so utterly defeated, as she did in this moment. Maggie had always been the
upbeat, optimistic member of the family. Given his own moody nature, Books had always admired and at times even envied that quality in her. That was all gone now.

  “Once they’re satisfied that Bobby isn’t here, they will probably ask your permission to search the house for evidence of Bobby’s involvement in the abduction,” said Books.

  “Do I have to let them?”

  Before he could answer, Books heard the sound of tires on the circular gravel driveway at the front of the house. Car doors slammed and Charley Sutter and Beth Tanner approached the front door.

  “The answer to your question, sis, is that you don’t have to give them consent, but understand that if you don’t, they’ll get a search warrant and come back. I suggest that you let them and get it over with.”

  She nodded, “All right.”

  “They could be here a while,” whispered Books. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll stay.”

  Maldonado had been listening quietly throughout this exchange, looking decidedly uncomfortable. His posture suggested that he wished he could be somewhere else. For that matter, so did Books.

  Books turned things over to Sutter and left, feeling guilty that he was abandoning his sister in a time of crisis but realizing that Sutter and Maldonado wanted him out of the way.

  Chapter Forty-two

  It was a hundred-and-twenty-mile drive to the town of Escalante and the remote area known as the Hell’s Backbone Road, where Books would search for the illegal timber cutting operation. The drive gave him ample time to think.

  Why had Bobby run? Had someone tipped him off that he was about to be arrested again, this time for a much more serious crime? Books was under no illusion that he would escape scrutiny as the source of a possible leak. They hadn’t talked to him yet, but they would.

  And where would Bobby hide? Certainly not with family or friends. It wouldn’t take long for a team of police, probably FBI, to begin contacting anybody whom Bobby might seek shelter or assistance from. Books knew that Bobby enjoyed his creature comforts too much to remain on the lam for any length of time. His decision to flee would only postpone the inevitable, and make his legal difficulties exponentially more serious.

  Even more disturbing, was Bobby suicidal? Would he really kill himself? Was he in so deep, he couldn’t see other alternatives? J.D. shuddered at the thought of what that would do to Maggie and the boys.

  The route to Escalante traversed an area with Zion National Park to his west, Bryce Canyon National Park and the Grand Staircase to the east. He passed through several small towns, including Mt. Carmel, home for a time to famous poet and painter Maynard Dixon, as well as the tourist enclaves of Tropic, Cannonville, and Henrieville.

  Along the way, he passed through a network of deep, brightly colored Navajo sandstone canyons, textured in muted tones of reddish-brown, tan, and ivory. Rock formations of every size and shape dotted the landscape, reaching high into a crystal blue sky. Juniper, sagebrush, and yellow-flowered snakeweed colored the canyon floor as far as the eye could see. Springtime in the high desert had ushered in blossoming prickly pear cactus in bright hues of pink and orange.

  Since his return to Kanab, Books had come to view the nearly two-million-acre Grand Staircase Escalante Monument as his personal playground. Its solitary beauty provided him with a sense of inner peace and serenity.

  He dropped the boxes Runyon had given him at the BLM Visitor’s Center on the west edge of Escalante. He then stopped for lunch at a small diner in town before starting the arduous journey over Hell’s Backbone Road. With Jimmy Buck still at large, Books knew that he had to remain alert and focused. The likelihood that the anonymous call was a ruse designed to lure him into the wilderness seemed remote, but he’d be foolish to disregard the possibility.

  Hell’s Backbone Road was a high-altitude, thirty-five-mile stretch that overlooked the Box Death Hollow Wilderness area and connected the towns of Escalante and Boulder. It had been built by the Conservation Corps as a public works project during the Great Depression.

  Narrow and dangerous, it was little more than a one-lane road, built without guardrails or shoulders and climbing to more than nine thousand feet above sea level. Inattention or a careless mistake going up or down the narrow switchbacks could send a driver careening over the edge and down a two-thousand-foot drop to the canyon floor. Books had driven it before, often without ever seeing another vehicle.

  It was a time-consuming, laborious drive, but one so beautiful it took Books’ breath away every time he saw it. At lower elevation, juniper pine dominated the landscape. As Books climbed the switchbacks up the mountainside, the green became predominately piñon pine and then ponderosa at the highest elevation.

  The area was replete with spur roads that frequently went nowhere. A handful ended at marked trailheads, but most were old dead-end ranch roads. He would have to stop and check each one.

  Books drove slowly with his window down and stopped often to listen. If anybody was cutting wood, the sound of chainsaws would carry a long way. Eventually, Books reached a plateau where the terrain flattened out for about ten miles, winding across a mountain range before beginning the long descent down the other side. He stopped several times, shut off the Sierra’s engine and walked short distances into the woods until he ran out of road. Finally, about halfway across the plateau, Books came upon a double-track spur where he spotted a freshly cut pile of firewood tossed by the side of the road.

  He shut the Sierra down and listened. At first, everything was quiet, but then he heard it—the whine of a chainsaw as it roared to life. The sound came from deep in the woods. Moving as quietly as possible, Books removed a Remington .12-gauge from its rack inside the Sierra and started walking down a barely visible two-track dirt road. He moved slowly, stopping every few feet to listen. The whine of the chainsaw grew louder as he headed deeper into the forest.

  Two hundred yards in, Books stepped into a clearing. A man standing with his back to J.D. was cutting a downed tree into two-foot lengths. A large axe leaned against a nearby tree stump.

  There was something vaguely familiar about him. When he hollered at him to turn off the saw, the man half turned, and Books knew instantly that he was in serious trouble. The man was Bobby Case.

  “Hi, J.D., glad you could join us,” said Case.

  From behind him came a second voice. “I told you we had unfinished business. Now drop the shotgun and step away from it.”

  Books complied.

  “I want you to very carefully reach across your body and remove the sidearm, and I want you to do it with only two fingers—your thumb and forefinger. Got that? If I see anything else, this .45 I’m holding will blow a hole in you big enough to drive an eighteen-wheeler through.”

  Again Books did as he was told.

  “That’s good, now turn around.”

  Books turned to see Jimmy Buck whose face was colored in streaks of camouflage green to match his clothing. The boots looked like standard combat military issue. The gun in his hand, however, was not. It might have been the biggest damned handgun Books had ever seen—a .45 caliber Colt or Smith revolver, with at least a seven-inch barrel.

  “Step over to the fire pit yonder, and have yourself a seat on one of those tree stumps.” Buck motioned to an area next to where his brother-in-law had been cutting firewood.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Bobby? This isn’t your kind of party.”

  Before Case could answer, Buck said, “Shut the fuck up. I didn’t give you permission to talk. Boy, are you ever one dumb son-of-a-bitch walkin’ in here like you did.”

  “You never gave me much choice, J.D.,” said Case. “If you and that little shave-tail deputy had let me go, none of this would have happened.”

  “Oh, it would have happened anyway, Bobby. You were g
oing down regardless, just like the rest of this gang of thugs,” Books said, nodding at Buck.

  “Now I don’t recall givin’ you permission to speak,” said Buck, stepping in front of Books, and slapping him across the face with the back of his hand. The blow stung and knocked Books off the tree stump. He righted himself, tasting blood on the inside of his mouth.

  “Well, it don’t matter much anymore, J.D.,” said Case. “It’s going to end right here and now, and we’ll bury you right next to Abby and Rolly.”

  “Next to ’um. I was thinkin we’d let Officer Books here dig ’em up, then we’ll shoot him, and bury them all together. That would give a whole new meaning to the term ‘a threesome,’” said Buck, laughing.

  “Geez, Bobby, so you did kill them. These are people we’d grown up around.”

  “Heell, no,” interrupted Buck. “Your brother-in-law is a bit on the squeamish side when it comes to killin’ folks, so Daddy and I did it. Unfortunately, this .45 makes a godawful mess, so it’s probably best that you all get buried here. That way nobody has to look at what was once a face and now ain’t nothing more than a pile of goo.”

  Books was frightened but also seething with anger. “Speaking of your daddy, from what I heard, he died like the cowardly dog he was,” Books said.

  Buck stepped in front of him shaking with rage. He pressed the barrel of the cannon he was holding to the center of Books’ forehead and said, “You ought to know ’cuz you killed him.”

  “I didn’t have to kill him,” replied Books, “because the dumb bastard shot himself.” Books didn’t know that for sure, but all indications were that in the end, Earl Buck had taken his own life.

  “You’d best not say one more word about my daddy, because if you do, I’ll blow your fuckin brains out right where you sit.”

  A calm seemed to settle over him then, and he added, “Besides, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the opportunity to dig your own grave and get one last chance to say hello to the Rogerses.” He smiled showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth.