Buck ordered Books to his feet and pointed to a grove of aspen trees thirty yards away. “I picked a nice, quiet spot under them trees. It’s even got a nice view.”
As he marched Books in the direction of the grave, Case, who had been listening attentively, but without any sign of emotion, fell in behind Buck. As they approached the grave, Case drew his .40 caliber Taurus from under his sweatshirt.
“That’ll be far enough, Jimmy.”
Buck made a half-turn, a quizzical look on his face. “What the hell you think you’re doing?” he said.
“Like I said, it ends right here, today. You and I are going to surrender to J.D. and take our chances in court. The killing’s over.”
Buck grunted as he spun, aiming the cannon at the center of Case’s chest. A momentary look of surprise registered on Case’s face as both men fired. Books dove to his right trying to get out of the line of fire, reaching as he did so for his ankle holster. He couldn’t recall, even later, how many shots were exchanged. As quickly as it started, it was over. When the smoke cleared, a wounded Jimmy Buck stood holding his right side looking down in a state of shock at the still figure of Bobby Case staring into the sky with vacant, dead eyes. In that instant, Buck seemed to realize that he was still in danger. He turned just as Books cut loose with the .25 caliber, firing continuously until the chamber clicked on empty. Buck fell, the .45 still clutched in his hand. Books immediately disarmed the semi-conscious man, rolled him on his stomach and cuffed his hands behind his back. He died minutes later.
There was nothing he could do for his brother-in-law. Case was bleeding profusely from two gaping chest wounds that Books suspected had left even larger exit wounds out his back. He bled out in a matter of seconds.
Books radioed for emergency assistance. The first to arrive was the Escalante town marshal, followed by a Grand County Sheriff’s Department sergeant, who had been patrolling in the area. Within two hours, Charley Sutter, Randy Maldonado, and a team of FBI agents, including crime scene technicians, had converged on the area.
The decaying bodies of Rolly and Abby Rogers were discovered buried together in a shallow grave exactly where Jimmy Buck said they were, and had it not been for the actions of Bobby Case, it might well have been Books’ grave as well. A medical examiner was flown by helicopter to the site. Four bodies were subsequently air-lifted to St. George where autopsies would be performed.
Books spent hours being interviewed and interviewed again by local authorities as well as the FBI. He spent the night at the home of his sister trying desperately to make her understand that in the end, Bobby had done the right thing, and it had cost him his life. Though he would never know, Books wondered whether Bobby’s actions had been planned all along or came about spontaneously when he realized the horror that was about to unfold.
What brought Bobby Case and Jimmy Buck together on that day and in that place would remain a mystery. Perhaps Bobby had overheard his conversation with Maggie when he had mentioned going to Hell’s Backbone Road. Maybe he knew where the Rogerses were buried and suspected a trap, or maybe he helped Buck plan the trap and had a change of heart at the last instant.
The dead always kept their secrets.
Afterword
It was a beautiful Saturday morning and Books had joined three of his colleagues for a round of golf at Kanab’s Coral Cliffs Golf Course. Instead of playing with his fellow cops as he had in Denver, he was joined today by a geologist, a botanist, and a career bureaucrat.
He’d taken up golf on a regular basis during his years with the Denver Police Department, primarily as a means of coping with stress, although sometimes he wondered if golf caused more stress than it relieved. As a kid, he had played golf only sporadically, focusing instead on high-school football and basketball.
“I hope everybody brought their wallets,” said Alexis Runyon. “I intend to go home today with my round covered by your losses.”
The remark brought grins to the faces of her male playing partners, Books included.
“You gotta love her attitude,” said geologist Frank Cartchner, trying not to sound condescending.
Looking almost as confident was botanist Glen Hale, who, rumor had it, sported a ten handicap.
Books, however, was wary. He’d never played golf with Runyon before, but she’d always looked fit and athletic. He knew from experience that she was competitive as hell when it came to playing poker.
They settled on a wager of fifty cents per hole per player. That meant that whoever won a particular hole collected fifty cents from each of the other players. Holes in which they tied would automatically carry over to the next one. In the unlikely event that someone managed to sweep all nine holes, that person would collect a modest $13.50.
When they got to the first hole, Cartchner asked Runyon if she wanted to lead off from the women’s tee box.
“Sure,” she said, “but in the name of fairness, I thought I’d give you guys a better chance by teeing off with you from the men’s tees.” This time the cackling was audible. Even Books was smiling.
The grins disappeared in a hurry when she launched a drive on the first tee that sailed twenty yards past Books and his male cohorts. It was like that for the rest of the round. When it was over, Runyon hadn’t lost a hole. Mercifully, she didn’t rub it in afterward, insisting on using her winnings to buy a round of drinks for all. The closest thing to a dig came when she offered a toast. “Here’s to male gender stereotyping and bruised egos—may they all heal quickly.”
As they walked to the parking lot, Runyon said, “I probably forgot to mention this when we started, but I attended the University of Texas on a golf scholarship.”
“Now she tells us,” moaned Books. Later, he would learn that she not only played golf for the University of Texas for four years but had been named to the All-Big Twelve Conference team three of those years. The lady could flat play.
***
When the dust finally settled, only Jason Buck, Joe Benally, and Brett Gentry were left to face criminal prosecution. For Books, the victory was bittersweet at best. His sister had lost her husband, and Bobby’s sons, their father.
The funeral service for Bobby took place at the Mormon ward in Kanab six days after his death. It seemed to Books like half of Kane County showed up. Old friends attended, like Rusty and Dixie Steed, Becky Eddins and her family, Ned Hunsaker, Alexis Runyon, and every manner of politician from town councilmen to state legislators, all paying homage to the family led by patriarch, Doug Case. Even Books’father, Bernie, insisted on going, despite feeling less than one hundred percent.
While Maggie and the boys were devastated, the family took some comfort in the story that emerged in the aftermath of the bloody showdown. Despite many mistakes and lapses in judgment, in the end, Bobby Case had made a heroic decision that saved Books’ life and cost him his own. Perhaps that final selfless act was the one way he could atone for his own misdeeds.
Follow-up by the Four Corners Task Force failed to definitively link the Buck gang to any other cases involving missing persons in the Four Corners area. Perhaps their enthusiasm was dampened by the fact that both ringleaders were dead. And the Native American group calling itself the Society for the Preservation of the Ancients turned out to be in no way connected to the Rogerses’ disappearance. They were, however, a group that might bear future scrutiny by Four Corners area law enforcement agencies.
Thanks to the legal wizardry of Becky Eddins in negotiating a generous plea bargain for her client, Joe Benally was sentenced to serve up to fifteen years in prison on one count of burglary. With time off for good behavior, and considering his youth, he’d probably parole in five.
Ten days after the raid on his home and business, Brett Gentry was arrested on a fugitive warrant as he attempted to cross the border into Mexico from Nogales, Arizona. In the absence of sufficient evidence l
inking him to the kidnapping and murder of Abby and Rolly Rogers, he would eventually plead to one count of receiving stolen property. He’d receive a prison sentence of up to five years, a $5,000 fine, and three years of parole supervision upon release.
His wife, Emily, was never charged criminally, but both she and Brett would face a massive wrongful death civil suit filed by the Rogers children. Mrs. Gentry loudly proclaimed her husband’s innocence to anyone who would listen, while continuing to operate a struggling Red Rock Touring company in his absence.
The only person left to face the wrath of an angry public seeking retribution for the senseless crimes, was Jason Buck. When a federal grand jury indicted him for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder, local prosecutor Virgil Bell wasn’t far behind. Buck would face three state charges including burglary, felony theft, and possession of stolen property. If convicted on the federal offenses alone, he faced the prospect of a life sentence.
Sheriff Sutter had managed to avoid much of the public acrimony. However, prosecutor Virgil Bell had not. In conservative Tea Party Kane County, the only chance Bell would have had of quelling community rage would have been to somehow have Buck sentenced to twelve days in the electric chair. Books figured the best thing Bell had going for himself was that his term of office wasn’t set to expire for more than two years. With the passage of time, public anger would diminish.
***
It was Sunday morning and Ned Hunsaker and Books were settled in Ned’s living room. They had already consumed an artery-clogging breakfast of huevos, hash browns, sausage, and toast and were working their way through a second pot of coffee while reading the newspaper. Their mostly left-leaning political views were largely compatible, enabling them to discuss ad nauseam local and national issues without drawing blood.
Books’ father was steadily improving from his recent cancer surgery, and his prospects for a complete recovery looked promising. Bernie’s brush with his own mortality had somehow opened the door to conversation that had not been possible in their otherwise tumultuous relationship.
Happily, his relationship with Becky Eddins had weathered the stressful times and was still intact. And he had made a new friend in Beth Tanner, two new friends actually, the other being a scraggly looking pit bull he’d decided to name Hootch, after the movie Turner and Hootch.
Books was slowly recovering from the physical and mental fatigue of a nearly two-week investigation that, by most accounts, had ended badly. Five people had died, two of them innocent victims, summarily executed in the aftermath of a murder/kidnapping scheme. There was little solace to be had in the prosecution of three surviving perpetrators and the recovery of most of the stolen property.
For Books, the emotional toll on himself and members of his family was incalculable. Only time would heal the loss of a husband and father. Without Bobby, the viability of continuing to operate the cattle ranch would surely come under scrutiny. Books was already thinking about offering to move in with Maggie and the boys. His BLM salary more than sufficient to pay the bills.
In the days since the investigation ended, Books had had ample time to ponder the propriety of the federal government’s role in trying to suppress the illegal antiquities trade. In his mind, the issue was analogous to the government’s long-standing and largely failed effort to control drug trafficking. So long as consumer demand remained high, whether for drugs or artifacts, the trafficking would continue regardless of the existence of harsh laws or rigorous enforcement.
Pot hunters, Books had learned, often engaged in the practice for several reasons. Clearly, one was profit, but it was more complicated than that. In the end, some people did it because they believed they possessed an inherent right to—an entitlement of sorts. And some participated in skeleton picnics for adventure, or because their ancestors had done it, the practice having been handed down from one generation to the next.
For Books and cops like him, perhaps it didn’t matter. He knew from long years of experience that enforcing criminal law was often filled with shades of gray. He could worry about it some other time, or not.
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