The McHenry Inheritance (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “By the time we get the paperwork done and all the men together, it’ll probably be eight o’clock,” he said. “Meet us in front of the courthouse then.”

  “We’ll be there,” said Gordon. “And if for some reason you’re ready early, we’ll be at Kitty’s having breakfast.”

  They shook hands, looking each other in the eye.

  “This is going to come to a head today,” said Baca, “and I have a feeling it isn’t going to be what we expect.”

  • • •

  After Baca left, Gordon and Sam took long, hot showers. Gordon ached all over. His leg muscles were stiff from squatting and running; the cut in his chin was in need of a stitch or two; the palms of his hands were scraped raw from the fall and hurt whenever he touched anything; there was a nasty welt on his stomach where Bowen had hit him; his torso, thighs, knees and shins were scraped and bruised from being tackled at the campground and the fall he took while he and Sam were fleeing; and his right ankle was swollen, throbbing, and could barely support his weight. Yet he was a happy man. He had found the missing gun and directed suspicion away from the woman he regarded with ever-increasing affection. It was the first time in his life that he had put himself out to a considerable extent for anyone else, and he enjoyed the feeling that accompanied it. After washing and dressing, he accepted another drink from Ellen, then fell asleep sitting up on her couch. He napped for an hour and a half until she awakened him at six o’clock. The ankle was worse after the rest, so he took a couple of Ibuprofen before he and Sam drove into town.

  They arrived at Mom’s Cafe shortly before seven. It was already three-quarters full and humming with conversation. Kitty saw them as they sat down and glided over.

  “It’s on the house today, boys,” she said. “Ellen told me all about last night. That was wonderful of you.”

  As Kitty poured his coffee, Gordon reflected that the way in which women communicated was a mystery to him. When could Ellen have talked with Kitty? Probably while he was asleep. Calling someone on the phone to talk about last night would have been the farthest thing from his mind.

  “What’s going to happen next?” Kitty asked.

  “I guess they’re going to execute the search warrant,” Gordon said. “Then they’ll run tests on the gun to match it with the bullet that killed Dan McHenry. After that, several people will have to answer some hard questions.”

  “What if it doesn’t match?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue. But even so, a lot of suspicion will be off Ellen because the missing gun that pointed to her was found somewhere else.”

  Kitty heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad.”

  “You’re going to have to mail the test results to me,” Sam said. “I have to leave tomorrow morning. I promised my family I’d be back Saturday night.”

  “You’re not going, too, are you?” she asked Gordon.

  He shook his head. “I can get another week off easily enough,” he said. “And when I go back, I’m giving a month’s notice. I’ve been working for Howell, Burns & Bledsoe for almost twelve years. It’s time to do something different.”

  “But how will you live?”

  He smiled. “I have a little money set aside. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “I’m glad you’ll be staying a little longer.”

  “Not as glad as I am.”

  She was back in fifteen minutes with their breakfast. Gordon had never tried the blueberry pancakes before, but they were perfect. He and Sam were too tired to keep up much of a conversation, and part way into the meal, Gordon picked up a copy of the Summit County Echo. He remembered that he hadn’t read the story of Dan McHenry’s murder yesterday at lunch, so he set the front page beside his plate and started in. A banner headline proclaimed “Dan McHenry Murdered,” and below it was an unfocused photograph of the meadow and a two-column drop head: “Rancher’s Son Shot in Back While Fishing on Family Spread.” The text read as follows:

  The murder of Daniel McHenry is still a mystery — at least, officially. Sheriff Mike Baca said yesterday that although his investigation has yielded a number of clues, he’s not yet prepared to make an arrest.

  Mr. McHenry, 33, was shot in the back Sunday morning, apparently while fishing at Twin Creek Ranch, where he was raised as a child. It was the first murder in Summit County since 1985, and certainly one of the most sensational crimes in the history of this area, going as far back as the shooting of Jacob Harper.

  At the time of his death, Mr. McHenry was involved in another sensational event. A court trial on his challenge to the will of his father, cattleman Frank McHenry, was about two thirds completed.

  The elder McHenry, it will be recalled, changed his will in March of this year, just days before his death of complications resulting from falling off his horse. Where previously he had left the ranch and the bulk of the estate to his son, who had been living an unconventional lifestyle in San Francisco, the will now being disputed in court leaves the ranch and nearly all other McHenry assets to Dan McHenry’s sister, Ellen, his only sibling.

  Owing to the prominence of the McHenry family and the esteem in which it is held locally for its long record of straight dealing and good works, the trial has generated immense local interest and controversy. It was recessed for a week on the Monday following Mr. McHenry’s death. (A related story summarizing developments in the trial appears on page 7.)

  Under California law, Daniel McHenry’s estate could continue the challenge to the will, and the rumor mill has been humming with speculation that this could be the case. The Echo was unable to confirm this point, but it will undoubtedly be dealt with when the matter comes before the court Monday next.

  The circumstances of Mr. McHenry’s slaying were deceptively straightforward. According to Sheriff Baca, he had shown up at the ranch at approximately eight o’clock Sunday morning, having previously asked his sister for permission to go fishing on the old family homestead. Miss McHenry, to the surprise of many people, assented, saying she couldn’t deny her brother access to the ranch that had so long been his home.

  Mr. McHenry was fishing the meadow above the main house at the ranch, and apparently had that section of the property to himself. Miss McHenry and all the ranch hands told the sheriff they had left the ranch by shortly after nine o’clock. Only two out-of-town anglers who had been allowed to fish Aspen Creek remained on the ranch, and they were fishing the section downstream from the main ranch house and were entirely out of Mr. McHenry’s sight, as was he from theirs. (There have been rumors that one of the fishermen caught and released a 19-inch brown trout, but again, those are unconfirmed.)

  Shortly before ten o’clock those two fishermen heard a gunshot, which Baca believes was the one that killed Mr. McHenry. The sheriff said that evidence indicates the killer assumed a position in the trees on a dirt road that parallels the edge of the meadow, and is often used for transporting cattle.

  The two fishermen who heard the shot (Sheriff Baca is refusing to divulge their names) moved up to the meadow area shortly after noon and found Mr. McHenry’s body in the creek, where it had fallen in and come to rest against a shrub.

  The sheriff refused to say what kind of weapon was used to commit the crime. “All I can tell you is that Dan McHenry was shot from behind at some distance with a rifle. You’ll know more when we make an arrest,” he said.

  Pressed as to whether an arrest is imminent, Baca replied testily, “I can’t answer that right now. It depends on whether we can put together certain key pieces of evidence.”

  And there the matter stands as we go to press Wednesday night.

  The funeral for Mr. McHenry was held Wednesday morning at Saint Louis Catholic Church and was well attended. Father Malone’s eulogy was widely remarked upon as having been outstanding, given the circumstances.

  Mr. McHenry was born and reared in Summit County, but had been only a visitor to the area for the past dozen years. He lived in San Francisco,
where he worked as a freelance writer and was active in conservative political causes.

  In addition to his sister, he leaves a close friend, George Horton, of San Francisco.

  Gordon set the paper down uneasily. He realized as he finished the story that something in it had brushed up against a corner of his mind, had reminded him of something he had seen or heard in the last week. He cleaned the last of the food off his plate and read the story again. This time, it hit him squarely between the eyes, and he sat up with a start.

  He let his eyes wander around the room as he thought. Kitty was making the rounds with coffee, and the crowd had thinned out some, but there was still a buzz of conversation. He looked at the mounted deer head by the door. Every few seconds another remembered fact collided with his consciousness like a drumbeat, and they all backed up the first revelation. Gordon felt faintly sick. The truth, if that was what it was, meant that another life hung in the balance.

  He leaned over the table and addressed Sam in a low voice. “I just thought of something that could be really big. We need to go fast.”

  Sam nodded, and the two of them slipped out of the cafe with a wave and a thank you to Kitty. They drove the three blocks to the courthouse, where Baca was overseeing eight deputies and four squad cars. Gordon took him aside.

  “I just remembered something that could be really important, and I hope I’m wrong,” he told the sheriff. “But we need to get to Radio’s camp on the double.”

  Baca shook his head. “I don’t have all my men yet.”

  “Tell the rest of them to follow us.”

  “Do you suppose you could tell me what this is all about?”

  Gordon shook his head. “I can’t. The only thing worse than being right would be telling you and being wrong. You’ll have to trust me.”

  Baca stared silently into the distance.

  “My hunches have been pretty good so far,” Gordon said. “And if this one’s right, it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Not dead certain, but it looks like it. Let’s say that given what I think is going on, you should take the men you’ve got and get up there as fast as you can, with lights flashing and sirens blaring.”

  Baca looked at Gordon for a full ten seconds, then turned to his assembled men. “Let’s go,” he snapped.

  • • •

  The drive up to Sullivan Meadows was only slightly less hair-raising than the drive down had been the night before. A convoy was formed with patrol cars in front of and behind Gordon’s Cherokee. With the aid of sirens and flashing lights, they got to the dirt road as fast as it was possible for man and vehicle to do so. At that point, the lights and sirens went off, but they still drove up the road as fast as was marginally prudent. At the open meadow where the pursuers had foundered the previous night, the dead buck lay by the side of the road, its carcass beginning to bloat. The pickup had been abandoned where it crashed into a tree, its bed protruding slightly into the road. There was no sign of its occupants, so Gordon assumed they must have survived the collision without serious injury.

  Despite their speed, they were too late. As soon as he drove over the rise leading to the meadow, Gordon could see that the tents, vehicles and men were gone. His eyes moved to the tree where he and Sam had been taken the night before, and a knot formed in his stomach. The burned-out hulk of the pickup Ellen had set afire the night before was still there, but next to it was another pickup. A rope led from the back of it over a tree branch and down to the neck of a man who was dangling lifelessly, his hands cuffed together behind him.

  Baca, the deputies, Gordon and Sam drove to the spot and got out of their cars. Though the purple, contorted face delayed identification for a few seconds, it was clearly George Horton, hanged by a rope tied to his own pickup truck. They stood before him in a stunned silence that was broken when one of the deputies suddenly retched. He was followed by another, then by Sam. Gordon needed the full force of his will to hold down his own breakfast.

  “Poor bastard,” said Baca, turning to Gordon. “Was this what you were expecting?”

  Gordon nodded. “Not a lynching, but I was afraid for George.”

  Baca put his arm around Gordon and walked him away from the grisly scene toward the spot where the camp had been. The grass of the meadow was still flattened where the tents had stood just hours before. Several pieces of litter, including two folding chairs and several cooking utensils, were strewn on the ground, suggesting a hasty departure.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” the sheriff asked.

  Gordon shook his head. “It’s my fault,” he said. “Dan McHenry’s gun was on a rack in George’s pickup — the same one the rope’s tied to now. I practically shoved Radio’s nose in it last night. When he connected George with the gun, it was probably all over.”

  “The gun’s gone now.”

  “They probably took it with them. There were three guns in the rack, and they’re all gone.”

  “They won’t get far,” Baca said. “I have their license numbers, and I’ll call in a bulletin right now. If they’re anywhere in California or Nevada, we’ll have them by tonight.”

  The sheriff went back to Horton’s body and began giving directions. One of the deputies pulled out a laptop computer and began taking notes, while another photographed the body before cutting it down. Gordon limped a few feet over to the creek and watched the water swirl gently through the meadow. Although it was not yet nine o’clock, it was already warm, and the day would probably be hot. An infrequens hatch was getting under way, the insects buzzing gently through the air, and he heard a splash to his left. He looked downstream and a few seconds later saw and heard a trout rise to an insect near the opposite bank. Ordinarily, the sight would have quickened his pulse, and sent him scurrying for his fly rod, but now he felt drained, empty and exhausted.

  Then he had another thought, and his adrenaline kicked in. Gordon moved across the meadow as quickly as his bad ankle would let him, and found Baca jotting down some notes by his car.

  “Something just came to me,” Gordon said.

  “Another hunch?”

  “You could call it that. What if Radio and his men haven’t left Summit County?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The mine. If that’s where they headed, we’re in trouble. Once they get that stuff out of there, they’ll have enough firepower to hold the whole county hostage.”

  Baca grabbed his car phone and began punching numbers.

  • • •

  Ten minutes after Baca’s first phone call, Bill Boyd had two dozen agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms at Twin Creek Ranch. They found the vehicles from Radio’s encampment on the perimeter road around the great meadow and cut the fuel lines to disable them. Joined by four Highway Patrol officers, they advanced on the mine, and arrived just as several men began to emerge from it, carrying boxes of munitions. A quick flurry of gunfire was exchanged, as Radio and his men retreated to the mine. Owing, perhaps, to nerves on both sides, no one was hit.

  By the time Baca, his deputies, Gordon, and Sam arrived an hour later, a standoff was in effect. ATF agents covered the entrance to the mine from a clump of trees across the creek, 75 yards away. Two helicopters circled overhead, providing a steady drone of background noise. Several law-enforcement vehicles had been driven as close to the scene as possible without being put into the line of fire from the mouth of the mine, and Baca’s county-issue Chevrolet Blazer joined them when he arrived. The SWAT team from Reno had been summoned in a mutual-aid call and was expected by one o’clock.

  It turned out there had been another close call at the ranch that morning. Four men had burst into the main house, looking to take Ellen McHenry hostage, and had pistol-whipped a ranch foreman who was working in an office. Ellen, it turned out, had left moments earlier to visit Kitty in town, and had probably passed Radio’s entourage on the highway, going the other direction. Baca reached her at Mom�
�s Cafe on his car phone and confirmed that she was safe.

  The sun was beating down relentlessly. It was already eighty degrees in the shade, and in the open, where Baca, Gordon and Sam were, the heat was perishing. A palpable tension settled over the waiting men, growing with each passing moment. Finally, Gordon approached Baca.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “Me? Not a damn thing, and I think Boyd feels the same. We can wait.”

  “You’re just going to sit here until they come out?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Baca said. “We can send out to McDonald’s for food. They can’t. That’s going to force their hand. And I’m willing to wait here until first snow if need be. Which reminds me. It’s almost time for lunch, and since these men are likely to be here for a while, I need to feed them.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ellen showed up, and Gordon hugged her. He told her the story of the morning, including the hanging of George Horton, how the men were cornered in the mine, and how they had broken into her house in an attempt to capture her. She shook her head.

  “This is getting out of hand,” she said.

  At one o’clock, a white flag was poked outside the opening to the mine and waved around for a minute. A man emerged holding it and walked down to where the vehicles were parked. Gordon recognized him as Jason, the man with the knack for making a noose.

  “I have a message for Sheriff Baca from Mr. Radio,” he said. Baca stepped forward. “Mr. Radio would like the number of your car phone so he can talk to you and your word of honor as a gentleman that he won’t be shot at if he steps out to call.”

  “He has my word,” said Baca, taking a business card out of his shirt pocket and writing on it. “And here’s the number. You can tell him I’m very anxious to have a word with him.”

  The messenger trudged back to the mine and disappeared inside it. A few moments later, Radio stepped out with a cellular phone in his hand and began punching numbers. The phone in Baca’s car rang; it had a hands-free feature, and the sheriff pushed that button so that Gordon and the others clustered around the car could listen in on the conversation.”