Dead or Alive

by Michael McGarrity

  “Not quite.” Larson popped the top and took a swig.

  “There’s a cop up on the ranch road.”

  “I know that, little brother,” Craig replied.

  “People have been asking me to help find you.”

  “What people?”

  “A head doctor that came up from Santa Fe, and Everett Dorsey, the town police chief.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  Kerry crossed his heart. “Nothing. I swear. I said if you didn’t want to be found, to just forget it.”

  “What did the head doctor ask you?”

  “He wanted to know about all the places we liked to go to when we were kids. Secret or special places.”

  “What else?”

  “Folks you liked that maybe you would go and visit.”

  “Was that it?”

  “Yeah, except for telling me that I’d be helping you if I told him what he wanted to know. But I didn’t, because I didn’t like him much. Did you really kill all those people?”

  Craig smiled and nodded. “I surely did. Want to help me kill some more?”

  Kerry twisted his mouth into a grimace and shook his head. “That’s a bad thing to ask me. The police want to catch you for shooting all those people, and blowing up places in Texas, like they showed on the TV news.”

  Larson chuckled. “Tell me about it. I thought my baby brother liked to go hunting.”

  Kerry’s expression brightened at the thought. “Yeah, but nothing’s in season right now unless you want to go plunk at some jackrabbits. We could do that.”

  “People are always in season.”

  “That’s not hunting.”

  Larson shook his head in dismay. “Damn, you’re no fun, baby brother. I thought we’d be like Frank and Jesse James. Maybe become mountain men and live up in the high country, like we used to dream about doing when we were kids. But if you don’t want to come along, I could just shoot you.”

  Kerry gave a forced laugh. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “Shoot you, take your truck, and pretend I’m you.”

  Kerry reached into his jeans pocket and took out his keys.

  “You don’t have to shoot me for that. If you need the truck to get away, take it. Tell anybody you meet that you’re me.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you, little brother, but not without a shower, change of clothes, and a hot meal. Have you got anything you can cook up for me?”

  “I’ve got some venison steaks in the freezer from an eight-point buck I took last year.”

  “In season, I bet.”

  “Yep.”

  “Get them out and fry them up for us while I jump in the shower.”

  Kerry hesitated. “Would you really shoot me?”

  Larson shook his head, showed his teeth, and smiled. “That would just be like shooting myself, now wouldn’t it, little brother?”

  “I guess so,” Kerry said as he reached into a cupboard for the frying pan. “I knew you were just funning around,” he added, trying to sort out why he felt so scared.

  With the shower spray beating on his head, Larson mulled over possible ways he could kill Kerry, assume his identity, and get far enough away before the cops figured out the switch. Better yet, what if he could get the cops to kill Kerry, thinking it was him? He couldn’t hit on a good idea on how to make it work. But if he came up with a feasible plan, wasting baby brother wouldn’t be a problem.

  He got out of the shower, toweled off, dressed in some clean clothes from Kerry’s closet, and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The scabs from shaving his head had healed over and his hair was growing back. His beard looked hoboscraggly and it itched. He thought about shaving his head again and decided not to waste his time.

  He opened the bathroom door expecting to smell venison steaks sizzling in the frying pan. But there was no scent in the air and no noise coming from the kitchen. He called out to Kerry and got no answer. In the kitchen he found the frying pan on an unlit stove burner and the venison steaks in a freezer bag sitting in the kitchen sink.

  Holding the 9 mm Glock autoloader just behind his right leg, Larson called Kerry’s name again. He moved quickly to the front room. Through the open door he could see Kerry’s truck was missing.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Larson said. Had little brother turned on him? Or had he been frightened away by his threat to kill him?

  Larson didn’t have time to wait and find out. He left the cottage, walked through a grove of trees to the horse barn, circled around the back of it, and took a quick look up the ranch road. In the fast-fading dusk the cop car was out of sight. Working as swiftly as possible, he saddled one of the geldings, put a pack frame on one of the mares, got some additional gear out of the tack room, and quietly led the animals behind the barn and back through the grove of trees to the cottage, where he filled a pillowcase with food, including the venison steaks.

  He was twenty minutes away from the Buick, and if Kerry hadn’t sent the cops after him, on horseback he could make it safe into the high country by daybreak. To get there, he’d have to cross open country, and even in the darkness he would need to keep to the dry washes, arroyos, and streambeds.

  Larson decided to move west toward the settlement of Miami and then cut north across a big spread to avoid the huge Philmont Scout Ranch, where thousands of Boy Scouts and their adult leaders were camped for the summer. Once beyond the town of Cimarron, he would turn west again and enter the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. There was hard riding ahead, but he could make it.

  At the Buick, he packed up quickly, listening for the sounds of wailing sirens in the night, but all was quiet. He mounted the gelding, tugged on the mare’s bridle, and started out, feeling pumped about the trip ahead. It was like being one of the old Western desperados, like Jeremiah Johnson, or Tom Horn, or maybe Clay Allison, the gunslinger who had terrorized Cimarron back in 1870s.

  He’d be like Clay Allison, Larson decided. At the old St. James Hotel in Cimarron, there was a plaque on the wall listing all the men that Allison had killed. Maybe when everything was said and done, they’d put a plaque on the wall for him. But if memory served, he’d have to kill a bunch more people to equal the number Allison had gunned down.

  Although he’d thought about telling the cop parked on the ranch road that his brother was down at his house taking a shower, instead Kerry had waved and passed by without stopping. He knew there was something wrong with Craig, something bad-crazy, just from how he’d looked and talked. It was like Craig wasn’t his brother anymore. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the police.

  For the past half hour he’d been stopped in front of the marquee of the old Springer movie house, which had been turned into a church. The marquee read “NOW SHOWING: JESUS CHRIST.” While he wasn’t much of a churchgoer, Kerry had occasionally attended with Lenny Hampson and his family. They were trying to help him become a believer. He had thought about talking to the preacher, but the place was locked up tight and he couldn’t remember the preacher’s name and didn’t know where he lived.

  The state police substation was just a few doors up the street in what was once an old mercantile store, and a black-and-white patrol car was parked out front. Light from inside the station shone through the large plate glass window onto the sidewalk.

  Kerry’s stomach grumbled. Maybe a plate of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes would help him figure out what to do. He always did better thinking with a meal in his belly. He cranked the engine, put the truck in gear, and drove off.

  The Raton Police Department was housed in an ugly mid-twentieth-century, single-story municipal building that had a series of large windows below a boxy, yellow aluminum façade. The department shared a waiting area with the municipal court, and the part of it reserved for police business consisted of four beat-up chairs, three vending machines, one side table with a stack of dog-eared, out-of-date magazines, and a one-way privacy window where you spoke through a hole in the glass to state your
business to a woman who doubled as dispatcher and receptionist. Kerney doubted that it could have been made any less inviting to the general public.

  After announcing themselves and showing their shields, Kerney and Clayton were passed through quickly and led down a hallway to a briefing area that also served as a conference room. There, seated at tables lined up facing a speaker’s rostrum, were Sergeant Joe Easley, the Raton police chief, Everett Dorsey, Major Frank Vanmeter, three of his state police lieutenants in charge of the field search and interview teams, the regional state game and fish law enforcement supervisor, and the Colfax County sheriff. All had assembled to debrief on the Pettibone-Phelan murders and fine-tune the next phase of the manhunt for Craig Larson.

  The Raton police chief nodded to Joe Easley and said, “Let’s get things started.”

  “A BOLO on Pettibone’s Buick and another armed-and-dangerous advisory on Craig Larson have been sent out nationwide,” Easley said.

  “We’re increasing patrols along major highways and the north-south interstate,” Frank Vanmeter said. He passed around a sheaf of papers and continued, “There’s a list included of the roadblocks we’ve got staggered throughout a four-county area.”

  After reporting the tentative conclusions of the medical investigator regarding the causes and times of death for Phelan and Pettibone, and noting that family members had been duly informed, Easley summarized the crime scene investigation findings at the vacant ranch, Pettibone’s motel room, and Phelan’s vehicle. With that out of the way, the conversation turned to the advisability of intensifying field searches, increasing close patrols of rural properties and ranches, and making house-to-house welfare checks and follow-up visits again. “That’s just more of the same-old same-old,” Dorsey said.

  “And we’ll keep doing it until something breaks or we get a brainstorm,” Vanmeter replied. “That reminds me, Chief Dorsey: Did you get anything out of Kerry Larson?”

  Dorsey dropped his gaze. “Nada.”

  “In that case,” Vanmeter said, “I suggest we get back on the job with the troops.” The Raton police chief nodded agreement and Vanmeter stood up. He grimaced in frustration at Kerney as he walked out the door.

  As the others followed him out of the room, Kerney cornered Dorsey. “What was Kerry’s mood like?” he asked.

  “Not good,” Dorsey said sourly. “He’s just clammed up tight.”

  “You said you thought there was a chance he’d open up. What changed?”

  Dorsey fidgeted with his car keys, but Kerney stayed planted in his way. Finally Dorsey swallowed and said, “Seems he got this notion in his head that I’ve been telling folks that he’s in cahoots with his brother.”

  Kerney raised a questioning eyebrow. “Have you?” he asked, but from the look on Dorsey’s face, he figured he already had the answer.

  “Don’t give me any crap, Kerney. Fact is, Kerry has gotten plain paranoid about all of this, to the point he thinks just about everybody in town has turned against him.”

  “So you thought you’d play good cop and bad cop with Kerry?” Kerney asked, unable to suppress his dismay. The room was empty except for Joe Easley and Clayton, who were having a conversation by the door.

  “Jesus, you can be a real prick. I’ll admit public sentiment isn’t on his side right now. But that’s because folks are feeling jittery about Larson running loose, and Kerry is a convenient target for their frustration.”

  “Such understanding souls.”

  Dorsey shrugged.

  “How about your second go-round with Larson’s old cronies and former friends?” Kerney inquired.

  “It’s a dry well,” Dorsey replied, “and priming it got me nowhere.”

  Kerney nodded. “Okay. Thanks for the update.”

  “Not a problem. Just don’t try to jack me around next time we talk.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive, Everett,” Kerney said, finally stepping aside to let Dorsey pass.

  “Screw you,” Dorsey said and headed for the door.

  Outside, Kerney found Clayton, who was looking up at a large illuminated star, a big American flag bathed in light, and a glowing “RATON” sign on the peak of a hill that towered over the city.

  “That’s Goat Hill,” Clayton said.

  “It that something you learned while studying the white man’s ways?”

  Clayton laughed. “Nope, Joe Easley told me.”

  “So that’s what you two were talking about.”

  “Oh yeah. You can learn a lot from the natives. The flag was added to commemorate 9/11. He also told me that the MI determined that Tami Phelan was raped. He’d forgotten to mention that in his briefing. What about you and Dorsey?” Clayton asked.

  “Dorsey got nowhere with Larson’s twin brother. I’m thinking he blew it with Kerry. He got real defensive when I questioned him about it.”

  “If that’s the case,” Clayton said, “maybe we should go and have a little chat with Kerry.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Let’s leave your car at the motel and ride together.”

  Kerney stifled a yawn. “Suits me.”

  “And you can nap along the way,” Clayton added as he stepped off toward his unit.

  Kerney shook his head and groaned in dismay as he followed. “To quote Everett Dorsey, ‘Don’t jack me around.’”

  “You’re right,” Clayton replied, over his shoulder. “Teasing one’s elders is disrespectful.”

  On the ranch road, Clayton pulled his unit up next to the parked state police vehicle, and asked the officer if Kerry Larson was at home.

  “Nope, left two hours ago,” the officer replied, “but he’s got a plainclothes tail on him.”

  “What has he been doing since he left the ranch?” Clayton.

  “He spent some time just sitting in his truck outside a church a few doors down from our substation. At first, we thought he was working up the courage to talk to us, but he just sat there and did nothing. Then he went and had a meal up at the diner on the north end of town. From there he bought a six-pack of beer at the convenience store, and for the last forty-five minutes he’s been at the Springer cemetery near the high school, drinking Bud Light at his mother’s grave.”

  Clayton turned to Kerney. “Want to wait for him here?”

  “Hold on.” Kerney leaned around Clayton. “How many beers has he had?” he asked the officer.

  “Let me check.” The officer keyed his microphone and repeated Kerney’s question. The reply came back that the subject had just opened his fourth brewski.

  “Am I sensing a DWI stop here?” Clayton asked.

  “With a good cop, bad cop twist to it,” Kerney replied with the smile. “If I remember correctly, Kerry has one prior DWI, which means a conviction will cost him his license and some jail time. That gives us a bargaining chip.”

  He got on the radio to Major Vanmeter and arranged to have Kerry Larson stopped by a uniformed officer in a marked vehicle after he left the cemetery.

  “Tell the officer to be hard-nosed, but to do it by the book,” Kerney added. “Have him taken to the substation after he fails the field sobriety test. We’ll pick it up from there.”

  “I have a patrol supervisor nearby,” Vanmeter replied. “I’ll have him stop the subject when he gets to the main drag. That way it shouldn’t arouse any suspicions.”

  “Excellent,” Kerney replied.

  Inside the Springer state police substation, a low counter separated the public waiting area from several desks used by officers to do shift paperwork and make phone calls. An unhappy-looking Kerry Larson sat in a chair next to one of the desks, his hands cuffed behind his back, watching the officer who’d arrested him fill out forms. On the desktop were the empties he’d thrown in the bed of his truck before leaving the cemetery, and the one unfinished beer he had been drinking when the cop pulled him over.

  The cop, a tough-looking sergeant with a nasty, pushy personality, wasn’t one of the regular officers who worked o
ut of Springer. Kerry didn’t know him, but the name tag on his uniform read “Shaya.” Sergeant Shaya had put Kerry facedown on the pavement before making him stand on one foot, put his finger on his nose, count backward, and do some other stupid stuff. Then he drove Kerry to the state police office and had him blow into a machine that could tell whether he was drunk or not. According to Sergeant Shaya, the machine proved that he was legally drunk. But Kerry didn’t feel that way, just jumpy and worried.

  “Maybe I should have come here instead of buying that six-pack,” Kerry said.

  Shaya looked at Kerry with interest. “Were you thinking about talking to somebody here?”

  “Gary,” Kerry said. “He’s a state cop like you but I can’t remember his last name.”

  “LeDoux.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. LeDoux.”

  “What did you want to talk to Officer LeDoux about?”

  Kerry licked his lips and shrugged. “Nothing special.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Shaya asked.

  Kerry glanced away from Shaya’s stare. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Listen, whatever you wanted to tell Officer LeDoux, you can tell me.”

  Kerry shook his head. “Nope. I don’t like you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Shaya returned his attention to his paperwork.

  “Are you going to put me in jail?”

  Shaya grunted without looking up. “That’s what happens when you drink and drive.”

  “Can’t I just pay a fine? I’ve got cash money in my wallet.”

  “No, you can’t. It’s not that simple.”

  The front door opened and two men wearing holstered handguns and police badges clipped to their belts entered. One looked like a rancher and the other looked Indian. If Kerry had seen them on the street without their guns and badges, he would have figured them to be just ordinary cow people.

  “Who are they?” Kerry asked.

  Sergeant Shaya got to his feet. “Stay put.”