On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  Struthers held up a hand and counted them off: “Livestock grazing, road expansion, mining and logging, and off-road vehicle use.”

  “You mentioned you and David disagreed when it came to operational activities. Would you explain that for me?”

  Barry Struthers pursed his lips. “David was content to attack environmental threats through public information campaigns, lobbying elected officials, that sort of thing. While those activities are important, I also believe in what I like to call, ‘constructive confrontation.’”

  Books had a pretty good idea what that meant, but he asked the question anyway. “Interesting choice of words, constructive confrontation. What exactly are you talking about?”

  “For the sake of clarification, let’s use road expansion as an example. I have no problem leading members into the field and physically disrupting illegal road expansion activity. David never thought that was appropriate. He wasn’t interested in rolling up his sleeves and getting his hands dirty.”

  Books moved on. “Several sources have told me that you and David not only engaged in shouting matches but that you had to be physically separated at a recent EEWA function. What can you tell me about that?”

  “It’s true, and I’m embarrassed about it. It shouldn’t have happened. I regret it, and David did as well. As far as the verbal spats are concerned, no big deal. We had those with some frequency, and I’m sure, we would have continued to have them.”

  “Did you have anything to do with David’s death?”

  “Absolutely not. I wasn’t even in town the weekend he was killed.”

  “Where were you?”

  “A skeet shooting competition in Boise, Idaho. We left Friday morning. I competed Saturday and Sunday. We drove back to Kanab on Monday. We heard about David’s death in a phone message left at the house by Cathy Carpenter Monday afternoon.”

  “You mentioned ‘we.’”

  “Oh, sorry. That’s my wife, Alice.”

  “The woman seated with you at the memorial service?”

  “That’s right. She had to get back to work. Alice handles the bookkeeping at the Parry Lodge.”

  Books nodded. “Do you have any theories about who might have killed David?”

  “It’s hard to say, but probably one of the local nutcase ranchers, or maybe a professional outfitter. They all hated him.”

  “What makes you think his killer might be a professional outfitter?”

  “Only that most of the outfitters spend much of their time in the wilderness, and a lot of them are right-wing crazies.”

  “Do you think he was stalked and then killed?”

  “I doubt it. When the dust settles, I’ll bet you’ll learn that it was an opportunity killing. Somebody saw him out there by himself and figured, why not?”

  Struthers sighed. “But, what difference does it really make. Dead is dead, right?”

  “Suppose so,” replied Books.

  Books remained at the Subway after Barry Struthers left. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He ordered a turkey sandwich and downed a can of Arizona iced tea.

  Books put little credence in Struther’s assertion that Greenbriar’s murder was a crime of opportunity. At the same time, he had no doubt that Struthers was exactly where he said he was the weekend of the murder. He would send Brian Call to interview Alice Struthers and pick up whatever documentation supported their presence in Idaho during the weekend.

  In the meantime, Books needed to find Trees McClain and settle a few issues.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  By his own count, Peter Deluca had killed twenty-seven men. That number didn’t include scores of Gooks he’d shot during two tours as an Army sniper in Nam back in ’72 and ’73. His had been a long career spanning more than thirty years. How ironic that the federal government provided the job training that led to a lucrative career as a mob enforcer.

  After the call, Deluca quickly packed a small duffel bag with several days’ clothes. A second case carried an assortment of firearms—tools of the trade, as he liked to think of them. He left his home in suburban Henderson and made the thirty-minute drive to McCarron International Airport. On the way, he dropped his female Cocker, Rosie III, at the local doggie day-care facility. It was actually a posh resort for pampered dogs. To Deluca’s way of thinking, nothing was too good for Rosie. At the airport, he parked his Cadillac Seville in long-term parking and caught a shuttle to the Hertz lot.

  He had rented an all-wheel drive Ford Explorer for the return trip to Kanab, a place he had hoped never to see again. Deluca much preferred the creature comforts of his Cadillac, but depending upon how it turned out, this job might require a four-wheel drive vehicle, something suitable for the wild terrain of the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument.

  The three-hour drive from Las Vegas gave Deluca ample time to think. In hindsight, he now regretted accepting this assignment. In more than thirty years of contract work, he had taken jobs outside the mob on only two occasions. Both of those contracts had been completed without serious complications. Now this one had come along, and with it came problems, serious ones.

  He arrived in Kanab at five p.m., pulling into one of those dumpy AAA-rated motels on the north end of town. He registered using false identification, and, as always, he paid in cash. Deluca enjoyed the better things in life, including good food. He couldn’t imagine anything approximating fine dining in Kanab. He asked the front desk clerk for recommendations, and he ended up at a so-so diner called the Kanab Creek Inn.

  Back in the Explorer, Deluca considered his dilemma. He knew exactly what he would do with Ronnie Gadasky once he found him. The problem was finding the little shit. He decided on a reconnaissance mission, knowing that he had to be ready to strike whenever the opportunity presented itself. One chance might be all he got.

  First, Deluca drove south through town. He found the old brick house and the double-wide mobile home that belonged to the old man, Ned Hunsaker. The mobile home was located about two hundred yards south and slightly west of the main house. Deluca noticed a ratty old pickup truck parked in a circular gravel driveway in front of the main house. It belonged to Ned Hunsaker. The mobile home looked deserted, but the federal cop, J.D. Books, rented it from Hunsaker. If it became necessary to go after Books, the smart play would be to go in after dark, take out the old man, and then deal with Books.

  Next, Deluca headed east on State Highway 89 to a narrow dirt road with a sign that read, Gadasky Towing & Salvage. Fortunately, he still had daylight. In the dark, he would have missed the turnoff. He located a shallow turnout next to the highway that provided an unobstructed view of any traffic entering or exiting the property. From what he’d been told, Ronnie Gadasky lived with his father and one brother. The kid drove a red dirt bike that shouldn’t be difficult to spot. Given his druthers, Deluca preferred to kill Ronnie away from home, and, if possible, avoid having to deal with other members of his family. He was, however, prepared to kill the boy at home even if it meant taking out the entire Gadasky clan.

  Deluca removed a disposable cell phone from his shirt pocket and dialed the Gadasky home. Nobody answered. Fifteen minutes later he called again. Still no answer. He decided to go in and have a look around.

  From his gun case, Deluca removed a compact .380 caliber Ruger automatic with a six-round magazine. It was a nice little piece, good for close range work. He attached a sound suppressor to the barrel and then shoved it into the waistband of his pants.

  He parked the Explorer next to the highway and walked down a winding dirt road. Everything at the house was as described except for the three-legged dog that gave a couple of disinterested barks and then hobbled his direction from the covered front porch. She was a friendly old girl, nearly blind, he thought, looking only for a pat on the head. Still she might become a problem should he have to return at night to an occupied house. He saw no reason to worry about that now. If it became a problem later, he’d deal wi
th it then.

  In his professional life, Peter Deluca had chosen to keep things simple. He conducted business using a few basic rules. He refused to kill women or children. He accepted assignments only from known mob associates in the Chicago Outfit or people recommended by them. And he fastidiously avoided jobs that might involve killing animals, dogs in particular. He was convinced that dogs, unlike people, were God’s only living creatures capable of providing unconditional love, courage, loyalty, and trust. And sadly, he thought, they often gave far more to people than they received in return.

  Deluca knocked on the front door and waited. When nobody answered, he twisted the knob and stepped into the small living room. He stood perfectly still, listening for any sound that might reveal someone’s presence. Convinced that he was alone, he moved quickly from room to room until he came to a door on the second floor with a hand-printed sign on it that read, “Ronnie’s Room—Stay Out.” He tried the door. It was locked. It took him all of thirty seconds to pick the lock.

  It was a small bedroom that resembled a train wreck, clutter everywhere. Several pairs of boots had been tossed haphazardly on the floor. Clothes were scattered all over the room. The bed was unmade. The sheets hadn’t been washed in months.

  The closet contained a three drawer metal file cabinet. In the bottom drawer, Deluca found an old shoe box. Inside was a stack of color photographs wrapped in an old washcloth and held in place with rubber bands.

  The pictures were of the same strikingly beautiful woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She had long black hair and a dark complexion, a petite body, firm and toned yet not muscular. The woman was photographed inside and outside the house. In some, she was dressed, or partially so. In others, she was completely naked. Several of the nudes had been taken in a backyard hot tub.

  To Deluca, a couple of things seemed clear. In none of the pictures was the woman photographed looking directly into the camera, and the woman’s hair and clothing were different from picture to picture. That meant the photographs were taken over a period of time, not in a single session. And the young woman in the pictures had no idea she was being stalked.

  Deluca studied the photos. Ronnie Gadasky had a dirty secret. The fucking little pervert was a peeping Tom, a stalker who at least had the good taste to single out a looker for a victim. Who was the woman and why had the kid selected her? At random? Someone he knew? Deluca kept one picture of the woman and a second of the front of her home. The rest he returned to the shoebox.

  Twilight was slowly giving way to darkness when Deluca heard the sound of an approaching diesel engine. He peeked out the bedroom window in time to see a three-quarter-ton flatbed truck pull up in front with a rusted-out Jeep Wrangler strapped on top. An elderly man wearing a dirty ball cap started up the walkway toward the front door, stopping just long enough to give the old dog a scratch on the ears. Deluca removed the Ruger from the waistband of his pants and slipped out the back door. He moved quickly away from the house, crossing an open area and then a shallow depression covered with rock, sagebrush, and scattered juniper. His departure went unnoticed. His path brought him onto the state highway a couple of hundred yards from his SUV.

  Driving back to town, Deluca thought about the young woman in the photographs. Assuming she lived in town, how difficult could it be to find her? Probably not very. Kanab was a small town, and he had a picture of her and the house she lived in. It was a pueblo-style ranch home, probably in an upscale area. How many could there be in a place like Kanab?

  Maybe the hunt for Ronnie Gadasky had just gotten easier.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  After leaving the Subway, Books drove to Neil Eddins’ ranch looking for Tommy McClain, but there was no sign of him or his 2002 GMC pickup. Books stopped at the small bunkhouse that served as McClain’s home, located a quarter mile from the main compound.

  When nobody answered his knock, Books opened the front door and walked in. No sign of McClain. The bunkhouse was empty. He decided to snoop around.

  McClain seemed an unlikely candidate to win the seal of Good Housekeeping Award. The place was a dive. The only source of heat was a pot-bellied wood-burning stove that sat in the kitchen. There was enough dust on the furniture to write your last will and testament. An old bunk bed with an equally old pair of stained mattresses was pushed against one wall. A single bed with sheets and a tattered blanket rested against another. Books found nothing in the bed or under the mattress. When he lifted the pillow, he found himself staring at a .357 Smith & Wesson revolver with a six-inch barrel. Only a paranoid man slept with a handgun under his pillow, thought Books.

  On the dining room table, he sifted through a stack of mail, junk and unpaid bills mostly, and newspaper clippings describing the murder. He rifled through a dresser drawer but found nothing useful. A six-foot high metal locker stood next to the bed. On the floor of the locker, Books found a stack of Captain Marvel comic books and an assortment of adult skin magazines. McClain’s reading interests didn’t appear to include Hemingway or Shakespeare. As he stood to close the locker, the front door opened and Neil Eddins walked in.

  “I assume you have a court order giving you permission to search these premises,” said Eddins.

  “You caught me red-handed, Neil.”

  “I figured as much. What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Trees.”

  “Well, you won’t find him hiding in that locker you’re rummaging through.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that.”

  Eddins shook his head. “You just can’t let it go, can you, J.D?”

  “Let go of what?”

  “You know darn well what.”

  Books shrugged. “No, I can’t, and yes, I do.”

  “I just don’t get it. You quickly solved a complex murder case that our sheriff probably wouldn’t have, the BLM has to be pleased with the job you’ve done, and this community owes you a huge debt of gratitude. Why isn’t that enough? Accept the accolades, J.D., and move on. It’s in everyone’s best interest.”

  “You mean everyone except the guy who’s about to be charged with a murder he likely didn’t commit. What about him, Neil? Do we just flush him down the toilet in the interest of community harmony?”

  “Don’t be foolish. There’s more than enough evidence linking Lance Clayburn to this crime. Even you can’t explain the incriminating evidence, can you? Everybody sees that except you.”

  “I’m amazed how much the armchair quarterbacks seem to know about this case, but you’re right, Neil, at the moment, I can’t explain the physical evidence. I’m working on it, though. There’s more to this case than the evidence. Some things don’t add up.”

  Eddins stepped closer to Books. “You know, J.D., I can be the best friend you’ve got in this town or your worst enemy. Unfortunately, you seem hell-bent on the latter. I can turn the thermostat on you up so high that you’ll be dancing on your tip-toes like a ballerina. I wish you’d reconsider your position.”

  “Sorry, Neil, I’m afraid I can’t do that. Now where can I find Trees?”

  Eddins sighed. “Have it your way. Trees and a couple of his friends have gone bow hunting. I don’t expect him back until sometime Sunday.”

  “Where does he like to hunt?”

  Eddins studied him for a moment before answering. “He mentioned heading up Johnson Canyon. My guess is that you’ll find him camped somewhere along the Skutumpah Road.”

  Books headed for the bunkhouse door. “Thanks, Neil. I’ll see if I can find him.”

  “Hey, J.D.”

  “Yeah,”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  After leaving Eddins, Books drove to the Johnson Canyon Road and turned north into the Grand Staircase on the long-shot chance he might find McClain. He knew that he was running out of time and options. Tomorrow’s meeting with D.A. Virgil Bell would likely result in murder charges against Lance Clayburn, something he now
saw little chance of forestalling.

  ***

  Peter Deluca returned to Kanab. He checked three real estate offices before he found one with a car parked in front and the lights on. He walked in and was greeted by a young man dressed in jeans, a sport shirt, and cowboy boots. “Can I help you with something?” said the realtor, a friendly smile on his face.

  “I hope so,” said Deluca. “I was just passing through on vacation and fell in love with the area. It’s beautiful country.”

  “Sure is,” said the Realtor. “I’m Stan Utley, by the way. And you are….”

  “Andrew Wiley,” replied Deluca.

  “Where are you from, Mr. Wiley?”

  “Reno, Nevada.”

  “And you’re interested in land to build on or perhaps a second home?” said Utley.

  “A second home.” Deluca removed the photograph he’d just taken from Gadasky’s home and handed it to the realtor. “I really like pueblo-style homes. They fit so well into the local landscape. Where can I find houses like this one around here?”

  Utley studied the picture and then said, “Southwest style homes are very popular in Kane County. You could build a house like this on almost any property you purchased so long as there are no restrictive covenants.”

  “But what about existing homes? Where can I find houses like this?”

  Utley thought some more. “There aren’t any housing developments that specialize in pueblo-style homes. But I’d say, if you looked around on the west side of town, across Kanab Creek, you’ll find more of this style home than anywhere else. Just get on Kanab Creek Drive and it’ll take you into the area I’m talking about. Would you like me to search the multiple listing data base for you and see what we can find?”

  Deluca smiled. “Why don’t you just give me your business card? I’d like to drive around on my own tomorrow and then I’ll check back with you. Would that be okay?”

  “Certainly.” Utley handed Deluca his card.

  Deluca’s next stop was the Kanab library. He introduced himself to the librarian as a reporter for the Associated Press. He asked to read everything pertaining to the murder and anything related to J.D. Books. He told her that he’d been assigned to write a breakout piece on Books. Much of what he read, particularly about the murder, he already knew. But he learned a few things about J.D. Books he hadn’t known.