On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  It was nearly ten-thirty. Call might not even be at home, but if he was, why wait to see if the deputy had set a trap for him in town? He negotiated a couple of turns before he parked the Explorer and shut off the engine. He looked around, momentarily confused, unsure whether he was in the right place. The terrain looked vastly different in daylight from the stark, shadowed night scene.

  Deluca reloaded the .22 and got out of the truck. Only the occasional sound of a barking dog or the volume from a television set interrupted the eerie silence of the night. He started up the dirt road, moving as fast as he could. The pain from the gunshot wound reverberated up and down the length of his arm. His breathing grew labored as the dirt road climbed steadily higher toward a black mesa that blotted out the starlit sky. He began to perspire and stopped to catch his breath when he felt light-headed. Christ, he was getting too old for this. He continued for another fifty meters until the road crested and then flattened out.

  Call’s double-wide mobile home sat on a shallow circular driveway next to the road. His 4 x 4 Dodge pickup, with the Kane County Sheriff’s Department logo emblazed on the side, was parked in front. The lights in the home were on, so Call had not yet headed into town for their eleven o’clock meet.

  The front door stood open. Deluca pulled the .22 as he climbed two wooden steps and reached for the screen door. He pulled gently. The screen door was locked. Deluca gave it one hard yank, nearly ripping off its hinges, and burst into the small living room.

  Call emerged from a room down the hallway. As Deluca raised the pistol to fire, Call abruptly turned and ran for a back bedroom. For a middle-aged fat man, Call was far more deft on his feet than Deluca would have imagined. He fired one shot as Call dove into the bedroom out of sight. The shot struck Call in the upper back and the man yelped in pain. As Deluca ran down the hallway in pursuit, he heard the sound of breaking glass. He peeked around the corner into the bedroom just as Call dove headfirst through the window, grunting as he landed on the ground. Deluca reached the window in time to fire twice more at the retreating figure, unsure whether either shot found its mark. He jumped out the window feet first and followed Call into the darkness. A short distance from the back of the home, he stood perfectly still and listened. The only thing Deluca heard was the sound of his own ragged breathing. The further he moved away from ambient light provided by the house, the darker it became. Soon he became disoriented. The exertion of the chase gave him a serious case of nausea.

  He decided not to waste any more time. He retreated to the Explorer as quickly as his weakened condition allowed. Blood from the bullet wound soaked through the bandage and ran down his arm.

  Deluca cursed himself for not using a larger caliber weapon with more stopping power. The twenty-two had failed to do the job, and Call had escaped. The best he could hope for now was that Call would crawl away into the dense brush and die from his wound.

  The gig was over. Deluca was going to have to run, but not before he made one last stop in town.

  ***

  Books had a bad feeling about the stakeout, but he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps Sutter’s anxiety had become his own. Everybody was in position. Hand-held radios had been issued to each officer. The surveillance van had taken up a position about one-half block east of the city park. They seemed to have the bases covered. Sutter had suggested that Books remain mobile on the perimeter of the park since everyone else would be on foot. Books agreed and dropped the Yukon at home, picking up his personal vehicle, an F-150 truck.

  Books glanced at his watch. It was five minutes until eleven. Where was Call? He couldn’t afford to arrive late for this party. Deluca was elusive, and it wouldn’t take much to spook him.

  In the next instant, everything changed.

  The radio crackled and an obviously distraught Brian Call screamed into the mike. “Dispatch, dispatch, this is Call. I’ve been shot—request medical assistance and backup.”

  The dispatcher remained calm. “Your 10/20, Deputy Call?”

  “My house. Get somebody to my fucking house now. Christ, I’m bleeding all over the place.”

  Police and ambulance were sent immediately. Officers at the stakeout broke for their vehicles, two civilian SUVs stashed nearby. When Books heard the radio traffic, he punched the accelerator and sped toward Call’s home. If Books got lucky, he might intercept Deluca. The white Explorer shouldn’t be difficult to spot, assuming Deluca hadn’t changed vehicles.

  The dispatcher tried to get additional information from Call. “Try to remain calm, Brian. Can you tell us what happened?”

  “The suspect showed up on my door step and started shooting.”

  “Is the suspect still on scene?”

  “Negative. I think he’s gone.”

  “Did you observe a suspect vehicle?”

  “Negative. I think he came on foot, but I’m not sure.”

  “Where did you last observe him?”

  “In my goddamned living room,” shouted Call.

  Books raced out State Highway 89, hoping he’d be able to spot the turnoff into Call’s neighborhood. The ambulance siren wailed some distance behind him. Oncoming traffic was light. The surveillance van closed quickly behind him. Books slowed and waved it around, allowing the van to lead him to Call’s home. They traveled another quarter-mile before the van turned north onto a dirt road. Books followed. Seconds later they topped a small hill and Call’s sheriff’s vehicle came into view.

  They found him lying on his stomach on the floor of the living room, conscious, in pain, and losing a lot of blood. A small entry wound in the upper left part of his back bled freely. It looked to Books like a wound from a small caliber gun, a twenty-two, or maybe a twenty-five.

  While the other deputies went to work on Call, Books began a circular search of the grounds, using the home as center point. He could hear the sound of approaching emergency vehicles, their sirens screaming in the night. Within minutes, Call’s property was crawling with police.

  Books continued his search until he became convinced Deluca was long gone. Where would he have gone? If Deluca was as smart as he seemed, he’d resist the temptation to run. Instead, he would find a place to hide until things cooled down. But what if he had used the attack on Call as a diversion? It seemed like every cop in the county had converged on Call’s home. What if Peter Deluca had another agenda?

  Books could think of only one possibility. He jumped into his truck and headed back into town.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Deluca heard the sound of sirens as he crossed Kanab Creek. He was disappointed. The sound meant only one thing: Brian Call was still alive, and the cavalry was riding to the rescue. He’d hit him once for sure, and maybe twice.

  Ivan Gadasky had mentioned sending Ronnie someplace where he’d be safe. To Deluca, that meant Ronnie was already in police custody or he’d taken refuge at the home of his lawyer, Rebecca Eddins. That’s where he was going. If he got lucky, he might still complete the job and get out of town with his reputation intact. If the drive-by gave no indication that Ronnie was inside, he would leave immediately and never set foot in this cowboy town again.

  Deluca was unsure what Ronnie Gadasky might be driving. The dirt bike was back at the house. He drove slowly down the dimly lit street past Rebecca Eddins’ fake adobe home. Parked in the driveway was old man Gadasky’s rusted-out hulk of a pickup. He couldn’t believe his luck. Finally, he’d found the little pervert. What would Eddins think if she knew that her erstwhile client was a peeping Tom who’d stalked her and filmed some of her most intimate moments?

  He needed to move quickly to get this over with and be on his way. While he had no reason to believe the Eddins woman would be particularly dangerous, he wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances. Everybody in this neck of the woods owned guns. He’d been duped once tonight, and he wouldn’t let it happen again.

  He parked down the street. From his gun case, Deluca removed a nine-millimeter Glock,
loaded it with a nine-bullet clip, released the safety, and walked toward the house.

  ***

  On his way into town, Books radioed Charley Sutter. “Where the hell did you disappear too?” asked Sutter.

  “On my way to check something out in town. I need you to get somebody out to Ivan Gadasky’s place right away.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just a hunch, but what if our suspect decides to make one more try at Ronnie Gadasky. He might show up at the Gadasky home.”

  “Doesn’t seem too likely, but I’ll send a couple of officers out there to check it out. Where are you gonna be?”

  “I’m on my way to Rebecca Eddins home.”

  “How come?”

  “Same reason you’re sending officers to Gadasky’s home.” Books disconnected.

  Books was almost at the house when her 911 call came into dispatch. It was just what he’d feared. Rebecca Eddins had called the sheriff’s department claiming that someone was outside her home, trying windows and doors. Books knew exactly who the intruder was and hoped Eddins did as well.

  He doused his headlights as he turned down Eddins’ street. He drove slowly past her house, spotting Ivan Gadasky’s truck in the driveway. The white Ford Explorer was parked several houses down the street. He parked and got out of the pickup, careful not to announce his presence by slamming the truck door.

  Drawing his BLM-issued .357-magnum Smith & Wesson revolver, Books quickly disabled the Explorer, and then hurried on to the house.

  ***

  As he looked through the front windows of the house, Deluca sensed that the place was empty. Maybe Eddins had done the smart thing, taken her son and Ronnie Gadasky and headed straight to the police. The dark exterior windows deflected glare and heat from the sun. It was difficult, even from up close, to see much inside.

  First, Deluca tried a window to a corner office. It wouldn’t budge. He stayed close to the house, moving along the front, until he came to a portico leading to a double set of Spanish-style front doors. He tried those—locked. Across the portico, he passed under a window with opaque glass, probably a bathroom. It, too, was locked. Deluca left the cover of the darkened portico passing in front of a triple-car garage. From the corner of the garage, he moved westward toward the back of the home. A lava rock path surrounded by desert shrubs and decorative bark led to a stucco wall shaded by a large juniper tree. Deluca jumped and pulled himself up and over the wall. His feet landed in a small patch of cacti in the back yard.

  He stopped and listened. At first, the only thing he heard was the shrill, chirping sound of the resident crickets. Then he heard a television set. Maybe they were home. Maybe she was feeding the little perv milk and cookies. Maybe she felt safe, or maybe she felt like he used to feel—invincible. He didn’t feel invincible any longer. Every instinct in his body told him something was wrong and he should get out while he still had the chance. But he didn’t. For once, pride and stubbornness to fulfill the contract overcame good judgment.

  Deluca started across the back of the house, staying low and hugging the wall. He stopped again and listened. He heard the unmistakable sound of the TV, canned laughter, a sitcom, maybe. He could see lights on inside. Then he heard the woman’s voice.

  “Can I get you anything else to eat?”

  “No,” came a faint reply. It was the Eddins woman and the kid. It had to be.

  Deluca considered whether to attempt a shot from the outside through a window, or try a frontal assault—go right in after them. Then he saw the open sliding glass door leading into the kitchen. Decision made. A frontal assault it would be.

  He removed the Glock from its holster, clicked the safety into the off position, and chambered a round. He stood, took a deep breath, and rushed the door.

  ***

  From behind a large landscape rock near the edge of the property, Books scanned horizontally across the front of the sprawling home looking for any sign of movement. Nothing.

  He moved quickly toward the corner of the house, his gun extended in front of him moving back and forth along an imaginary firing line. From the garage, Books started for the rear of the house. A five-foot-high stucco wall stood in his path. He jumped over it and dropped into the backyard before continuing to the rear corner of the house. He peeked around the corner in time to see Deluca kick down a flimsy screen door leading into the house. Books stepped around the corner in a combat crouch and yelled at Deluca to drop his weapon. Deluca spun and fired three quick shots as Books dove to the ground. Deluca’s speed had surprised him. He felt an intense burning sensation in his left leg and realized that at least one of Deluca’s shots had found its mark. Lying on his right side, Books gripped the Smith & Wesson with both hands and returned fire. He didn’t stop shooting until the gun was empty.

  ***

  Deluca stood to his full six feet three inches and gaped at the growing red stain across the front of his white Polo shirt. The bullet had entered his abdomen just above the belt line. Until tonight, he’d never been shot. Now he’d been shot twice. He had always wondered what it might feel like. Rather than pain, Deluca’s belly felt numb. Nauseated and lightheaded, he staggered toward the prone figure of the uniformed cop. The man’s face was a mask of sweat and pain as he continued squeezing the trigger of the empty handgun. Deluca noticed the dark stain spreading on the cop’s trouser leg. He was losing a lot of blood. The men stared at each other for an instant. Something passed between them, mutual respect, maybe, certainly not fear.

  “Out of ammo, huh,” said Deluca. He raised the Glock and pointed it at Books’ head.

  Books stared back at him but said nothing.

  “I’m not,” said a voice from behind him.

  As Deluca turned, he heard a deafening explosion and saw a bright muzzle flash as Ned Hunsaker fired the 12-gauge Remington shotgun. The shot caught him in the neck and face. The force of the blast knocked him to the ground. The Glock skittered away along the brick patio floor.

  The last conscious thought Peter Deluca had was about Rosie. What would happen to her? Who would care for his beloved Rosie? He tried to speak, to form the words, but he couldn’t. Then everything faded to black.

  ***

  Books would remember little of the next twenty-four hours as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He remembered pressure on the wound and words of encouragement from Becky Eddins and Ned Hunsaker. He recalled being jostled into the waiting ambulance, someone at the hospital cutting away his trousers, and bright overhead lights as he rolled into the operating room.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Afterword

  September brought relief from the intense summer heat. The tourist season was winding down, autumn was around the corner, and the deer hunt was in full swing. It had been nearly three weeks since the showdown at Becky Eddins’ home. The gunshot wound Books had sustained, courtesy of Peter “the Rose” Deluca, was on the mend. In retrospect, he’d been lucky. The bullet hadn’t shattered bone nor had it struck a major artery. He had endured a low grade infection in the leg, but ten days of antibiotics had cured it. The leg chronically ached, so he was forced temporarily to use a cane to get around.

  Becky Eddins and Ned Hunsaker became self-appointed managers of his rehabilitation program. They’d hovered like mother hens since his release from the hospital and elevated the art of well-intentioned nagging to a whole new level. Even his father, Bernie, had lent a hand.

  After the autopsy, the Utah Medical Examiner’s Office released the body of Peter Deluca. Despite a concerted effort, nobody had been able to locate family, and consequently nobody claimed the body. His remains were eventually returned to Las Vegas, where he was buried in a pauper’s grave in a city-owned cemetery.

  Books still hadn’t been cleared to resume work in the field, but in the last days, inactivity and sheer boredom drove him to BLM headquarters, where he pestered Alexis Runyon for something to do. She obliged by assigning him mundane clerica
l jobs that kept him busy and out of her office.

  On this night, Books left headquarters late. He stopped at the town market and purchased two bouquets of fresh flowers. One was for Becky Eddins, who had invited him to dinner, and the other was for his mother’s grave. He parked the Yukon near the cemetery office and hobbled, cane in hand, the short distance to the grave. He laid the flowers across his mother’s headstone and sat down on the lawn next to her. He stayed for a while. When he glanced up, Ned Hunsaker was striding toward him.

  “Evening, Ned.”

  “J.D.”

  “I’ll bet I know what brought you here.”

  Hunsaker grunted, “Same as you. I figured it was time to tidy up around the graves.”

  “Yup.”

  Neither man spoke for a time. Books broke the silence. “Something on your mind, Ned?”

  “Sure is. I’ve been meaning to talk with you when it felt like the time was right.”

  “Well, I guess that makes two of us because I’ve got something to say to you, too.”

  “You do?” said Ned, looking puzzled.

  “Yeah. I never thanked you for saving my life. If you hadn’t been on guard duty at Becky’s that night, I’d have been toast. So thanks for saving my life.”

  “You don’t need to thank me, J.D. If you hadn’t called and given me the heads up, Becky and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to set up the welcoming committee for Mr. Deluca.” Hunsaker cleared his throat. “Besides, you didn’t think I’d let anything happen to my own son, do you?”

  For a moment, Books thought he hadn’t heard Hunsaker correctly. Then he looked the old man in the eyes, and he knew. “I’m your son.”

  Hunsaker looked away into the distance. Tears filled his eyes. “Before you say anything, please hear me out.”