While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Cameron parked behind her, then crossed a front yard teaming with crabgrass, along with an assortment of other weeds in various stages of bloom. At the front of the house, rusted hinges dangled off the frame where a screen door had once hung, and the main door itself seemed in need of a refurbish. It appeared someone had made a feeble attempt to paint over the warped, cracked wood, but that was already starting to peel away. Not the best place to raise a kid, Cameron thought, but at least the boy stayed with family.

  He pushed the doorbell, then knocked when he didn’t get a response. A few seconds later, the door opened to a narrow crack, revealing a ruby-tinged, twitching nose.

  “Assistant Sheriff Cameron Dawson,” he said to the nose.

  The door moved open some more, exposing the face that went with it, which did not welcome, nor did it speak.

  “I need to talk to you about your grandson, Ryan.”

  “One minute.” Bobbi said, in a husky voice that sounded like too many cigarettes. She pushed the door closed, and Cameron heard the security chain disengaging. When it opened again, an odor of stale cigarette smoke emerged almost instantly, as did the hollow-cheeked woman herself.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” she snarled, her thick voice tempered with a combative undertone. “Come in!”

  Ignoring the less-than-warm welcome, Cameron followed her inside.

  “I figured you’d be coming,” she said, ambling toward the kitchen. “I made tea.”

  Cameron heard glasses clanging together, combined with the faint sound of sniffling.

  Bobbi emerged from the kitchen holding two glasses filled with iced tea, placed one on a TV stand by the couch, and then motioned for Cameron to sit there. She took the other glass to a threadbare Lazy Boy recliner. After lowering herself into it, she reached for a pack of non-filtered Pall Malls and pulled one out, almost as if having one were as much a part of her responsibility as speaking to him. Holding the cigarette to her lips with two fingers, she lit-up, took one long drag, and inhaled every bit of it deep into her lungs. Two thick jets of gray smoke escaped through her nostrils, becoming thinner with each passing second. Looking much more relaxed after a calming dose of nicotine, she looked up at Cameron. “So what can I do ya for?”

  “Tell me,” Cameron said, deciding to delve right in. “What happened with Ryan’s parents?”

  “My daughter?” she said, then snorted. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her in years. Heard she’s living somewhere in Arizona. As for the father, well, we never figured out who he even was.”

  “Why did your daughter leave?”

  “She didn’t leave—not really. County took him away.” Bobbi pulled another drag from her cigarette, rolled her eyes, then forced the smoke out through her mouth. Her tone was singsong. “It’s a long story. If ya got a few hours, I’ll tell ya ‘bout it. Otherwise, I’ll just give you the short version and say she wasn’t fit to raise a canary, let alone a child.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Ha!” she said with a deep cackle that morphed into a wet cough. “Drugs, drinking, gambling, men, you name it, she had her hands full of it. A real winner, my daughter.”

  “How old was Ryan?”

  Bobbi looked toward the ceiling and moved her lips as if counting. “I wanna say … yeah, when Ryan was ten. She tried to make a go at parenting. Failed miserably, of course.”

  “What happened?”

  “Went out to get stoned one night—or whatever she was into at the time—and left Ryan at home all by himself.” She took another quick drag, then spoke, exhaling simultaneously. “Used to do it all the time. Well, that time it was one too many. Ryan got into some kinda trouble—can’t remember what—and a neighbor called the cops. When she finally came home, the boy was gone, and there was a nice little letter from the county stuck to her front door.

  “And then you got him?” Cameron asked.

  “Not right away. There were hearings in front of the judge. Don’t think she even showed up. Pathetic. I was there, of course, just like always. It was the least I could do. Poor kid. Wasn’t his fault his mother was such a screw-up. Anyway, surprise, surprise, they deemed her an unfit mother. And guess who they awarded custody to?”

  Cameron mindlessly watched the end of her cigarette; it was becoming long, the ash about to fall off. He nodded toward it. She looked down, flicked, sucked twice, and then put it out in a plate that looked like it had once accommodated something with mustard. A thick, creamy puff of smoke jumped from her mouth, then two thinner jets rushed from her nostrils.

  “You didn’t want to take the boy?” he asked.

  “Well, not at first. I hadn’t raised a kid in years.” She looked at him with a deadpan expression. “I wasn’t exactly up for Mother of The Year after my first tour of duty. I sure as hell wasn’t thrilled about having to do it all over again.”

  Cameron attempted a sympathetic smile.

  She reflected for a few seconds eyeing the pack of cigarettes as if contemplating another. “But Ryan, he was different. Kid’ll grow on ya if ya let him. Cute, too. Real sweet. And smart? Oh, you shoulda seen him. Don’t know where that came from. Sure didn’t get it from this side of the family.”

  “Did his learning disability cause him much trouble?”

  “Oh, I knew it hadda be somethin’. He was too smart to be pullin’ the kind of shitty…” she stopped, smiled, then corrected herself, “…bad marks he was gettin’. I figgered either he was goofin’ off too much, or there was somethin’ else wrong.”

  “The dyslexia,” Cameron suggested.

  She moved her index finger around in circles beside her head. “Head problems. They finally figgered it out … the geniuses.”

  “And that’s how he met Alma Gutierrez.”

  Bobbi grew quiet all of a sudden, and her eyes began to glisten. She reached for another cigarette, lit it fast—something to comfort herself. “Yeah, that’s when everything went all wrong. He liked her. Talked about her all the time. I just don’t understand how he could—”

  “He never displayed any sort of violent behavior?”

  “Ryan?” She looked at him as if the question were absurd. “Never. He was a pussycat. Wouldn’t think of hurting a soul.”

  A pussycat who sliced his teacher in half, pulling her organs out of her body as if it was some kind of carnival grab-bag.

  “I know what you’re thinking!” she snapped. “But that’s not Ryan.” She looked away, then, “That’s not my grandbaby.”

  “What do you think happened, then?”

  She looked down at her cigarette as if she’d forgotten it was there, tapped the ash off onto her plate, then took one long, final drag before snuffing it out. “I don’t know, but as sure as I’m sittin’ here—that boy ain’t the violent kind. He’d never hurt anyone, especially not Alma. He loved that woman.”

  “There’s a history of substance abuse in the family. Any signs Ryan might’ve been using?” Cameron suggested.

  She looked back at him, appalled, almost as if he’d just asked her to take off her clothes. “You must be joking. Ryan hated that stuff. He saw what it did to his momma. Wouldn’t have no part of it.”

  Cameron shifted gears. “Did Ryan ever go hunting?”

  “Hmmm. The deer thing.” She said the word as if it smelled like rotten egg. “Heard about that. Kinda figgered that was coming. Yeah, Ryan used to go with his grandfather, my husband.”

  “He still around?”

  “No. My Henry passed on several years ago.” Bobbi paused to think, as if taking a trip back in time, then shuttled back to the present. Her tone suddenly grew quiet. “Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cameron said. “How long ago?”

  She let out a sigh with sound. “Seven years. It’s been seven years now.”

  “They hunted together? Him and Ryan?”

  “Yeah. Before my daughter lost custody. Henry used to take him out during buck season. He was about five or six. Quality time. You know?”

&
nbsp; Cameron nodded.

  “Gives a young man a sense of accomplishment. Teaches him responsibility,” she said, almost as if defending her deceased husband. “Henry was good with Ryan.”

  “So the boy knows how to prepare the animal once it’s killed?”

  “If you’re talking about the field dressing, then yes,” she said, “Henry taught him that. Ryan was too young to actually shoot. Used to go along and help, but I’ll tell you what: my husband’s probably turning in his grave right now. He’d kick that boy’s ass from here ‘til next Tuesday if he knew …” She stopped, shaking her head in disgust.

  Cameron glanced around the room. “Did Ryan sleep in the bedroom?”

  “No, I do … figger, why not? I pay the rent, I get the bennies, right?” She pointed at the couch where Cameron was sitting. “He slept right there. Folds open to a bed.”

  Cameron looked down at the couch, then back up at her. “Where did he keep his personal belongings?”

  “Boy didn’t have a heck of a lot. I could barely afford to keep clothes on his back—thank you Jesus for SSI—so he lived pretty simple, but not by choice. Didn’t seem to mind it much, though.” She nodded toward a corner of the room. “Kept his clothes in that dresser over there.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Be my guest. Take you all of about … what … like, two seconds? Like I said, kid didn’t have much.”

  Cameron walked over to the dresser, pulled open each drawer, and looked inside but found nothing other than a few polo shirts, underwear, and socks. After closing the final drawer, he thought for a moment, then looked at her. “Any idea where he might be right now?”

  She threw her hands up. “Damned if I know.”

  Cameron nodded, deliberating for a moment. “One last thing. Did Ryan have access to a hunting knife of any sort?”

  Bobbi eyed him suspiciously. “Hunting knife?”

  “Yeah. Alma was killed with one,” he said, a reminder, even though he knew she needed none.

  Bobbi’s eyes widened and her voice got defensive. “If he did, he sure as shit didn’t get it from me.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, ma’am, just wanted to know if he had access to any. If you ever saw him with one.”

  She drew a ragged breath and thought—or at least that’s what she appeared to be doing—then said, “My husband had one, but that was a long time ago.”

  “Any idea where it is now?”

  “Haven’t got a clue.” Bobbi shrugged. “Wouldn’t even know where’ta start lookin’.”

  “Think harder, Ms. Kimmons.” Cameron took a step closer toward her.

  Bobbi stepped back, shot him a look, then reflected. A moment later, she pointed toward the bedroom. “The trunk under my bed—that’s where I saw it last.

  “Can we check?”

  She sighed, then gestured toward her bedroom.

  Cameron went through. He knelt down by the bed, pulled out the trunk, and opened it.

  No knife. Not anywhere.

  Cameron looked up at Bobbi.

  She said nothing; she didn’t have to, but her eyes revealed plenty: a combination of surprise, edged by uncertainty. Bobbi shifted her weight nervously from side to side.

  Cameron closed the trunk.

  “Sheriff,” she said, shaking her head. “I got a strange feeling this is gonna end up bad … Real bad.”

  Cameron had the same feeling.

  Chapter Ten

  Old Route 15

  Faith, New Mexico

  Eleven-year-old Ben Foley sat straight up in bed. His pores flared open. His breathing accelerated. His heart began to pound.

  Then thoughts began flooding his mind, violent ones that grew more volatile, more deadly with each passing second.

  A feverish rage—or something like it—burned deep within his gut. The sensation began to rise and swell; it coursed through his veins, gathering intensity, spreading like wildfire. The feeling was now feeding upon itself, wheeling toward the desire to kill.

  His energy was changing; he knew it. He felt different now: cool, enormously powerful, and dangerously bent on causing harm. The effect was wild and intoxicating. Eyes cold and vapid, movements robotic, he barely looked human.

  He ran out into the hallway and snatched the rifle from a storage closet.

  Staring vacantly ahead, the boy moved through the shadows and toward the other bedrooms, each step becoming more determined, more urgent. He dragged the gun behind him, its rusted barrel scraping against the hardwood and producing a high-pitched squeal; it sounded eerie, menacing.

  Ben Foley went calmly from bedroom to bedroom. Each time he got to one, he stood in the doorway, raised the rifle, and took aim, gazing with indifference into the pleading eyes of those who loved him. Then, with the pinpoint accuracy of an expert marksman, he fired, extinguishing each life as if it meant nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Earsplitting shots slapped at the air and traveled swiftly through the house, bouncing off walls, then moving outside where they evaporated into the evening air.

  In a matter of just a few minutes, Ben had done the unthinkable, wiping out his entire family, the ones who had nurtured and loved him all his young life.

  Effortlessly.

  When he was done, he walked back down the hallway toward his bedroom, calm, detached, as if nothing had ever happened. Then, almost dutifully, he stepped into his closet, closed the door, and sat against the rear wall. Inserting the rigid metal barrel up into the roof of his mouth, he used his toe to engage the trigger. A muffled bang sounded off from inside the closet. And then there was silence.

  Complete silence.

  Unnatural stillness lingered afterward. The house, once filled with life, joy, and vitality had been transformed into something different—a place of violence, of death.

  There was blood—lots of it—spattered in all directions and in every corner; it covered the walls like chaotic graffiti. Bodies lay on the floor in freakish and unnatural positions, as if posed.

  But that wasn’t all that was left behind. Along with the carnage, the mess, the utter disarray, was also a question: Why?

  Why would an eleven-year-old boy gun down his whole family, then kill himself?

  Only one person knew.

  Unfortunately, Ben Foley took that answer with him to his grave.

  Chapter Eleven

  Old Route 15

  Faith, New Mexico

  The neighborhood, once calm and quiet, became a storm of restless activity.

  Blinding halogen lights bathed everything in a strange, icy glow, creating an almost theatrical presence. A twisting labyrinth of yellow crime tape wove in and out of trees and bushes, clinging precariously to anything that could hold it in place, encircling the perimeter like a giant tangle of snarled yarn.

  News vans dotted both sides of the road. Before long, crews were set up, camped out, and ready to go, in time for the early-morning newscasts.

  The Foley murders were big news, not just for Faith but also for the state of New Mexico, and the media delighted in covering them. In industry jargon, this was a “sexy” story, one with every element to quench the public’s insatiable thirst for the proverbial sex, drugs, and rock’n roll—something the stations eagerly sold, charging by the hour, dishing it out like soft-serve ice cream on a hot July day.

  Suddenly, the neighborhood felt like a different place, the confusion driving the intensity to newer and higher levels. The accompanying sounds only added to the effect. A car door creaked open, then slammed. Radio chatter jammed the airwaves. A child cried.

  All of it seemed surreal.

  Closer to the house, a strange, haunting silence lingered thick in the air. The front door hung wide open, so far back on its hinges that it looked almost broken, a yellowy, incandescent light spilling out, bleeding into darkness. Beyond that were the locals—a crowd of them—gathered behind the tape, anxiously waiting and watching, their fearful eyes like mirrors reflecting tragedy.


  * * *

  6623 Hunter’s Run

  Faith, New Mexico

  Three-seventeen a.m.

  Cameron was wrestling his way through a fitful sleep when the phone rang.

  Bentley reacted automatically with a single, sharp bark.

  “Dawson,” he said with a groan, his voice gritty and tight. Calls at this hour spelled trouble. He’d had his share of that for the past few days. He didn’t need any more.

  “Avello, here,” said the deputy.

  “Yeah, Jim.”

  “We got problems, boss, big ones, over on Old Route 15, at the Foley House.”

  Cameron could now hear commotion in the background.

  “The Foleys?”

  “Yes, sir,” Avery replied.

  Cameron ran his palm over his face, then up toward his forehead where he held it for a moment, still trying to get his bearings. “What’s up at the Foley’s?”

  “More like, what went down at the Foley’s. Homicide, sheriff, times three.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding—”

  “No joke, boss. It’s bad … worst I’ve ever seen.”

  “Good Lord,” Cameron said. “What the hell’s going on around here?”

  “Dunno, but you’ll wanna come down here,” Avery said, “… and quick. Place is a madhouse. Crawling with news media … damned near all of ‘em, looks like.”

  Cameron slammed the phone into its cradle and within minutes, was fully dressed, out the door, and on his way.

  Chapter Twelve

  Old Route 15

  Faith, New Mexico

  When Cameron arrived at the house, things were already in full swing and moving quickly toward unqualified chaos.

  An on-scene deputy waved him through so he could enter the area. As he pulled up, a few overzealous news crews tried to catch up with him, running alongside the car, shouting, and aiming their cameras directly into his windshield. Cameron had to shield his eyes to see where he was driving.