“Roger that,” Clayton replied. “I’ll stay up high and track him from here.”
“Ten-four.” Kerney passed the word by radio to the SWAT commander, told him to have his people concentrate the search on the south side of the valley, and continued down the mountain, slipping on the steep slope and fighting his way through thick underbrush.
Once again, the sound of the SWAT commander’s voice rang out over the bullhorn, telling Kerry Larson to disarm himself, keep his hands in plain view, remain calm, and await the arrival of an officer to take him into custody.
Kerney hoped Kerry would do as he was told and avoid getting shot.
Twice Kerry Larson heard somebody calling his name and saying to stay put and remain calm, or something like that. He couldn’t catch it all inside the cave, but from the sound of the arriving helicopter and the shooting, he knew the cops were in a gunfight with his brother.
He collected his thoughts for a moment. He could either stay hidden until the shooting stopped or go out and see what the cops wanted with him. He worried that maybe he would be arrested for that “after the fact” thing Craig said he’d done, being an accessory or something. That Indian cop had said the same thing at the state police station in Springer and showed him the writing in the law book.
He couldn’t stand the idea of going to jail. It scared the bejesus out of him. He needed to put into words that he’d come here to get his brother to give up, not to help him, and that he hadn’t been in cahoots with Craig to help him get away.
He grabbed his rifle and crawled out of the cave into the blinding sunlight. Clutching the weapon, he blinked to clear his vision, scampered down to the flats, and started walking along the fence line. He passed two dead buffalo and shook his head at the idea that Craig had killed them for the fun of it. At the gate, he paused and looked through his rifle sight at the ledge where he’d last seen his brother. All the ammo and weapons Craig had arranged on the outcropping were gone, a sure sign he’d moved on.
“Drop the rifle,” a voice behind him said, “then raise your hands and turn around slowly.”
Kerry turned. Twenty feet away stood the policeman who had partnered up with the Indian cop to track his brother down. He had a nasty-looking semiautomatic rifle pointed at Kerry’s chest.
“Don’t shoot me.”
“Drop the rifle,” Kerney repeated.
“I wasn’t going to hurt anybody,” Kerry replied, as he laid his rifle carefully on the ground.
“I believe you. Step away from the weapon and back up to the gate with your hands raised.”
“Okay.” Kerry walked backward to the gate, his hands high above his head.
Kerney approached, kicked the rifle away, and quickly cuffed Kerry to a gate railing. “You’ll be okay. No one will hurt you. Someone will be here shortly.”
Kerry nodded, and then looked up at the rock ledge.
“We know where he is,” Kerney said, following his gaze.
“He’s bad-crazy,” Kerry whispered, half-afraid Craig might hear him.
“I know,” Kerney replied as he started a zigzag run across the narrow valley, hoping bad-crazy Craig wasn’t looking at him through the scope of his rifle, about to gun him down.
Clayton hugged the ridgeline, traveling as fast as his bum leg would carry him, the pain shooting through his kneecap with each step. He slipped on a loose rock, and the jolt to his knee made him pause and catch his breath. He couldn’t tell if he’d cracked a bone in his leg, but the fibula felt real sore. Maybe it was just a bruised bone.
He pushed on, dipped below the ridgeline twice and clambered back up, before finding some fresh hoofprints. He followed them for a while before checking in with Kerney by radio.
“He’s moving laterally, deeper into the forest,” he said into his headset.
“Give me your twenty,” Kerney responded.
Clayton described what he could see of the mountainside beneath his feet.
“Got it,” Kerney replied. “I’m coming up. How’s your leg?”
“Fine,” Clayton responded as he started out again, wincing at the pain.
“Don’t give me that. Stay where you are.”
“Negative. He’s no more than five minutes ahead of me.”
“Is that based on traveling with two good legs or one?” Kerney shot back.
“I’m moving,” Clayton answered flatly.
Kerney spied a narrow ravine that coursed down the mountain about a hundred yards from Clayton’s summit location. He ran to the mouth of the ravine and began scrambling up, at times pulling himself over large rocks, the Browning slung on his back and his binoculars bouncing on his chest.
Halfway up, a small rockfall cascading through the trees caused Kerney to stop. He looked just in time to see Clayton tumble down a steep slope and land hard, his rifle flying through the air and clattering a hundred feet below.
Kerney called out but got no answer. He climbed the ravine as fast as he could, repeatedly shouting Clayton’s name. It took ten minutes of hard going to reach him, alive but unconscious with what appeared to be a broken leg. With a pocketknife, Kerney cut Clayton’s pant leg. There was bruising and swelling around the lower leg but no visible sign of fracture. Discoloration marked the side of Clayton’s skull and Kerney felt a knot above his left ear.
But his color was good; his skin dry to the touch, his pulse regular, and his breathing strong. Because of the possibility of a head injury, Kerney didn’t elevate Clayton’s feet. He contacted the SWAT commander and asked if there was a medic on the team.
“Affirmative. Officer Hurley was a combat medic in Afghanistan.”
“Send him to me,” Kerney said. “I have an officer down with a broken leg and a possible head injury. He’s unconscious.”
Hurley’s voice came over Kerney’s headset. “Is he in shock?”
“Not so far as I can tell.”
“Give me your location.”
Kerney told him where to look and pitched some baseball-size rocks over the treetops, as a visual cue for Hurley.
“I have you.”
“Larson’s brother is cuffed to the fence gate,” Kerney added.
“We have him in custody,” the SWAT commander replied.
“Send the rest of your team east of my position, and put the chopper up for aerial recon. Larson is moving away from the valley.”
“Ten-four.”
Kerney used his shirt to make a pillow for Clayton’s head and stayed with him, hoping he would wake up, but he didn’t. Every few minutes he checked Clayton’s pulse and respiration while he guided the SWAT team medic to him over his headset.
When Officer Hurley arrived, he quickly inspected Clayton’s skull. “No major swelling around the knot on his head. That’s good.”
He took Clayton’s vitals before inspecting the leg. “No signs of shock, and the break isn’t a compound fracture. All good news.”
Relieved, Kerney nodded.
Clayton opened his eyes, and before Kerney could say a word, Hurley quizzed him to make sure he wasn’t disoriented, sick to his stomach, or agitated.
“How’s the leg feel?” he asked.
“It hurts. Who are you?”
“Pat Hurley. I’m going to immobilize the leg and give you a painkiller, which should help. But it’s gonna take a while to get you off this mountain. I’ll stay with you.”
“That’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” Clayton smiled apologetically at Kerney. “Sorry to have slowed you down.”
Kerney squeezed Clayton’s hand. “Not a problem. I’ll check back on you in a while.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
Kerney picked up his Browning, told the SWAT commander over his headset he was rejoining the hunt, and started climbing.
Craig Larson didn’t like being shot at. Stopping the cops only made good sense if he could kill them when they weren’t expecting it. Better yet, it was best to kill them when they were unarmed and not expecting it. The cop who had been shoo
ting at him from across the valley had nearly killed him twice, dammit.
He hadn’t gotten very far into the forest when the chestnut lost its footing, spooked, and almost scraped a ponderosa. Larson ducked to avoid a branch, but the tree limb took him out of the saddle anyway and left him sitting on the ground with a throbbing head.
The horse skedaddled before Larson could reach up and grab the reins, and he was left with only the Glock autoloader and one spare magazine. He got on his feet and started walking. If he was going to survive, he needed to catch that chestnut and retrieve the Weatherby and the rest of his ammo.
Up ahead, the sound of a deep, short blow by the chestnut, followed by a loud whinny, got Larson’s attention. He found it with the reins hung up in some thick underbrush, still carrying the Weatherby and the ammo bag. He got it untangled, mounted up, and headed in a direction that would take him around the valley and into higher, rougher country closer to the Colorado state line.
Off in the distance, Kerney heard the whinny of Larson’s horse. He broke into a steady jog toward the sound of it. In the dense, overgrown forest, Larson had little advantage over a man on foot. In pursuit, Kerney dodged trees and skirted groves of mountain mahogany bushes until he came upon a faint game trail. He followed it, running faster, pushing aside the branches of new-growth pine trees that crowded the trace. After about a quarter mile, the trail widened and became more distinct. There, he found fresh hoofprints.
Kerney slowed to a walk, his heart pounding and his chest heaving from running in the thin mountain air. There were tail hairs from the horse in some of the pine branches that overhung the trail, and up ahead a warm pile of dung. He stopped, put a fresh clip in the Browning, switched off the safety, and started moving, treading lightly, breathing as quietly as he could, his eyes scanning for the slightest movement.
The chestnut was completely done in. It walked with its head lowered, mouth open, and showed bared teeth as though prepared to bite. It lashed its tail in irritation and slowed to a stop even after Larson spurred it. He slid out of the saddle, took the Weatherby and ammo bag, turned the animal loose, and watched it wander slowly down the trail.
He was about to follow along on the trail when he heard a sound behind him. He turned to find the cop who used to be the Santa Fe police chief holding a Browning semiautomatic rife on him.
“How many more cops are there?” Larson asked.
“Enough,” Kerney said, “and they all want to kill you.”
Larson dropped the Weatherby and ammo bag. “So, I give up. That way none of you can kill me.”
“Why spoil all the fun?” Kerney asked, pointing the Browning at the Glock semiautomatic stuck in Larson’s waistband. “Are you sure you don’t want to go for that Glock?”
“Against your Browning?” Larson shook his head. “No way.”
“I’ll lose the Browning. Fair enough?”
Larson considered the offer. Maybe he had a chance if he could pull the Glock and get a round off while the cop was losing the Browning. He needed time to think about it. But adding another cop’s name to the plaque of his kills at the St. James Hotel would be really bitching.
“Did you guys kill my brother?” he asked.
“Don’t change the subject,” Kerney replied. “Do you want a chance against me, or a lethal cocktail mixed up especially for you at the state penitentiary?”
The cop looked like a dangerous mother. All of a sudden the idea of prison didn’t seem so bad to him. He raised his hands over his head. “I know you. You used to be the police chief in Santa Fe, right?”
“Right.” Kerney shot him in the midsection with the Browning.
Larson sunk to his knees and clutched himself. “You weren’t supposed to do that.”
Kerney walked up, pulled the Glock from his waistband, and tossed it aside. “Why not?”
The first wave of shock hit Larson hard. “Rules,” he sputtered. “You’re supposed to follow the rules.”
“In your case, I made an exception.”
Larson shivered. “Get me help. Please.”
“You’re liver shot, Larson. You’ll be dead in under twenty minutes.”
“Please,” Larson begged. “Help me.”
Kerney backed away from Larson and waited for him to lose consciousness. Then he called Clayton and told him the hunt was over.
“Larson’s just about dead,” Kerney added.
“How dead is that?” Clayton asked.
“Ninety-five percent dead.”
“Ninety-five percent. That’s good.”
“I think so. How are you doing?”
“Officer Hurley says if the rescue team doesn’t drop me when they haul me off this mountain, I should survive with no permanent damage to my leg or my thick head.”
“I like your odds.”
“Yeah, me too,” Clayton said. “Thanks for making Larson mostly dead.”
“I had no choice,” Kerney replied.
Chapter Thirteen
Kerney stayed with Clayton as the rescue team carried him safely down the mountain and put him on a helicopter for a short flight to the Raton hospital. The remainder of the day he spent wrapping things up. Convinced that Kerry Larson had not deliberately or knowingly colluded with his brother, Kerney released him from custody and had an officer drive him to where he’d hidden his truck. He took statements from the young woman Larson had battered and the guests who’d witnessed the murder of the ranch employee on the trail. He debriefed with the SWAT team, made arrangements to return the borrowed horses and equipment used to track Larson, and talked to the ranch owner about compensation for the roan that had been shot out from under Clayton.
Late in the afternoon, Andy Baca flew in from the Santa Fe headquarters with his boss, the governor’s cabinet secretary for public safety, and the state police captain in charge of internal affairs. The trio stopped by the Raton hospital to check on Clayton before making the short hop to the lodge, where the resort manager turned over his office for Kerney’s use. Although Pat Hurley had reassured Kerney that Clayton’s injuries were not serious, he was relieved to hear Andy report that Clayton was alert, fidgety, and eager to go home.
Kerney spent a good hour briefing Andy and his boss on the conclusion of the manhunt and the shoot-out. After the brass left to talk to Vanmeter and the SWAT team leader, the IA captain came in. He advised Kerney that any official statement he might wish to make regarding the use of lethal force in the shooting death of Craig Larson would be viewed by the department as a pro forma exercise. He turned on a small tape recorder and asked Kerney to describe the events leading up to and during the shooting. Kerney took the cue and said that he’d come upon the heavily armed subject in the forest and had been forced to shoot him to stop the action and protect his own life.
The captain nodded, turned off the tape recorder, told Kerney he would report to Chief Baca that it had been a righteous shooting, shook his hand, and went off to take statements from Vanmeter and the SWAT team leader. As far as Kerney knew, it was possibly the shortest official investigation ever into a deadly shooting by a police officer.
In Raton, Kerney went to visit Clayton at the hospital while Andy Baca, the cabinet secretary for public safety, the county sheriff, and the local police chief held a press conference on the steps of the county courthouse to officially announce that Craig Larson had been killed during an intense gunfight in a remote mountain valley. Television reporters from stations in Colorado, Oklahoma, West Texas, and New Mexico were on hand sending live feeds to all the broadcast networks and cable news channels.
The ER staff had put Clayton in a wheelchair and parked him in a room where he could watch the proceedings on television.
“The brass are making some big political hay out of this one,” he said as Kerney entered the room, “big-time.”
“As well they should,” Kerney replied. “It’s a gripping story with a good ending. Justice prevails. Order is restored, and folks are once again safe in their home. Hav
e you called Grace yet?”
“Yep.” Clayton pushed the mute button on the TV remote. “She knows I have a sore head and a broken leg. She knows it, but doesn’t like it.”
Kerney laughed. “I wouldn’t think so. You’re officially on medical leave. Andy has arranged to have you sent home by ambulance tonight. He also wants to talk to you about staying on with the department once you’re fully recovered.”
Clayton shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not sure about that.”
“I know, but it’s quite a compliment nonetheless. The state police don’t often bring officers from other departments into their fold without making them start at the bottom of the ladder.”
“It’s not a decision I can make alone.”
“Call Grace and tell her you’re coming home.”
After Clayton called Grace, the two men watched the tail end of the news conference until a male nurse stuck his head inside the open door to announce that Clayton’s ride was ready. Outside the entrance to the ER, Kerney helped the driver load Clayton into the ambulance, said good-bye, closed the rear doors, and told the driver to run with his emergency lights on all the way to the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation.
At the motel, he stood under the shower for a good ten minutes, letting the hot water wash away some of the tension in his muscles and bones. He hadn’t eaten all day, but he was too tired to care and really didn’t feel all that hungry anyway. He swallowed some of the over-the-counter medicine the doctor had told him to take for his gut, rolled into bed, and was asleep within minutes.
A week into Clayton’s convalescent leave, Andy Baca paid him a visit at home while Grace was at work and Wendell and Hannah were at their grandmother’s house for the afternoon.
“How soon do you get off the crutches?” he asked.
“Another two weeks. The doc says I’m healing up nicely.”
“Have you thought any more about staying on with us?” Andy asked. “I have an investigator slot open in Las Cruces, but I could transfer the position to the Alamogordo office. It would shorten the work commute for you. And the pay is a hell of a lot better than what you were making with the sheriff’s department.”
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