by Rex Burns
“Can I use your phone?”
“Sheriff Tice said you could use his. He’s in his office and you can go right on in.”
Wager did, Tice looking up from the day’s stack of warrants to be served. “I’m going to have to give you a beeper, Detective Wager. That phone’s been jumping all morning for you.”
“I was working on Orrin’s notebooks.”
“Oh? Find out anything?”
“I’m not sure. How long does it take for the county to process an estate for someone who died without a will?”
“Intestate? Who?”
“Mueller. Mueller didn’t leave a will, did he?”
Tice leaned against his swivel chair, eyes narrowing. “No, come to think of it, he didn’t. Not that we found, anyway. But that’s the DA’s worry now.”
“So how long would the DA take?”
“Oh, hell, there’s no rush on it. Not for somebody like Mueller. Six or eight months. Now if there was a lot of property to liquidate or problems with titles, it might take a couple years.”
“Do you know a Carmen Louisa Gallegos?”
“I know three Carmen Louisa Gallegoses in this county. God only knows how many more’s around. Why?”
“A Carmen Louisa Gallegos bought Mueller’s land just about the time he was killed. She paid almost twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Tice’s wrinkled lids half covered his eyes as if he were a lizard baking in the sun. “Now that’s interesting.”
“No money was found at Mueller’s? No check or bankbook?”
The sheriff shook his head. “No receipt for sale either. But we weren’t really looking for anything like that. We figured it was still his land.”
“You inventoried the cabin?”
“Roy did. Took him two full days with all the junk Mueller’d stuck in there. But that’s what Roy said it was, junk. No twenty-five thousand dollars, that’s for sure.” Tice chewed his lip. “There could be a hiding place—man like Mueller probably hid anything important. He was gone from that cabin weeks on end when he hired out.”
“Maybe we should look again.”
“Maybe we should.” Tice nodded. “I think we should.”
“Yates told me that Mueller’s ranch was next to worthless.”
“Got some timber on it. But most of that’s second growth.”
“Then why would anybody want to buy it?”
Tice shrugged. “Put a summer cabin on it, maybe; we’re getting a little of that up there now.”
“A whole quarter-section for a cabin?”
“If you like privacy, I guess. But it ain’t worth no twenty-five thousand—you could buy Mueller’s place and a dozen more for that much. Most of that land’s straight up and down, Wager. You can’t do much else but look at it. Sure as hell can’t run cows on it.” He added, “And nobody wants to pay to look at it either. That’s what a lot of people up there are finding out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some people up there think the avenging angels will be after them next. They’re trying to sell out. But nobody’s buying because the land’s only good for starving on.”
“Because of Mueller?”
“That, and one damn fool claims he got a phone call from an avenging angel. But I think it was somebody just trying to scare him and that’s what I told him. I couldn’t do a damn thing about it anyway. But some people are scared up there.”
“How long ago, Sheriff? Why wasn’t that information passed on to Chief Doyle?”
Tice set his ball-point pen down and leaned forward. “I ain’t obliged to pass a damn thing on to you or Doyle or anybody else, Wager. It was two, three days after Mueller was found, and you’d gone back to Denver, and Doyle didn’t have his statewide commission set up. And as far as I know, there haven’t been any more phone calls since.”
“This person hasn’t been able to sell his land?”
“Not that I know of. Who in hell would buy it?”
“Who bought Mueller’s land?”
The wrinkled eyelids blinked slowly, Tice’s flare of anger having gone to the one thing that attracted any good cop’s mind: a puzzling fact. He picked up the telephone and pushed the Intercom button. A second later one of the clerks answered. “Esther, I want you to go over to the courthouse for me. I want you to look up any land sales in the last two weeks—northern half of the county. Let me know who’s buying. Right away—thanks.” He set the receiver on its cradle. “We can ask Roy, too. Here—make your call before Doyle claims I’m holding you incommunicado or something.”
Wager dialed the familiar number and heard Doyle’s secretary’s voice answer with relief. “Yes, Detective Wager, one moment please.”
“Wager? How are you? How’s the eye?”
“No permanent damage the doc says.”
“Fine. Glad to hear that. Any leads to who did it?”
“Nothing solid. Just a damn good guess.”
“Uh-huh. On that,” Doyle’s voice pulled away from the telephone and then came back. “The FBI’s forwarded some information from Mexican sources. Willis Beauchamp’s religious group seems to have sent some men north. They’ve been under surveillance at the request of the local office since you came up with this polygamy thing. The report is that maybe fifteen men and boys loaded up and headed north. The FBI thinks they’re in the States by now. Probably crossed illegally somewhere east of Douglas.”
“How many?”
“Fifteen or so. They broke up into smaller groups for the crossing. Wager, the Mexican source says they came north well armed. He thinks they were coming up for some kind of religious war.”
“How long ago?”
“Yesterday morning. The report came into FBI-Denver last night.”
“They were still in Mexico when Orrin was shot?”
“Yes. But they probably intend to meet an advance party—which might be the ones who’ve been doing all the angel killings.”
If they’d located the Kruses, and those survivors were by themselves, they wouldn’t need that many people for a few women and kids. But if the surviving Kruses had found some friends … “So they’re coming to finish it off.”
“It looks that way.”
Yesterday morning. They’d have to cross at night—last night. Then, if they pushed, they could reach Grant County sometime late today. Certainly by tonight.
“Wager, what kind of protection has that sheriff set up for those people out in the desert—the Winstons?”
“They didn’t want any. They’re hiding out. I’m sure the Kruse survivors are with them. But they claim they can take care of themselves.”
“That’s a bunch of crap.”
Wager wasn’t all that certain. “It’s a hell of a gamble, anyway. I’ll talk to the sheriff and see what he says.”
“Right. If he needs anything he’s to give me a call. The governor said we can use the National Guard if we need it. And one thing more—you’re going to have reporters all over you like flies on stink. The wires picked up on that local story about the editor being killed—Orrin Winston—and they’re sending people down. You might warn Tice.”
“Will do.” Wager hung up and Tice looked at him expectantly. “About fifteen armed men have come north from Mexico. Mexican sources say Willis wants to start a religious war. My guess is they’re after Zenas Winston.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Or Yahweh or Mohammed or Joe Smith. Wager couldn’t remember if the Greeks ever fought a religious war; he thought they only fought over women or wealth. “It’s still just a guess.”
“I don’t know of anybody else that Willis Beauchamp wants to get rid of.”
“So what do we do?”
Tice’s chair groaned with his reclining weight. “Tell you the truth, Wager, I’m not all that sure what there is to do.”
It wasn’t Wager’s jurisdiction, but he had more than a passing interest in the case. “I’ve got an idea. But we’ll have to move fast. And quiet.”
�
��Let’s hear it.”
Wager told him.
CHAPTER 10
THE FIRST REPORTER called before noon, while Tice was still moving toward a grudging consideration of Wager’s idea.
“If you’ve got a better plan,” Wager said again, “let’s hear it.”
“Well, I don’t. Not yet, anyway.” Tice prowled once more to the Silex coffeepot and splashed another cup half full. “But damn it, Wager, this don’t seem right. It may be the way you do things in Denver, but this ain’t Denver.”
“You could wait until after it’s over and then try to catch them. Otherwise, I don’t see what choice we have.”
“Oh, hell, Wager! You—”
The telephone interrupted Tice and he spoke loudly into the receiver: “Sheriff Tice!” Wager saw the man’s wrinkled eyelids droop slightly as if guarding a poker hand; and despite his irritation Wager realized that Tice had been re-elected for the last twenty years or so, and had built up his department among the hot jealousies of county politics.
“No, sir,” said Tice, “we don’t have a statement right now. We’re working on it. Yes, sir, I’ve called in help. The Colorado Bureau of Investigation is assisting with its technical services, and the Denver Police Department sent out a special homicide detective to help in the investigation.” A slight smile, like a twist at the corner of Tice’s mouth. “You can talk to him if you want. Sure.” He held the telephone out to Wager. “It’s a Denver Post reporter. Somebody called Gargle.”
“Crap.” He took the receiver. “Hello, Gargan. We don’t know much so we can’t tell you much.”
“Wager? Jesus H. Christ, is that really you, Wager?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, boy—wouldn’t you know!” He could almost see Gargan’s head shake. “Wager, I don’t like it either, but I’ve got to work with you and that hayseed sheriff, and you’ve got to work with me.”
“‘Got to,’ Gargan?”
“Got to. It was a newsman that was murdered, Wager, and that’s a national event. They’ve already had a report of it on the Today Show, and I came down on the Channel Four helicopter. It was one of our people that got killed, Wager; that’s a front-page story. Wire services, national television, news magazines. This time, Wager, you’ve got to talk to me.” A smile came into his voice. “Doyle said so.”
“We have no idea who killed the man, Gargan.”
“What about the drawing of the angel with a sword? The one they found on the victim? That sounds like a tie-in with the Denver murders. And what about the guy in the northern part of the county—Mueller?” His voice dropped. “And what about you getting shot at, Scarface? Do you tie that to the angel killings, too?”
“Gargan—”
“Come on now. This is a big story. I’ve put a lot of time in on it, Wager, and I’ve got a right to it!”
Wager covered the mouthpiece. “He’s asking about me getting shot at. It won’t be long before he finds out about Willis Beauchamp coming north. Then we won’t have a chance.”
“How in hell—?” Tice took the telephone. “This is Sheriff Tice, Mr. Gargle. We got an investigation going on here and we got no comment to make yet. No, I don’t, and I don’t care what your ‘confidential sources’ tell you. No sir, Mr. Doyle don’t tell me what to do in my own county. When we do find out something, we’ll let you know.” He hung up while the receiver was still squawking. Immediately, it rang again and Tice said “Who? Television? Goddamn it, Earl, I don’t know nothing about them!”
A knock on the door, and Cynthia, her worried eyes still avoiding Wager, leaned in to whisper, “Sheriff, it’s a reporter from the New Mexican down in Santa Fe. She says she’d like to ask you a few questions. Line three.”
“Shut the goddamn door! No, not you, Earl. Those people can take all the damn pictures they want. Yes, and interview any civilian they can catch: it’s a free damn country, Earl. But if I catch any sheriff’s employee shooting off his mouth to any reporter, they’re going to be looking for another job!” He hung up and stared at Wager with slightly wild eyes. “Jesus God, it’s like the circus come to town!” Then he glanced at the clock. “The morning flight from Denver. It got in a half hour ago, didn’t it?”
Wager shrugged; it wasn’t his town, and now Gargan belonged to the sheriff. “You’re going to have to hold a news conference soon. They’ve linked Orrin to the angel killings. You might want to give Chief Doyle a call before you make a statement. That way you two can coordinate your news releases.”
“I might, and by God I might not!” He pressed the intercom button and a moment later Cynthia came back, trying not to look flustered. “You give Nelly Winston a call without them goddamn reporters hearing you—tell her to find someplace to get where they can’t hunt her down or she won’t get a minute’s peace. Then get me that man Doyle in Denver.”
“Time’s getting short for Zenas, Sheriff.”
“I know that, Wager! But I damn well don’t like what you’re suggesting.”
As Wager had pointed out, Tice could come up with nothing better. The two men now stood in the day room of the county jail, the only place safe from the clusters of reporters and photographers who dashed after each other like kids chasing a football. Tice’s stocky figure seemed heavier behind the wide cartridge belt that glinted with the oily brass of rifle bullets. He studied, one at a time, the nine uniformed men standing in line before him. Wager, feeling baggy in the oversized tan shirt and brown trousers of the Grant County sheriff’s department, stood at the end of the line.
“That’s all the information I can give you right now,” Tice said quietly. “Now I’m not ordering you reserve officers to come with us. I’m asking you to, but any one of you that doesn’t want to is free to leave, and no questions asked. Just keep your damn mouths shut about this here meeting.”
“You ain’t told us what it is you’re asking us to do,” said a nasal voice down the line.
“That’s for security reasons. Anybody who stays will not be allowed to telephone or talk to anybody until after this operation’s over—wife, sweetheart, nobody.” He added grimly, “If it’s what I think, it won’t be no picnic. And not a damn one of us is getting paid enough to do what we might have to do.” He waited a long moment, eyes moving up and down the line of faces. “All right—last chance. This is going to be damn dangerous, and any of you reserve officers who want out, you’re free to go right now.”
From one of the newer and more carefully tailored uniforms near the middle of the line, a drawling voice said, “Hell, D.L., we don’t get paid anyway. We might as well not get paid for this as not get paid for something else.”
A couple of other voices chuckled, and all stood without moving.
“All right, boys, I appreciate it. And I know Earl and Roy do, too.” He cleared his throat. “Now here’s what we’re going to do, and I don’t want anybody outside this room to learn about it. Those destroying angels seem to get information quicker than the housewife’s grapevine; and if they get wind of this, God only knows when we’ll get another chance at them.” Quietly, he told them the plan, not mentioning that it was Wager’s idea initially, but taking all the responsibility for it on himself. When he finished, somebody gave a low whistle and asked, “Fifteen or more? Well armed?”
“We hope they won’t be expecting to run across us. And we’ll get some help from the Winstons.” He added dryly, “We could call out the National Guard, I suppose, if we wanted the whole damn state to know about it.”
From the other end of the line where he stood with Deputy Hodges, Yates asked, “Does Zenas Winston know we want to use him for bait?”
Tice winced. “I don’t like to think of it that way, Roy. But if you or anybody else can come up with a better idea, let’s hear it.” He paused, but there was no answer. “All right, let’s get the details worked out, because we don’t have much time. This here’s Detective Wager from the Denver Police.” He pointed to the end of the line. “He’ll be the second in command. E
arl, you’ll be in charge of Team One; Roy, you’ve got Team Two. Appoint yourselves a second in command just in case. I want you to draw radios and ammunition, and then move your teams out of here real quiet and in different directions so we got none of these newspaper people on our trails. You all know where we’ll be going—the benchland—so you know what tack you’ll need from your lockers. We’ll rendezvous at Six Mile Spring at,” he checked his watch, “three o’clock. That gives us time to get the horses there. One more thing,” he said, “I want nobody bringing any whiskey. Not even a beer. Just water and plenty of it.”
“No whiskey?” said a voice from the middle. “Damn, this must be serious!”
“It is. Let’s head out now.”
The men scattered quietly, with a curious glance or two in Wager’s direction, but mostly with preoccupied looks pinching their eyebrows together. They followed their team leaders, Hodges or Yates, to the jail’s armory to draw ammunition, and then to the shift room for their gear. Wager went with Tice back to the sheriff’s office. There was something he wanted to check out before they left. Two pieces of the puzzle had clicked, almost unbidden, in the back of Wager’s mind as he stood listening to Tice and watching the man’s nervous, worried eyes. If it was what he thought, then some sense was beginning to emerge from the conflicting facts in the case. But with that sense came a feeling of foreboding as boundless and implacable as the desert they were about to enter.
“They’re a good bunch of boys.” Tice sighed as he settled into the creaking chair behind his desk. “I pray to God nothing happens to a single one of them.”
“It’s the only way,” Wager said absently; his mind was still on the department’s radio logs that Esther, the woman at the radio console, had let him study.
“I know that. Or I sure as hell wouldn’t be doing it.”
“Do you want to call Doyle and tell him about it?”
Tice shook his head. “It’s my responsibility, Wager. Not yours, not his. Mine. Besides, if that Denver reporter knew about you getting shot, then I think you got some security problems right in your own backyard, boy.” He ran a finger down a list of telephone numbers taped to the glass on his desk. It was for a corral that rented riding horses and pack mules to local dude ranches and outfitters. “Mary Jo? This here’s Daryl Tice. I’m going to need some horses and tack delivered out to Six Mile Spring. It’s an emergency, but I don’t want any noise about it, all right?”