Serpent Gate kk-3

by Michael Mcgarity

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "Did Addie have her baby?"

  "A girl, early this morning. The adoption agency has guardianship.

  Addie signed the papers." She searched Kerney's face with her eyes.

  "Now, answer my question."

  "Addie wants to see me."

  "No," Nita snapped.

  "I don't want you to see her."

  "It's her decision."

  "Please don't do this."

  Kerney looked down at her.

  "Addie can help you, Nita. Why don't you let her?"

  "I don't want her damaged any more than she has been."

  "Did you tell Addie that you're her mother?"

  Nita bit her lip and nodded.

  "How did she take it?"

  "She cried a lot. We both did. Then she got angry with me."

  "Is she still angry?"

  "Drained. I've been forgiven. On a gut level, I dunk she already knew. I think she's glad to have the truth finally come out."

  "Only part of the truth has come out," Kerney noted.

  "Addie is young and resilient. Don't force her to live under another cloud."

  "Let it be, Mr. Kerney Please."

  "In ten or twenty years, if the parole board ever releases you from prison, your chance to help Addie make a life for herself will be long gone. Are you willing to throw that away?"

  The thought hit Nita full force and her body stiffened.

  "You make it so hard," she finally said, forcing a pinched smile.

  "It is hard," Kerney replied.

  "But I think you're up to it."

  Nita searched Kerney's face with a probing look. His eyes were sympathetic, his expression concerned.

  "Why do you care?"

  He smiled.

  "You make it hard not to."

  "It makes my stomach hurt."

  "You 11 doit?"

  "Yes."

  "Good for you."

  "Only if you come with me for moral support."

  "Of course," Kerney said.

  In me hospital room Verdie Mae sat on the edge of the bed holding Addie's hand. Her eyes nickered from Kerney to Nita as they entered, and she squeezed Addie's hand before rising.

  Addie looked pale and drained. The ruffled, high collared nightgown gave her face a touch of innocence that Kerney could only hope the girl retained.

  Verdie Mae walked to Nita and touched her cheek.

  "Is everything all right?" she asked Nita with a quick glance in Kerney's direction.

  "Everything's fine," Nita said, looking past Verdie Mae at Addie.

  "Give us a minute with Addie."

  Verdie Mae held Nita's gaze with an unspoken question in her eyes.

  Nita smiled tightly and nodded once.

  Verdie smiled back, relief showing on her face, and patted Nita reassuringly on the arm.

  "I'll wait outside."

  She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  "Hello, Addie," Kerney said.

  "Hello," Addie replied.

  "I wasn't sure if you would come."

  "I got here as soon as I could," Kerney said.

  "When we talked before, you said you wanted to help me."

  "I did say that," Kerney replied, "and I meant it."

  "Would it help Nita?" She switched her gaze to Nita.

  "I mean, would it help my mother?"

  "You know what your mother might be facing, don't you?"

  "Maybe going to prison for a long time. You know what I think, Mr.

  Kerney?"

  "What's that, Addie?"

  "I think rapists should be killed or castrated. Every one of them."

  "The world would be a much better place without rapists," Kerney said.

  "Did Paul Gillespie rape you?"

  "Yes."

  Kerney held up a hand to stop Addie from continuing.

  "Before you say more, your mother has something to tell you."

  Hesitantly, Nita approached Addie and sat on the edge of the bed.

  "What is it?" Addie asked.

  "A long time ago, Paul Gillespie raped me. I got pregnant and had a baby," Nita said.

  "Do you know what that means?"

  Addie's expression turned to stunned repulsion.

  "Oh God, no."

  "Yes," Nita said.

  "It's true." She pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tightly.

  Kerney slipped out of the room. Fifteen minutes passed before Nita opened the door and gestured for him to come in. Both Nita and Addie were red faced and teary eyed.

  "You don't have to talk to me now," Kerney said.

  "I want to," Addie answered flatly.

  He turned on the tape recorder and started the session.

  Addie answered Kerney's questions in a lifeless voice.

  After it was over, Kerney left feeling as deadened as Addie had sounded during the interview.

  A four-foot wall enclosed the front yard of the two story house across from Hetcher's residence. Mature pine trees fanned thick branches over the wall into the lane. Where the lane ended stood a six-foot cedar fence.

  An old garage sat perpendicular to the house, close to the property line. There were no lights on inside the two-story house.

  Carlos knew no one was home. Using his cellular phone, he'd called the residence every five minutes since arriving at the stakeout and putting the team in place.

  He stood shivering in a dark recess between the fence and the garage.

  From his vantage point he could see the locations of two of his men.

  One was crouched behind the wall under a tree directly across from Fletcher Hartley's house. The other was in a prone position behind some large landscape boulders near the guest quarters. The third member of the team was at the back of the house, ready to climb the garden wall and storm the patio door as soon as Carlos gave the signal.

  Each member of the team wore a radio headset with an attached microphone, a black hood, and a black police-style tactical duty outfit.

  Headlights came into view on the street and slowed to enter the entrance to the narrow lane. He watched through binoculars as the car turned into Pletcher's driveway, and read the license plate. It was Kerney's police car.

  "He has arrived," he whispered in Spanish into his headset.

  "Wait for my command."

  "this is the third time today you've checked up on me, Gilbert,"

  Pletcher said.

  "I'm starting to feel that I'm under house arrest."

  "Has everything been quiet?" Gilbert asked, following Pletcher into the kitchen.

  "I'm completely bored." Pletcher stood at the counter and poured coffee into two cups.

  "There have been no strangers at the door, no mysterious phone calls, and the only traffic in the lane has been police cars driving back and forth every hour or so." He carried the cups to the table and joined Gilbert.

  "This is all rather silly" "Probably," Gilbert said.

  "Then why all the fuss?"

  "Just a precaution," Gilbert answered.

  "Piffle," Hetcher said.

  "Piffle? Do you think you're Nero Wolfe?"

  Before Fletcher could answer, the sound of shattering glass from the back of the house brought Gilbert to his feet. He heard wood splintering at the front door.

  He pulled Hetcher out of his chair, put the cordless kitchen phone in Pletcher's hand, and pointed to the garage passageway.

  "Go," he ordered.

  "Crawl under your car and hide.

  Call 911, give them the address, and say a crime is in progress and an officer needs assistance. Do it now" He pushed a panicked Hetcher toward the passageway, doused the kitchen lights, and drew his weapon.

  Another cracking sound against the front door shattered the silence. He dropped into a low crouch, crept into the dining room, and killed the lights. He could feel cold air coursing along the floor from the front hallway.

  Gilbert figured there
were two, maybe three people inside, converging on him. The only possible escape would be through the garage, if it wasn't covered by somebody on the outside.

  He retreated to the kitchen, removed the cups, and quietly dropped the massive table on its side. He rotated it until the top could be used as a shield, and pulled it by the legs as he inched backward to the passageway.

  He crouched down, took a quick glance above the barricade, and saw the hallway lights go out. He counted five seconds and took another look.

  He could see the shapes of two men in the dining room, one with his back pressed against the wall, the other bent low.

  Gilbert's options were limited. He could either make a stand or back off. Risking a break could put Fletcher in danger. He pulled his spare clip from the magazine holder. If he could take these two out, maybe he could protect Pletcher until help arrived.

  He fixed the position of the two men in his mind's eye and stretched out on his back with his head up and the nine-millimeter clutched in both hands between his legs. He took one deep breath and kicked hard at the table to upend it. The shooters opened up on full automatic, rounds tearing into the wall and pantry inches above Gilbert's head. He double-fired repeatedly at the two targets until his clip emptied.

  He ejected the spent magazine and loaded the spare.

  As he readied to pull off more rounds, he realized the shooting had stopped. He looked at the target zones; there were two downed bodies. He fanned his weapon back and forth, ready to fire again if either moved.

  Nothing happened. He slithered around, keeping the targets in sight.

  Then he flipped quickly onto his stomach, belly-crawled to the bodies, and checked them.

  Both were dead.

  He hurried into the garage and found Fletcher hiding under his car, shaking like a leaf.

  "Did you call?" he whispered.

  "Yes."

  "Stay put. Where's the remote for the garage door opener?"

  "On the visor in my car."

  "Where are your car keys?"

  "In the house."

  "Dammit."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "There may be more people outside." Gilbert climbed on the hood of Fletcher's car, popped off the light cover to the opener, and unscrewed the bulb.

  "Crawl to the front of the car and hide behind the tire.

  Make yourself as small as possible."

  "What can I do to help?"

  "Do you have a gun in your glove box?" Gilbert asked as he jumped off the hood of the car.

  "No, I don't own a gun."

  "Too bad." In a crouch, he worked his way around the vehicle, opened both car doors, grabbed the remote door opener, and turned off the interior light.

  "What are you doing?" Fletcher hissed.

  "Trying to buy us some time." Prom the driver's side with the doors open, Gilbert had a dear shot if someone stormed through the passageway door, and a good field of fire into the driveway once he opened the overhead door.

  He hoped to God only one shooter was left. He didn't have enough ammunition to take one man out and keep up a running gun battle with another.

  He steadied himself and waited. *** ramon slipped into the dining room and checked the bodies.

  "Javier and Raul are dead," he whispered into his headset.

  "The house is empty."

  "Are the targets down?" Carlos demanded.

  "No."

  "Where are they?"

  "In the garage."

  "Do you have an advantage?" Carlos asked.

  "No."

  "Can you see into the garage?"

  "No. The door is closed."

  Carlos moved down the driveway. The exterior garage door had a row of shoulder-high small windows.

  "When I tell you, put heavy fire into the garage through the door. I will do the same from outside."

  "We haven't much time," Ramon said.

  "Then we must do it quickly," Carlos replied. He stopped near the garage, pulled a night-vision viewer from the pouch at his waist, and scanned through the windows. The device could not magnify, but it did show a man's outline behind an open car door.

  "I have him," Carlos said into his headset. He kept the viewer fixed on Kerney and braced the assault rifle against his shoulder.

  "Move down the passageway. Aim high and to the right. Tell me when you're in position."

  "I'm there," Ramon whispered.

  "Fire now," Carlos said as he squeezed the trigger.

  OpncBR Yronne Rasmussen heard automatic-weapons fire as she rolled into the lane with the unit headlights off and the window open. She ground to a stop, hit the quick-release button to the racked shotgun, grabbed the weapon, and tumbled out of her unit. She keyed her handheld radio as she ran down the lane.

  "Shots fired," she said.

  "Officer needs assistance."

  She gave her location and asked for backup.

  The automatic-weapons fire continued to come from the direction of Pletcher Hartley's house. She cut across the property at an angle and stopped before she broke cover at the driveway. A man in tactical garb wearing a headset stood spraying the garage door with an AK-47.

  She chambered a round into the shotgun and dropped to a kneeling position. The distance was too great to be effective, but maybe she could draw fire away from Sergeant Martinez. She pulled off a round, and the shooter wheeled and fired back. She felt something slam into her thigh, lost her balance, and fell. She looked down at her leg in stunned surprise. Her uniform trousers had a bloody hole in them. It was a brand-new pair. When she looked up, the man was gone.

  "Get out, now," Carlos said into the headset as he ran to the back of the house.

  "The police are here."

  "Did we get them?" Ramon asked.

  "It's done," Carlos replied.

  "Meet me at the car."

  Rasmussen limped across the driveway and down the path to the front door. She could feel blood dripping down her leg. The front door was smashed and almost off the hinges. She got on her belly, cradled the shotgun in her arms, and started crawling down the dark hallway.

  The numbness in her leg was gone, replaced by a hot pain that made her clench her teeth to keep from groaning aloud.

  A silhouette entered the hallway from a side room.

  Rasmussen stopped crawling and aimed the shotgun.

  "Don't move."

  The figure turned toward her and the barrel of a weapon swung around.

  She fired once and the blast caught the man full force in the chest., She keyed her handheld radio.

  "Officer down," she mumbled. From outside she could hear sirens in the distance.

  She crawled to the body and checked it. The man was dead. She moved over the body into a dining room and switched on her flashlight. The beam caught two more bodies under the kitchen archway. She checked them both before moving into the kitchen. An overturned table, thick legs peppered with bullet holes, blocked a short passageway. At the end of the hall, a door had been virtually blown apart by heavy fire.

  Yvonne switched off the flashlight and pulled herself down the passageway.

  "Police officer," she called out.

  "In here," Hetcher said.

  "Identify yourself."

  "Fletcher Hartley."

  "Are you alone?"

  "No. Gilbert Martinez is with me. He's been shot."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I think so."

  "Are you armed?"

  "No."

  "Stay where you are. I'm coming in."

  She pulled her handgun, hobbled to the garage, and fumbled for the light switch. She searched low and saw Pletcher Hartley huddled at the front tire of a bullet riddled car. The arm of a man holding a nine-millimeter was draped over Hartley's back. She approached cautiously.

  The man was lying on his side with his face blown away.

  As shock from her wound kicked in. Officer Rasmussen realized the faceless dead man was Sergeant Martinez.

&nbs
p; Carlos finished briefing De Leon just as the jefe's airplane reached cruising altitude. The takeoff, which he hated as much as landings, had distracted Carlos and sweat trickled down his armpits. He jiggled his false teeth with a thumb and tried to remember if he'd forgotten anything in his report.

  De Leon sat at the desk in the private compartment of his airplane examining the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He seemed more interested in the statue than he did in the details of the firefight.

  Carlos waited for a reaction from De Leon as he turned the bulto in his hands and carefully inspected it. All the other stolen items had been left locked in the wine cellar of the Santa Fe house.

  Finally, De Leon spoke.

  "I did not think Kerney would be so easy to kill."

  "I could not determine if the old man is dead," Carlos said.

  "The police arrived too quickly. Ramon may also be alive."

  "Ramon is dead and Fletcher Hartley is alive," De Leon said as he concentrated on the intricate elements of the statue.

  The statement came as no surprise to Carlos. The jefe frequently had important information at his disposal within a very short period of time.

  "You are not dismayed?" Carlos asked.

  De Leon placed the bulto on the desktop.

  "The most important goal of killing Kerney was accomplished.

  The loss of the team is of no consequence. None of them can be traced to me. They were men without identities. Did you enjoy your assignment?"

  "It gave me great pleasure, patron."

  "I am glad." De Leon waved a hand in the direction of the compartment door.

  "You are sweating heavily, Carlos. This fear you have of flying makes your smell intolerable. Go have a drink, relax, and ask Our Lady of Guadalupe to carry you safely home."

  Carlos nodded apologetically and left.

  Enrique turned his attention back to the wooden statue. It was beautifully fashioned and wore an elaborate blue-colored robe. A gesso over the wood smoothed out the figure, and tempera paints created a creamy flesh tone to the face and hands. The woodcarver had added arched eyebrows and wide, staring eyes. The circular base contained a filigree of delicate flowers and stems.

  The unknown New Mexico artist had followed the Spanish tradition of Grafting an esplendor-a rayed nimbus of gold prongs-around her head, which made the statue exceedingly rare.

  De Leon estimated the piece to be three hundred years old. A treasure, he thought. It would add much to the chapel at his hacienda. flbtcher's studio was the only room in the house not overflowing with cops, medical examiners, and crime scene technicians. He sat in a paint-splattered armchair in front of an easel that held an unfinished painting of fluttering magpies alighting on a tree branch. He had a thousand-yard stare in his eyes and a drained, empty expression.