Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“Roger that, Chief,” Evertson said. “Any idea of what kind of device we’re looking for?”

“Not a clue, Al. The house is on a concrete pad, so there’s no crawl space or basement.”

“I’m out the door, Chief.”

“Stay in close touch,” Kerney said as he disconnected and pressed the handheld’s talk button. “Wade?”

There was nothing but static from Wade’s open microphone. Kerney’s foot beat a tattoo on the carpet as he waited for the officer or Sara to say something. He could hear the sound of movement, the slamming of vehicle doors, the rumble of an engine turning over, but nothing else. He started breathing again when Wade spoke.

“Okay, we’re clear, Chief. I’ve got your wife in my unit and we’re proceeding down the street. She wants to talk to you.”

“Sara?”

“A bomb, Kerney?” Sara said, her voice anxious and tight.

“Possibly.”

“What now?”

“I’m at the office. Ask Officer Wade to bring you here after my people show up.”

“Then what do we do?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You are going to tell me what’s happening, aren’t you?” Sara asked.

“Yes, of course, when you’re here. I’ll talk to you then.”

Kerney cut off the handheld and grabbed the phone. The perp had said he planned to add people to his hit list and wipe out Kerney’s bloodline completely. Except for his adult son, Clayton Istee, and his family, Kerney had no other blood relatives.

Through an unusual set of circumstances, Kerney had only recently learned of Clayton’s existence. A sheriff’s sergeant in Lincoln County, Clayton, who was half Apache, lived with his family on the Mescalero Apache Reservation in southern New Mexico.

How could the killer know about Clayton when so few people did? Not even his staff knew, as far as Kerney could tell.

There wasn’t time to speculate. Rapidly, Kerney punched numbers on the keypad and gritted his teeth as the phone rang. The sleepy voice of Grace Istee, Clayton’s wife, greeted him on the fifth ring.

“Grace, it’s Kerney. Let me speak to Clayton.”

“He’s not here. He started working swing shift today.”

“When is he due home?”

“In a hour or so.”

“Take Wendell and Hannah and get out of the house now,” Kerney said.

“What?”

“Grace, just do it. Get far away from the house. Get in the car, go to your mother’s, and don’t stop for anything or anybody.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Grace asked, her voice rising.

“Grace,” Kerney snapped, “don’t argue. Gather up Wendell and Hannah and leave the house, dammit. Get your cell phone and give me the number. I’ll call you right back.”

Grace read off the numbers. Kerney disconnected and punched in the new digits.

“Where are you?” he asked when Grace came on the line.

“In the children’s bedroom,” she replied, fear cracking her voice.

“They’re okay?”

“Yes.”

“Talk me through everything you’re doing.”

“You’re scaring me, Kerney.”

He could hear her rapid breathing. “You don’t have time to be scared. What are you doing?”

“Wendell’s awake and out of bed. I’m picking Hannah up right now.”

He heard Hannah’s soft moan as Grace lifted her from the bed. “Do you have your car keys?”

“Yes.”

“Go, go now.”

“Why am I doing this?” Grace asked hysterically.

“Are you outside?” Kerney demanded.

“Just about.”

“Don’t go to the car,” Kerney said, realizing it could easily be booby trapped.

“What? I can’t possibly walk to my mother’s.”

“Do as I tell you, Grace. Go to your neighbor’s. Walk there and wait for Clayton.”

“That’s a half a mile away,” Grace said. “Tell me right now what is going on.”

“Are you and the children outside?”

“Yes,” Grace shouted. “Answer my question.”

“Someone may be trying to kill you with a bomb,” Kerney said.

“We’re running,” Grace said.

“Good. Stay with me on the line until you get to your neighbor’s,” Kerney ordered.

In the earpiece he could hear Grace’s labored breathing as she ran down the dirt road that led to the state highway that cut through the reservation. It seemed to take forever for her and the children to reach the safety of the neighbor’s house.

Once they were inside, Kerney relaxed a bit, told her what he suspected, said he would contact Clayton right away, and asked her to stand by.

It took a few minutes for the sheriff’s dispatcher to patch Kerney through to Clayton, who was in his unit thirty miles from home. Kerney explained the situation and reassured Clayton that Grace and the children were all right.

“You’re sure about this?” Clayton asked, disbelief flooding his voice.

“I don’t have time to give you all the details, but this is a serious, credible threat,” Kerney snapped.

Kerney’s harsh tone erased Clayton’s doubts. “Okay, okay,” he said as he hit his siren and emergency-light switches.

“I’ll ask the state police to send out an explosive expert,” Kerney said. “You get on the horn to your boss and the tribal police and fill them in.”

“Ten-four,” Clayton said.

“Be careful,” Kerney said. “This killer is smart and dangerous.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Clayton replied.

The phone went dead. Kerney called Andy Baca, who was still at the crime scene in front of the municipal court building, and gave him the rundown.

“Have you notified the feds?” Andy asked. “It’s their jurisdiction.”

“There’s no time for that,” Kerney answered. “They’d be way too slow in responding. I need the explosives expert who’s stationed at your Las Cruces office dispatched at once.”

“I’ll get him rolling code three immediately. It should take him about ninety minutes to get there, if he humps it. I’ll put patrol officers ahead of him to clear the route.”

“Thanks, Andy.”

“This dirtbag may just be fucking with you, Kerney,” Andy said.

“Maybe,” he replied, “but I can’t take that chance. Ask Sal Molina to meet me in my office ASAP.”

“Ten-four.”

Lieutenant Sal Molina arrived at the chief’s office within a matter of minutes. Kerney showed him the notes he’d taken of his phone conversation with the perp and then told him who was at risk and why.

Sal Molina sat quietly, his hands folded in his lap, and let Kerney talk. The chief, obviously distracted and on edge, constantly shifted his gaze from the wall clock to the telephone on his desk, as he laid out the facts about Clayton Istee, his family, and his very reasonable suspicion that the perp intended to kill them all.

Although he tried to stayed focused on the information pertaining to the investigation, Molina found Kerney’s tale riveting. Who would have ever thought it? It seemed like something right out of a novel or a movie. The college sweetheart, an Apache girl, who’d given birth to Kerney’s son and kept it a secret from him for almost thirty years. The chance meeting between father and son, both of them cops. Kerney’s discovery that he was a grandfather twice over. It was one hell of a story.

Molina wondered what kind of woman would deliberately get pregnant without a man’s knowledge, bear his child while the father served as a combat infantry officer in ’Nam, and keep it a secret for so many years. It seemed selfish at the very least, perhaps even heartless.

But was it? Sal didn’t know much about the Apache people or their traditions, so maybe it was a cultural thing. Or perhaps you had to know the woman to understand her reasoning.

Kerney cast another glance from the wall clock to the telephone and stopped talking. The handheld radio on his desk squawked traffic from bomb squad and SWAT team members en route to Upper Canyon Road.