Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“If your theory pans out, and I think it will, I’m going to have to let people know about this,” Molina said.

“That’s not a problem,” Kerney said.

“I want to send a detective down there to work the case with the local cops.”

“Of course.”

“Did you recognize the perp’s voice when he called?” Molina asked.

“No, but he seemed relaxed,” Kerney said, “like he was totally in control of himself. He also sounded educated, and not very old.”

“A young man?” Molina asked, as he started taking notes.

“Hard to say, but he didn’t sound old. He was more a tenor than a baritone.”

“He didn’t attempt to disguise his voice?”

“Not that I could tell,” Kerney replied.

“Why do you think he was educated?”

“He was articulate and had a good vocabulary.”

“There are a lot of well-read, educated ex-cons walking the streets courtesy of the taxpayers’ dollars.”

Kerney nodded. “There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, sort of a mocking tone. He thinks he’s smarter than all of us.”

“But he said nothing personal? Nothing that tied him to you?”

“I tried to get him to open up and talk, but he wouldn’t bite.”

“Do you think his call was designed to create a diversion?” Molina asked, putting his pen away. “To get you focused on something else?”

“No, I think he’s raising the stakes. Everything he’s done up to now has been carefully thought out.”

“How does he know so much about you?” Molina asked. “It isn’t like this thing with Clayton and his family is old news or common knowledge.”

Kerney shook his head. “For starters, I’d be happy if we could find out how he got the number to my private line. No more than a half-dozen people have it.”

“I’ll put somebody to work on that.”

“Was the videotape of the parking lot time and date stamped?” Kerney asked.

“Yes,” Molina replied, looking at his wristwatch. “The perp left the van outside the municipal court just over three hours ago.”

“That’s enough time to drive to the reservation if you push it.”

The phone rang. Kerney answered, listened for a moment, gave a hurried thanks, and hung up. “I asked for a trace on the perp’s call,” he said. “It was long distance, and made from Dora Manning’s cell phone.”

“Which means he could be in Clayton’s backyard,” Molina said, rising to his feet, “ready to carry out his threat.”

“Don’t wait to find out if this is a ruse,” Kerney said. “Send a detective down to Mescalero now.”

He reached for the handheld as Molina nodded and left the office, and called Evertson. The bomb squad and the SWAT team were on-site at his house.

“What have you got for me?” he asked.

“I’ll call you back, Chief,” Evertson said. “We’re just starting the search.”

A uniformed city police officer and Andy Baca were waiting for Sara at police headquarters when Wade dropped her off. The officer opened the back entrance, escorted them to Kerney’s second-floor office, and then left to return to patrol. Kerney tried to smile when they walked in, but it was more a worried grimace, and his normally clear blue eyes looked troubled and uncertain.

Sara walked to him as he rose and gave him a hug. He held her tight for a moment, patting her reassuringly on the back as though to soothe himself.

They sat at the small rectangular conference table as Kerney talked over the noise of the radio traffic coming from the handheld on his desk. He told them about the conversation with the perp that had triggered his course of action.

“I just heard from Clayton,” he added. “He’s with Grace and the children, the tribal police are on-site in force, and Paul Hewitt, the sheriff, is with them for added protection.”

“That’s good,” Andy said with a nod. He was one of the handful of people Kerney had told about Clayton. “Everyone’s safe.”

“For now,” Kerney replied. “When will your man arrive?”

“He’s got about a sixty-minute ETA.”

“So now we wait,” Kerney said.

“While we’re waiting, tell me about the latest murder victim,” Sara said, trying to rid her mind of the panic Grace Istee must have felt during Kerney’s phone call.

Andy cleared his throat and Kerney’s gaze moved away from her. “What is it?” she demanded, reading their hesitancy. Andy smiled but his eyes didn’t.

“What are you hiding?” she asked, switching her attention to Kerney. A hand covered his mouth. “Dammit, tell me.”

“The killer posed his victim,” Andy said, his smile vanishing. “He wrapped her hands around the decapitated head of Potter’s dog.”

“Wrapped her hands how?” Sara asked.

“As though she was cuddling a baby against her chest,” Andy replied.

Instinctively, Sara’s hands traveled to her stomach. She could feel the hard-stretched skin under the fabric of her loose top. “Did he leave a note like before?”

Kerney nodded. “It was addressed to me, and asked if I knew who he was and who was next to die.”

Sara’s hands trembled. “That son of a bitch.”

“The note was found on her lower abdomen,” he continued, “attached by a knitting needle that had been driven, we think, through the stomach wall into the uterus.”

A sharp pain coursed up Sara’s spine to her neck, as if all the tension of the last few days had suddenly been compressed into one enormous jolt that froze her muscles and immobilized her body.

“This can’t go on,” she said, forcing her mouth to work. “It has to stop.”

The phone rang. Kerney turned the handheld radio volume down, punched the button to the blinking line, and activated the speaker function. “Go ahead,” he said.

“It’s Lieutenant Evertson, Chief. The house is clean, inside and out, and we didn’t find anything on the grounds. No explosives. But the perp broke the utility company seal on the outside electrical box and left a note. It says, ‘Bang you’re dead.’ ”

Kerney’s hand squeezed the receiver. He paused a beat before responding. “Get the note to Lieutenant Molina, give everyone my thanks, and send the teams home.”

“Will do. I’ve got a couple of reporters down at a road-block asking questions. Want me to tell them to call you?”

“Fuck ’em,” Kerney said without thinking. He rarely cursed, but the words burst out of him as though he was voiding something rancid.

“Would you repeat that, Chief?”

“Be nice, but say there is no statement at this time, Lieutenant.”

Kerney hung up, and Sara said, “I’m not going back to that house tonight.”

“You can stay with me and Gloria,” Andy said. “Besides, she needs the company and has lots of baby stories that will keep you entertained.”

“Good idea,” Kerney said before Sara could respond. “Raise your right hand, Sara.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m swearing you in as a police officer. If anyone approaches you in a threatening manner, blow the sucker away.”

“I can do that,” Sara replied as she raised her hand.

Clayton’s closest neighbors, Eugene and Jeannie Naiche, were an older couple with grown children living on their own. Until his retirement, Eugene had run the tribal youth recreation program. Jeannie, a skilled basketmaker, operated a studio and gallery out of the house. Built almost forty years ago, the rambling ranch-style residence had a pitched roof, a stone fireplace, a large deck off the back patio door, and a family room filled with books on the history and art of Native Americans.

Clayton sat on a couch in the family room with Hannah on his lap, Grace next to him, and Wendell snuggled close to his mother’s side. All of them seemed emotionally empty, as though the experience of fleeing the house had transformed them into instantly displaced persons facing a strange, uncertain, and dangerous world.