Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

Killing Potter and Manning had been nothing but a prelude, although they both deserved to die for their part in ruining his life. On the other hand, the woman he’d killed with the rat poison had been an innocent victim. But her death was essential to his plan.

Now it all came down to Kerney, who’d destroyed Green’s manhood and taken away any chance for a family or a normal relationship with a woman. That should cost Kerney everything and everybody, although if Green had to settle for taking out the pregnant wife that might still be good enough.

Green retraced his way to his car, drove down the highway, made sure he wasn’t being followed, and pressed the transmitter button. In the rearview mirror a sudden flash of light erupted into the night sky just as the sound waves from the explosion rolled through the open window.

The spectacle made Samuel Green smile. Maybe it would start a big fire on the Rez.

T he explosion brought Grace and the children outside. They gathered wordlessly around Clayton, watching flames from their burning house throw sparks into the air. The propane gas tank had blown up, spewing fire that licked at the large pine trees and spread through the native grass.

Grace gripped Clayton’s hand as though she was trying to squeeze away the anguish that showed on her face. Wendell stood frozen between them, his arms wrapped around Clayton’s leg. Perched on Grace’s hip, Hannah, too young to understand, watched in wonder.

Fire trucks and personnel moved to attack the flames. Through the darkness and the growing light from the scattered fires Clayton saw the figures of Perry Dahl and his dog come out of the trees on the opposite side of the lane. He sighed in relief as Paul Hewitt moved off to meet them.

The reality of what he’d witnessed hit, and a biting, hollow feeling swept over him. All that he’d done to build a home for his family had been wiped out. Despondency, quickly replaced by anger, gave way to an ice-cold detachment that wiped all emotion from Clayton’s mind. He wrapped himself in the feeling. This wasn’t the time to feel sorry for himself. He had to think and act like a cop. He wondered how long he could pull it off before the shock of what had happened hit him again.

“Take the children and go inside,” he said to Grace.

She was slow to respond. “Then what?”

“Call our families and wait for me,” Clayton replied, as he watched Paul Hewitt and Perry Dahl talking thirty yards away in front of a police cruiser.

She let go of his hand, pulled Wendell away from Clayton, and turned to face him. In the reflection of her dark eyes flames danced like pinprick blood wounds. He could see tears forming and it almost made him want to cry.

“It will be all right,” he said.

She shook her head in a silent rejection of such a ludicrous notion, turned on her heel, and went into the house, yanking a reluctant Wendell along. Clayton walked quickly to join Hewitt and Dahl. There was much to do, and if he kept his thoughts on the job, maybe he’d get through the night without losing his self-control.

Kerney got the call from Paul Hewitt telling him that Clayton’s house had been destroyed. He left Sara with Andy, who promised to take her to his house and assign two state police agents to stay with her for personal protection. Before flying off in a borrowed state police helicopter to Mescalero, Kerney beefed up security by putting two of his own officers on duty outside Andy’s home.

Ever since he’d been shot down during an extraction from a hot landing zone in ’Nam, choppers had been Kerney’s least favorite mode of transportation. He sat stiffly in the passenger seat listening to the rotors cut through the air in monotonous mechanical thuds, bracing for the sickening lurch that would plow the chopper into the ground.

Below, in the weak light of the thin moon, Kerney could see the faint ribbon of empty roadway that dropped out of low-lying hills into the small ranching village of Corona.

The word meant “crown” in Spanish, but the village was no jewel by any stretch of the imagination. Corona had once been a thriving trade and agricultural center. But all that had slipped away years ago when the trains no longer stopped at the station. Now, like so many other rural towns and villages in New Mexico, it was just another decaying strip of old buildings interspersed with a few roadside businesses along a lightly traveled state highway.

They were halfway to Mescalero and the pilot had the chopper cruising at top speed, paralleling the highway that ran south to the county seat of Carrizozo. Once there, they would skirt the high mountains, cut across the mesa east of Ruidoso, drop through the narrow pass that led into the city, and follow it to Mescalero.

Kerney closed his eyes and thought about what he could possibly say to Clayton and Grace. The couple had been made homeless and all their possessions destroyed because of a sick killer bent on revenge that went far beyond the ordinary.

They would want answers, and Kerney had little to give them other than some fairly reasonable speculation. He could tell them about the dead victims, the dead animals, the stolen art, the killer’s notes and phone call. But even with all that, he still had no clear motive for the crimes that might lead to a suspect, and only an artist’s sketch that could possibly ID the unknown perp when and if he was found.

Kerney switched his thoughts to Clayton and Grace’s situation. Even with insurance, which he assumed they had, there would be immediate and large out-of-pocket expenses. Aside from temporary housing, the family would need clothes, bedding, kitchen utensils, everything necessary to set up housekeeping again. Beyond that, some of what had been lost could never be replaced, and rebuilding their home would only be a small part of what it would take to restore the family to some sort of emotional normalcy.

He wondered if Clayton would accept an offer of financial help. Although their relationship over the past few months had improved slightly, they were still basically strangers to each other, and Clayton was an extremely proud man who might not take kindly to the idea. Kerney decided he’d make an overture anyway.

Flying low through the pass to Mescalero, Kerney could see smoke in the night sky. The pilot circled over it, but the cover was too thick to give them a view of what was happening on the ground.

They landed in the parking lot of the tribal administrative offices, where a state cop was waiting to take Kerney to the Naiche residence. During the short drive, Kerney learned that Clayton and Grace had lost both of their vehicles in the blast, that the explosives expert and his dog had escaped without injury just before detonation, and that burning debris had ignited a fire that scorched two acres around Clayton’s house before it had been brought under control.

The dirt lane in front of the Naiche residence was lined with police, emergency, and private vehicles with firefighter license plates. Kerney entered the front room and saw Clayton, Paul Hewitt, and a group of tribal officers organizing a crime scene investigation and a first-light reconnaissance of the foot trails leading into the mountains. The explosives specialist, who was covered in dust, sat to one side in a chair with a clipboard on his lap and a dog at his feet, writing notes.

Paul Hewitt, a big, somewhat beefy man who had grown a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard since Kerney last saw him, spotted Kerney first, gave him a curious look, and touched Clayton on the arm. All talk ceased as Clayton stepped away from the group and approached him.

“When did it happen?” Kerney asked.

“About an hour and thirty minutes ago,” Clayton answered. “The firefighters have it just about put out and we’re waiting for clearance to go in.”