Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

Now the old bedroom was Green’s war room, filled with all the tools and materials needed to carry out his plan. There were books on police procedures, homicide investigation techniques, and the latest developments in forensic science. Various photographs he’d taken of his targets were taped to one wall along with snapshots of where they lived and worked and corresponding hand-drawn diagrams he’d made of the various escape routes. He’d memorized, driven, and walked all of them repeatedly before striking.

On the large desk fashioned from plywood and lumber sat the police scanner, a laptop and printer, a camera with various lenses, his handgun, binoculars, a small color television, and brown accordion files that contained pertinent personal and background information on each subject.

On the wall above the box spring and mattress that served as his bed, Green had tacked up a large map that showed all the roads into and out of Santa Fe. He’d spent hours studying it on the off chance that something went wrong, so he could avoid roadblocks, lose pursuing cops, and get away successfully.

He grabbed a black marker from the desk, walked to the wall of photographs, and drew an X through all of Victoria Drake’s pictures. He wrote question marks on the photos of Clayton Istee, his wife, and their two children and then quickly blotted them out. It didn’t matter if Kerney wasn’t around to see it. He would finish the job and wipe out Kerney’s bloodline completely. Besides, it gave him something to look forward to.

He stretched out on the bed and thought about his father, and how much fun it had been to find him in California years after his parents’ divorce, kill him, carve him up, and dump his body parts in the Pacific Ocean. How his mother had squealed when he strangled her. How Olsen had pleaded for his life, and Potter had frozen at the sight of the pistol. How Manning had watched in fright as the knife approached her throat while he held her down, and how Victoria Drake had convulsed on the garage floor like a headless chicken.

He smiled in the darkness as he thought about more good times to come, then curled up in a ball and went to sleep.

K erney landed in Santa Fe and got briefed by radio as he drove to Andy’s house on Palace Avenue to check in with Sara. Andy and his wife, Gloria, lived within walking distance of the Plaza in one of the few houses that hadn’t been bought up by wealthy newcomers, turned into a bed-and-breakfast, or converted into upscale professional office suites. It was a low-slung, rambling adobe dwelling with a beautiful backyard garden tucked between two large Victorian mansions. The house had been in the Baca family for over a hundred years.

Gloria Baca greeted him at the door with a smile, took him into the kitchen, poured him a cup of coffee, gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and left him alone with Sara. The room was bright and airy, with a skylight above the large, round oak kitchen table, and French doors that led to the portal and the tree-shaded yard beyond. Through the window over the sink, Kerney could see a state police agent roaming along the flower beds in front of the privacy fence at the back of the lot. Behind the closed kitchen door another agent stood guard in the living room. On the street, a city patrol officer was parked curbside at the front of the house.

Kerney sat at the table, which was large enough for eight people. He took a sip of coffee and tried to read Sara’s mood. He couldn’t tell if she was just worried about the events of the week, physically worn down, or both. Her face was drawn and her green eyes seemed remote, inward looking. Even her greeting had been cursory-a quick hug and the brush of her lips against his cheek.

He decided to approach with caution. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Her eyes never left his face. “I’m tired,” she said without affect.

“Has the baby been keeping you awake?”

“No.”

Kerney waited for more. Silently, she toyed with her wedding band and looked out the kitchen window for a long moment.

“Talk to me, Sara,” he said.

She adjusted a pot of azaleas on the table so that it sat perfectly centered on a handwoven mat, and pinched off a drooping flower. Finally she looked at him. “I’m on edge, Kerney, wondering what’s going to happen next. If I wasn’t pregnant I’d be hunting for this bastard, not sitting here feeling like I’m under house arrest.”

Kerney nodded sympathetically, lowered his gaze, and took another sip of coffee. He was light-headed from a lack of sleep and ill-prepared to deal with Sara’s complaint. There simply wasn’t a less restrictive alternative he could think of that would keep her out of danger. He drank some more coffee. It wouldn’t sit well in his damaged gut, but maybe it would keep him from nodding off, or better yet saying something testy. When he looked up Sara was smiling apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t need me sounding whiny. But I have these protective feelings that make me want to tear the throat out of the son of a bitch. I was awake half the night worrying about you, thinking the attack on Clayton was just a feint to draw you into the open.”

“I had the same feelings about you when I left for Mescalero,” Kerney said, managing a smile. “But the investigation is making some progress. We’ve got an ID on the woman in the van and have located the crime scene. Her name was Victoria Drake-she was a probation and parole officer who’d just transferred up here from Socorro. Sal Molina has people digging into her old cases to see if they can link any of her parolees to me or the other victims.”

“That could narrow the field a bit,” Sara said. “How many cases need to be reviewed?”

“Hundreds, probably,” Kerney replied. “But from what I learned in Mescalero, we need to be looking for a suspect who has the skill to build a sophisticated explosive device. There can’t be too many ex-cons like that.”

“That’s encouraging,” Sara said. “But except for the attack on Clayton and his family, all the victims are from Santa Fe, not the southern part of the state.”

“I’m thinking our perp was arrested and convicted of a crime here, paroled down south after he did his time, and may still be living there.”

“Do you have anything to support that?”

“A biologist found some trace evidence on the van, a plant that’s not native to this area. It matches nicely with the range of the Merriam Kangaroo Rat. Both exist within the Rio Grande corridor down around Socorro.”

“Do you think he’s been traveling to Santa Fe to commit the murders?” Sara asked as she studied Kerney’s pale face and tired, watery blue eyes.

“Possibly,” Kerney answered, stifling a yawn. “We’re only a hundred and thirty miles up the Interstate from Socorro, and it’s about the same driving time from there to Mescalero. That’s not much of a haul, yet it’s still far enough away to lie low after each attack. I’ve got Ramona Pino en route to Socorro from Mescalero to start an immediate follow-up on any likely suspects we identify through the records search, and Andy has people standing by to assist her. If we ID him and he’s down there, we’ll blanket the area with personnel until we find him.”

Sara grimaced and wrapped her arms around her belly.

“Contractions?” Kerney asked.

Sara forced a smile. “No, just a swift kick from Patrick Brannon Kerney. I’ll let you know when my water breaks.” She pulled her shoulders back and stretched. “Now, what about Clayton and his family? From what you told me on the phone, they must be devastated.”

Kerney nodded grimly and slugged down the rest of his coffee. It was going to be another long day and he was already running behind. “They are. But I only have time to give you a quick report right now.”