Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“Olsen wears a wig?” Kerney asked.

“Not according to his mother,” Tafoya said. “He’s got a full head of shiny, blond, baby-fine hair.”

“Do we have anything new that absolutely puts Olsen in Santa Fe?” Kerney asked.

“Not really,” Molina said. “The enhancement of the video surveillance tape outside the municipal court building was inconclusive. What we do have are eyewitness descriptions of an unknown male subject who looks like Olsen, evidence seized in Socorro that ties him to the crimes, and the blue van he left behind with Drake’s body in it.”

“Which, according to the entry and exit visa stamps in Olsen’s passport,” Tafoya said, “was purchased from the El Paso junk dealer while he was out of the country.”

“He could have bought it from another party after he returned,” Kerney said.

“That’s what we thought,” Molina said, “until the Tucson PD got back to us on their meeting with the ex-con who installed the rebuilt engine. Allegedly, he never met with the customer in person. One morning when he came to work, the vehicle was outside his shop with the keys in it and a new engine in the back. The transaction was conducted entirely by phone. He got a money order in the mail for the labor, and when the work was done, he was told, again by phone, to leave the van outside with the keys under a floor mat. The next day it was gone.”

“The calls to the mechanic were made from public pay phones in Tucson,” Tafoya said, “on days when Olsen was working at his job in Socorro.”

Kerney glanced nervously at the cell phone on the table next to his hand and then looked away at the chalkboard, which was filled with notes on how to evaluate terminally ill patients for placement in hospice care. It seemed like a dismal way to end a life.

He pulled his thoughts back to the subject at hand. “We saw a trespasser on my property just before sunset,” he said. “The distance was too great to make an ID, but Sara was able to take a few telephoto pictures as he ran away. Chief Baca is having them developed.”

“Do you think it was Olsen?” Molina asked.

“Whoever it was, it’s highly suspicious,” Kerney said. “The property is posted and there’s no access for a casual hiker to get on the land easily, other than by fence-jumping.”

“Speaking of photos,” Tafoya said, “do you want to look at the ones we took at headquarters during the protest demonstration?”

Kerney nodded and Tafoya handed him a packet, telling him each unidentified subject was marked by a small X. He fanned through them, and froze at the closeup image of the bald-headed man he’d seen in the waiting area outside the urgent care center.

Kerney had screwed up big time by not looking at the pictures earlier in the day. His face flushed in silent anger at the blunder. Put a blond wig on his shaved head and the man could easily pass for Noel Olsen. Or maybe it was Olsen.

He pushed back from the table, got to his feet, and tossed the photograph on the table. “This man was in the hospital less than an hour ago. Get a search started, secure his admission and treatment records, talk to security and medical personnel, and look for somebody with a bandaged left hand.”

Kerney’s cell phone rang before Molina or Tafoya could react. He picked up, and Carol Jojoya told him the baby was on his way.

“Make it snappy, Chief,” Jojoya said, “we’re going into delivery right now.”

“Are there any bald-headed strangers near your location?” he demanded, thinking about the knitting needle in Victoria Drake’s abdomen and the killer’s two-for-one threat.

“No,” Jojoya said.

“Where’s the uniformed officer?” Kerney said, striding for the door.

“Right behind us,” Jojoya replied.

“I’m on my way.” He turned to the two detectives, the blood from his pounding heart thundering in his ears. “The baby’s coming. Find the son of a bitch now.”

He raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time with Molina and Tafoya on his heels, calling for backup on their cell phones.

Sara didn’t give a damn that her legs were spread wide open and people were staring at her crotch. She was sweating profusely and panting hard. Deep heaving sounds in a stranger’s voice came booming out of her chest.

What was taking so long? Why was Jojoya telling her to relax when she wanted it over and done with?

The last contraction hit like a great purging that emptied her from head to toe. All she could think of was meeting Patrick Brannon Kerney, seeing him, holding him, talking to him face-to-face for the very first time.

Without thinking, she let go of Kerney’s hand and reached out for her baby, who seemed to be singing instead of crying, making the sweetest little la-la sounds.

With her arms still outstretched, she watched Kerney cut the umbilical cord and Jojoya wash the waxy, blood-drenched coating off her son as the pain of the after-birth hit her.

“He has your hands and feet,” Sara said with a gasp as Jojoya wrapped Patrick in a blanket and handed him to her. “Quite the handsome lad.”

“That’s because his mother is a beauty,” Kerney said, as he sponged her face with a towel. “How are you?”

Sara gazed at Patrick Brannon, who stared at her peacefully with pretty blue eyes as if to say everything was going to be just fine. “I’m very happy to finally meet our son,” she said.

Kerney touched his son’s cheek with a gentle finger. “Me too.”

The baby gurgled and Kerney quickly pulled his hand away.

“He won’t hurt you, Kerney,” Sara said with a giggle.

Kerney’s eyes danced as he squeezed her hand. “I’m overwhelmed by it all. It’s a miracle.”

Sara’s expression turned serious.

“What is it?”

“Let’s keep him safe,” she said in a whisper.

“Always,” Kerney whispered back.

When more police cars arrived at the hospital, Samuel Green went back to the house. In the war room he sat on the mattress, snacked on canned sardines and crackers, and mulled over his fuck-ups. Doing a reconnaissance of Kerney’s ranch hadn’t been a bad idea, but he should have thought things through better before acting. He was pissed off at himself for not checking the train schedule for the spur line.

He’d caught a look at it before it had rounded a bend. The engine had been pulling two old Pullman cars and a flatbed filled with tourists taking a sunset excursion ride. The way the train had crawled along the tracks, only a blind person would have missed seeing his car.

The license plates on it were stolen and the registration was phony, so that shouldn’t cause a problem. But he couldn’t afford to be driving a vehicle the cops were looking for. He’d leave it locked in the garage, call a cab in the morning, and buy a clunker for cash at a used car lot on Cerrillos Road.

Green brushed cracker crumbs off his shirt, thought about his next mistake, and decided that being spotted at Kerney’s ranch wasn’t worth worrying about. The distance between him and the vehicle had been too great and the light too poor for anyone to make an ID. But the cops might find some blood traces on the barbed wire where he’d cut his hand, and decide to question the urgent care staff at the hospital. If so, the nurse who’d stitched him up could give them a real good description, as could Kerney.

Green licked the oil from the sardines off his fingers, walked into the backyard, and took a piss on the bushes that grew over his mother’s grave. He couldn’t risk having the cops find his war room. He zipped up, went inside, stuffed his weapon, binoculars, and camera equipment into his backpack and moved everything else into the garage. He grabbed the makeup kit, wig, and toiletries out of the bathroom, changed into a fresh pair of pants, and closed all the windows.