Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“But I’ll make an exception,” Sara said, “if Clayton decides to stop by.”

Kerney smiled, pleased that he hadn’t mentioned the police sharpshooter concealed on the hill behind the house and the detective stationed at a bedroom window of the neighbor’s house across the street.

Samuel Green had gone to bed thinking that it might be best to let time work to his advantage. If he backed off for a couple of weeks, maybe even left town, Kerney and his wife would probably let their guard down. Surely, the new baby would distract them and he could find an opportunity to strike safely and without much difficulty.

In the morning, from his motel room, Green called the hospital, identified himself as a worried relative from out of state, asked about Sara’s welfare, and learned that she’d delivered a healthy baby boy last night.

In the bathroom, he carefully cut down the blond wig so that it just covered the tips of his ears and draped slightly over his shirt collar at the back of his neck, put it on, and added a cap. Then he glued a big fake mole under one eye, added a blond mustache, and admired the results. No cop looking for a bald-headed man would give him a second glance.

In good spirits, he grabbed his backpack and walked past the Indian School to a used car lot, where he spent time picking out a car, haggling over the price, and signing all the required paperwork. After exchanging cash for the car keys, he drove to a diner a block away and ordered breakfast. On the empty table next to him a departing customer had left the daily paper. He scooped it up before the waitress could clear it away, eager to see if the house fire had made the front page. There it was, headline news complete with a color photo of the burned-out wreckage. The caption called it a suspicious fire under investigation.

The story described all the usual stuff: the extensive damage to the structure, the number of fire trucks called out, how long it took to battle the blaze, the neighbors’ reaction to it, and a quote from an arson investigator on the scene, who wanted the unknown occupant to come forward.

Green smirked in satisfaction and turned to an inside page of state roundup news, which carried the headline:

FIVE BODIES FOUND IN SOCORRO

Always interested in murder, Green read the story quickly and stopped short at the mention of Noel Olsen’s name as the primary suspect in the investigation. He almost snarled at the waitress when she slid the plate of bacon and eggs in front of him and refilled his coffee cup.

His breakfast forgotten, Green read the story again, and a deep anxiety washed over him. His choice of Olsen as an unwitting beard had been flawed in an unimaginable way. How could he have possibly known that Olsen had been secretly killing queers for the past five years?

Distressed, Green put aside the paper, pushed his plate away and silently cursed Olsen. If he had it to do all over again, he would kill the son of a bitch much more slowly and painfully.

He forced down thoughts of Olsen and concentrated on his predicament. All he’d learned about crime and cops told Green that Kerney now knew it wasn’t Olsen who was stalking him. He pulled the plate of food to him and chewed a piece of bacon. He had to assume that he was now vulnerable, which meant that time was no longer on his side. He would move fast, get the job done, and vanish.

He reached for another bacon strip and started mulling over a strategy. First on the docket, he had to locate Kerney and his family. Then he needed a way to get to them without raising alarm or suspicion. Finally, and most importantly, he had to escape cleanly.

He broke the fried egg yokes with a slice of toast and started running down schemes in his mind. As soon as Green decided that it really didn’t matter how Kerney died or in what order he killed the family, ideas began to flow.

Propped up on the bed with Patrick in her lap, Sara called her parents in Montana. While she talked, Kerney carried in the two remaining bouquets from the car, placed them on a dresser, and then moved the crib into their bedroom, so that Patrick would be close at hand once Sara decided to let go of him.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and looked at his wife and son. Patrick was sleeping soundly. Kerney studied his face, the little wisps of hair on his head, the shape of his nose and chin, noticing for the first time his resemblance to Sara. He felt a powerful, almost overwhelming connection to his son that came out of nowhere and both surprised and sobered him with its intensity.

He switched his attention to Sara, who smiled at him as she continued talking about the beautiful baby boy in her lap. Her tired eyes sparkled as she stroked Patrick’s head and described once again to her mother how perfect he was, noting his weight, height, and calm disposition, laughing with joy as she said it.

The alarming sound of the doorbell pulled Kerney up short. He walked into the living room reassuring himself that all was well, peeked out the window, and saw a flower delivery truck in the driveway. He opened up, accepted another bouquet of flowers, tipped the driver, and took them to the bedroom. The attached card was from the city manager.

He handed the card to Sara as she passed the phone over to him, and he spent a pleasant few minutes confirming Sara’s assessment of Patrick’s perfection for his in-laws, reassuring them that their daughter was all right, and jotting down their travel plans. They would arrive in two days.

Sara took the phone back, said a long good-bye, and placed a call to her brother and sister-in-law, who would also be coming to Santa Fe, although for a much shorter time, since the ranch needed minding.

After the conversation ended, Sara handed Patrick to Kerney and asked him to put him in the crib. Gently, he took his son in his arms, turned to the crib, and set him down.

“You need to rest,” Kerney said, as he returned to Sara.

“First, a kiss,” she said.

He kissed her on the forehead, eyelids and mouth, and squeezed her hand.

“How do you like fatherhood so far?” she asked sleepily.

He felt his life had changed in a hundred different ways, but didn’t have adequate words to express it.

“You’ve given me a great gift,” he finally said.

“Speaking of gifts,” Sara said, “there’s something in the top dresser drawer.”

Kerney stepped to the dresser and took out a package wrapped in silver paper tied with a ribbon. “What’s this?”

“A birthday present for Patrick. Open it.”

He untied the ribbon, loosened the paper and looked at the glass-framed, velvet-lined box. Inside were duplicates of all of his military decorations from his service in Vietnam. A lifetime ago, he’d buried the original medals in his parents’ freshly dug graves on the Jennings ranch west of the Tularosa.

Speechless, he held the box out, looking at Sara.

“I want our son to know what a remarkable man his father is,” Sara said.

Kerney put the box aside and took Sara in his arms.

Clayton topped out on La Bajada Hill ten miles outside Santa Fe just as the temperature gauge red-lined and steam started seeping from under the hood of his unit. He pulled into the rest stop that gave visitors a view of the city in the distance and the mountain range beyond, checked to see what the problem was, and discovered the water pump had failed.

He called state police by radio, identified himself, and asked to have a tow truck dispatched to his location. While he waited next to his unit, Clayton thought about the unkept promise he’d made to Grace months ago to bring the family to Santa Fe for a weekend outing. As soon as things settled down he’d do it. Actually, with Sara having the baby, he knew Grace would now give him no choice in the matter.