Everyone Dies (18 page)

“I know that. What’s it got to do with you?”

“I’m his son,” Clayton replied.

For once, Paul Hewitt couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

Clayton keyed his handheld and asked the tribal police to start patrolling the roads into the mountains.

For years, the bald-headed man had prepared to become a successful killer. On his own, in public and university libraries across the western states, he’d read the works of behavioral profilers, criminologists, psychologists, and forensics specialists. He’d delved into the history of crime and the psychiatric studies of the criminal mind, scrutinized all the relevant journals for articles on criminal behavior, reviewed the latest developments in the classification systems used to target potential suspects, and pored over volumes that dealt with the use of scientific evidence in criminal investigations.

He knew the current literature on revenge killers was at best nothing more than rudimentary. About all the cops had to go on, if the murders were skillfully planned and carried out, was the belief that the killer would have openly brooded or bragged about revenge to others.

He’d never done that. His revenge was a private, personal obsession that, since the age of seven, had formed the core of his identity, right down to the name he’d chosen for himself from a little-known footnote in American history: Samuel Green. The country’s first mass murderer, Green had gone to the gallows in 1822, unrepentant, without admitting guilt, and leaving all to wonder exactly how many people he’d murdered during his two-year crime spree.

He admired those qualities, so Samuel Green he’d legally become, shedding his past but never the memory of it. He enjoyed his new name’s legacy and the innocuous sound of it.

Green hiked from the Indian Health Service Hospital parking lot to the hillside outcropping that overlooked the Istee residence, thinking he’d diverted Kerney’s attention to Sara and the unborn baby and away from Clayton, who should be just getting home from his shift. When he arrived, the sight through the night-vision scope of police vehicles patrolling the roads and a cluster of fire trucks parked on the dirt lane caught him by surprise.

At the neighboring house, all the interior and exterior lights were on. Two Lincoln County sheriff’s vehicles-one of them assigned to Sergeant Istee-and a state cop car sat outside.

From the look of things, Green assumed that Istee had his family safely out of the house. It was the first time anything had gone wrong with his plan. Was it a setback? Perhaps his phone call to Kerney had been too precipitous, too revealing.

Green decided against that kind of thinking. After all, he’d led Kerney by the nose to his next targets, and the man had taken the threat seriously and acted quickly. That was to be expected.

He sat down and considered his options. Perhaps he should just walk back to the car and let the cops spend the next two or three hours trying to figure out how to disarm the explosives and blow themselves up in the process. But he hated the idea of chancing everything to fate and possibly seeing all his hard work go to waste. Better to salvage something then to walk away empty-handed.

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 lowlying 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.”

“Are Grace and the children all right?”

“Everyone’s safe.”

“And the damage?”

“According to the reports, it’s all blown to hell. From what I saw, that’s just about right.”

Kerney searched Clayton’s face looking for anger, shock, or outrage. All he saw was a slight tightness at the corners of Clayton’s mouth. He scanned the group behind Clayton. The officers gazed at him silently.

“Tell us what you know,” Clayton said as he rejoined the group.

“This guy isn’t going to be easy to catch,” Kerney said as he followed along and handed Clayton a manila folder he’d carried with him. “We’ve had two sightings, and have an inconclusive shot of him on a surveillance video tape. That folder contains a copy of a police artist’s sketch of the perp along with physical descriptions we got from witnesses.”

Clayton studied the material before passing it around. “This is it? You haven’t made an ID?”

“He’s still an unknown subject,” Kerney replied.

“And you’ve got nothing from forensics?”

“We have a lot of evidence, but nothing that allows us to identify him yet,” Kerney replied. “So far, he’s killed three times. His victims have been a former assistant district attorney, a former forensic psychologist, and an unidentified woman whose body he left in a van outside the municipal court in Santa Fe earlier tonight.

“Before he strikes, he likes to get his victim’s attention. He’s left dead rats at houses, killed a pet dog, and swiped a number of valuable paintings belonging to one of the victims. After the first homicide, he’s been leaving messages at the crime scenes. I’m his final target.”

“You know that for sure?” Clayton asked.

“I do.”

“How?”

“He slaughtered my horse, left poisoned rats outside my house, and called me.”

“What did he say when he called?” Hewitt asked.

“That everyone will die. Then he asked if I’d figured out who was next on his list before he comes after me. He also said he planned to wipe out my bloodline completely. That’s why I called Grace and told her to get the children and leave the house.”

“So who else is on his list?” Hewitt asked.

“My wife and our unborn child. But since he missed taking out Clayton and his family, he may try again before he moves on.”

The hush in the room was broken only by the cough of one of the officers. The men tensed and exchanged hard looks. A killer who had targeted two cops was bad enough. But to go after their families went beyond the unthinkable.

Clayton bit his lip. “How did the perp find out that I’m your son?”

“I don’t know,” Kerney said. “But I plan to look into it. Who have you told on your end?”

“It’s common knowledge on the Rez,” Clayton replied.

“That could mean a couple of thousand people know about it.”

“At least.”

“You can’t waste time trying to interview the entire tribe,” Kerney said. “I’ll work my list and see where it goes.”

Clayton nodded. “When do we get all of your case material?”

“One of my detectives is en route. You should have it soon. What have you got going?”