Apache Country (38 page)

Olin McKittrick swung his silver-grey BMW
back on to the blacktop leading from the Casey ranch to the
highway, and pushed a button on his carphone to dial the Sheriff’s
Office. When Apodaca came on the line, he spoke without
preamble.

“I just got through talking with Kit
Twitchell,” he said. “She says Easton and the Indian were at the
ranch last night. She and her mother gave them food and clothing.
They left before sunup, back to the Reservation, probably.”

“You think she was telling the truth?”

“Why should she lie?”

Apodaca made no reply, and McKittrick felt a
frisson of annoyance run through him. The sheriff’s silence was his
way of being insulting without saying a word.

“She going to come in and make a
statement?”

“Tomorrow,” McKittrick said. “Ellen Casey
call you?”

“About an hour ago. From the Stevens chosa up
in Brio.”

Rancher Norm Stevens had a beautiful ranch on
the lower reaches of the Rio Lindo. With typically ironic
understatement he always referred to it as a Mexican dugout
house.

“You know she was at the ranch when Easton
came in.”

“Yes. She told us pretty much what you’re
telling me now.”

“Keep her watched. Twenty four seven.”

“You want to tell me why?”

“I’ll explain later,” McKittrick said. “Our
priority now is to locate Easton and the Indian.”

“We had a couple of calls. Ironheel’s been
seen on the Reservation.”

“Think they could be going to try for Las
Cruces or even the Feebs in Albuquerque.”

“Not Easton, “Apodaca said. “He’ll try to get
back here.”

“He must know we’ve got patrols everywhere.
Why would he take that kind of risk?”

“I don’t know why. But you can bet your ass
risks won’t stop him. Let me tell you about Easton, counselor. He
never gives up.”

“Then the sooner he’s taken down the better,”
McKittrick said coldly.

“That may not be easy,” Apodaca said.
“Especially if he gets help. And I got a hunch Kit Twitchell or her
mother could be giving it to him.”

“There’s no way they can help them, man.
Ellen’s in Riverside, Kit’s at the ranch. Easton and the Indian are
the hellangone up in the mountains. Quit worrying about it.”

“Quit telling me to quit worrying,” Apodaca
said stubbornly. “It don’t hurt none.”

“Easton won’t have a chance if he comes
anywhere near Riverside,” McKittrick said coldly. “So start pushing
buttons, Joe. Full-scale search up at Mescalero. State Patrol,
National Guard, everybody we can round up. And I want it, like,
yesterday.”

“Case you’ve forgotten, counselor, the
Reservation is Federal property,” Apodaca reminded him. “We can’t
just raise an army and march in. You want a search up there, I’ll
have to call the FBI.”

“Okay, oaky,” McKittrick said impatiently,
“call them. Is Ed Hatch still in charge at Albuquerque?”

“Last time I looked.”

“Tell him we need him. Right away. Sooner.
You’ll have to push him, he’s Bureau-conscious. Don’t let him drag
his feet. And make sure he interrogates Ironheel’s sister. She’s
sure to know something.”

“Good you reminded me,” Apodaca said sourly,
and McKittrick ticked up another debit in his mental account
book.

“You’d better call Gerzen, too,” he said,
“tell him what’s going on. I’ll be back in the office around two.
If you need to kick ass, Dick Reardon, the chief of the FBI
regional office in Denver is a friend of mine.”

“I’ll try it my way first.”

“Always possible that might work,” McKittrick
said, allowing himself a little smile as he got in a veiled insult
of his own.

“Anything else?” Apodaca said, and McKittrick
noted with satisfaction the trace of anger in the sheriff’s
voice.

“Yes,” he said, relishing his own power. “Get
a fucking result.”

As soon as it got dark enough, Easton
hot-wired a four-door Toyota Camry sedan in a parking lot on North
Pennsylvania. It figured any car parked this late wasn’t likely to
be missed until morning, more than enough time for him to do what
he had come to do.

It felt strange to be back in the city. The
night breeze carried the sharp stink of hot asphalt and gasoline
fumes, the sidewalks felt hard and unforgiving beneath his feet,
and he had never before been so conscious of traffic noise and the
garish clutter of street lights and signs. Without being aware of
it, he had become acclimated to the immense silences of the
mountains, the starry emptiness of the night sky.

It was a balmy night, overlaid with the
never-ending drone of cicadas. He turned the air-conditioning up a
notch and drove over to North Lea, parking the maybe fifty yards up
the street from the Apodaca house. The sheriff’s Dodge Dynasty was
parked in the driveway; he had always preferred an unmarked car to
the SO’s easily-identifiable black Chevies with their roof light
arrays and silver-starred doors. Racking back the seat, Easton
poured himself some coffee from the thermos Kit had given him, and
settled down to wait.

He wondered where Ironheel was right now. If
he had done what he said he intended to do, he would be working his
way back southwest toward Pajarita Mountain and the Mescalero
Reservation. He would have little difficulty eluding his pursuers
alone on his home ground, Easton thought. Oddly, he missed him.

He thought about Kit. Still struggling to
come to terms with the murder of her father and her son, she was
now haunted by the fear that it might have been her husband who
brought that DVD home. And if he had, what that would mean.

At 9:34 Joe Apodaca came out of his house
wearing the blue-striped seersucker jacket and dark blue pants he
always wore off-duty. He got into the Dynasty and reversed out,
turning north. Easton watched his tail lights brighten briefly as
he braked for College and turned right. He waited another ten or
fifteen minutes to make sure Apodaca wasn’t just running an errand,
then left the car and walked across the street to the house. He
could hear music playing inside and recalled that Alice always had
the radio on, a kind of musical wallpaper.

He rang the bell and after a moment or two,
heard a movement in the hallway behind the door.

“Joe?”

He recognized Alice’s voice, the querulous
tone.

“It’s not Joe, Alice,” he said. “It’s David
Easton.”

There was a moment of silence, then the door
opened just enough for him to make out Alice Apodaca’s face backlit
by the fluorescent light in her kitchen. Her eyes were wide and he
caught the sweet reek of bourbon.

“Sweet lamb o’ God, David, what you doin’
here? They’re looking all over—”

“I’ve got to talk to you, Alice,” Easton said
urgently.

“You crazy?” she said, glancing up and down
the street. “If Joe—”

“Don’t worry about Joe,” he told her. “Just
let me in.”

She frowned. He could almost hear the wheels
in her fuddled brain turning. Then the safety chain rattled and the
door swung open.

“You all right Alice?” he asked, closing the
door and following her into the dimly lit living room. It was a
long time since he had seen her. She would be in her mid-fifties
now, he reckoned, but she looked a lot older. She was a little over
medium height, narrow shouldered and wide-hipped, with big hands
and feet. Dark eyes, thick black shoulder-length hair and a swarthy
complexion combined to give her a mestiza look, emphasized by the
gold loop earrings she almost always wore. She’d put on weight. And
there were dark smudges like bruises under her eyes that might mean
she slept badly. Or cried a lot.

“You shun come here, David,” she said,
turning to face him. “None o’ this’s got anything to do with
me—”

As if she had suddenly realized what she was
saying, she closed her mouth like a trap, glaring at him angrily.
He stared back at her, surprised by the revelation.

“None of what, Alice?” he said.

She shook her head, her eyes avoiding his. As
if she already knew everything he was going to say. And maybe more,
he thought, surprised by the realization.

“Iss about Joe, right?” she said again. “Wish
case I got nothin’ a say.”

She shook a cigarette from a pack and lit it,
throwing back her head to almost defiantly blow smoke at the
ceiling.

“Damn radio,” she said. She went into the
kitchen, switching off the radio with an angry flick of her wrist.
While she was there she sloshed about three fingers of Wild Turkey
into a heavy whiskey glass on the worktop, dropped in a couple more
ice cubes, then turned around and faced him, defiant and pathetic
in the same moment.

“Sheers,” she said.

Okay, he thought. Shock tactics.

“Joe killed Robert Casey, Alice,” he said,
hitting her with it flat and brutal. “Shot him down like a yellow
dog. And stood by while another man cut Adam Casey’s throat.
Altogether he’s responsible for seven deaths. And I can prove
it.”

To his surprise her expression didn’t alter.
She walked across to the window and stared out at the pecan tree in
the yard. Or maybe at nothing. He waited tensely, the way you wait
for the next flash after lightning strikes close by. And then he
realized: she knows.

“Alice,” he said softly. “You already know,
don’t you?”

She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and
then, walking the way people do when they’ve drunk a lot and are
trying hard not to let it show, she got the bottle from the
kitchen, a defiant look in her dark eyes.

“You gonna join me?”

“Alice! Didn’t you hear what I just
said?”

“I heard,” she said. The ice clinked in her
glass as she took another drink.

“Then why aren’t you surprised?”

She sat down opposite him, reaching for the
pack of cigarettes on the table without once taking her eyes off
him. She got a cigarette out of the pack and lit it from a
matchbook. The pathetic defiance in her expression, the masked pain
behind her eyes, all sent him the same message: she knows. She
knows.

“Takes a lotta s’prise me these days,” she
said.

“Well let’s see if this does it,” he said.
“Ellen Casey found a pornographic DVD in her grandson’s closet.
Nasty, hardcore stuff. And I’m pretty sure it’s what got Adam and
Robert Casey killed. I brought a copy with me, hoping you’d take a
look at it and tell me if you recognize anyone on it. But I’d just
be wasting my time, wouldn’t I?”

“Young guys,” she said, tilting back her head
again to blow smoke at the ceiling. “Mess’cans, right?”

“My God,” he whispered, “you do know.”

She remained silent for long moments,
watching him with the eyes of a wounded animal that sees the hunter
coming for the kill.

“You’re like him, I can see it in your eyes.
Jussa stupid lush, right? How would a stupid lush like her know
anything? Well, think again, pally. I’m smart, see? Smarter’n him,
thass for sure. He thought he di’n’ have to worry. I could see him
thinking, look at her, doesn’ know shit from Shinola. But I was
liss’nin,’ see? Liss’nin’. Watchin’ when he din’ know. An’ putt’n’
it all together.”

Her voice rose up the scale.

“Putt’n it all t’gether. Li’l bit here, li’l
bit there. Papers he lef’ lying around. Calls on the answer
m’chine. Lossa stuff. Years, years. All stashed away. He doesn’t
know. But I know all about his dirty little game. All of it.”

He stared at her, hardly able to believe what
he was hearing.

“You knew what he was part of? And you never
did anything about it?”

“Who’s I gonna tell?” she snapped angrily.
“The sheriff?”

“You could have called me.”

“Figured you’s prob’ly innit too,” she said
wearily. “An’ thass why you stopped comin’ round.” She shook her
head. “Use a’be friends,” she said, her voice turning maudlin, her
words a little more slurred than before. “Use’a say you were th’
neares’ thing we’d ever have to a son.”

“Things changed, Alice,” Easton said.

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Susan. She came
along, he hadda take second place. Di’n’ like that. Di’n’ like her,
either.”

“It was mutual,” he said. “She told me not to
trust him and she was right. He’s gone bad, Alice. That’s why I
came here. I want you to help me stop this thing. Put him
away.”

She shook her head heavily. “Un-hunh. Alice
is looking after numero uno, nob’dy else.” She tapped the side of
her nose with a forefinger and squinched up her eyes. “Fireproof,
thass me. All written down. All in a safe place.”

“Where?”

She gave him another fat drunken smile and
shook her head again. “See? You think I’m shupid. Well, you’re
wrong, see? Not telling anybody. ’f I learned anything at all
livin’ with that bassard, iss keep ya mouth shut.”

She got up, staggering a little and went out
to the kitchen to pour herself another drink.

“Haven’t you had enough?” he said.

“They haven’t made enough,” she said
defiantly over her shoulder. “And they never will.”

She slouched back into the living room, a
slack smirk playing around her wide lips. So now you know, it said.
And what are you going to do about it?

“You never used to drink, Alice,” he said.
“What the hell happened?”

“You really wanna know? Then I’ll tell you.
So I don’t have to think, thass why! Think about my screwed-up
freakin’ life in this no-hope freakin’ town! Think about my husband
coming home and climbing into my bed after wallowing in that ...
that filth!”

She downed half the drink in one swallow.
Easton realized she must be very drunk indeed by now. If he could
just find the right phrase …

“You must be worn out,” he said gently. “All
this.”

“Too damn right,” she said, and tears filled
her eyes. “Too damn right.”

“Just tell me one more thing,” he said. “Then
I’ll go. Tell me where they make the movies.”