The Alpine Nemesis (6 page)

I threw up again, laid my head back down on the desk and panted. It was Kip MacDuff who found me still lying there several minutes later.

“Hey, what's wrong?” he asked in alarm. “Emma?”

Slowly, I raised my head. “I'm okay,” I said, and knew that the shaky voice, green face, and glazed eyes told Kip otherwise. “Can you grab me some paper towels from the newsroom?”

“You don't look okay,” he said, stating the obvious. “Are you sick?”

“I was,” I said, glancing in distaste at the wastebasket.

“Oh, boy,” Kip said softly. “Be right back!”

Vida had just hung up the phone. “What on earth's the matter?” she demanded.

“Emma's sick,” Kip replied, ripping off a half-dozen or more towels and racing back into my office.

Vida was on his heels. “Good heavens!” she cried. “Emma, do you need a doctor?”

Feebly, I shook my head. “No, it's just shock.” I took the paper towels from Kip and wiped my face. “I'm better now. I just have to sit for a minute.”

“Let me empty that,” Vida said, grabbing the waste-basket and marching off to the rest room next door to my cubbyhole.

“You sure you're okay?” Kip asked.

“I will be. Honest.” I attempted a smile that must have been a pathetic imitation. “Is the paper out?”

Kip nodded, beaming. “That's what I came to tell you. I got hold of six of our carriers. They're already headed out, with two of them covering downtown. The rest are going door to door to the residential customers. I'll take the van and do the routes outside of town.”

“Wonderful, Kip,” I said, my smile growing stronger. “Go ahead. I'll be fine.”

Kip left and Vida returned. “My word,” she said, sit-

ting down in one of the chairs and studying me closely. “You're so pale. Maybe you should go home to rest.”

“I can't,” I said. “I've got to keep on this story. It's huge.”

“Scott and I can manage,” Vida declared.

I shook my head. “No. It's a matter of personal pride— professional pride, too. Besides, how could I miss out on something like this?” Like this terrible tragedy, I thought, with four people dead, and three more possibly headed for prison. Alas, the catastrophes of others are a boon to those of us in the media. There were times when I hated my job, yet some part of me thrived on disaster. My evil side, I often thought, but salved my conscience by telling myself I was only human.

I made a pit stop to repair my makeup and brush my hair. I looked god-awful. My short brown hair was sticking up in several directions, my skin was sallow, my eyes had developed dark circles under them, my usually trim figure slumped.

To hell with it, I thought, closing my handbag with a defiant gesture. I was after a big story, and looks didn't count.

In the reception area, Ginny was on the phone. She paused, put her hand over the receiver, and looked up at me. “They're ringing off the hook. I haven't put anybody through because I knew you were all tied up. What's this business about Mayor Baugh and a toilet?”

“It'll keep,” I said. “Thanks, Ginny.” I dashed out through the front door, then realized I didn't know where Milo was. He could have called from anywhere, including en route to the Hartquists' on the Burl Creek Road.

On Front Street, all of Alpine appeared to be congregating in little knots of threes and fours. Some people were heading for Alpine Meats. Many were already holding copies of the
Advocate.
I tried to stifle a triumphant
smile as I turned toward the sheriff's headquarters a block away.

Several people attempted to waylay me, including Father Dennis Kelly from St. Mildred's.

“Is it true?” he asked, his earnest cocoa-brown face full of concern. “All three of the O'Neills?”

“I'm afraid so,” I said as a half-dozen others pressed around us. I pointed to the newspaper that my pastor held in his hands. “It's all in there, so far as anyone knows at this point.”

“And that poor snowboarder?” Father Den shook his head. “It seems like yesterday that I celebrated the Requiem Mass for Paddy O'Neill.”

I had seldom seen any of the O'Neills inside of St. Mildred's. But they were Catholics, and entitled to burial from the church. “This will be a triple for you, Father,” I said ruefully.

Den nodded slowly. “I assume the boys didn't ever mention being shipped to Ireland like their father. They weren't born there. Do you realize there've been two funerals in town during the past six months involving bodies being sent over there?”

I had, in fact, forgotten that Liam Rafferty also had requested that his remains be buried in Ireland. “That is unusual,” I remarked, trying to break away tactfully. “But both Liam and Paddy had come from Ireland. I suppose it made sense to them.”

A slight smile touched Father Den's mouth. “I may be a Kelly, but I doubt that most of my ancestors came from there. More likely, the name came from one of my great-great-grandfather's plantation owners.”

I smiled at Den. “You don't want to be buried in Africa, I take it?”

“I don't even want to go to Africa,” he replied. “I have no missionary zeal.”

I smiled some more, waved, and hurried on down the street. Another gaggle of Alpiners called out to me; I waved and smiled at them, too. The special edition was out, I wasn't really in a rush, but I didn't want to spend the rest of the day fielding questions. Everything I knew so far was in the
Advocate's
extra edition.

Milo's Grand Cherokee was nowhere in sight. In fact, the sheriff's department looked empty except for Toni Andreas, the receptionist. She was on the phone, and looking uncharacteristically agitated. I had to wait for her through three calls, all of them seemingly related to the warehouse bodies.

“That's it,” Toni declared, yanking the headset from her ears. “I'm not answering any more phones for a while unless they're 911 calls. Beth Rafferty's on break.” Beth was the sister of Tim Rafferty, who tended bar and who occasionally used his people skills filling in at KSKY. Like most bartenders, he was better at listening than talking.

“Where is everybody else?” I asked Toni.

She rubbed at her forehead, as if to erase the tension. “Boss man is still at Alpine Meats,” she said. “So's Dus-tin Fong. But the rest of them are out at the Hartquist place. I guess those creeps won't come out of their crappy old house. Listen.”

Toni turned up the volume on the link between her console and whichever deputy had the radio on at the other end. At first, I heard only static, but then Jack Mullins's nasal voice came through:

“… riot gear on … Hell no, you know better than … Then get it out, Sam … Dodge is still at…”

Another voice, probably Dwight Gould's, cut in over Jack's. Dwight was speaking through a bullhorn, demanding that the Hartquists come out before the police had to come in after them.

I turned to Toni. “Have they issued an ultimatum before this?”

Toni's pretty face had assumed its usual phlegmatic expression. “I think so. I've been on the phone so much that I haven't actually noticed.”

I started for the door. “I'm going out there. If Scott Chamoud shows up, let him know where I am and tell him to bring his camera.”

Toni's dark eyes widened. “Scott? Sure, I'll tell him … Is it true he's seeing that teacher at the college?”

“I think so,” I hedged, not wanting to get caught up in the romantic rumor mill. “Bye, Toni. Thanks.”

Front Street was still a gathering place for some of the locals, though I suspected that most of them had headed over to Alpine Meats. I nodded to various little groups as I hurried by, then got into my car, and headed out onto Alpine Way.

Most of the emergency vehicles I had seen at the warehouse were now lining the dirt track that led from the Burl Creek Road to the Hartquist property. I was reminded of a similar scene over a year ago when the Hartquists had kidnapped Meara O'Neill and held her captive on the second floor of the old house. Even as Milo and his deputies tried to get the Hartquists to come out and bring Meara with them, the resourceful teenager set fire to the upstairs. Her father and one of her uncles had shown up. Rudy Hartquist accidentally shot Milo in the foot, and Meara managed to jump out of a window. It had been quite a night.

The charred skeletons of two huge cedar trees stood like ugly sentries in front of the house. At least two of the windows had been replaced with cardboard, and the exterior paint was still scorched. I marveled that the old man and his two sons had stayed on. But then I guessed that the Hartquists didn't watch Martha Stewart on TV.

I pulled up behind the medic van. I could see Bill Blatt
and Sam Heppner getting something out of the trunk of their squad car. Jack Mullins, wearing riot gear, was positioned behind a Douglas fir. Dwight Gould's outline was barely visible toward the back of the house. He still held the bullhorn and was shielding himself with a stand of young vine maples. The scene was deceptively calm. The only sounds were the chattering of chipmunks and the breeze moving softly through the cottonwood trees.

Cautiously, I edged around the fire truck and moved in Jack's direction. He saw me and made a scooting motion with the hand that didn't hold his Glock pistol.

“Get back,” he ordered. “These goofballs may shoot at anything that moves.”

“Have they shot at you yet?” I asked, retreating a few steps.

“Nope,” Jack replied, keeping his eyes on the house. “But they may. They sure as hell aren't coming out.”

“Are you sure they're in there?”

Jack nodded. “They gave us a bunch of bullshit when we got here. They claim Cap is real sick. That's crap; yesterday afternoon Cap was cited for grabbing Betsy O'Toole's ass in the produce aisle at the Grocery Basket.”

“Again?” I said.

Jack's eyes never left the house. “Cap loves to prowl that aisle because you have to bend over to get the dried fruits and stuff. Still, you'd think he'd have more sense than to play grab-ass with the store owner's wife.”

Sam Heppner and Bill Blatt appeared, also dressed in riot gear. Dwight was on the bullhorn.

“This is your last warning,” he shouted. “I'm counting to ten. Come out with your hands up. If you don't, we're coming in with tear gas.”

“Screw ‘em,” Jack growled after a full minute had passed. “Let's go!”

Bill and Sam had their gas masks on and the canisters
ready. They separated, with Bill headed for what was left of the front porch and Sam going around to the rear. I backed off, just in case the deputies aimed the tear gas in the wrong direction. After all, they hadn't had much experience with flushing out dangerous suspects.

Bill disappeared inside; I assumed Sam had gone in the back door. Nothing happened for what seemed like at least a minute or two. Then, to my amazement, I saw two figures on the roof. They had a rope, which they flung out at a thirty-foot hemlock near the house. It took three tries, but they finally got it around the tree trunk. A third figure appeared; I recognized Cap Hartquist. In a matter of seconds, they were all on the rope, shinnying down the hemlock.

Jack Mullins swore, a stream of obscenities I'd never heard him use before. “Loggers!” he yelled at the end. “Wouldn't you know it?”

Dwight Gould had rushed over to the hemlock, his gun aimed up into the heavy branches. “They're not going far,” he shouted as Jack rushed to join him.

As it turned out, the Hartquists went fast, if not far. They were burly, and the rope snapped just past the halfway point. Rudy Hartquist landed first, then Ozzie, and finally Cap—all three cursing and screaming.

Jack and Dwight had the trio covered. The medics and firefighters moved cautiously toward the men on the ground just as Sam and Bill emerged from the house. As they removed their masks, both men looked bewildered until they saw the little crowd by the hemlock.

“So that's how they got out,” Sam muttered in disgust.

Jack was informing the Hartquists that they were wanted for questioning in the multiple slayings discovered that morning at Alpine Meats. The suspects said nothing. They were rolling around on the ground, checking their various body parts for damage.

Scott Chamoud pulled up just then. “Quick,” I called to him. “Get some pictures.”

Scott stared, shook his head in wonder, and advanced on the Hartquists. So did the medics. I hurriedly jotted down some notes. Until this moment, I'd been too mesmerized by the action to ply my trade.

One of the medics announced that the trio should be checked out at the hospital before they were taken in to headquarters. Jack scowled and mumbled something to the effect that those “damned Scandahoovians are too damned tough to get hurt by falling out of a damned tree.”

The medics, however, persisted. They volunteered to help the Hartquists, but the offer was rejected.

“How many times do ya t'ink I fall outta one of dem t'ings?” Cap growled in his ragged old voice.

Scott had finished one roll of film and was putting another into his camera. “This is pretty cool,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement. “You don't know what to expect around here, do you, Emma?”

“That's right,” I said dryly. “This town is full of surprises.” Many of them bad, I thought.

The deputies had patted down the Hartquists and were herding them into the two squad cars just as Milo drove up. “Okay,” he called to his men, “we've got probable cause. Haul them in while I look for weapons.”

“You ain't got nutting,” Cap shouted as Bill Blatt shoved the old man into the backseat of the car. “You need a goddamned varrant!”

“Like hell I do,” Milo retorted. “You're lucky we're not arresting you on the spot. You kill four people, you pay.”

Cap twisted around in Bill's grasp. “Four? You can't count, you big galoot! If ve killed anybody, it vas self-defense, and it vas only t'ree of 'em.”

Milo stared at Cap. I stared at Milo. Scott stared at me.

“What does he mean by that?” Scott whispered.

“It means,” I said slowly, “that what I suspected all along may be true. Somebody besides the Hartquists killed Brian Conley.”