Pursuit (43 page)

Julie threw off a fake laugh. “Do you recall a young girl you abducted in the woods, coming home from school? Years ago. She would have been maybe sixteen at the time.”

He said nothing.

There were probably a number of victims; how could he remember them all? “She fought with you, tore a ring from around your neck that was on a chain. Was the death of that kid salvation? Does it jog the memory, Romeo?” She watched as he slid his hand down toward his leg. “What about Lulu?”

Nothing.

“Her mom's name was Venus.”

He rubbed the back of his buttocks and leg with his bloody hand.

Julie couldn't tell if he was in pain from the buckshot in his ass or his recollection of Venus Riley. “You take a nice picture, lover boy. I saw the photo booth shot of you and Venus's daughter. What did you do with her?”

“That's for me to know, and you to find out.”

“Ah, well, very clever. How about this,
sweetie
? I'm going to cuff you to that water pipe next to where you're sitting. Then, because my phone doesn't get a signal in this neck of the woods, I'm gonna take a careful walk back to my car. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes.” He looked up at her, his eyes watering from the pain in his hind quarters.

“Uncomfy? We'll get you help, hon. Once I get to my car, I'll drive back toward Sedalia, looking for a phone. Probably another half hour.”

“Why you doing me like this? I'm bleeding to death here.”

“Why? Gee whiz, Charles. I'm telling you how I'm going to try and help you. You almost put my eye out with that damn mop handle. I'm not holding a grudge; I'm just telling you how I'm going to save your life.” She squatted down next to him and nudged him in the butt with the shotgun.

He screamed.

“Well, to get back to my task. I'll wait for help to arrive and direct them back here. I'll have them follow me so they don't get lost. And don't you worry about accidents on the way back. I'll drive careful and slow. You remember
how I drive, don't you, Charlie? Just below the speed limit. That way we could be back here around sunset, so the emergency guys can tend to your boo-boo.”

“I should have killed you for sure on the highway that day, drowned you in that trench where you were lyin' upside down. Bitch.”

“Bitch? Wow, let's talk about this. Let me make you secure with this little item.” She rested the 12-gauge against the barn wall as Charles moaned. Julie cuffed his wrist to the water pipe that made a right angle out of the weathered planks from the barn. She pulled his pockets inside out. A handful of change and an earring in one pocket, a packet of Wrigley's, and a roll of singles in the other.

“What was the significance of the hammered earring you sent me?”

Clegg continued to shift from one hip to the other, his face a distorted grimace. “It were a souvenir of your sweet daughter.”

“But why the deliberate flattening, the damage?”

“She left me after I treated her fair and square. Never did anything nasty to her.”

“Did you try?”

He didn't answer, just moved his head away and whimpered as he leaned against the barn siding.

Julie reached over and squeezed his chin and lips. She pulled his head around to face her. “Do you have a box of loving memories somewhere?” She shook his face for a moment and then let it go. “I honestly want to try and save you, Chuck E. Cheese, because I wish for my daughter, Cheryl, to have closure. You remember her, don't you? Sixteen, blonde, five foot seven. Beautiful girl, ripped your arm up, swam away in the middle of the night. Recall? I want her to see you smarmy eyed and uptight in court.
Angie Hogar. Anyone else we can find who is alive can tell the world what a pathetic little prick you are.” Julie got up from her crouched position.

“I did what I thought was right. They were undeserving, wanton whores. I mean the rest of them. I wanted the world, as you suggested, to be partially rid of the scum of the earth. Not your daughter, of course.”

“That's Miss America pageant material, Chuckie.”

“Please don't leave me out here alone. I'm hurtin'.”

Julie gathered up her shotgun and stood over Charles. “Speaking of bitches, a person in the recent past said to me, ‘ You must be sure if someone is still behaving in a hostile manner toward you.' Possibly your statement to me that you should have left me to die, drown me in that wet trench. That would fall into an area of hostility toward me, agreed? Not recently, but who's to say, right?”

Charles rolled back and forth against the barn.

“I was also told, ‘Consider whether a man intends to surrender, capitulate, agree with you.' Have you fallen into that category? Do you surrender?”

“It hurts all to hell. What is capit—capulat.”

“It means to give up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I give in. Just get me something for the pain, bitch.”

“Oh, so we're back to ‘bitch.' ” Julie walked around the corner of the barn, and then stopped and returned. “A millisecond could have changed your life. A little thought, a consideration here and there.” She paused. “Yeah, just a millisecond here and there. I hear coyotes off in the distance, Chuckie. Maybe there's bear too. If they come sniffing around for blood, give them your
speech on the scum of the earth. I hear they're very understanding.”

Julie debated with herself on the way back to her cruiser. She could use the radio in her patrol car to call it in now or, as she suggested to Clegg, wait til she got to Sedalia. It would take time, but she opted for Sedalia. She would be following through on what she had promised Mr. Lowlife.

She thought of Dr. Crankenstein. “Would you consider a moment when a perpetrator asked to be forgiven?” She felt that she had done that—she had considered it.

She dabbed at the bloody swelling under her eye, savoring the walk back to the road. Crows swooped nearby, their cackles echoing like comic agreement. It sounded as though the coyotes she'd heard earlier were getting closer. She got in the car to call it in. She heard the coyotes again, even closer. Julie put down her phone and drove away as the leaves floated down to earth to match her measured pace.

My gratitude to president Louise Burke and senior editor Abby Zidle at Gallery for this opportunity. My appreciation as well to Marla Daniels for keeping everyone on track. Many thanks, also, to the rest of the talented crew: Alex Su, Philip Bashe, and Jae Song.

I am grateful to long time agent Noah Lukeman for his tenacity and wisdom. Kudos to Kevin Smith for the great insights and encouragement from the beginning.

Thanks to Lt. Kathy McKinney for needed input and to Stephan Marshall for his ideas and knowledge. And a special thank you to my wife, Betsy, for her tireless work on this project.

Keep reading for an excerpt from

P
AYBACK AT
M
ORNING
P
EAK

By Gene Hackman

Available in paperback and e-book now!

Jubal hiked with abandon through the mountainous forest, cradling the Colt slide-action rifle in his slender arms, proud his father had seen fit to allow him use of the small-bore .22. Not quite eighteen, he was just under six feet, nearly as tall as his father, and did his best to dress like him—whipcord pants tucked neatly into calf-high boots. Two rabbits he'd shot that morning hung from a leather-tooled belt around his waist, a gift from pa. He thought of cleaning them himself but decided he would let ma take care of that little chore. He imagined her proud face when he returned home with them. Rabbit stew would be a welcome change from the tough buffalo meat cured in the family smokehouse.

He thought of his sister, Prudence, pouting earlier today when ma had told her to stay home, shuck peas, and tend the fire.

“Jube gets to have all the fun!” she'd said.

“Miss Prudence,” ma had replied, “you're only fourteen, and it's best you tend your chores.” Strict but fair.

Jubal didn't mind the company of his sister, though, as they had much in common. Much to Mother Young's concern, Pru often ventured alone into the forest to hunt berries and wildflowers.

The boy topped Morning Peak, seeing Colorado stretching out to the northern end of New Mexico's Sangre de Cristo Mountains. A late afternoon sun warmed his chapped hands while he marveled at the painted landscape, aspens shimmering as their new spring leaves caught the sun. To the west he could just barely see his family's cabin, nestled into a meadow lined with fir and limber pine. A gray smoky haze from the log structure filled the small valley, and he knew Pru had been doing her job with the fire.

The wind changed, and Jubal's eyes widened. There was too much smoke. He noticed unusual movement around the house and heard eerie sounds of strange, jubilant voices floating up through the dense valley.

His reaction was immediate. Gripping the rifle in front of him to clear the way, Jubal broke into a dead run and began to close the hefty distance to the cabin. He tore through thickets down the canyon, sharp branches ripping at his leather coat as he plowed through the brush.

Minutes later, he stopped within shouting distance of the compound, his legs on fire with exertion, his lungs needing air.

A pile of bright gingham fabric lay on the earthen courtyard.
Like a body.
The clothing looked to be his mother's, her dress cloth flapping with the breeze. Pru's horse, Butternut, lay near the well, her legs thrashing as a rush of blood flowed from her neck.

Jubal counted five men riding on horseback in the courtyard, with several more stirring around the outbuildings
and barn. They all seemed determined to celebrate, shouting as if they had achieved a great victory.

Trying to control his breathing, the boy slumped behind a massive pine. He wanted this day to start over, wanted to forget the body in the yard, wanted only to run, but pa would skin him if he didn't stand as a man.

Where
was
pa?

Jubal took several more deep breaths. He moved to his stomach and started to crawl. He'd gone only a few feet when he rolled onto his back, fighting panic, his nose stung by the sharp and disagreeable scent of burnt flesh and manure.

He had to keep moving. Rising, he darted between a stand of scrub oak, then bellied down and once again crawled, hiding behind the scattered chamisa.

Laughing and drunk, the men staggered around the toolshed and outhouse. One dark-skinned fellow looked different, wearing a feathered, flat-brim leather hat with a bright yellow braided string running under his chin. He carried a bow across his back and a quiver with arrows attached to his belt. He looked familiar, the way he carried himself. The whole raft of them seemed related.

Jubal's thoughts drifted to more pleasant times. The family together, Pru laughing at his jokes, his parents sharing secrets. When was that? A lifetime ago. He forced himself back to the present. He had work to do.

He looked down at the rifle. He'd killed animals for food, but could he kill a man? He shifted on the rough ground. Maybe it didn't matter.

A wail came from the barn, growing louder as Jubal crept closer through the thicket. He caught a glimpse of the two-story structure's exterior.

And then he saw his father.

Jubal Sr., hung from a pulley outside the hayloft, arms stretched high above his head, legs dangling above the wicked flames of a fire. Charred remnants of his clothing and strips of skin swung from his chest. A chunk of red cloth, which Jubal recognized as his father's bandanna, had been stuffed into his mouth. A man with a filthy poncho wrapped around his shoulders tossed hay from the loft onto the torturous blaze.

Jubal's pa was near to death, his bare legs burned. Blood matted his neck, arms, and chest.

Then the wailing stopped, the body swaying like a pendulum. Jubal stared, looking for recognition. His father's lips were moving. With each group of words, a nod, then he would begin again. He gazed at Jubal. Did he speak? Did he call out, “Save yourself”? His eyes rolled toward the smoked sky, once again the same litany, but this time the head drooped, the shoulders and legs relaxed. The body settled into its trusses.

Jubal chambered a round in the .22, raised it, and took a long, dreadful moment to pray. His head pressed hard against the rifle's breech. He wiped the moisture from his eyes, adjusted the rear sight, and shot his father in the head.

The sound, though muffled by the crackling fire, still startled the fire-tending Mexican. He turned toward the noise as Jubal stood and pumped another round into the Colt. Trembling, he fired, his bullet catching the man in the lower stomach. The man dug his hands under his heavy leather belt, searching, then doubled over as if looking for something on the ground.

Jubal's second shot pierced his head just above the cheekbone, dropping the man like a rock from a high place.

The boy slumped to the ground, watching the remains
of his father swinging from the barn. “Help me, Pa. What have I done?”

Fifty yards off to his left, two men, their hair pulled tautly into braids on the sides of their heads, dragged tied bundles of his mother's and father's clothing. They soaked the pile of garments in lamp oil and lit it. Trailing the fiery bundle behind a crazed horseman, they made great circles around the house and barn, setting fire to the dry grasses.

“Be the man I taught you to be,” his pa had once said to him. He eased to the ground, too frightened to move and yet strangely not seeming to care. Jubal looked down at the two paltry rabbits still hanging from his belt.

The men by the house stopped their whooping to look at the area of the barn, the structure now fully taken by rising flames. The cracking and popping of the dried timbers had partially covered the sound of the small-caliber .22, and Jubal was still safely unknown to them.