The Fourth Motive (35 page)

It was worth a try. Kearns took off at a full sprint, running with all his might.
He was grateful his muscles were already warm, but the awkward weight of the shotgun
interfered with his stride. He knew holding anything in reserve now would be pointless
if he was going to reach the fire road in time to catch his opponent. His legs pumped
furiously up the steep hill, sticks and brambles tearing at his shins. He spent the
next five minutes toiling up the grade.

By the time he crested the hill, his taxed lungs were on fire and his legs were trembling.
His breath was coming in labored gasps, and several times during the ascent, he had
to use the butt of the shotgun to break a forward tumble. After fifty yards of relatively
flat ground at the top, he began his descent.

Once again, he spared nothing. Going downhill was much easier, and he hoped to make
up for lost time. He had to focus intently on his footing, knowing the likelihood
of injury from a fall was much greater with the increased speed of his reckless, full-speed
plunge down the grade.

Ahead, vague in the expanse below, Kearns could make out the tracing of the fire road.
And he could just discern the outline of a vehicle. The car’s silhouette became more
pronounced as he watched a man, an ant in the distance, stripping off what appeared
to be brush camouflage.

Kearns’ heart thumped in his chest. His arms were lead stumps and his legs felt like
anchors. He knew he was nearing exhaustion but willed himself to push on. He remembered
his shotgun training at the Iowa Law Enforcement Academy in Fort Dodge and knew the
reliable effective range of the 00 buckshot in his shotgun was no more than twenty-five
yards. He hoped the longer twenty-six-inch barrel of the Wingmaster he was carrying,
as opposed to the twenty-inch police models he’d trained with, might provide a bit
more range. By his estimation he had several hundred yards to go to even have a chance
at nailing the suspect.

He ran on.

As Kearns rapidly closed the distance, he could see that the vehicle was a blue-colored
compact sedan. The man standing next to it was Caucasian and wearing camouflage military
fatigues. By the stiff manner in which he moved, Kearns could tell he was in a great
deal of pain. He was fumbling with a brown cloth and some branches he’d placed on
top of the car to hide it. The car was parked near a small grove of trees, and if
Kearns hadn’t seen the man peeling off the vehicle’s disguise, he never would have
spotted it. He was a little more than one hundred yards away, and beginning to fear
the man would hear his footfalls.

When Kearns was almost completely down the slope, he entered a flat plain of waist-high
grass. All the suspect had to do was look up; Kearns was completely in the open.

Kearns thought about ducking beneath the grass and sneaking up on the suspect but
quickly discarded that idea when he saw the man open the driver’s door of his car,
remove his hat, and toss it inside. In another few seconds, he’d start the engine
and drive away. There was no time for any tactic other than a straight-on charge.
He still had thirty or forty yards to go before he was in shotgun range. He was now
close enough to notice the man was balding. Kearns put everything he had left into
his sprint.

At thirty yards, the suspect must have sensed the motion of Kearns’ approach. He suddenly
looked up, recognition widening his eyes. He swung a carbine up from a sling and aimed
it at Kearns.

Kearns dove, allowing his considerable momentum to carry him forward as he tucked
his head and shoulders and rolled. He executed a sideways combat roll in the manner
he’d been taught in basic training. An instant later, the sharp reports of rifle fire
echoed across the plain.

He began to crawl forward, hoping his movement would not disturb the tall grass and
give away his position. He felt and heard the shots whistling overhead, interspersed
with the occasional crack and whine of a bullet impacting rock. Kearns knew the military
carbine couldn’t have more than a thirty-round magazine, but it felt like a hundred
bullets screamed toward him.

The sounds of shooting stopped; replaced by the sound of an automobile engine starting
up. Kearns knew it was now or never.

He leaped to his feet and shouldered the Remington. He fired his first shot as the
blue sedan began to move, putting the bead sight slightly ahead of the vehicle’s windshield.
He was at the farthest possible effective range of the nine approximately .30 caliber
balls contained in each twelve-gauge shell.

The car picked up speed, heading for the main road. Kearns pumped the shotgun as fast
as he could and sent the remaining four 00 buck rounds in the direction of the retreating
blue sedan. The dirt kicked up by the wildly spinning tires clouded his view and he
was forced to watch in defeat as the vehicle vanished from sight, apparently unhindered
by the fusillade of buckshot.

Kearns dropped the shotgun and went to his knees. He put his head in his hands. He
hadn’t gotten close enough to the car to obtain the license plate number or more than
a cursory description of the man driving it.

He remained in that position for several minutes, waiting for his breath to return.
He could hear sirens faintly in the distance and surmised Paige had been successful
in her effort to summon help.

Kearns finally got up and retrieved the shotgun. He walked the thirty yards to where
the car had been stashed in hopes of finding something the suspect had discarded.
All he found were tire tracks and sheets of burlap covered in grass and sticks. Upon
examining the improvised vehicle camouflage, Kearns couldn’t help but be reminded
of his own military training. Was the suspect a vet? He’d have to discuss that possibility
with Farrell.

Kearns began to trudge back the way he’d come and then stopped. Standing at the place
where the suspect had his car deposited, and looking at the sun for bearing, he realized
that neither the well-worn path the suspect had used to make his getaway nor his own
overland route was the most direct course to Elsa’s property. A second hill, adjacent
to the one he’d just surmounted, was the simplest means. He could see now, from the
perspective of where the suspect’s car was stashed, the stalker chose the smaller
hill for his escape, even though it was a greater distance. He presumed the stalker
took the more level path back to his car due to his injuries.

Kearns elected to follow the other route back to Elsa’s ranch, the one he suspected
the stalker originally used. As he walked, he contemplated what he knew of the suspect.
He was discouraged to conclude, despite the day’s encounter, that he knew little more
than before.

He knew the stalker was smart. He planned his acts with cunning and care. But he made
mistakes. He must not have anticipated that Elsa and Cody would put up a fight.

The mist was finally burning off, and with the sun’s arrival came heat. Kearns plodded
up the hill, spent from his exertion and the energy vacuum created in the wake of
adrenaline release. The shotgun felt heavy in his hands. He was almost to the top
of the hill overlooking Elsa’s property. He could see a large downed tree surrounded
by scrub foliage.

When he reached the summit, he was surprised to find a small clearing within the remains
of the fallen oak tree. In the center of the clearing was a camouflage tarpaulin draped
over some bushes to form a makeshift tent. There was a sleeping bag beneath it. There
were also a faded olive drab US Army duffel bag and the remnants of potato chips,
crackers, and assorted snack wrappers lying about.

Kearns squatted down over the sleeping bag and from that vantage point discovered
a bird’s-eye view of the Callen ranch below. Clearly, the stalker had been here observing.
But for how long?

Kearns dumped out the contents of the duffel bag. He found an empty canteen, still
in its canvas cover, a GI L-shaped flashlight complete with a red lens, an expensive
pair of military-grade Swiss binoculars, and several thirty-round magazines for an
M1 carbine, loaded with standard full-metal-jacket “hardball” ammunition. There were
also a bayonet and a scabbard for the M1 and a mostly eaten bag of beef jerky, along
with an empty box of saltine crackers. None of the items would have been conducive
to latent fingerprints, and Kearns remembered being told that even the battery inside
the stun gun the suspect left at the scene of the attempted kidnapping had been wiped
clean. He doubted these articles would be any different.

Kearns picked up the binoculars and looked down at the house below. There were two
sheriff’s cars and an ambulance in the driveway, and he could see Paige standing outside
talking to the paramedics as Elsa was being treated.

Kearns dropped the binoculars and picked up the duffel bag. He knew from his own military
experience that stenciled on the bag would be the name of the person who was originally
issued the item. Sure enough, on the side in faded block letters was the name Pascoe,
Arnold R., along with a pre-Social Security-era military serial number. He picked
up the sleeping bag next.

The sleeping bag was a mummy-shaped US Army cold-weather model. Like the duffel bag,
its once-green color was faded to an almost tan hue. Inside the bag, at the top of
the cocoon where the lining began, was the standard white US Government label the
military affixed to everything made of cloth it issued.

Kearns, again from his own army experience, knew that soldiers typically hand-marked
their sleeping bags with their own names to distinguish them from the countless other
identical bags in their unit. The faded but still-legible handwritten name on the
label read A.R. Pascoe.

Used army sleeping bags and duffel bags were items that could be purchased at any
one of thousands of military surplus stores across America. They could even be ordered
by mail and delivered to your home. But many troops kept their rucksacks, duffel bags,
and sleeping bags after finishing their tours; Kearns had kept those items himself.
The fact that both the sleeping bag and the duffel belonged to the same owner made
their acquisition at a surplus outlet highly unlikely.

He scratched his head. It seemed implausible that the killer would make so glaring
an error as to leave traceable items lying around, especially in light of the considerable
effort he had expended thus far to ensure his identity was not compromised. Farrell
had told him even the 9mm bullet casings found at the attempted kidnapping scene,
and inside the Judge’s house, were devoid of fingerprints.

Maybe the suspect hadn’t intended to leave the items? Perhaps he’d expected to return
to his improvised watchtower and retrieve them? What if his hasty retreat, brought
about by his unforeseen injuries, had precluded him from going back the way he came
and recovering the tools he’d brought to assist him in his psychotic game of cat-and-mouse?

Kearns pondered a moment, came up with an idea. He arrived at his choice by asking
himself, “What would Bob Farrell do?”

Using the bayonet, Kearns cut away the portions of the duffel and the sleeping bag
label that contained the names. Then he wiped the binoculars and bayonet with the
sleeping bag to eliminate the possibility of his own fingerprints. He tucked the identifying
tags into his shoe.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up the shotgun and began descending the hill toward
Elsa Callen’s house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 42

 

 

When Kearns came down the hill, he was accosted by the sheriff’s deputies at gunpoint.
He was ordered to drop his shotgun and lie face down on the ground. He got handcuffed
before they would accept either his or Paige’s explanation of who he was. He understood
why and didn’t complain.

Once the deputies were convinced Kearns wasn’t a criminal, he was able to give them
a general description of the suspect, his vehicle, and the direction he was going
when last seen. It wasn’t much.

He learned that Paige had reached the highway and flagged down a passing motorist.
The motorist was a San Francisco businessman who, along with his wife, was getting
an early start on touring the wineries. They drove Paige to a convenience store where
she was able to phone the sheriff’s department, identifying herself as an Alameda
County deputy district attorney. Minutes later, Elsa’s call was also received by the
sheriff’s department. Two deputies picked Paige up and drove to Elsa’s house, with
lights and siren, where they made her remain in the backseat while they entered her
aunt’s home with revolvers drawn. It was a tense few minutes for Paige until the deputies
emerged. When they came out with Elsa leaning on their arms, injured but alive, Paige’s
worst fears went unrealized. She cried in relief.

Elsa was taken by ambulance to the Kaiser Hospital in Napa for treatment and Cody
was driven to a veterinary hospital. Elsa repeatedly had to assure Paige it wasn’t
her fault, as she was loaded into the ambulance. Paige hugged her aunt and promised
to meet her at the hospital later.

Soon more deputies arrived, some of them detectives. Not long afterward, a crime scene
wagon rolled up and disembarked a crew of technicians who began to process Elsa’s
kitchen for evidence. Kearns watched as they took samples of the suspect’s blood from
the patio and inside the house; Kearns ruefully wished he’d left it all.

The deputies wouldn’t let Paige and Kearns speak with each other until they had taken
their statements separately. Kearns retreated to the cottage with a detective, giving
Paige a weak smile and a wave as he went. She remained with two other detectives and
gave her own statement, including a synopsis of the events that had transpired in
Alameda during the past week, the reason for her being in Napa in the first place.
She listened impatiently as one of the deputy sergeants called Sergeant Wendt to verify
her story.