Chapter 4

"Arson experts are still picking over the charred remains of District Attorney Carl Brady's two-story home and have refused to comment on the progress of their investigation. Brady is still recovering in St Mark's Hospital from gunshot wounds to the throat and arm. A statement issued by the doctor in charge of Mr. Brady's care says Mr. Brady is doing well and is expected to completely recover from his injuries.

"The Bexar County Sheriff's office is looking for retired Army veteran Miles Underwood in connection with the fire and shooting but are refusing to label him a suspect at this point. Calling him 'a person of interest' in the investigation, the hunt for Underwood has expanded with reported sightings as far away as Wisconsin.

"Underwood, you may recall, is the man accused in the rape and manslaughter of a local teenager last summer. Underwood's trial ended with a hung jury just last month and he was scheduled to be retried next month."

KSAA Channel Nine
San Antonio Texas
"Evening News at Six"
March 11

The derelict old house and barn stood a hundred yards off the deserted county road, silhouetted by the setting Colorado sun. Miles had stopped only to stretch muscles cramped by hours of driving but it was getting time to find a place to spend the night. He couldn't go much further today; it was getting late and he was about to drop. Besides, he needed to check the map and plan the final leg of his trip.

Sunlight shining through a dirty window refracted the beam into a makeshift rainbow and flashed in Miles' eyes. He wondered if someone might be behind the window watching him. Sidling back to the pickup, he pulled out his binoculars to get a close look at the structures.

The house had an empty, abandoned air to it; he quickly convinced himself there was no one inside. The more he looked, the more he liked what he saw. The roof looked to be intact, and the windows were covered--boarded up. This might be a good place to spend the night.

Looking down the long highway in both directions without seeing or hearing the whine of tires on pavement, he made a decision. Jumping in the pickup, he turned the wheel sharply and drove up the overgrown access road to the house.

He parked behind the old structure, well out of sight from the road. Shutting off the engine, he waited for a long moment, wondering if he'd been seen. The only thing he could hear was a lonesome wind sighing through the spring's growth of thick grass.

Returning cautiously to the front of the house, he looked both ways down the deserted road. There was still nothing in sight to trouble him.

He walked down to the road with a branch twisted from a young cottonwood and brushed out the shallow tire tracks he'd left in the soft dirt of the shoulder. Working his way backwards up the hill, he swept the branch across thick bunches of flattened prairie grass to rearrange them and disguise the fact that someone had recently driven a truck up here.

At first, he was uneasy inside the house. He felt trapped by the walls. The lack of traffic on the road, though, convinced him he could hide here for a while. He slept soundly on the old floor that night, under a solid roof for the first time in many days.

The badly overweight man opened the top two buttons of his sweat-stained shirt to massage the area over his heart. The pains were coming more often, stayed longer, and hurt worse these days. The doctor had warned him months ago he had to find a way to reduce the tension and ... oh, by the way ... if he didn't lose some weight, he'd be dead in a year. There were times he thought the doc was overly optimistic.

There was no way to cut down on the hours he worked, though, and no way to exercise either. He couldn't afford anymore to hire someone to work the night shift so he had to cover both. It wasn't worth locking the door to the converted store front office and go home--the precious little sleep he got there didn't refresh him at all.

Bail bondsmen worked on a slender margin and the edge Steve Gonzales had was desperately thin these days. He'd expected the bail on that Army guy Underwood to be back in his accounts long ago.

Hell, the trial should been over and done with by now ... but the damn jury had deadlocked and now that son of a bitch Underwood had taken off. There was no way the State of Texas was going to forgive the bond. He was out the full three hundred thousand. He'd try and recoup some of it by getting the house into his name, but that meant lawyers, courts, and time ... lots and lots of time.

Giving in to frustration and rage, Gonzales slammed his fist on the top of the desk. The agony in his chest lanced deeper and shot down his left arm. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Deliberately, he throttled back the anger while shaking fingers opened the bottle of nitro tablets. Slipping one under his tongue, he leaned back and waited for the pain to subside or mount higher. At the moment, he didn't really care which.

He would have to tell his wife that braces for Stacie had to be put off again. That wasn't the worst of it either. Truth was, he'd be lucky to make the mortgage payment on the first of the month. He sure as hell didn't know right now where the money was going to come from. Waiting in the dim light, he almost hoped the nitro wouldn't work this time. It would almost be a blessing ... and he had made sure the insurance was paid for this month.

The pain eased slightly and he indulged himself with another smash at the desktop. Not sure he was pleased or not when the sudden activity didn't cause any pain, he sat up straighter and began to paw through the mass of paperwork again. There had to be some way to juggle things around and free up a little cash.

He paused, listening as the siren's scream strengthened and died away, announcing a new arrival at the city jail two blocks away. One more crook--a potential customer--was about to enter the system. Gonzales struggled to his feet, making sure he had the cheap flyers delivered to his office in the early afternoon. Locking the door and dropping the steel mesh down to cover the front of the office, he checked the pistol in his jacket pocket and started for the jail. He kept a careful watch. The jail--and his business--wasn't in one of the better parts of town.

Miles eased the slender branch through the eighteen-inch barrel of the disassembled shotgun, pushing the small wad of cloth through its length to clean it as best he could. Bringing the weapon had been a last minute decision and he hadn't thought to grab a cleaning kit too.

Pulling the makeshift rod out the muzzle, he held the breech to the vague light coming in from the mud-spattered kitchen window behind him. It was about as dirt free as he could manage without better tools. He lowered the barrel gently to the floor and chose a larger piece of material to wipe off the receiver assembly. The work didn't require his complete attention. Working by touch, he faced the front of the house and looked around in the dimness of the eastern Colorado late afternoon.

The place was in pretty good shape for an abandoned house but even in its prime, it could not have been much more than the most basic of shelters. This was what would have been the parlor--maybe the living room. It had a door leading outside that had boards nailed haphazardly across it.

A smaller room to his right probably had been a bedroom. Behind him, in the rear of the house, was a kitchen with an old-fashioned hand-pump still standing guard over a rusty, corroded sink.

Another room, accessible only from the kitchen, was guarded by a door that was jammed an inch or two ajar. Miles hadn't been interested enough to break it open to see what was inside.

All the window frames in the building had been boarded up, but one in front was actually intact behind the boards. Two planks had been pulled off that window some time ago to expose mud-caked glass. Another window, over the sink in the kitchen, was also unbroken, and at least as grimy. The outside doors were still whole and both closed sufficiently tight to keep out stray critters. The backdoor--it hadn't been boarded over--had a hole in it that had been repaired at some time in the past with plywood.

The place was dusty, but not unbearably so. In fact, it had been a pleasant enough place to sleep overnight and then rest, well hidden from prying eyes, all day today. Despite the comforting concealment, he would leave before dawn tomorrow. The mountains waited just to the west and he'd been many days en route.

Once free of the big city, he lost his sense of purpose. Cut off from family, friends, and the home he'd worked hard to make, he was lost spiritually. He didn't know what he wanted to do.

So, over the next few weeks, he wandered to the Canadian border, east to the Atlantic coast in Maine, and then drove south as far as South Carolina.

It had only been there that he recovered a vestige of decisiveness. It had been hard, but he'd turned westward again, making for the mountains of southern Colorado.

In his travels, he drove at night, hoping to find a place before the sun came up--a campground where he could set up his tent, or maybe a seedy motel whose proprietor wasn't likely to hassle a cash customer who paid.

That hadn't worked in northern New Mexico yesterday. There just hadn't been anywhere that looked safe to him. He'd driven on through the day and passed into southeast Colorado, sweating, nervous, and afraid the next car he saw would be a police cruiser. Exhausted, he'd found the abandoned house just before his strength gave out.

At daylight, he'd hoped to hide the truck in the barn forty yards back behind the house, but it was, literally, falling to pieces. Beyond the barn, though, was a hollow Miles thought might once have been a pond used to water livestock.

It served admirably as a concealed parking place now. After driving down the shallow slope, Miles had been pleased to find the pickup couldn't even be seen from the house, much less from the road out front.

He'd stay in the ruins of the house all day, and drive on when darkness fell. It was safer to move about in the night ... fewer cops, fewer witnesses ... more concealment.

Well shaded by a couple of leafy trees, the house was cool and comfortable now. It probably wouldn't be in August, he thought ... probably hotter 'n hell on the Colorado prairie then. He gave up that line of thought. It wasn't August.

He finished wiping off the ejector port. Lifting the shotgun's receiver to his mouth, he blew hard to get rid of any remaining specs of dust from the mechanism. The sun was near the horizon and the bright light flooding in the kitchen window behind him made him squint. He held the weapon in his left hand while he put on his hat, pulling it down a little on the right side to block the sun. He froze, his fingers still on the brim.

A fast moving vehicle had come over the hill from the east, its wheels whining on the rough asphalt. The engine noise slowed dramatically as the driver took his foot off the accelerator and braked. The vehicle stopped with a short squeal of tires on sun-heated pavement.

A cold dread spread through Miles. The hair on the back of his neck stood erect. A prickly sensation spread over his face as the blood drained away.

The vehicle began to climb the slope up to the house.

Miles couldn't move for precious seconds while he incredulously listened to the car's progress, but he was galvanized into action when the vehicle's motor revved to negotiate a steeper section of the hill.

He began to reassemble the shotgun. The barrel dropped into place, aligning itself in the receiver with dull, metallic clank. He tightened the takedown screw with fingers made suddenly thick and clumsy by shock.

He ducked to make sure he was below the windowsill of the boarded up side window as the vehicle came closer. Miles didn't want to take a chance of that driver out there catching sight of him through the cracks between the boards.

When the vehicle passed the window, Miles scrambled across the floor to retrieve the shells he'd removed to clean the gun. He remained hunched over though there was no longer a chance he could be seen from the car.

The vehicle drove along the side of the house and stopped behind the old building. The driver switched off the motor and there was a momentary silence broken only by the popping noises of hot engine metal slowly cooling. Miles heard a trunk lid being released from inside the vehicle. A car door opened and shut again.

Miles stepped lightly into the kitchen, moving as quietly as he could over the old floorboards, turning the weapon upside down and thumbing four double aught buck cartridges into the magazine as he walked.

Outside, the car trunk slammed shut.

He turned the twelve-gauge shotgun right side up. Setting his back against the wall behind the door where he couldn't be seen through the only glass pane left in the kitchen, he clicked the safety off with his right forefinger and held the weapon, muzzle to the ceiling, close to his chest.

There was no time to jack a shell into the firing chamber; it would make too much noise. Footsteps thumped hollowly across the stoop and the door was flung open. An ill-defined shape shuffled across the threshold and strode confidently into the kitchen. The intruder kicked backwards with the heel of a heavy boot to bang the door closed.

Trooper Rick Murray, for the past seven months a proud young officer of the Colorado Highway Patrol, keyed his mike to call the dispatcher in Pueblo. Time for a supper break and perhaps a little something more this evening. He smiled out the windshield of the four-year old Crown Victoria assigned to him. His was a district that included parts of three counties but, with no calls holding, permission came immediately.

"10-4, Pueblo," he called out exuberantly. "I'm brown-bagging it today. I'll be at that old weigh station east of Haswell ... give you a call when I'm 10-8."

"Copy that, Two-Charley-Twenty-Six," came the laconic reply from the bored dispatcher. As far as she was concerned, the rookie trooper could stay gone for the rest of the night. Unless an eighteen-wheeler bought it on one of those blind curves over on U.S. 287 or someone's kid took someone else's pickup for a joyride, it was highly unlikely the young officer's services would be required any time soon--like tonight, tomorrow, or the next day.

Instead of putting the microphone away, Murray squeezed the transmit button twice more, moving his thumb as rapidly as he could. Increasing the gain on the radio, he fastened the mike in its clip on the dashboard and listened intently.

The ten-second delay they'd agreed on was an eternity, but finally it was done. There were two answering clicks as another radio somewhere broke squelch the same way he had. The third click came a deliberate two counts later.

He grinned broadly. Deputy Sheriff Julie Connor was indeed monitoring State Police channel three and she would be joining him for dinner tonight ... and a little entertainment before or afterward. Perhaps both, he thought. It had been eight long days since he'd last seen her.

Trooper Murray accelerated quickly around the big truck that had slowed dramatically when its driver saw the cruiser coming up behind him. He turned west at the intersection with lonely country road and sped toward the deserted farmhouse in Kiowa County. For the past three months, this was where he'd been meeting the best looking little deputy sheriff he'd ever seen.

Daydreaming about his plans for the evening, he almost went by the overgrown driveway and had to brake hard. The tires squealed in protest as he pulled the steering wheel hard left while the car was still moving too fast. He laughed and let the excess speed carry him part way up the hill. He didn't have to give the engine any gas until he was nearly at the crest.

Stopping behind the house in the blind spot between the house and the dilapidated old barn where the cruiser couldn't be seen from the road, he turned off the engine and pressed the remote release for the trunk.

He jumped out, eager to prepare a reception for the young woman who would arrive soon. Hurrying to the trunk, he pulled out the stack of blankets the State of Colorado thought were for use at accidents or for stranded tourists caught in cold weather.

He hadn't had to explain about the air mattress or the foot pump used to inflate it ... not yet, anyway. With luck, he never would. The bucket of fried chicken and all the trimmings had been hidden away in the trunk before any of the other officers on his shift could have seen it.

Bounding up the steps, he rushed over the groaning old planks of the old porch and pushed the door wide. Sidestepping over the threshold with the bulky load in his arms, he kicked the door closed and rushed inside.

Keeping his eyes down to pick a path through loose floorboards, he was well into the kitchen before he caught sight of a pile of camping equipment in the front room. He stopped short, flinching at the sharp, metallic sounds behind him.

Nine year olds in the United States know the sound made by a pump shotgun as a shell is loaded into the chamber. Even wet-behind-the-ears state troopers know it.

The double ratcheting sound as the forearm was pulled back and then quickly thrust forward chilled the soul of the young officer. Not only was there someone behind him with a deadly efficient weapon, Murray had a cumbersome armful he would have to drop before he could grab for the nine-millimeter on his belt. He was well and truly caught.

"Don't ... move!" Miles' voice was thick with suppressed emotion. To Murray, he sounded mad but Miles was more perplexed and disoriented than angry. In scant seconds, he'd gone from cleaning gear to a confrontation.

The shock of a physical wound could hardly have been more paralyzing. He could not understand why anyone would suddenly barge into this particular abandoned building. This was the only the second home he'd ever broken into in his life, dammit. It wasn't like he was running around breaking into houses every night.

With the intruder out in the open kitchen area where sunlight still lit the room, he could see the stranger was in a tan uniform and white Stetson. He had a big semi-automatic pistol holstered on his left waist. It was a cop! Why in hell was he here?

Trooper Murray was equally bewildered. This was where he met his lover--not a place where he had to be on his guard. As far as he knew, the old house hadn't been visited for years before he'd investigated it a few months ago.

He'd cleaned everything as best he could and even fixed the broken lower part of the back door so animals couldn't get in. Now, someone was behind him with a shotgun? Not only that, the unknown man didn't sound very happy.

"Look, mister." Murray's voice was plaintive at first but grew stronger as he remembered his training. "We can work this out, okay? Nobody has to get hurt." His eyes searched for somewhere to put the blankets and inflatable mattress so he could free his hands. He could drop the sack with the chicken and other stuff on the floor, he thought. He shifted his weight in preparation for a step toward the ruined counter to his right.

"FREEZE, DAMMIT!" He didn't know what the young man had in mind, but Miles knew he'd be calling a Texas jail home pretty darn soon if the policeman in front of him had any say in it.

"Mister, listen to me. It doesn't have to be this way. Let me put these down and we can figure a way out of this, okay?" Murray's voice was unsteady again. Role-playing training exercises didn't usually go this way.

"Son," Miles cautioned dryly, "I know you've been taught to take command of the situation and deal with bad guys from a position of strength." He paused to pull in a shuddering breath of air.

"But that just isn't gonna work this time. The only way we both walk away from this is for you to do exactly what I tell you and for you to do it pretty damn quick when I tell you. Got it?"

"Hey, you're in the driver's seat--I got no problem with that." The trooper's right shoulder dipped slightly and his right foot shifted minutely to the side. "I'll set these on the counter and then we can talk, man to ma--"

Miles' high school football coach had often threatened to bring a calendar to Wednesday afternoon practices. That was the day the team ran time sprints and Miles always ran a terribly slow forty-yard dash.

The coach didn't mean it though. Miles played defensive end and his first two steps off the line were the quickest on the team. He specialized in getting into the opposing team's backfield so fast it often appeared he'd beaten the snap count.

Coach Flores always had a talk with the head linesman before the game to let him know about Miles' quickness. He wanted the official to watch closely and not throw a flag too quickly.

The coach had also known Miles' reaction speed was coupled with an equally quick temper. Whenever he was penalized unfairly, a frustrated Miles was always taken out of the game for a while. It helped keep referees from accidentally being run over on the next play.

The state trooper didn't have the benefit of Coach Flores's insight.

"ARRRRGGGGGGGGGGHGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!"

The roar filled the house, stunning the trooper for a split second with its ferocity and volume. The more than twenty years since his high school days made Miles' forty-yard dash even slower than it had been, but the years hadn't appreciably slowed the quickness of his first few steps.

If anything, his adult body was better coordinated than the gangly high school football player he'd been. The temper difficult to control in his youth was slipping its reins more often lately.

On the other hand, he was being provoked more often too.

Erupting into motion, Miles took two quick paces toward the officer. Bending forward slightly at the waist, he yanked the muzzle of the shotgun up to his left shoulder and dropped the stock to his right hip so the weapon slanted across his chest. He took his forefinger off the trigger.

On his third step, already at full speed, his right shoulder slammed into the middle of the man's back.

Murray was knocked flying into the left side of the doorway and he bounced off into the front room. His suddenly empty hands weren't able to cushion either impact--there was no time to pull his arms up. His forehead hit first, smashing against the ancient doorframe, followed a split second later by his chest and lower body.

The bucket of fried chicken fell from suddenly Trooper Murray's nerveless fingers to the floor. Blankets, rubber mattress, and pump were flung into the room beyond the doorway as he staggered forward.

The wood splintered as the young man struck the doorframe. Dried and punished by decades of mistreatment, there wasn't much strength or flexibility left in the wood. Had it been new lumber, he would have been badly hurt. In its present, state, it gave way instantly and saved the officer a fractured skull and broken ribs. Even so, he was dazed and had the wind knocked out of him by that impact and second one with the floor an instant later.

The trooper hunched his body into a fetal position and straightened his legs out again a number of times, trying desperately to pump air into his body. Little mewling noises came from his mouth as his lungs fought to inflate. Some blood trickled down over his left eye.

As the man struggled for breath, Miles dropped to a knee beside him and unbuckled the equipment belt from around the officer's waist. Miles started to toss it and its attachments back into the kitchen, but stopped before it left his hand.

With his left hand, he worked a set of cuffs from its leather case while he watched the distressed man intently. Gauging the chances the young man could recover over the next few seconds, he decided the probability was remote. He put the shotgun on the floor behind him.

Wrestling the smaller man onto his belly and capturing flailing arms with his hands, Miles snapped the manacles about the trooper's wrists. He was about to get to his feet when it occurred to him to appropriate the key to the handcuffs so the officer couldn't reopen them as quickly as they had been closed.

In the man's front right pocket, he found the small, oddly shaped piece of metal on the trooper's key ring. He tested it by locking the restraints in place so they wouldn't tighten painfully about the man's wrists. The pocketknife discovered in the same pocket was tossed into a corner out of the way. Miles held on to the key ring.

He grabbed the trooper's equipment belt and stood, retrieving the shotgun from where he'd placed it on the floor. Taking a couple of steps into the kitchen, he wrapped the belt around the holster and tossed it on the half-rotted kitchen counter the officer had been trying to get to earlier. His anger quenched for the moment by the violence just past, Miles watched as the young man caught his breath.

The young officer recovered enough to struggle to a sitting position leaning against the front door. He tried to focus on his attacker, but the late sun streaming in the kitchen window was in his eyes and the stranger stayed in the shadows.

"What the hell you trying to do ... kill me?" he wheezed.

Miles snorted. "Not hardly," he replied matter-of-factly. "If I was, you'd be dead," he continued matter-of-factly.

Miles lifted the shotgun one-handed to emphasize his point and parked the weapon on his right shoulder. His hand was around the grip and his forefinger extended along the receiver above the trigger guard.

"But we do have a problem, don't we?" Miles continued. "Just what in the world am I going to do with you?"

Before the younger man could answer, Miles heard the noises of another car slowing, pulling off the road, and beginning a climb uphill to the house. He'd completely missed its approach along the highway.

"Dammit! What is this--Grand Central Station?" Miles muttered.

Since getting into the house the previous evening, Miles had heard only a handful of vehicles pass by. None of them had shown the slightest interest in the farmhouse and barn and all had driven by without pausing. This evening, in the space of a few minutes, two had stopped on the road and come up to the ramshackle old house. He listened as the latest arrival moved slowly along the side of the building just as the trooper's patrol cruiser had earlier.

Bending over, Miles rolled the young man unceremoniously against the bedroom door where he was out of the view of anyone entering through the kitchen. He watched as the trooper drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth wide to yell a warning to whoever was out there. With no time for subtlety, Miles punched the trooper hard in the solar plexus. The young man's breath whooshed out again.

He lay on the dusty floor, trying to suck air into twice-abused lungs while Miles studied him. Deciding it would be several minutes before the man could call out, he stood and retreated quickly into the kitchen. He walked to the far corner where he would again be hidden behind the kitchen door when it opened. A car door badly in need of some oil on its hinges creaked as it opened and quickly banged closed.

Miles barely had time to position himself before the door flew open and a young woman wearing a Stetson and a holstered revolver stepped in.

"James?" she called. Taller and sturdier than the average woman, she spoke in a little girl voice that took Miles by surprise.

Kicking the door shut behind her, the woman took off a pair of sunglasses and blinked in the comparative darkness of the old house. Catching sight of the trooper's holstered gun on the counter where Miles had thrown it, she unbelted her own equipment belt and laid it atop the other. She dropped her hat and sunglasses next to them. Walking through the kitchen to the front room, she saw the damage to the doorframe, but didn't stop to examine it.

"What's the matter, Ricky ... you in a big hurry for something?" She laughed happily in the same little girl's voice and danced into the front room with her arms extended over her head. As she twirled in what she may have thought was a ballet step, the girl saw the trooper writhing on the floor. Instantly alarmed, she set her feet to dodge back into the kitchen to grab her pistol from the top of the kitchen cabinet.

"That's okay," a quiet voice assured her, "I'll get it." The voice was so calm and filled with authority, the woman was momentarily satisfied with the comment and checked her move. Then the incongruity of the words struck her and she realized she didn't recognize the voice.

She turned to the corner of the room from where the comments had come. Her eyes were still not adjusted to the interior of the house. She could see nothing but the silhouette of a large man with a long gun pointed toward her.

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at her revolver on the waist-level countertop just three or four paces away through the kitchen door. It was too far. Her face blanked and she composed herself for whatever came next.