On Deadly Ground (14 page)
After leaving the Subway, Books drove to Neil Eddins' ranch looking for Tommy McClain, but there was no sign of him or his 2002 GMC pickup. Books stopped at the small bunkhouse that served as McClain's home, located a quarter mile from the main compound.
When nobody answered his knock, Books opened the front door and walked in. No sign of McClain. The bunkhouse was empty. He decided to snoop around.
McClain seemed an unlikely candidate to win the seal of Good Housekeeping Award. The place was a dive. The only source of heat was a pot-bellied wood-burning stove that sat in the kitchen. There was enough dust on the furniture to write your last will and testament. An old bunk bed with an equally old pair of stained mattresses was pushed against one wall. A single bed with sheets and a tattered blanket rested against another. Books found nothing in the bed or under the mattress. When he lifted the pillow, he found himself staring at a .357 Smith & Wesson revolver with a six-inch barrel. Only a paranoid man slept with a handgun under his pillow, thought Books.
On the dining room table, he sifted through a stack of mail, junk and unpaid bills mostly, and newspaper clippings describing the murder. He rifled through a dresser drawer but found nothing useful. A six-foot high metal locker stood next to the bed. On the floor of the locker, Books found a stack of Captain Marvel comic books and an assortment of adult skin magazines. McClain's reading interests didn't appear to include Hemingway or Shakespeare. As he stood to close the locker, the front door opened and Neil Eddins walked in.
“I assume you have a court order giving you permission to search these premises,” said Eddins.
“You caught me red-handed, Neil.”
“I figured as much. What do you want?”
“I'm looking for Trees.”
“Well, you won't find him hiding in that locker you're rummaging through.”
“I'm sure you're right about that.”
Eddins shook his head. “You just can't let it go, can you, J.D?”
“Let go of what?”
“You know darn well what.”
Books shrugged. “No, I can't, and yes, I do.”
“I just don't get it. You quickly solved a complex murder case that our sheriff probably wouldn't have, the BLM has to be pleased with the job you've done, and this community owes you a huge debt of gratitude. Why isn't that enough? Accept the accolades, J.D., and move on. It's in everyone's best interest.”
“You mean everyone except the guy who's about to be charged with a murder he likely didn't commit. What about him, Neil? Do we just flush him down the toilet in the interest of community harmony?”
“Don't be foolish. There's more than enough evidence linking Lance Clayburn to this crime. Even you can't explain the incriminating evidence, can you? Everybody sees that except you.”
“I'm amazed how much the armchair quarterbacks seem to know about this case, but you're right, Neil, at the moment, I can't explain the physical evidence. I'm working on it, though. There's more to this case than the evidence. Some things don't add up.”
Eddins stepped closer to Books. “You know, J.D., I can be the best friend you've got in this town or your worst enemy. Unfortunately, you seem hell-bent on the latter. I can turn the thermostat on you up so high that you'll be dancing on your tip-toes like a ballerina. I wish you'd reconsider your position.”
“Sorry, Neil, I'm afraid I can't do that. Now where can I find Trees?”
Eddins sighed. “Have it your way. Trees and a couple of his friends have gone bow hunting. I don't expect him back until sometime Sunday.”
“Where does he like to hunt?”
Eddins studied him for a moment before answering. “He mentioned heading up Johnson Canyon. My guess is that you'll find him camped somewhere along the Skutumpah Road.”
Books headed for the bunkhouse door. “Thanks, Neil. I'll see if I can find him.”
“Hey, J.D.”
“Yeah,”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
After leaving Eddins, Books drove to the Johnson Canyon Road and turned north into the Grand Staircase on the long-shot chance he might find McClain. He knew that he was running out of time and options. Tomorrow's meeting with D.A. Virgil Bell would likely result in murder charges against Lance Clayburn, something he now saw little chance of forestalling.
***
Peter Deluca returned to Kanab. He checked three real estate offices before he found one with a car parked in front and the lights on. He walked in and was greeted by a young man dressed in jeans, a sport shirt, and cowboy boots. “Can I help you with something?” said the realtor, a friendly smile on his face.
“I hope so,” said Deluca. “I was just passing through on vacation and fell in love with the area. It's beautiful country.”
“Sure is,” said the Realtor. “I'm Stan Utley, by the way. And you areâ¦.”
“Andrew Wiley,” replied Deluca.
“Where are you from, Mr. Wiley?”
“Reno, Nevada.”
“And you're interested in land to build on or perhaps a second home?” said Utley.
“A second home.” Deluca removed the photograph he'd just taken from Gadasky's home and handed it to the realtor. “I really like pueblo-style homes. They fit so well into the local landscape. Where can I find houses like this one around here?”
Utley studied the picture and then said, “Southwest style homes are very popular in Kane County. You could build a house like this on almost any property you purchased so long as there are no restrictive covenants.”
“But what about existing homes? Where can I find houses like this?”
Utley thought some more. “There aren't any housing developments that specialize in pueblo-style homes. But I'd say, if you looked around on the west side of town, across Kanab Creek, you'll find more of this style home than anywhere else. Just get on Kanab Creek Drive and it'll take you into the area I'm talking about. Would you like me to search the multiple listing data base for you and see what we can find?”
Deluca smiled. “Why don't you just give me your business card? I'd like to drive around on my own tomorrow and then I'll check back with you. Would that be okay?”
“Certainly.” Utley handed Deluca his card.
Deluca's next stop was the Kanab library. He introduced himself to the librarian as a reporter for the Associated Press. He asked to read everything pertaining to the murder and anything related to J.D. Books. He told her that he'd been assigned to write a breakout piece on Books. Much of what he read, particularly about the murder, he already knew. But he learned a few things about J.D. Books he hadn't known.
Books was a local, born and raised in Kane County. His father, Bernard, was a retired federal government employee who still resided in Kanab. The librarian told him that Books had a sister, Maggie, who had married into a prominent ranch family. Before he left the library, Deluca borrowed a local telephone directory and jotted down addresses for Bernard Books and Bobby and Maggie Case. He might never need this information, but if he did, he wouldn't have time to go looking for it. In the past, whenever he'd needed leverage, nothing worked better than putting family members in harm's way.
Deluca stopped at a convenience store on Center Street where he purchased cigarettes. He asked the store clerk to recommend a good bar, not a touristy place, but one frequented by locals. The clerk suggested a joint called the Cattle Baron.
Deluca was a likeable man. When necessary, he could be charming, friendly, and easy to talk to. He spent the next two hours in the Cattle Baron nursing several beers, buying drinks for other customers, and soaking up as much information as he possibly could. It was almost midnight when he returned to the motel.
Books followed Johnson Canyon Road north into the national monument. Sunset glowed against the towering Vermilion Cliffs as daylight gradually surrendered to night. The road climbed and traversed the terraced Grand Staircase through jagged rock formations, sagebrush, and junipers. A pinyon mouse darted across the road in front of the Yukon, racing for the shelter of a twisted stand of juniper trees.
Most roads in the monument were unpaved and primitive, requiring high clearance, four-wheel drive vehicles to get around. Several miles up the forty-six mile stretch, the paved road suddenly forked and became a graded dirt surface. At the fork, he bore to the right following the Skutumpah Road northeast.
The day's rain storm had him worried. Experienced monument travelers understood that wet conditions frequently made the upper portion of the road impassable. Wet clay had an annoying habit of adhering to tires, leaving unsuspecting travelers stranded. Books had no idea how far McClain might have ventured into the monument. Finding him at all would take a stroke of luck.
He had just come around a narrow, rocky curve in the road and begun a steady uphill climb when he heard the shot. He pulled the Yukon to the side of the road, doused the headlights, and turned the motor off. It was silent. He waited.
Several minutes passed before Books saw the oncoming headlights top the rise directly in front of him. The vehicle, whatever it was, crept along slowly, the occupants apparently oblivious to his presence. As it came closer, he heard loud, raucous laughter. The vehicle stopped not more than one hundred yards from him. How could the bozos not have seen him?
Books saw a muzzle flash and heard the loud report of a rifle. More laughter. They were firing into the darkness at something or maybe nothing. The vehicle inched closer to the Yukon. Books started the engine and hit his bright lights. His lights illuminated the cab of the GMC pickup, and Books saw clearly the surprised faces of two men. The driver was Trees McClain, and the passenger was Derek Lebeau, the same jerkoff who'd lobbed the rock through the front window of his trailer several days prior. He pulled the Yukon alongside McClain's pickup.
“Evening, boys. What are you shootin' at?”
“Nothin' in particular,” said McClain. His speech was slurred and the cab of their truck reeked of alcohol.
“Suppose I don't have to tell you boys, but hunting from a vehicle is illegal in Utah.”
“We weren't huntin',” said McClain. “It's too dark to see anything.”
“Really. Then what were you shooting at?”
McClain glanced at Lebeau for help. Lebeau said, “Varmints. We was just shooting at varmints.”
“Varmints, huh. That sounds like hunting to me. Shut the engine off, Tommy, and let me have a look at your permits.”
Books moved the Yukon a few feet further up the road and radioed dispatch. He gave them his location and asked for immediate backup. The dispatcher told him that an officer from the Utah State Fish & Game Department would be sent but was at least thirty minutes away.
He was on his own. He knew it, and so would McClain and Lebeau. He got out of the Yukon, crossed the dirt road, and came up alongside McClain's truck from the passenger side. He eased the nine-millimeter from its holster and held it low at his side. In some ways Lebeau made him more nervous than McClain. Somebody in that truck had a loaded rifle and who could tell what other weapons. Books looked into the cab and immediately saw a rifle with its barrel pointed toward the floor of the truck. An opened half-gallon bottle of Early Times rested on the seat between the two men. Most of the bottle was empty.
“Hand me the rifle, Mr. Lebeau, butt first.”
Lebeau complied. The weapon was a Savage Arms .30-06.
“Did you enjoy the jug of Early Times? Let me see those hunting permits.”
Books examined the permits and handed them back to Lebeau. “Everything seems to be in order except for one thing. This is the bow hunt, not a rifle hunt. Where are your bows?”
“In the bed of the truck mixed into our camp gear,” slurred McClain. “Are you fixin to arrest us?”
“I haven't decided yet.”
Books told McClain to remain in the truck and ordered Lebeau out. He holstered his weapon long enough to reach for his handcuffs. He slapped one cuff on Lebeau's wrist and attached the other to the outside door handle of the truck.
“Sit tight, Derek, I'll be back with you shortly.”
“Don't leave me shackled like this, man, I gotta pee.”
“You can hold it or piss your pants. It doesn't matter to me.”
“You cocksucker.”
Books ordered McClain out of the truck and walked him over to the Yukon. “Tommy, I don't have a lot of time. I need you to answer some questions about David Greenbriar's murder.
McClain grunted, “Huh, I don't have no fancy education, Books, but I do know one thing. I don't have to say nothin' to you. I don't have to tell you jack-shit.”
“That's true, Tommy, but if you don't, I'm going to hook your truck and throw your sorry ass in jail, Lebeau along with you. Last chance. What's it going to be?”
“Fuck you, asshole,” shouted McClain.
Books anticipated McClain's next move. The big man threw a wild, round-house left hook that Books ducked. He took one step back and then kicked McClain on the inside of his right knee. He heard something pop and McClain screamed in pain. McClain's legs went out from under him and both men went to the ground in a tangled wrestling match. McClain reached a beefy hand for Books' holstered gun. Books rolled to his side and brought his elbow down hard on top of McClain's hand, breaking his grip on the weapon. Books rolled again until he had McClain face down in the dirt road. He placed his own knee in the center of McClain's back and used the leverage to force his hands behind his back, slapping on a second pair of cuffs.
When the incident was over, Books realized that he'd been lucky. It had taken all his strength to subdue one highly intoxicated man, operating on only one good leg. If he hadn't had Lebeau handcuffed to the pickup, he might have been overpowered, killed, and his body dumped in some remote part of the monument never to be found. As it was, he'd gotten out of the incident with a torn, dirty uniform and numerous bumps and bruises.
Books got home after midnight. An officer from state fish and game arrived shortly after the melée ended. McClain required treatment at the hospital for a possible torn ACL in his knee. He and Lebeau had been booked into the Kane County Jail with numerous charges pending. The pickup truck had been impounded, and Lebeau's .30-06 booked into evidence. Books planned to submit the rifle for a ballistics test on the outside chance that it had been used to kill David Greenbriar.
