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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
T
EN
It wasn't a long sleep, but it was the first restful night Ward had enjoyed in awhile.
The alarm went off at 6:15 and, before showering, Ward called over to the diner to make sure his take-out breakfast would be waiting. Half an hour later he plopped the bag on his seat, his cell beside it, and was on Ridge Road a half-hour after that, in plenty of time to pick up his daughter. There was no point calling the hospital again; he would stop by after breakfast.
Ward cranked down the windows as he drove. It was cold, but the air had an invigorating quality that chased away lingering sleep. As he climbed the road, his eyes were drawn to the ridge that marked the start of Randolph's property. He couldn't see the house or farm from here but he passed the spot where he had taken the picture. He slowed. In the light, he saw something he had missed the night before: flecks of blood on the ground. That made sense. The intruders had wallowed in the stuff back at the barn then paused here to remove the bags from their feet. Some of the blood would have come off. He pulled over and crouched by the spill. There was nothing but what he had seen the night before: a partial footprint. The blood spots satisfied him that the shoe belonged to one of the pig-killers. The print was left when he put on or took off the bags—the plastic grocery store sacks, most likely—that were used to distort any footprints left behind.
As he squatted there, Ward saw a black van coming up the road. He hurried to the Prius, punched up the map screen, and pretended to study it. The van stopped behind him, but only for a moment. It pulled around him slowly and he looked up at the dark windows. He could see nothing of the inside as the van continued on up the road.
“Too many years on the streets,” he muttered. There, everyone was a potential criminal from the homeless guy who might shiv you to the fellow officer who might shiv you without a knife, or worse. He pulled from the curb and continued up the road.
The van had pulled around the fence and was going up the dirt road. No one lived up there but Randolph. Ward slowed. There was no one watching the farmer's place. He didn't know if these were the perps, what mischief was intended, or even what more damage could be done.
“But you'll never know if you don't follow them,” Ward told himself. He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes past seven. Swearing, he went around the fence and followed the van at a distance.
The big, black vehicle wobbled across the field as Ward had done the night before. It stopped well short of the Randolph property, its surface shining like marble in the early morning sun. The back doors were facing Ward. They opened and four young men emerged. They were fussing about something in the van but it was too far for him to see inside the shadowy interior. He didn't know whether they had bikes with them or picnic baskets. Ward drove slowly onto the field, his heart racing with a familiar rush.
First one, then all four of the men stopped and looked at the Prius. He drove closer, saw that they were swarthy. He put them all at between sixteen and nineteen, ranging in height from five-six to the leader who was about six-one. The four had what appeared to be Asiatic features. They stood proudly, not as interlopers but as though they belonged here. Just now he noticed a bead necklace around one of the men.
Of course
. Ward stopped the car some twenty yards from the group. He got out. “Good morning,” he said. These guys were Native Americans. Probably not the ones he was looking for, but you never could tell without checking.
The others stood in silence. Then, at a signal from the man with the beads, they resumed their activities. These consisted of pulling blankets from the van and carrying them to the other side. Ward approached cautiously, not from fear but from respect. They worked in silence. The men had just finished spreading the blankets on the ground when the leader turned on him.
“What do you want?” the youth demanded.
“I was curious,” Ward said.
“About what? Us? Life? Why the universe has turned against you?”
Ward was not expecting attitude. “Slow down,” he said calmly, as if he were addressing a crackhead in an all-night bodega.
“You are the one who is rushing,” the young man replied.
“Am I? Okay, we can do this your way. Why is the universe against me?”
The youth scowled. “This is a joke to you.”
“Trust me, friend, there is nothing funny in my world right now. Buddy of mine was roughed up here last night, his pigs slaughtered. I was up here looking for clues—tire tracks, discarded cigarettes, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, you mistrust like a policeman” the man said.
“Do I?” Ward replied. Though he had to admit the man was right.
“I don't recognize you,” the man said.
“I'm not from around here,” Ward replied. “You?”
“We were here when the land was new,” the young man said. “We are Ute.”
“Do you come up here every day?” Ward asked. “Some kind of ritual?”
“We heard of the deaths and came to pray for their spirits.”
That was one Ward had never heard in New York. “I see.” He didn't know that animals had spirits.
“Would you care to join us?” the man said after a moment.
“I, uh—I have to meet someone.” He lingered a moment, heard himself say. “I'm sorry I intruded.”
“I believe you.”
Ward was surprised by his own reaction. In New York, passing a house of worship had no effect on him. Here, he felt like he was tromping on something hallowed. That was the difference between spirituality and institutional religion, he guessed.
“How is Mr. Randolph?” one of the men asked.
“He's in the hospital. Took a bad blow to the head. I'm going up there soon. I'll know more then.”
“Tell him Thomas Chapoose sends his breath,” said the shortest of the youths. “I worked with him on the farm last summer. He is a good man.”
“He is very good.” Ward agreed and took a few steps closer. “Do you have any idea who might have done this, or why?”
“The who and the why are one,” the leader said.
“I don't follow.”
“This is sacred land.”
“To—?”
“Our people,” he said.
“Why would that matter to anyone who isn't Ute?”
“Our people used to honor the sun from this spot. We celebrated its rising and, when it set behind the mountains, we thanked it for the light. It was then the animal spirits converged and spoke to those who wished to hear them.”
Ward looked around. Something clicked. “The high ground,” he said. “You can pretty much see everything from this spot.”
“The spirits had room to gather, along with the people who communed with them. And from below, those who could not climb could still see and be seen.”
So Scott Randolph had the highest private, most visible property in the region. That was a possible “why.”
“Is there anything
else
you wish to ask?” the shortest man asked.
It was a leading question. Ward decided to tug the thread a little. “Is there anything else you want to share with me?”
The youth said, “This land we're standing on is public land. We come and go as we please and, once here, we obey the law. We have no need of Mr. Randolph's property.”
“Does everyone feel that way?”
“We do not know ‘everyone,'” the youth replied. “Only our own people. Over the decades the Randolphs have given us food when we've needed it, and jobs. It would dishonor all if any one did him harm.”
“Do you have any idea who might not feel that way?”
“If we knew that, we would be summoning a very different spirit for a very different purpose,” the leader replied.
Ward nodded. The detective wasn't sure he understood but he absolutely respected their conviction.
The leader rallied the others with a cock of his head and they carried their blankets beyond the van and spread them carefully on the grass. Ward crouched—it felt rude to stand, hypocritical to kneel—and watched as they knelt toward the sun and raised their faces and arms to the sky. The wind carried the small sounds they were making in a tongue he couldn't understand.
After a few minutes he returned to the car, feeling strangely settled. But then the old John Ward returned, focused on the information he had picked up and disturbed at the way it fit with the rest of what was happening in Basalt.
C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN
Joanne opened the door. Disgust was apparent in every line of her face. “You're late. Again.”
Ward looked at his watch. “Yeah, a little. We'll eat in the car. I'll get her there on time.”
“You still don't get it,” his former wife said. “You say you'll be here, you should be here. Not ten or even five minutes later.”
“It couldn't be helped,” he said. He saw Megan sitting in the kitchen.
“She called you—”
“Crap. My phone was in the car. Look, we can stand here arguing or I can take Megan to school.”
“She's eating right now—”
“Yeah, I see that.”
“I'll send her out when she's done.”
“Jesus, Joanne. Let me come in and sit with her. Please.”
Joanne thought for a moment. “We're giving her good energy right now.”
“You're what?”
“She'll be out in a few minutes.” Joanne started to close the door.
“Wait!” Ward said, stepping partway in. “You heard what happened over at Scott Randolph's?”
“I'm an emergency veterinary volunteer with the fire department,” she said. “I received a call but I wasn't needed.”
“I was there last night after it happened,” Ward said. “I went back this morning to see if I could help find the bastards who did this. That's why I was late.”
“Did you do that for us, John, or for yourself?”
“I just wanted to help,” Ward said.
“Help your daughter first,” Joanne said. “Prioritize.”
She went to shut the door and Ward stepped back. The click sounded loud and final. He had to stop himself from slamming the frame with the heel of his hand.
Good energy
. What was this, freakin' Tibet? Ward turned and kicked the air and walked back to the car and leaned against the hood with his arms tightly crossed. He felt like driving off, like running from the whole poisonous relationship. But he couldn't leave Megan behind, however much Joanne tried to make every conflict seem like abandonment.
Megan came out less than two minutes after her mother left. She was carrying a Green Earth backpack and eating a piece of whole wheat toast with a spread that looked like jam but was probably kelp. He smiled at her; she smiled crookedly back but quickly averted her eyes. He opened the car door for her. Joanne was not watching, as far as he could tell.
“Sorry I'm late,” he said.
“Mom explained. She said you're trying to help Mr. Randolph.”
“I want to help find the people who hurt him,” Ward told her.
“Are you allowed to?” she asked as he settled into the driver's seat.
“I met the police chief last night,” he answered. “She—” He was going to say “
offered me a job
” but he didn't want to get Megan's hopes up. She wouldn't understand the context.
“She what?”
“Wanted my professional opinion so I gave it to her,” he said.
“You man, you.” She grinned.
He laughed. “Yeah, that's your dad.”
“Do you know the way to my school?”
“Haven't the faintest idea,” he said as he backed from the driveway.
She smiled back and directed him through town to Basalt Middle School. She declined his offer to take the breakfast he'd bought for her lunch, saying she had her own.
It was a quick trip and a quick good-bye. If Megan was upset with how the morning went, she hadn't shown it much. It seemed—and he hoped he wasn't reading anything into their brief exchange—that his daughter understood him. Ward watched her go, returned her wave when she turned back, then drove off. He was still angry at Joanne for stirring things up when she should have been settling them, but he wasn't as mad as he was before.
Ward ate the pancakes he'd bought, using his fingers as he drove through town. He used the GPS to find the hospital and was there in fifteen minutes. Visiting hours were not until ten, but Police Chief Brennan arrived and took Ward in with her.
“Thanks,” he said as they walked down the long corridor. “I guess you don't work undercover after all.”
It took her a moment to get what he meant. “Oh, the uniform?” she said. “Yeah, well, I'm on duty now.”
“I found blood up by the curb on Ridge Road,” he said.
She nodded. “I saw that too last night,” she said.
“When?”
“I went back after I dropped Scott off. Also found the partial of a Timberland white sole work boot, size nine I imagine.”
Ward grinned. “Nice.”
“What?”
“I took a picture of that myself,” Ward said. “I was going to take it to a shoe store this morning.”
“We try to do our jobs here,” she said. “Problem is, about half the county wears those boots. Got 'em myself.”
“Did you also notice the blood?”
“Got the lab guy out of bed to take samples. It's Scott Randolph's,” she told him. “Got those results before I came down.”
Ward was feeling a little stupid; he
had
assumed they wouldn't go right to the curb and check for evidence where the attackers might have parked. What made it worse was that Brennan knew exactly what he'd thought.
The small yellow room got the morning sun and the blinds were angled to throw it in slats across the bed and walls. Randolph looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight. His neck was bandaged and his eyes were swollen with a single bruise that stretched across the bridge of his nose; his jaw was also banged up.
“Doc says I hit the ground face-first,” the farmer said.
“That was my diagnosis last night,” the chief replied. “Mud splatters tell tales.” They walked to the right side of the bed. “Everything still works, though?”
“So far.”
“That's what matters most,” Brennan said.
Randolph nodded. He looked at Ward. “Thanks for coming, John.”
“Of course.”
Brennan thought for a moment then said, “I just wanted to go over what you said last night. You said you didn't see or hear anything that happened?”
“Only headlights on the wall, my pigs squealing, and me going outside. Nothing till I came to.”
“Which we put at about ninety minutes later, according to what Doc O'Hara says about the death of the pigs—”
“The slaughter,” Randolph said. “My pigs were slaughtered.”
She dipped her head in acquiescence. “Slaughtered. That means the butchers worked fast and knew the lay of the land.”
“You mean they knew my property?”
“They knew where to go, where you slept, and how to get up there unseen,” she said. “We talked to some of the people on Ridge Road this morning. No one noticed any lights. Is there anyone who was so familiar with your place they could approach in the dark and do this by flashlight?”
“Chief, you know how many people have worked for me over the years,” Randolph said. “There's no secret what I have and where it is.” He grew solemn. “What I had,” he said quietly.
“Other than the encounter with those off-roaders, has anything happened out of the ordinary?”
“What, like UFOs? Crop circles?”
She didn't answer. Even Ward knew he was venting.
“Chief, nothing different has happened for as long as I've been up there,” Randolph said.
“What about up at your hunting cabin? Anybody see you dressing a deer? Animal rights activists, anything like that?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Has anyone offered to buy your place?” the police chief asked.
“Like I told John, I hear from folks at the bank that it gets run up the flagpole every couple of months but I don't pay it no attention.” He regarded her through his swollen eyes. “Look, we know who did this—”
“We don't,” she insisted.
“Then we know who
probably
did this,” Randolph said. “Why don't you just question those bloody Muslim kids?”
“Because I have absolutely no evidence,” she replied. “I'm not allowed to go on hunches, Scott. I need proof. I need the weapon with which you were assaulted. I need a tag from one of the bikes.”
“They probably cart'em around in a van or truck.”
“That's just about everyone who owns an ATV or dirt bike,” she said. “I'm not permitted to interrogate someone just because you don't like him.”
“How are we going to find anything out if we can't ask questions, let alone knock heads together?” Randolph asked.
She laid a hand on Randolph's shoulder. “
We
aren't going to worry about it. My department is. I've got the lab guys going up to your place later, just to make sure we didn't miss anything. But this isn't a big town, Scott. Someone will say something, boast about what they did up there, and someone will hear it.”
“Bare feet and hot coals'll work a lot faster,” Randolph said.
“And no court in the United States will admit as evidence what we might discover,” she replied.
Randolph shook his head. “I've got no livelihood, I'm takin' my meals through a straw, and I can't help find the a-holes who put me here. I didn't feel this helpless when we had that wildfire in eighty-eight.” He turned a bloated eye toward Ward. Suddenly, the eye narrowed slightly. “You know what? I didn't whine then, now that I think of it. To hell with me. How's your daughter? Things goin' okay for you?”
“We're working on it,” Ward said. He was proud and impressed at the way Randolph had just bootstrapped himself.
“Good man.”
“She read about your exploits?” the chief asked.
“Seems like half the countryside read about it,” Ward said.
The chief's hand was still on Randolph's shoulder. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “Look, you need to rest and I need to get to work. Promise me you won't push to get yourself out of here?”
“Chief,
that
I cannot promise. I vaguely remember saying something about wanting to be upright last night and I meant it.”
“Okay, but I've left instructions that no one takes you home except me. And if I don't think you're ready, you'll be thumbing a ride in this pretty paper gown.”
“That won't stop me.”
“Maybe not, so how about this.” Her eyes grew hard. “Someone means you harm. If you're here, we can look after you. You go back, feeling less than one hundred percent, and you're putting yourself at risk. Don't be the first Randolph who couldn't tell the difference between brave and stupid.”
Randolph was silent for a moment. Then he looked at them, his eyes moist. “I was thinkin' last night, before this went down, that it's good to know folks have my back. Thanks.”
Brennan and Ward left without a word. They continued to the parking lot in silence and stopped beside Ward's car.
“Scott's stubborn as a rash but he's good people,” Brennan said as she slipped on her sunglasses.
“I really like him,” Ward said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd said that about anyone.
“So what are you thinking of doing now?”
“About?”
The police chief gave him a give-me-a-break look.
Ward reached through the open window for the bag with the coffee, now cold. He pried back the plastic lid. “You're convinced I'm going to do something.”
“As sure as I know what year it is.”
He sipped the coffee.
“Okay, I'll go first,” she said. “I've got nothing on this. The lab couldn't tell me much about the weapon used to kill the pigs, other than that it was a butcher knife. The incision on the throat was not designed for a pig.”
“Meaning?”
“The butchers could have gotten in and out faster with simple venipuncture of the jugular,” she said. “A few quick pokes below the ear, let it bleed out, on to the next. That kind of information is available online. You don't have to wrestle with each pig, the way these guys did judging from the impressions in the pens. No, the throat-cuttings were patterned after human beheadings. Have you seen any of those videos from the Middle East?”
Ward confessed that he had seen several of the many dozen that had appeared online: The videos were included in the NYPD's mandatory anti-terror training. The instructors wanted officers to understand the kind of monsters they were facing. The victim was typically thrown on his side with the killer kneeling behind his shoulders, literally sawing his throat with a blade while another man held his head down. Ward would never forget the sheets of blood, the dying man's screams, then the awful gurgling as his severed windpipe tried to suck air through the wound, drawing only blood. It took about six or seven seconds for the victim to go limp but it seemed hellishly longer.

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