Forty-Four

By the time Arn and Danny left the Johns’ ranch, it was well past dark. Beverly and Bonnie had both been taken to the hospital: Bonnie to get checked out, and Beverly for treatment for a skull fracture and broken orbital socket. Paramedics are no doctors, but they speculated Beverly would be fine after surgery to repair the damage.

Oblanski had remained at the ranch until Slade and his investigation team arrived. He’d had no word on Ana Maria’s location, and his deputies had not found Scott Wallace either. Or Steve Campbell, as their BOLO now read. By the time Arn and Danny pulled to the curb in front of their house, Arn was as mentally drained as ever just thinking of places to check.

He unlocked the door and noticed Danny had not armed the security system. “I ran out in a hurry,” Danny said.

“Stay put.” Arn entered the darkened house and reached for the light, then stopped. If anyone was inside, they wouldn’t know the layout as he did, so he kept the house dark as he searched from room to room. When he’d looked everywhere and found no one, he came back to the front door and flicked the lights on.

“A little jumpy?” Danny asked.

“Wouldn’t you be after what we’ve seen today?”

Danny said as much and went into the kitchen to start coffee. “Arn!” he called.

Arn went into the room and Danny handed him a slip of paper. “It was hanging on the fridge.”

Mr. Anderson: It has been a pleasure meeting you.
Or rather, I should say it has been a pleasure
meeting your roommate. She’ll dance quite well.
—Steve

“The son-of-a-bitch is gloating,” Danny said.

“Or a parting shot.” Arn rubbed his forehead against a rising headache. “I’m missing something. My first thought was that Campbell and Ana Maria are way out of state by now. But what if they’re not? He promised to return and take care of Beverly and Bonnie.”

Danny nuked two cups of coffee in the microwave and handed one to Arn. “Surely if he goes back, he’ll realize Oblanski and Slade were there.”

Arn thought so, too. “Slade left two of his tactical guys there in case Campbell returns, but I doubt he will. I’m just missing something. But what the hell is it?”

“Maybe if you go in the living room and think about it. I’ll leave you all alone so I won’t disturb you—”

Arn slapped the table. “I think you’re on to something.”

Danny looked surprised. “Me?”

Arn downed his coffee. “Make a fresh pot. I’m going to be gone for a little bit. The one place I bet no one’s looked for Campbell is at that sheepherder’s cabin on the Pott place. I’d wager no one even knows about it except the Potts, and the sheriff’s deputies didn’t see them when they stopped there. What better place to be alone with Ana Maria?”

“Want me to call the sheriff’s office and tell Slade where you’re headed?”

“No,” Arn said. “I don’t want them pulled off other places they’re searching. I’m just going to check that cabin and I’ll be right back.”

Arn pulled to the front of the Potts’ house, the yard light casting odd shadows on the porch swing that was swaying in time with the wind. There were no lights inside, but he didn’t expect any. Ranch folks often went to bed with the chickens and got up at the crack of dawn. Right now, the chickens had been in bed since the sun had set.

He grabbed his flashlight from the glove box and went to the door. It was locked—the second time that day a rancher had locked his house, and Arn slipped the gun out of his ankle rig. He raised his hand to knock, but stopped. If they were inside sleeping, he would feel bad waking them up just to talk with him. But Ana Maria’s safety was too important, even if he was acting on an off-hunch. He knocked lightly at first, then louder. When he got no answer, he shined his light through the window of the door. It was as if they’d left on a vacation. Again, something ranchers rarely did, with livestock to tend to.

Arn turned to go back to his car and froze. His flashlight illuminated a single blood drop on the steps. The tail of the drop showed that whoever put the blood there had walked away from the house.

He turned back to the door and put his shoulder into it. The door broke, splintering from its hinges. Arn flicked his flashlight on and played it around the entryway. Nothing.

He flattened himself against the wall and turned his flashlight off while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The ever-familiar odor of putrid blood reached him, then, like at hundreds of crime scenes he’d been at before.

Arn inched along the wall, careful not to brush it with his clothing, careful not to telegraph to anyone who might be lurking inside the room his exact whereabouts. Busting though the door would alert whoever might be waiting for him, but he didn’t have to tell them exactly when he was coming.

He squatted low and flicked his light along the floor for a brief second. Nothing. He stepped another few steps and flicked it on again. Nothing.

Except the odor of decaying blood becoming stronger.

He tried to remember where in the house he was. As a youngster, he’d been inside many times for cookies and lemonade, but that was so long ago … the kitchen. He was just on the other side of the kitchen.

A fan kicked on. The smell intensified. A dead body lay on the other side of the wall. And the killer might be waiting there as well.