Uncertain Justice

Chapter 16

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 g*n. 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.