Uncertain Justice

Chapter 21

"Welcome to 'All Points Bulletin--America.' I'm Daniel Preston. The count stands at nine hundred and twenty-three ... nine hundred and twenty-three criminals behind bars thanks to viewers just like you. Tonight we come to you from Pueblo, Colorado where we have breaking news. A manhunt is on just west of here for suspected r****t Miles Underwood. This animal was on trial for the horrific r**e of an innocent young girl in San Antonio, Texas--a r**e that resulted in her death.

"Underwood got a free pass in the first trial when the jury deadlocked on his guilt or innocence. Before he could be tried again, the killer brutally attacked the prosecutor in his own home and shot District Attorney Carl Brady twice before escaping in a violent thunderstorm.Underwood is now suspected of k********g two Colorado peace officers and holding them at gunpoint for hours before releasing them yesterday evening.

"Authorities believe Underwood is driving a pickup truck he bought from a friend in Texas but never registered under his own name. Two days ago, he was seen in Kansas City, Missouri but before police could close in, he got away. We think he's still hiding somewhere in the mountain region west of Pueblo tonight.

"Colorado--help us catch this sorry excuse for a man and put him behind bars where he belongs. Working together, we put a g**g of bank robbers and merciless killers called the 'Chicago Six' away for good. That was just a few weeks ago and we think you can help us do that with this fugitive from San Antonio, Texas. They were armed, dangerous, and on the run and so is Miles Underwood.

"We're issuing an All Points Bulletin tonight for this killer and kidnapper so watch out for him, America. We'll have more information on Miles Underwood later in this program. Stay tuned for that.

"First, last week we told you the story...."

"APB-America"

March 19

§

He thought of it as sneaking up on his destination. He'd made his way to Utah to evade all the police activity in Colorado and found a small, out-of-the-way motel on the wrong side of the Provo railroad tracks where he could hide out for a few days.

When he left Provo, he drove south through Salt Lake City on IH-15, and then east on IH 70 to Grand Junction, Colorado. Thinking about it later, he remembered it as an uneventful and quiet trip. In fact, he didn't see any highway patrol vehicles on either of the interstate highways--didn't even hear of any on the CB.

After he turned south on U.S. Highway 50, he'd seen only one sheriff's car ... and that had been parked and unoccupied at a twenty-four hour restaurant near the interstate. That had been before midnight.

Highway 50 turned east from Montrose and it was only a short drive to Monarch Pass. In the dark, he found a parking place near the access point for the Continental Divide Trail and turned off the pickup's engine for the last time. He slumped behind the steering wheel and closed his eyes to rest until the sun rose.

He woke only once during the night, but when he did, he was furious with himself. It was some time before he calmed down enough to see the humor in the situation. Even when the anger passed, though, he couldn't find a logical answer to the question of why he'd put himself through everything that he had suffered after leaving the two police officers in the abandoned house.

Since he had no specific destination in the mountains, he could have selected anywhere to enter them. North of Denver would have been just as satisfactory as south. Instead, he'd worked hard to get back to this one particular trailhead ... one he knew from years past. It was insane ... he hadn't even considered any alternatives. He tried to laugh at himself before dozing off again ... but his heart wasn't in it.

§

Tired and dispirited, Miles leaned against the pickup's front fender. It had been a long night and nerve-wracking ... though, in truth, most of the stress had been self-imposed. His eyes roamed from one snow-covered mountain peak to another as he spooned the contents of a small disposable cereal box into his mouth. The early morning air was sharp and clear. There was a lot of winter still in the light wind that ruffled his hair.

He wished he could get a traditional breakfast. Visions of a big fluffy omelet and piles of link sausages danced briefly in his mind. A pitcher of orange juice popped into existence beside the overflowing plate. He sighed. The calories from a good breakfast would be useful later when his energy reserves began to fade but there was no way he could get a meal like that today. On the other hand, he could get the needed calories from the remains of the ham he'd purchased his last night in Provo and from the raisin bran he did have. He philosophically swallowed another spoonful of cereal and milk.

He waved at the driver of a lone eighteen-wheeler as the heavily loaded rig topped the rise and began to gather speed on the downhill side. The two toots from the truck's air horn he got in reply broke the morning calm as the sun spilled over the eastern ridge. He walked slowly to the park's trashcan to drop the empty box inside.

"Soooooo...." he said to himself, letting his Texas drawl extend the word indefinitely, "which way shall we go?" He looked north and then south. The terrain was pretty much the same in either direction. Since his only goal was to disappear, it really didn't matter what direction he traveled.

Reminded again of the single-mindedness with which he'd traveled to get to this place, he shook his head. A gust of cold wind from the north strengthened and made the treetops sway to the south. He shivered.

"Okay, I'll take that as an omen ... south it is." An early rising squirrel scolded him half-heartedly from a nearby stump. Miles grinned at the animal, waving his spoon in greeting.

"Sorry, pardner ... didn't mean to disturb ya." The squirrel watched him intently to see if there would be some food offered to supplement the apology. When nothing was forthcoming, it scampered disdainfully into the underbrush.

He walked behind the pickup and studied the backpack sitting on the tailgate. He'd sorted through the contents at first light, positioning lightweight items lower and to the outside of the pack. That moved the heavier items closer to his back and over his hips, taking stress off his shoulders.

The binoculars were in a side pocket ready to use. Below the glasses was a zipped pouch full of raisins and peanuts for a quick source of energy. A big hunting knife in its scabbard was tied on the side of the pack; it was a little awkward to get to quickly but he could do it if he had to. A compass hung from his neck where he could easily lift it to take bearings. His two canteens were full of water--one lashed behind him to the outside of the backpack, the other hung on his hip belt.

He patted the bulge where the dismantled shotgun was secured inside the pack. He'd decided last night the weapon and its ammunition were just too darned heavy to take with him on the trail. They would stay with him only until he came upon a lake deep enough to hide it forever.

His inspection complete, Miles strolled over to the restroom. It would be the last time he would see even as primitive convenience as this for a long time.

Returning to the pickup, he dug in his pockets and emptied them of everything he couldn't use on the trail. He put the key in the ignition and stacked a pocketful of change on the small cooler he was leaving behind. Both actions invited someone to break in and steal the truck and its contents, and that would be a good thing for Miles.

Pausing, he wondered if he was forgetting something he would need but nothing came to mind. He closed the door carefully, firmly. His hand remained on the handle for a long moment as he gazed at the mountains down to the south without seeing any details of the view.

He was delaying the moment when he left it all behind. He knew this intellectually ... but the knowledge didn't help break the mood. In a few moments he would be leaving everything he had ... everything he'd been and worked for in his life. The realization was daunting. Shaking his head, he forced himself into motion

Mechanically, he sat on the lowered tailgate and pushed his arm through the backpack's right shoulder strap. Twisting slightly, he hooked his left arm through the strap on that side of the pack. He fastened the bulky, comfortably padded hip belt in place and stood erect. Taking the weight of the loaded pack on his shoulders for the first time, he walked away from the truck.

He busied himself with making the pack a comfortable load on his back, pulling the belt-stabilizer straps to position the pack better over his hips and buckled the sternum strap. Yanking down on the load lifters, he dragged the weight a little higher and closer to his body. He tightened and loosened the multitude of straps and buckles, rolling his shoulders and working his upper body until the pack settled into place and rode comfortably.

Returning to the pickup, he locked the tailgate in the up position. Walking along the side of the truck, he let his fingers trail along the fender to maintain the contact as long as possible. Then he trudged behind the gondola station to the trailhead, not letting himself look back.

Turning south on the big trail that followed the Continental Divide from Canada to Mexico, he began to climb the gentle slope along the ridge. He loosened the sternum strap for extra comfort when the exertion made him breathe heavier.

§

It was mid-morning before the pale green pickup with red and blue emergency lights on top pulled into the parking lot. The cleared area was frequently used by serious hikers using the Continental Divide Trail and passers-by who wanted to spend an hour or two in the wild.

Ranger Tim Cantwell checked the trailhead every day. Weekend hikers and tourists sometimes took on a little more than they could handle at the high altitude and got themselves in trouble. Some days it was absolute drudgery; today the bright sunshine and blue sky made him eager for a good walk.

The three vehicles he found there didn't surprise Cantwell. That was about normal for early March. He knew that many serious hiking enthusiasts were finding the summers too crowded even on a trail that punished hikers with rough terrain and high altitude.

Some experienced hikers were changing their habits and taking the trail in early spring and late fall to avoid the greater numbers in the summer. Grabbing the daypack full of survival gear and first aid supplies he carried ... even on short excursions into wild country ... he wandered over by the pickup and two SUVs.

Examining the truck, his pulse quickened a little. Park Service Rangers were responsible for law enforcement in the national forests, but that wasn't their primary focus. This morning, though, the day crew had been briefed to watch for an older model, dark-colored pickup driven by a white male with a Texas accent and armed with a shotgun. The supervisor passed on the word that two state troopers had been kidn*pped for ransom in the eastern part of Colorado but later escaped. There was some thought the kidnapper might be headed west.