Uncertain Justice

Chapter 19

If he kept on, he was going to leave lots of fingerprints behind and that was counterproductive. He'd been careful all last evening and today to not touch any exposed surfaces in the old house with his bare hands.

It hadn't been particularly difficult; there was nothing in the building he wanted to handle. He rose, trying to find a solution. He rolled the length of sticky fabric between his palms and put it in a pocket.

Bending low, he retrieved the gloves from beside his backpack. He'd brought them along in case he might ever have to climb up or slide down a rope out in the wilderness, but they could be used for other purposes. He tugged them on and tightened the strap across the back of his wrist.

He carefully rubbed his gloved palm on outside of the roll of tape to remove any fingerprints that might be there. Unwinding a longer strip, he wrapped it over the rag about the trooper's head. Finishing, he stepped over the man's body to repeat the process with his girlfriend.

He stood and paused to admire his handiwork. It occurred to him he should immobilize them for long enough to get a good distance away too. Kneeling again, he wrapped tape around each law officer's ankles. The tough band of sticky tape would be almost impossible to break; nor would it stretch far enough to free the lovers.

"Ahhhh," he breathed. He'd taken the young trooper's key to his handcuffs, but she would presumably have one of her own since she'd been carrying a pair also.

"Don't take this personal, sweetheart," he advised. "But I need to get your handcuff key and ... thank you very much." She'd obligingly rolled on her left side to allow him easy access to her right front pocket before Miles could complete his request. He put her keys with the trooper's in his own pocket.

He checked her other pockets for a knife or something else she might use to get free, but found nothing. Finally, he rubbed the surfaces of both sets of cuffs to remove any of his prints that might be on them. Finishing, he rocked back on his heels and surveyed the law enforcement officers for a moment.

"Okay ... y'all sit tight while I get a few things together and then I'm gonna get out of your hair." He stood, crossed the room to his gear, and began to stuff his belongings into his backpack, working fast. It wasn't a professional job, but it would do for now. The sun was low and shadows in the room were getting darker. He pulled his flashlight out. He listened for traffic on the road but heard nothing.

He waved the beam around to check for clothing or gear he'd forgotten. The circle of light found the trooper's pocketknife Miles had tossed in the corner. Picking up the knife and stuffing it in the pocket with their keys, he studied the two captives for a moment. Deciding he was ready, he yanked the pack off the floor and hooked his right arm through the straps. The backpack hung awkwardly from his shoulder but he wasn't going far. He turned to face the two law officers.

"Okay, you two. I'm gonna go outside but I'll be back. I'll have your service pieces with me and I'm not letting go of my shotgun for a second. You won't get even a small chance at me ... and I'm not gonna hurt you two so long as you don't get stupid and try some John Wayne trick on me. Understand?"

They didn't make a reply, but Miles hadn't really expected one. He was sure they were thoroughly immobilized, physically and emotionally, and that was what was important.

Miles walked through the kitchen, grabbing the g*n belts from the counter as he went by. Sitting the shotgun down, he rubbed the leather with gloved hands to erase any fingerprints he might have left on them. At the last minute, he turned back to the front room and picked up the food scattered about the front room. At least the bucket of chicken already had his fingerprints on it, and perhaps other items did too. He couldn't afford to leave it all behind.

The fading light outside was still good enough to see the two vehicles behind the house. He dropped the pack on the porch and walked to the highway patrolman's cruiser. Opening the door, he found a portable radio in a charging mount and a laptop fastened to the dash where the driver could reach them. He pulled the radio out. He walked to the deputy's big four-by-four.

Propping the shotgun against the porch, he opened the driver's side door to find a mobile radio inserted into a floorboard unit that charged the battery, similar to the one in the state trooper's vehicle. Miles took it out and gave the interior a once over. Nothing else caught his attention.

Returning to the state trooper's car, he opened the trunk to find the tire iron. It proved admirably suited to the task of destroying the radios. Ruined circuitry was soon distributed over several square yards of dirt and weeds. The computer in the cruiser got the same treatment after Miles rested a bit. Destruction was hard work.

Taking each pistol out of its holster, he unloaded them and threw the cartridges as far as he could into the overgrown field. He did the same with the deputy's extra rounds and the now empty magazines for the trooper's semi-automatic. His arm had warmed up. It was strong and loose now. He got excellent distance on the later throws, particularly with the guns that followed the bullets into the dusk.

Retrieving the shotgun from where it was propped against the stoop, Miles trotted into the house to check on his two prisoners. From the way they tried to project an air of innocence, it was clear they'd been discussing something they didn't want him to know about.

That was fine with Miles--they could talk all they wanted. He wasn't going to be around much longer and they wouldn't have time or opportunity to put any plan into action. He said nothing for the long moment he stared at them. Just letting them know he was still there and watching was enough.

He turned, and walked swiftly back out the open kitchen door. Skirting the two police vehicles, he jogged to his pickup in the sunken area behind the barn.

Starting the engine, he drove up the slope of the dried-up pond and parked beside the back stoop. He grabbed the backpack from the porch and tossed it into the bed of the pickup. Leaving the engine running, he walked quickly inside.

"Did ya miss me?" Miles' question went unanswered again. "No? Well ... I guess I can't blame you," he said in a philosophical drawl. He bent to examine the restraints on both officers. Nothing was loose, not that he'd expected anything to be but it never hurt to check.

"Alright ... listen up, both of you." Again, Miles' sharp tone got their immediate attention. "I'm gonna leave in a couple minutes and you won't be seeing me again ... unless you force me into a situation where I don't have any other way out, you're going to be fine."

He paused for effect. "You need to know ... listen up you two ... it's your job to make sure you don't put me into that situation, understand? Y'all stay inside while I motor on over to Kansas and we'll all get through this without anyone getting hurt, okay? Two minutes, folks, and we're home free."

The first part of his little speech was directed at the two junior officer's supervisors. Reasonably certain the pair would carry his words to their seniors, he hoped the warning would be heeded. Miles doubted his suggestion that he was heading east would fool anyone. At best, the police would be forced to commit a tiny part of their resources in that direction and away from the direction he intended to travel but ... every little bit helped. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Pivoting, he walked quickly through the kitchen and out the door.

He walked to the trooper's patrol car and started the engine with an impatient twist of the ignition key. He drove the vehicle to the front of the building, making a wide arc around his truck. If they didn't free themselves, Miles wanted to make sure the two law enforcement officers were found before thirst and hunger killed them.

Shutting the car's motor off, Miles got out and jogged back to his pickup. On the way, he hurled both sets of keys and the trooper's pocketknife into what was getting to be a badly littered field.

Back at his pickup, he hopped up on the running board and twisted sideways to sit on the wide bench seat. He put the shotgun on the passenger side floorboard and leaned it against the far door. He stood watching the fading sun for a long moment, mesmerized by the beauty of the pink colored clouds still illuminated in the high plains twilight. The birds had quieted and the wind was dying away with the coming evening. He was struck by the serenity of the Colorado prairie.

He had force himself to refocus on the danger he was in. A feeling of approaching doom suddenly pressed hard against him. Time was passing and he needed to get moving. He put the transmission in gear and let out the clutch. The door slammed shut as the truck lurched into motion. Shaking off his right glove onto the seat next to him, he pulled the other off to toss it beside its mate. As the pickup jolted down the hill, he reached behind his left shoulder to yank the safety belt across his body.

He accelerated carefully through a shallow right turn at the bottom that put him on the pavement going eastbound, back toward Kansas as he'd told the officers. Then Miles jammed the gas pedal to the floor. Getting out of the two lowest gears as fast as he could so they wouldn't bog down the engine, he stayed longer with the two intermediate ones for extra power and speed until the needle on the tach brushed the red line.

Once over the rise, he switched on the headlights, set them on dim, and leaned back to take stock. He saw no lights in the rearview mirror and none glared at him from ahead. He eased into fifth gear and settled in for a long night of driving.

§

When the stranger left the house for the last time, the deputy heaved herself onto her back and pulled her knees up to her chin. Stretching her shoulders, she lifted her body on her back and heels while she pressed her handcuffed wrists below her butt.

Settling back to the floor, she picked at the exposed end of the tape around her ankles with a long fingernail until she could grab it in her hand. A moment later, she had pulled loose a long strip. She was almost sobbing with the effort to move faster.

With the tape completely removed, she pushed one foot against the other to get her boots off. After that, it was easy to force her hands lower and ease the cuffs under sock-covered feet. Her hands finally in front of her, she peeled off the cloth and tape over her eyes, cursing when the sticky material snagged stray hairs.

The deputy rolled to her feet and ran to the window at the front of the house just in time to see the dark-colored pickup bump its way down to the road and drive east. The lights weren't on and she couldn't make out the license plate number, but in the last flash of twilight, she thought she saw the color scheme of a Texas plate.

Colorado residents were fond of saying half the population of Texas escapes to Colorado in the summertime and there was enough truth in the anecdote for her to be more than a little familiar with tags from the Lone Star State. She grimaced and stamped her left foot, frustrated she couldn't see more. Both officers listened until the deep-throated roar of the engine faded in the distance. He wasn't coming back.

The deputy went to the young trooper to help him out of his blindfold and taped ankles. He yelped when the duct tape took out a patch of hair and his scalp wound bled where the adhesive pulled off the scab that had begun forming. He staunched the trickle of blood with a clean handkerchief while Julie pulled her boots back on. They left the old farmhouse in a rush. It was nearly dark and they needed to attract some attention from the authorities as soon as they could.