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  RIP CORD

  William H. Lovejoy

  © William H. Lovejoy 1992

  William H. Lovejoy has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1992 by Avon Books.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the memory of my gruff and lovable friend Bob Nolan,

  and offering strength, hope, and love to Sally, Tim, Tom, and Suzy.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  ONE

  At the end, the body hung suspended from a gnarled beam, caught in a harness fashioned from leather straps. Like the livery of a favorite Pekinese.

  The once proud head, with its full mane of thick blond hair, was canted at an awkward angle, wide chin resting near the left collarbone. The hair was matted and limp, the face ashen, the mouth a frozen rictus caught up in its own horror. Both eyelids were gone. The overly large, round, and fading dark blue eyes had been forced to bear witness.

  Sloping at a steep angle from the thick neck, the shoulders were massive and strong, sinewed with muscle, and the thick arms hung straight down, fingers curled into claws fighting a departed pain. There were white depressions around the wrists where the thongs had been tied. The two hands had six fingers left between them. The forefingers and the thumbs were gone. Four fingers still had fingernails.

  Golden curls of hair on the big chest were streaked with the blackened remnants of blood from scores of eighth-inch-deep slashes which had carefully avoided the broad band of leather tightened under the rib cage and the two thinner, vertical bands which went up over the shoulders. Dried rivulets of blood were patterned down the torso, disappearing into the pubic thatch or continuing down the heavily muscled thighs and calves to drip off toes pointed at the manure-crusted earth. Body fluids had been sucked up by the porous ground, leaving a barely discernible stain. A gory heap on the primitive floor was what remained of the genitalia.

  Nine feet away, facing the body of George Henry Andropoulous, hung the body of Mrs. George Henry Andropoulous, in much the same condition, except for the broom handle.

  The couple hung like abandoned puppets from the central beam in the corridor of the barn. Empty stalls along each side contained the ghosts of long-gone dairy cattle. Moonlight spilled through the large gaps in the roof, spreading a blue light over the interior of the loft and corridor, crisscrossed by the shadow of eroded rafters.

  Rusty hinges held the rotted doors closed, as if against the chill of the night. The small corral which abutted the building was missing many of its cross poles — hands without fingers, a stark silhouette played against a moon-washed landscape. An ancient, open-faced equipment shed with a rusted, corrugated tin roof leaned precariously into the light wind. The rock foundation of a four-room house was buried in the parched earth a hundred yards away. Its soul had fled in flames years before.

  The spring thaw in the higher elevations had released the perfume of manzanita, sumac, and golden currant; here, the scent was tainted.

  To the east, the pink tinge of dawn spread fiery tendrils over the pinon and the ponderosa pine and the white peaks of the Sangre de Cristos.

  TWO

  Seventeen years from the beginning, it was a different harness, of wide webbing, fitting snugly over shoulders whose muscles were not fully developed, with wide, buckled straps across the chest and looped through the crotch. The packs hung heavily in front and back.

  There was fear then, too, though it was subdued and mildly displaced by the methodical discourse of the instructors. The leap from the C-130 Hercules was less than voluntary, propelled by the jump master’s shouted, “NOW! GO! GO! GO!”

  One thousand one.

  Now arch the back, hold the head high. Elbows bent below the body, palms flat, legs spread wide, bent at the knees. A frog in flight, balanced on the precarious pressure of atmosphere.

  One thousand two.

  God!

  One thousand three.

  All right!

  One thousand four.

  The static cord jerks.

  There is the promised pop of the pilot chute, then the whispering slither of the canopy sleeve and suspension lines dragging from the pack. Brace the back in eager expectation.

  The canopy cracks open, billows, becomes momentarily concave from its domed top as downward speed is cut drastically. The tug on the harness, biting, as his body swings into a vertical position.

  And elation. My God, the elation!

  *

  Carlos Rivera leaned against the front fender of his white Chevy Blazer, studying the barn, waiting.

  Four of his deputies crisscrossed the yard slowly, their tan Stetsons inclined toward the ground as they scanned the immediate world for ... something, anything, among the weeds or lodged in the dried ruts of earth. The sun was high in the brassy blue sky and spatters of light bounced from the chrome and glass of the vehicles parked randomly outside the yellow tape.

  Deputy Luisa Rodriguez, called Lu by most of her colleagues, his chief investigative assistant, stood by another Chevy Blazer adorned with a rack of siren and strobe lights. It was parked catty-wampus across the narrow two-rut lane a quarter mile away, and he could tell Luisa was having trouble with Janet Willow from The New Mexican, whose car was blocked by the four-wheel-drive vehicle. She was gesturing madly in the direction of Luisa, then the barn, then Rivera with wild swings of her arms. A blue van, emblazoned with an Albuquerque radio station’s call letters, dipped through the barrow pit from the county road and drew up behind Willow’s car. The driver got out and joined Willow in debate with Luisa.

  How do they find out so fast? Rivera thought.

  He sighed and felt beleaguered.

  Carlos Rivera appeared bigger than he really was. At five-ten, he had a disproportionately large head and chest, bulging biceps under the short sleeves of the khaki cotton drill shirt, and a stomach beginning to strain against the same shirt. That distressed him and caused him to add repetitions to the morning exercise regimen. To no apparent benefit, as far as he could tell.

  He had worn a droopy mustache while he was captain of the investigations division in the Santa Fe County sheriff’s department, but when Sheriff Dawes dropped dead of a heart attack eight months before and Rivera had been appointed acting sheriff for the remainder of the term, the mustache had gone into the bathroom sink. There was a new and distasteful concern for his public image, an encroachment upon his privacy and independence. The commissioners’ appointment had been as unexpected as the brand-new feeling of being constantly in the eye of a scrutinizing public, one that watched His-panics in authority with utmost care. Carlos Rivera was confident of his competence as a law-enforcement officer and a homicide investigator, but much less so of his talent as a politician. Five agonizing months had gone into the decision to announce himself as a candidate for the permanent position.

  Now this. With three weeks to go until the ballots were cast.

  He had taken one look at the maggots crawling over the rotting bodies, gagged at the sweet stench, and backed out of the barn. After several swallows to regain his composure and keep the bile down, he turned back to the eleven and twelve year olds still clutching their .22 single shot rifles to their skinny
chests, as if they expected them to be taken away. Luisa Rodriguez had led them fifty yards away from the barn and stood beside them, diminutive and pretty and sober faced. Her nicely molded hips supported a cotton drill skirt and a heavy gunbelt. The nine millimeter Beretta grip protruding from the holster looked too big for her small hands, but she held her own on the range. She gripped her Stetson in her hand, and she appeared concerned, her dark eyes guarding the boys.

  Rivera squatted in front of them, speaking in English because he believed that in a multicultural environment, it was well to develop the less familiar language. “Well, it’s Juan and Roberto, huh?”

  “Si ... yes.”

  “And how did you happen to be out here this morning? Hunting rabbits?”

  The taller boy was not stupid, and he figured out where this policeman was going with his question and spoke, “The school bus, it was too fast. We missed it.”

  “And your mother, she knows of this?”

  Shadow in the eyes. “We thought not to worry her, capitan.”

  “I’m sure you did. Do you often come here?” Violent nodding.

  “To hunt rabbits and play in the barn?”

  More nodding.

  “Did you come last weekend?”

  Juan answered, “Si. On Sunday.”

  “What time was that, Juan?”

  He shrugged. “I do not know. In the afternoon.”

  That helped to fix the time. “On Sunday, the barn was as always, empty?”

  Affirmative nod.

  “So you came to the barn this morning. Then what?” Juan responded. “The door is usually open, but we had to open it. It was hard to do. When we saw the ... the ... Roberto, he got sick.” He pointed to the pool of vomit alongside the doorway, perhaps taking some pride in his manly ability to keep his breakfast down. “Then we ran down the road to Delgados” — he swung and pointed across the shallow valley — “because of the telephone they have. Senorita Rodriguez, she pick us up there.”

  “You did the right thing by calling us, Juan and Roberto. I thank you.”

  Rivera stood, motioned to Rodriguez, and they moved away from the boys. “Luisa, I want you to take them into the medical clinic. Talk to Dr. Pamela Ostrander, the psychiatrist, and explain what happened. Tell her I’d like to have her talk to them for a while, maybe see if there’s any trauma. As soon as you’re gone, I’ll have somebody pick up the mother and meet you there. I don’t want the reporters getting to them, so take care.”

  “I’ve got it, Carlos.” There was no cheer in her face today, no ready smile.

  After Luisa had driven out with the boys, Rivera had turned on his radio and called for more deputies, the forensics team, and the medical examiner. That was at 9:30.

  He had been waiting since then. Waiting for an answer to sadism? Was there an answer he could understand?

  Carlos Rivera had been a cop for long enough to know that the answers did not present themselves for inspection on call. They had to be pulled out of people, and they did not come out easily. It was like hammering away at solid rock for a glimmer of gold.

  Just before eleven, he heard his number called and leaned through the window of the truck to grab the microphone. “Eagle One.”

  Dispatch told him to switch over to channel two, for Eagle Eleven.

  That would be Deputy Vern Ketch. Rivera had to open the door to reach the radio and change frequencies. He sat on the edge of the seat, his legs hanging outside, and the stifling heat of the interior caressed him.

  “Eagle One to Eagle Eleven.”

  “Yeah, Sheriff. I’m at the hospital with a DOA.”

  Not another one. “What have you got, Vern?”

  “White male, late fifties, looks like a heart attack. He expired out at the Timbers Motel sometime last night. The paramedics caught the call, but I heard it on the scanner and stopped for a look.”

  “Something unusual?”

  “In the death? I don’t think so, but I thought you ought to know about it because the dead man is Senator DeLamma. Ralph DeLamma.” The radio crackled with static.

  “DeLamma? He’s the one from ... I don’t remember. Some northeastern state.”

  “Right, Sheriff. A honcho on the Senate Appropriations Committee. I remember because he was the one trying to screw up the drug enforcement funding last year.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Okay, Vern. Treat it as a VIP. Help in any way you can. Notifications. Better call the media people, show we’re working with them. Edgerton over at the FBI, too, I suppose, with a US senator. If you run into any problems, let me know.”

  “Gotcha. Eleven out.”

  As he tossed the mike back into the bucket seat, the gas-masked ambulance attendants emerged from the barn, dragging two rubber-tired stretchers topped with black rubber body bags. The gurneys broke through the hardened crust of soil and bogged down. The attendants had to plow ground, getting the bodies to the orange and white ambulance. Rivera found himself studying the ruts in the parched, ecru earth.

  Down the hill by Luisa’s Blazer, the media people were using up film as fast as their autowinders would turn it.

  The ME followed the gurneys out of the barn, shedding his own mask. He spotted Rivera and walked toward him.

  Unlike Rivera, Dr. Gerald Hayman had come to terms with the round little paunch that sagged over the Coors belt buckle on his engraved belt. Like a large soft watermelon, it jiggled under his cotton dress shirt as if he were completely unaware of it. Hayman was otherwise long and lean, his hips so thin that the beige slacks kept inching downward. He wore scuffed Wellington boots in a brown leather that matched his similarly scuffed medical bag, no tie, and a sagging suit coat that matched the slacks. He was originally from back east, Pennsylvania, and his skin had never acclimated to New Mexico. His face always appeared bright red in the sun.

  Switching the bag from left hand to right, he eased out of his coat as he neared Rivera, then laid his bag, mask, and coat on the hood of the truck. Hay man’s hair was an oatmeal beige and gray, and it was constantly in a state of disarray; he had little time for the more mundane tasks in life.

  Rivera smelled the stale odor of the dead on him. He shook a couple Marlboros from his pack, offering one to the doctor, then lighting both with an old silver Zippo with etched letters that had almost eroded:

  101st AIRBORNE DIVISION

  PHAN RANG, RVN

  AUG 65-AUG 66

  “I’ve seen a number of examples of man’s inhumanity to man, Carl.”

  Like the two boys earlier, Rivera just nodded.

  “But never anything like this. Nothing like this. It just doesn’t happen in New Mexico these days.”

  Hayman took two deep drags of the cigarette, then tossed it away, as if the taste bothered him.

  Rivera wrinkled his nose at the odor emanating from Hayman’s suit. “I couldn’t stay in there long enough to make any guesses, Jerry.”

  “It’s terrible, Carl. I think they were kept alive for a long time. There are needle punctures on the arms. I won’t know until the chemistry is done, but intuition tells me they were pumped full of stimulants, to keep them alert and aware of what was going on.”

  “How long?”

  “Have they been dead? Couple days. I’ll be more precise on that by tomorrow. Have you got any water?”

  “Some coffee.” Rivera reached through the open window and picked up a Thermos from the front seat. Unscrewing the cap, he poured it full of lukewarm coffee.

  The doctor sipped, swished it around in his mouth, then spit onto the ground. Then he took a drink while they watched the ambulance drive away. “My guess is that the two perpetrators — ”

  “Two?”

  “One of your forensics people in there said there were two different shoe tracks. I’m guessing they worked on the woman first, in front of the man, but he didn’t give them anything. I don’t think he’d have been as mutilated if he had talked while they were cutting her up and abusing her. Initial exam shows there wa
s a lot of vaginal soft tissue damage from the broomstick. Her ears and nipples were sliced off. The cuts are so clean, I’d suspect a scalpel.”

  “You think they were after information?”

  “What else?” Hayman’s eyes looked over at him from under shaggy gray brows.

  “There’s the possibility of simple sadism, isn’t there?” Simple motives were easier.

  The ME harumphed. “Simple? I suppose so. Unlikely, in my opinion. This was done slowly.”

  “How about ID?”

  “The male was one-eighty to one-ninety pounds, light blond hair, blue eyes, thirty-five to forty-five, but in excellent physical shape. It’ll take a while to determine if there were earlier scars. The female was around one hundred and ten pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, maybe ten years younger. That’s it for now.”

  “Dental?”

  “No teeth. They were broken out.”

  “Will we be able to get prints, Jerry?”

  “Thumbs and forefingers are also gone. Taken away.”

  Steven Wayne had done some research beyond what had blared in the newspapers and across the anchor desks before he left Albuquerque. After a couple of telephone calls, he had some idea of the professional and political arenas into which he had been summoned.

  Not summoned. Invited.

  Normally, Tom Edgerton, the agent resident in Santa Fe, would have received the invitation, but he had escorted Senator Ralph DeLamma’s body back east and then taken a couple weeks of vacation time while he was on that end of a bureau-paid airplane ticket. So Wayne drove up to the capital.

  The government sedan did not have the same agility and pure sense of power of his own altered Trans Am, but it felt good to be on the highway again, away from the confines of his desk with its texture of memos and files and paper, paper, paper. He ignored the air-conditioning and rolled the front windows down and turned the radio up. His tanned left elbow rested on the window ledge. The warm wind whipping the short sleeves of his shirt reminded him of similar drives on graveled country roads, listening to KOMA out of Oklahoma City on the erratic radio of a ‘54 Chevy, on summer days when he had nowhere to go but to the county line and back. That was a western Kansas that was no more, a quarter century into history, and as outdated as the vacuum tubes that had reproduced Chuck Berry, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper over a single ratty speaker.