999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [193]
“Rogue cop? What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t come here to debate this.” Daly stood, motioning for John to do the same. “My client’s completely in the right. This isn’t a police state. You, your department, and the city have been warned. Any more incidents, and I’ll call a press conference to let every potential juror know why we’re filing the lawsuit.”
With a final searing gaze, Daly left the room. John followed almost immediately but not before he gave Romero a victimized look that made Romero’s face turn warm with anger.
The office became silent.
The city attorney cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you to stay away from him.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Did you follow him? Did you go to his home? Did you ask the state police in Taos for backup when you entered the property?”
Romero looked away.
“You were out of your jurisdiction, acting completely on your own.”
“These brothers have something to do with—”
“They were investigated and cleared.”
“I can’t explain. It’s a feeling that keeps nagging at me.”
“Well, I have a feeling,” the attorney said. “If you don’t stop exceeding your authority, you’re going to be out of a job, not to mention in court trying to explain to a jury why you harassed a group of brothers who look like advertisements for hard work and family values. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, for God sake. If it wouldn’t look like an admission of guilt, I’d recommend your dismissal right now.”
Romero got the worst assignments. If a snowstorm took out power at an intersection and traffic needed to be directed by hand, he was at the top of the list to do it. Anything that involved the outdoors and bad weather, he was the man. Obviously, the police chief was inviting him to quit.
But Romero had a secret defense. The heat that had flooded his face when John gave him that victimized look hadn’t gone away. It had stayed and spread, possessing his body. Directing traffic in a foot of snow, with a raging storm and a wind chill near zero? No problem. Anger made him as warm as could be.
John Parsons had arrogantly assumed he’d won. Romero was going to pay him back. May 15. That was about the time the shoes had appeared two years ago, and the severed feet last year. The chief was planning some surveillance on that section of Old Pecos Trail, but nobody believed that if the killer planned to act again, he’d be stupid enough to be that predictable. For certain, Romero wasn’t going to be predictable. He wasn’t going to play John’s game and risk his job by hanging around Old Pecos Trail so that John could drive by and claim that the harassment had started again. No, Old Pecos Trail didn’t interest him anymore. On May 15, he was going to be somewhere else.
Outside Dillon. In the Rio Grande gorge.
He planned it for quite a while. First, he had to explain his absence. A vacation. He hadn’t taken one last year. San Francisco. He’d never been there. It was supposed to be especially beautiful in the spring. The chief looked pleased, as if he hoped Romero would look for a job there.
Second, his quarry knew the kind of car he drove. He traded his five-year-old green Jeep for a three-year-old blue Ford Explorer.
Third, he needed equipment. The night-vision telescope he’d used to watch Old Pecos Trail from the top of the church had made darkness so vivid that he bought a similar model from a military surplus store. He went to a camera store and bought a powerful zoom lens for the 35mm camera he had at home. Food and water for several days. Outdoor clothing. Something to carry everything in. Hiking shoes sturdy enough to support all the weight.
His vacation started on May 13. When he’d last driven to Dillon, autumn had made the Rio Grande calm, but now