Pale Death Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Also by

  Copyright Page

  To Melissa, Jodi, Natasha,

  and, of course, Tom for believing in Lee Nez

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Judy and Jack, from the Albuquerque Police Department, for their friendship and technical assistance

  CHAPTER 1

  To a vampire, expertly applied sunblock could literally mean the difference between life and death. For New Mexico state police officer Lee Nez, a half vampire—night walker in Navajo terms—it meant he could venture out into the sun for a while, though it was always risky. What if his FBI-style wraparound sunglasses were knocked off, or he’d missed a spot?

  That thought on his mind, Lee considered pulling off the road before he reached Bloomfield and adding another layer to the thick, SPF forty-five goo that made harmful wavelengths of light manageable to the sunlight-impaired.

  Lee’s own clothing provided excellent protection. The dark gray New Mexico state police uniform covered him well, and with the billed cap, his head was safe from harm. Thank goodness Navajos were rarely bald; though due to his own extremely slow aging process, it would still take a few more hundred years to reach middle age. If he’d been a full vampire, he wouldn’t have aged at all, but thanks to the help of a medicine man back in ’45, Lee was only partially afflicted with the rare condition.

  Dawn was only an hour away, but his shift would be ending soon and by the time the sun rose he’d be safely inside a motel room in Farmington. There, he could clean up a shift’s worth of sweat and replace the sunblock. But sleep was still not on the schedule. In three hours he was scheduled to meet with a federal forensics expert, Dr. Victor Wayne.

  The Justice Department employee wanted to interview Lee concerning several human-shaped outlines made of ashes that had been found in the forest near Fort Wingate during one of Lee’s previous cases. Wayne suspected there was a connection between that incident and another, more recent death in Albuquerque involving a former CIA agent. This person had experienced a vampire’s worst nightmare—full New Mexico sunlight.

  Lee knew there was a connection and an explanation, but in order to avoid disclosing something that would jeopardize the life he’d made for himself, he’d have to come up with a spin on the truth. It was going to be a sticky morning, and the only way he’d be able to duck the issue altogether was if a time-consuming emergency call came through.

  He took a deep breath and pushed the thought from his mind. Navajo beliefs told him that to talk or think about something dangerous or undesirable might serve to bring it on. He reached down and grabbed the small leather medicine bag he carried in his left-hand pocket. Inside the pouch, which was definitely not regulation for a New Mexico cop, was a sliver of flint, blessed corn pollen, a quartz crystal, and a carved turquoise bear with arrowhead attached—his personal hunting fetish. The contents of the jish, the pouch, had been provided by a friend, a medicine man named John Buck who knew his secret.

  Lee checked the rearview mirror, saw no lights behind, and decided to pull off onto the shoulder of the highway. There was little traffic at this hour, though it wouldn’t be long before oil and gas workers and truck drivers took to the roads, heading south out of the small New Mexico community beside the San Juan River.

  “PD 16 Adam.” It was the state police dispatcher out of the Farmington office. Lee forgot about the sunblock and reached for the mike.

  “16 Adam. Go ahead,” Lee replied.

  “16 Adam, are you 10-6?”

  Lee shook his head, despite being more than thirty miles from the dispatcher. No, he wasn’t busy. But no doubt he was about to be. Fifteen minutes earlier he’d overheard a 10-76 call for a SWAT team to a Kirtland location, but that was clear across the county. It was a homicide, and perhaps because SWAT had been called, there was a standoff. Maybe more troops were being called in. “Negative. 10-8.”

  “16 Adam. 10-65 east of Bloomfield on 64, approximately seven miles. Assist local deputies on the scene. Code 3. Stay safe, Officer Hawk.”

  “10-4,” Lee replied, acknowledging the call and hanging up the mike. These days he was known as Leo Hawk. Lee Nez had officially died in 1945, but only two people on earth knew that, and neither of them were around tonight. He reached over and turned on the siren and emergency lights, then accelerated immediately. A 10-65 was a hostage situation, and with one SWAT team already working another call, he might be heading into a bottom-of-the-barrel personnel situation. It was near the end of the shift for most officers on call. They’d be tired and irritable, to say nothing of the demeanor of whoever was holding a weapon to someone else’s head at the moment.

  High-speed travel in a vehicle was easy to manage with his agility and night vision, but there was always the possibility that some half-awake idiot would pull out in front of him. The section of highway he was entering now curved back and forth off a high mesa into the river valley, and he had to focus to keep his unit in the lane while taking fifty-mph-rated curves winding up and down the foothills. The black-and-white cruiser roared as he crossed the long bridge across the wash at Kutz Canyon, and he peaked the hill above Bloomfield at eighty-five, slowing quickly as he remembered there were businesses just ahead, and the turnoff to the gas facility.

  Four minutes later he was across the river, through the big highway junction, and hauling ass east out of Bloomfield on Highway 64. Trees and mailboxes flew by, and he had to let off the gas to avoid rear-ending a county sheriff unit he’d come upon that was also running emergency to the 10-65, no doubt.

  It didn’t take long before Lee saw stationary flashing red and blue lights ahead, apparently at the site of the hostage situation. As he got closer he could make out an isolated two-story wooden home nestled up against a bluff to the right of the highway.

  A county sheriff’s white unit was parked twenty feet from the front porch, headlight beams directed at the front door. A deputy was standing beside the open driver’s side door, shotgun or rifle in hand. The officer had the common sense to angle his unit so that the engine block was between him and the house. If he’d been smarter, he would have lowered his own profile by about two feet.

  Lee picked up the mike and confirmed his location to Dispatch, then followed the lead vehicle up a gravel driveway lined with rosebushes. The property was well landscaped, and the house appeared to be in fine condition for a structure that must have been at least sixty years old.

  As Lee swung his vehicle around to take a position beside the second county vehicle, he noticed the cargo bed of a black Dodge pickup sticking out from the rear corner of the house. There was a two-car garage, but the only vehicle in sight other than his and those of the deputies was that pickup.

  It was very dark around the back of the house, at least to normal human eyes. On the rear bumper of the pickup Lee noted the NM license plate—a personalized tag that read “CMartin.” It could easily belong to a Cathy instead of a Charles, though. After all, this was New Mexico, and a lot of women owned or drove trucks. Whoever it was had parked around the back. Why, when there’d been so much room out front?

  Lee called Dispatch for the vanity plate name and registration as he pulled up and parked parallel to the second deputy’s unit. The man was already out of his cruiser,
fiddling around with his shotgun. Lee kept an eye on the windows and doors of the house as he slipped out the door of his state police car. The dome light was always turned off, of course, so it wouldn’t highlight him inside or close by. It didn’t matter too much, at least for those inside the house. The three officers were behind the blinding beams of their vehicle headlights, all directed toward the structure.

  “What’s the situation?” Lee shouted at the first deputy. When the officer turned, Lee could see the deputy was a woman in her early twenties. Her pale green eyes were almost invisible against her face, and her expression said young and inexperienced. She was directing a handheld spotlight at the second-story windows of the house, looking for anyone inside the darkened interior.

  “Officer … Hawk, is it?” The woman’s voice was high, but she sounded in control. Not that he doubted the law enforcement capabilities of a woman. They usually worked twice as hard at the job anyway.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m Gorman, and that’s Deputy Lucero,” the blonde replied. “Dispatch said the woman resident, Brenda Martin, called on her cell phone and reported that her ex had shown up drunk, with a gun. Then the call ended, like the husband grabbed the phone. Dispatch said there are two children inside—two and three years old.”

  “What’s gone down so far?” Deputy Lucero asked, looking back and forth between them. He was older than Gorman, and a bit pudgy. His voice was surprisingly deep—like that guy from the Righteous Brothers—the tall one.

  “Not much, I hope.” Gorman shrugged, not taking her eye off the house. “I arrived maybe five minutes ago, and there was a light on in the front room. When I pulled up, the light went out and a woman yelled—well, screamed a name—Chuck—I think. Or maybe it was a curse.”

  “There’s a Dodge pickup out back, with a vanity tag—CMartin. Might be Chuck,” Lee said just as Dispatch broke through on the radio with the information he’d requested. The big truck was registered to Charles Martin, and the address was the same as on the mailbox he’d passed beside the driveway.

  “It’s Chuck’s pickup,” Lee called out. “I’m assuming he’s the ex. Any intel on the weapon?”

  “No,” Gorman answered. “But I’m hoping it’s not a rifle. I’d hate to ruin my new vest.” She managed a weak smile as she patted the front of her tan uniform shirt, which barely concealed the specially woven material that traded femininity for a better opportunity at survival.

  “Doesn’t look like we’re getting any more backup,” Lucero said, looking back toward the highway.

  “Guess we need to try and open a dialogue,” Deputy Gorman said, reaching onto the floorboard of the passenger side of her unit and bringing out a bullhorn. “I hate this domestic disturbance crap. Even the battered wife turns on us when we cuff her husband. Maybe this’ll drag on till dawn and then we’ll at least be able to see what’s going on.”

  Lee, who could do without the light, didn’t comment on that possibility. “I’ll cover the back entrance—just in case Mr. Martin decides to sneak away with one of the kids.” He had a lot more experience than both the deputies put together. Maybe he could make an entry while the deputies distracted Chuck, and end this before sunup. “Just get Mr. Martin talking and focus on getting the children released. Okay with that, ’74?”

  Officer Lucero’s eyebrows went up, then he realized Lee was referring to the ten code for a tactical plan. “’4.”

  At Lee’s suggestion they all switched over to the same tactical frequency. Lee knew he’d be turning the volume way down on his handheld radio, however. He wouldn’t be taking any calls where he was headed.

  Just then, a woman dressed in jeans and torn sweatshirt appeared at the front door of the house. She was pushed a step, then kicked in the rear, hard. She yelped and fell forward onto the sidewalk. “You bastard, let the kids go!” she screamed back at the man in the doorway as she struggled to stand up. She was dazed, drunk, or both.

  “Go to hell, bitch!” he yelled back, then slammed the door shut.

  “Cover me,” Lee said, running out from behind his unit and toward the porch. He moved quickly, but not unnaturally so, scooping up the woman before she could climb back onto the porch. She struggled, but he tightened his grip until she grunted from the pressure. She reeked of booze, and he thought for a moment she might throw up on him.

  “Hang on, lady,” Lee said, carrying her toward the vehicles. He didn’t relish the idea of being shot in the back, but if it came to that, the woman was more likely to suffer permanent damage from a bullet than he would. Besides, the sooner he got her to safety and set her down, the less likely it was that he’d be wearing her stomach contents.

  When he reached the vehicles, Gorman opened the rear door to her unit, and Lee placed the woman inside. Before she’d even sat up, the door was closed.

  “Good work, Officer Hawk,” Gorman said, then gestured toward the woman slumped over on the bench. “Think she’s injured?”

  “No, but you may have to hose out your unit later. She’s loaded to the gills.” Lee regretted using that particular wording immediately. It really dated him.

  “Great. Next time, pick Lucero’s vehicle.”

  “Now I’m going to cover the back. Stay low and see if the woman can tell you anything about the kids—and find out about the gun,” Lee added. When Gorman nodded, he turned and sprinted around in a wide circle, leaving the area illuminated by the glow of the headlights, and heading toward the bluff that ran along just behind the house.

  Lee found an easy way up, taking big leaps now that he knew nobody was watching. Once he reached the top of the bluff, which was about twenty feet higher than the crown of the pitched roof of the house, he moved along the summit, watching the back door below and the four windows facing his direction for signs of activity and movement. A figure passed by a ground-floor window, carrying a flashlight, and Lee froze in place. That person was carrying a rifle or shotgun, but he’d walked by too fast for Lee to note any more details.

  Glancing down at the pickup, which had been driven up onto a flagstone patio and through a garden patch—not a normal parking spot, obviously—Lee noticed a Ducks Unlimited sticker on the tailgate. There was the standard-issue New Mexico gun rack beside the rear window of the cab, and it was empty. Charles probably had a shotgun, which was deadly up close, but at least might not penetrate more than one interior wall—or an officer’s vest.

  Lee stepped back from the edge of the bluff and clicked the mike button. “Just saw the perp pass by a ground-floor window at the rear of the house. He has a rifle or shotgun, and a flashlight.”

  There were two answering clicks of the mike, then Gorman spoke. “Two kids inside—and it’s a shotgun. That’s all Mrs. Martin could give me.”

  Lee clicked to acknowledge, then moved closer to the edge of the bluff to check out the details of the house. The rear door looked solid, and was probably locked, so he’d have to pick it. Forcing it would make too much noise.

  He looked for an easier point of entry. One of the upper-story windows was full length, opening out onto a small porch or sundeck. He could jump the twenty feet or so from the bluff to the deck, but it would make too much noise when he landed, so Lee rejected the idea.

  He scanned the roof, but there were no skylights, and the chimney … not an option unless you were a squirrel. Unless he could pick the back door lock, he’d have to go through a window on the ground floor, or climb up that balcony. Suddenly he heard a woman’s booming voice. It was Deputy Gorman, calling for Chuck Martin on the bullhorn.

  Lee glanced down and saw a big object moving in front of one of the downstairs windows. It was a dresser or bookcase. Charles was blocking the ground-floor windows.

  Knowing he had to act quickly, Lee looked for a place to jump down, and found a shrub of some kind growing up the cliff on a wooden trellis. Lee took a quick look at the house, then swung out over the edge. He hit the shrub directly in its center, and it broke his fall with a soft crunch.


  Thanking God it hadn’t been a rose, Lee squirmed out of the mashed plant and sprinted to the wall, ducking down low between the two ground-floor windows. There was a loud thump, and he saw what looked like a child’s bed being propped up against the wall, mattress and all, blocking the window completely.

  He was running out of options. The horizon would be lightening up within a half hour or less. Darkness was his ally, and if he was going to make use of it, the time to act was now.

  “Charles Martin. Talk to me, please. We need to make sure you and your children are safe.” Deputy Gorman’s amplified voice echoed off the side of the bluff and onto the exterior wall.

  Lee heard someone inside the house curse loudly. A half beat later came the sound of running footsteps, followed by the sound of breaking glass and the blast of a shotgun. “Get the hell off my land, cop, or somebody’s going to die. I’d rather see my kids dead than living with that drunken slut.”

  Lee clicked his mike, and got two clicks back. The deputies were still okay, but it was obvious Charles Martin wasn’t going to be reasonable.

  “Mr. Martin. We want your children to be safe as much as you do. Let’s talk this out. We want to make sure nobody gets hurt today,” Gorman said through the bullhorn. She’d begun in a shaky voice, but had finished strong. Good for you, Lee cheered silently.

  He inched over beneath the balcony, which was at least sixteen feet off the ground, and rose to his full height. Looking up, he gauged his jump, crouched, and, focusing his strength, leaped up. Powerful legs and the fluid motion of his hips and upper body propelled Lee to the wooden floor of the balcony, where he grabbed on to the bottom of the support rails. The wood creaked, but the balcony was well constructed and remained intact, holding his nearly two hundred pounds. Lee did a chin-up, and looked inside through an opening in the full-length curtains. The window was really a sliding-glass door that led into a large bedroom. The covers were messed up, and he could see a whiskey bottle on its side atop the carpet. Next to it was a child’s doll. Other than the typical bedroom dresser and lamps, the room was empty.