“It’s a big mess, that’s for sure,” Kerney said.
Throughout the day, the bald-headed man had listened carefully to radio traffic on his police scanner, waiting for the call that would send animal control to Kerney’s house to remove the dead rat.
He’d left it there fully expecting Kerney’s wife to ask animal control to collect it and then think no more about it. But it hadn’t played out that way. Perhaps she’d called Kerney by phone instead, or simply thrown the rat into the trash. Either way, the man was not disconcerted. He’d prepared his plan with those contingencies in mind.
When Kerney reported by radio that he was leaving Tesuque and going home, the man drove to the church at the bottom of Upper Canyon Road and parked. Within ten minutes of his arrival, Kerney passed by.
He drummed his fingers on the shoe box that contained another dead rat. Soon it would be dark enough to leave it, without being detected, for Kerney to find, accompanied by a note that would fully clarify the chief’s predicament.
After nightfall, he drove to the end of Upper Canyon Road and walked down the hill to Kerney’s house. The new car was missing from the driveway and there were no lights on inside. He stayed in the shadows, moved quietly to the portal, placed the rat on the floor, tacked the note to the door, and hurried away.
Soldier’s slaughter and the discovery of the poisoned rat made Kerney apprehensive. But he stayed focused on the Larsen shooting during the drive to Manning’s house. Likewise, Sara avoided the subject, limiting her comments to some questions about the SWAT screw-up. It was as if they’d silently agreed to postpone any speculation about the day’s events until they had a better understanding of them.
He could sense that Sara’s worry matched his own, but she didn’t appear rattled by it. He expected as much from her. Before their marriage, she’d won a meritorious promotion to her current rank for leading a covert mission in Korea that had successfully thwarted an assassination plot against the secretary of state.
Beyond that, Kerney had witnessed firsthand Sara’s coolness under fire, when a military intelligence agent had tried to bushwhack them in order to cover up an illicit government spy operation.
The Manning house was in a foothills subdivision off Hyde Park Road, which climbed into the high mountains of the national forest and ended at the ski basin. Kerney followed a long, looping street with several culde-sacs that ran around a hillside. The storm had cleared out, and thick stands of pine blocked the weak glow of the moon. With no street lamps and only a few house lights showing, the neighborhood was masked in shades of darkness.
Sara consulted her notes and guided Kerney to the right address. He drove by slowly without stopping. A car sat in the driveway in front of the unlit house.
“Based on what I learned today,” Sara said, turning off the map light, “this is definitely not the natural habitat of D. merriami.”
“Of the what?”
“The Merriam Kangaroo Rat, or either of the other two native species, for that matter. Stop next door.”
Kerney swung into the driveway. Lights were on inside the house. Sara rang the doorbell and an older man answered.
“Mr. Saul?” Sara asked. “I spoke to you earlier today about Dora Manning.”
“Oh, yes,” Saul answered, nodding his head. “I went to Dora’s house after you called, but she wasn’t home. You have us quite worried about her. She never leaves town without telling me and my wife she’ll be gone. We always pick up her mail for her.”
“Does she often travel without her car?” Sara asked.
Saul nodded. “She doesn’t like to drive in Albuquerque, so she takes a taxi downtown and rides the shuttle bus to the airport. Perhaps she had an emergency. Her older sister in California isn’t in good health.”
“How old is Ms. Manning?” Sara asked.
“About my age,” Saul said. “In her late sixties, I’d say.”
“Does Dora have health problems?” Sara asked.
“Not that I know of. She’s very active.”
“Does she work?” Kerney asked.
“She’s an artist,” Saul replied, “and works at home. We have several of her watercolors.”
“And before that?”
“For many years, she was a clinical psychologist here in Santa Fe,” Saul said, looking closely at Kerney. What had brought the police chief and a very pregnant woman to his front door to question him about Dora?
“You’re the police chief,” Saul said.
“I am,” Kerney said quickly. “Have you had any problems with rats?”
Saul shook his head. “The only rat I’ve ever seen around here is the one Dora found in her driveway several days ago. She came and told me about it before animal control took it away.”
“Do you have a key to her house?” Kerney asked.
“Yes, and a mailbox key as well. My wife picked up her mail this afternoon.”
“Did you or your wife go inside her house?” Sara asked.
“No, we only check inside when she’s on extended trips, just to make sure everything is okay.” Saul’s worried gaze shifted from Sara to Kerney and back again. “What’s going on?”
Sara smiled reassuringly. “Probably nothing. Could we have the key?”
Saul nodded and left them waiting in the doorway. They could hear him talking in a hushed voice. After a few minutes, he returned with his wife in tow, who handed Kerney a key.
“Is there an alarm system?” Kerney asked.
“No,” the woman said. “This is very disconcerting. Why are you concerned about Dora?”
“We’re just checking on her welfare,” Kerney replied.
He thanked the couple and asked them to remain in their house. They nodded in unison, eyes wide with misgiving.
At the SUV, Kerney got a flashlight and led the way along the dark street to Manning’s house. He thought about asking Sara to remain behind while he looked around, but knew she’d have none of it.
“So, do you know Manning?” Sara asked, as they approached the house.
“Professionally, I did,” he said. “She did a good bit of forensic psychology work for the courts before she gave up her practice to become an artist. I’d forgotten all about her. It was a long time ago.”
He knocked hard and rang the doorbell several times before handing Sara the key. “Stay here. I’ll scout the perimeter and look for any signs of forced entry,” he said, reaching for his sidearm. Sara already had the. 38 out of her purse and in her hand.
He checked every door and window and returned to find Sara with her back against the wall, her weapon in the ready position, and the key in the lock.
He shook his head. “Looks okay on the outside,” he whispered. “We’ll do a room search. Back me up.”
Sara nodded and turned the key.
Together, they swept the house. In the master bedroom they found Dora Manning stretched out on an ornate Victorian bed with her throat cut. Her pajama top and the bed sheet were soaked in blood. On the wall behind the bed, the killer had left a message in red. In block letters, it read:
EVERYONE DIES
They retreated from the house. Kerney turned on the ceiling lights with the butt of his flashlight as they went from room to room, illuminating walls covered with Manning’s framed egg tempera and watercolor paintings. There was no sign that the house had been burglarized or a struggle had occurred.
Under the portal porch light, Kerney holstered his weapon, called in homicide on his cell phone, and told dispatch to roll units running a silent code three.
“Get Chief Otero and Lieutenant Molina up here ASAP,” he added before disconnecting.
“I don’t like this at all,” Sara said.
Kerney thought about the two murder victims, Jack Potter, a former prosecutor, and now Dora Manning, an ex-forensic psychologist. He thought about the message on Manning’s bedroom wall, and the image of Soldier lying dead in the horse barn ran through his mind.
“Maybe you should go up to Montana and stay with your parents until after the baby is born,” he said.