The Quest: Countdown to Armageddon: Book 6 Page 4

  Luther had no desire to be beaten and locked away for something he didn’t do.

  John Castro had been kind to him in the past. Had done some nice things for him.

  Now Luther had done his own good deed.

  They were even.

  -8-

  For Robbie Benton, things hadn't exactly gone according to plan.

  Immediately after firing the second shot into John's chest, he’d turned tail and ran.

  Robbie drove quickly to the far end of his patrol sector, so that no witnesses could place him near the scene of the murder. And in his mind, it was indeed a murder. The one perfect murder that killers always sought and very seldom achieved.

  He hadn't realized he had twitched as he squeezed off the first shot. It was that slight. And he hadn't realized that his second shot missed the heart. Just barely, but it was enough to spare John certain death.

  In short, he screwed up. Big time.

  And it wasn't just the two missed shots. He blew it in other ways too.

  In his zeal to murder one of his best friends, he'd forgotten to scour the area for potential witnesses. Had he done so, he'd have seen Luther Brown, in plain view less than a block away.

  And a quick third shot would have taken care of that problem.

  He was also missing a shell casing.

  And it was driving him crazy.

  Robbie's plan was to get as far away from the crime scene as possible before John's body was discovered. And he was able to put a couple of miles of distance behind him.

  But Luther's plaintive cry over the police radio caught him off guard, and he cursed aloud.

  "Where the hell did a witness come from?"

  Robbie's concern, of course, was that Luther would announce to everybody within earshot that a policeman had shot John Castro.

  He was relieved when Luther said he failed to see the shooter.

  He was also greatly distressed when the first unit on the scene, Officer Fisher, announced that John was still alive and was enroute to St. Mary's trauma center.

  "How in hell..."

  Robbie realized then that his shots weren't as true as he'd thought.

  In short, he had failed.

  It was important to Robbie that he not appear to have a vested interest in either the crime itself or in its investigation.

  To do so would be tantamount to placing a huge neon sign over his head that said "killer" and pointed downward.

  So he made certain he wasn't the first unit to arrive at the scene.

  Or even the second or third.

  By the time he arrived at Marbach Road and South Ellison, John was long gone.

  Someone had placed crime scene tape around the area where John fell. There wasn't much there now, save a few scattered wildflowers and two puddles of blood.

  Robbie was hoping to see large pieces of brain matter scattered here and there.

  But none were evident.

  And that worried him a bit.

  For a time, he mingled with the other officers on the scene, professing to know nothing more than they did.

  None of the officers on the scene were trained investigators, but they applied common sense to gather a handful of clues.

  They ruled out a handgun, because the witness said the shooter wasn't in sight. They assumed from the lay of the land that the shots had come from the northwest, because that was the only place where the terrain was significantly higher than the target and where the shooter would have a clear shot.

  That much, Robbie knew, they had correct.

  A team of officers was already in place on the hill where Robbie had been half an hour earlier, searching for shell casings and clues.

  Without thinking, Robbie placed a hand in his pocket to feel the brass casings he'd recovered from the crime scene.

  But he felt only one casing in his pocket.

  A trained detective would have noticed the blood suddenly draining from Robbie's face and would have immediately known something was wrong. A good detective might take that to mean Robbie knew something he wasn't sharing.

  Luckily for Robbie, no one noticed. And if they had, they probably would have thought nothing of it. Because they were patrol officers. They weren't trained to watch for such clues. And even if they had been, they certainly wouldn't have expected any such behavior to come from one of their own.

  Robbie excused himself from the others who were scouring the area for something... anything, which could lead them to whoever had done this evil deed.

  As he walked away, his right hand continued to finger the single casing in his right front pocket.

  He knew he'd picked up both casings. He remembered doing so.

  At least he thought he did.

  By now his mind was playing tricks on him.

  And he was starting to worry.

  “I’m going up on that hill, to help find the shooter’s nest.”

  A couple of the others looked at him. One shrugged. They didn’t care. Robbie might as well go there as anywhere else.

  Another man followed along to help. That wasn’t what Robbie was hoping to happen, but it was something he could deal with.

  The other man was a rookie, only a couple of months on the force.

  Robbie had rank on him.

  “You, look over there,” he ordered, purposely sending the rookie far away from his shooting position.

  Robbie, of course, went directly to the spot where he’d gunned John down, and began to look for the missing shell casing.

  He wasn’t able to find it.

  He started to sweat.

  He was getting increasingly frustrated. More and more agitated by the minute, it seemed.

  The mysterious black man who’d gotten on the police radio just minutes after the attack probably saved John from bleeding out before he could be found. And that in itself pissed Robbie off immensely.

  But that was only the first in a series of things going wrong for John’s would-be assassin.

  He still hadn’t seen Hannah or the girls. His plan was to be the third or fourth officer on the scene of the shooting. He wouldn’t be there, of course, to help in the investigation. Rather, he’d put in an appearance and put on a great display of sorrow and anger because after all, John was supposed to be one of his very best friends.

  Then, after other officers at the scene took note of his grief, he would excuse himself to tend to the family.

  He’d say, “I’m probably closer to them than anyone else. They should hear the bad news from a friend.”

  But Robbie wasn’t counting on Chief Martinez collaring him at the scene and tasking him to set up a perimeter to keep the curious out. John was very popular with the community and word spread quickly in the surrounding neighborhoods that he’d been gunned down. Many citizens were there at the scene within minutes, either to lend their support or to get the latest update.

  And they were starting to get in the way.

  Chief Martinez arrived at the scene just as Robbie was headed back to his patrol car

  He saw the hordes of people coming from every direction.

  And they were starting to trample all over his crime scene.

  Unfortunately for Robbie, once the chief decided to put a stop to it, he was the first officer the chief saw.

  “Benton, we’ve got to quarantine this area. Grab two other officers and establish a perimeter. Nothing or nobody except SAPD within one hundred yards in all directions. Get these people away from here.”

  Robbie started to object, then held his tongue. It was important that he appear to be an outsider in this incident. If he protested too much about anything, it could be said later that he appeared to have a vested interest in John’s shooting.

  And that could make people start wondering if he was somehow involved.

  So he held his tongue and did what he was told.

  Inside he was fuming, and he was becoming increasingly desperate to break away from the scene and get to his sweet Hannah.

  Bu
t no. It was important he play the game first. Do what he was told. Deflect suspicion away from himself.

  As he gently pushed the public back and tried to answer the questions being thrown at him, he scanned the increasingly-growing crowd for the black man who called in on the radio. He’d sounded older. Not at all like the handful of black kids and teenagers on the scene.

  But there was no sign of him.

  Finally, the citizens were moved back, or were satisfied there was nothing left to see and went back to their homes.

  The perimeter was established, crime scene tape was placed around the area, and the chaotic scene settled somewhat.

  And best of all, Chief Martinez finally left.

  Robbie could now slip away and put the next part of his plan into motion.

  Or maybe not.

  As he was headed back to his patrol car, he overheard two other officers talking.

  “Hey, did the Chief say whether he was coming back?”

  “I doubt it. He said he was going to go notify the family, and to take them up to the hospital.”

  Robbie was careful to retain his composure. It would be to his benefit later on, in the unlikely chance he was ever brought to trial for John’s shooting.

  But he was cursing his bad luck under his breath. And when he was back in his cruiser and out of sight of the other officers, he let loose a stream of expletives and pounded his fist several times against his steering wheel.

  -9-

  By happenstance, Tom and Sara were on their way to San Antonio on the evening John was shot.

  But they had no radio. Or wheels, for that matter.

  They’d decided to conduct their search for Sara’s mother on horseback.

  It made sense for several reasons.

  First of all, the Kerr County Sheriff’s Office needed Tom’s old Ford Galaxy 500 patrol car much more than Tom did. Yes, it would have enabled Tom and Sara to do their search much faster. But if there were an emergency in Kerr County and someone died because the deputies couldn’t respond in time…

  Well, that was just something Tom couldn’t risk.

  And horses were safer, in that the travelers were less likely to fall victim to ambush from marauders who desperately wanted a vehicle to drive.

  Horses seldom broke down, could be easily hidden from view when Tom and Sara spent their nights in the woods, and were easy to keep at that time of year. The weather hadn’t yet started to cool, and the wild hays and grasses were ripe and ready to eat.

  Tom rode Trigger, a young colt who loved long trail rides and was strong enough to carry Tom for days at a time.

  Sara rode Nellie, who she claimed was the sweetest horse ever bred in Texas. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

  Tom was quick to point out, “That’s only because you spoil her rotten with those apples.”

  The pair was traveling relatively light, but brought several days’ worth of rations. The rations were carried in saddlebags aboard a third horse, Silver. Silver got his name because he bore an uncanny resemblance to the Lone Ranger’s horse Silver in the old westerns.

  Silver would become Stacey’s horse once they found her and headed back to the compound. She would also provide a backup in the event one of their primaries went lame or got injured and needed a lighter load.

  By the end of their first full day they’d covered about fifteen miles.

  Sarah asked Tom, “Is this about what we can expect every day?”

  “It’s not too bad, considering they’re out of shape and so are our backsides. We don’t want to push either too much. How’s your butt?”

  “It’s sore, but not too bad.”

  “I brought some Corona you can use if it starts to blister.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t like the taste of beer. And I didn’t know it was good on blisters.”

  Tom smiled. He’d forgotten that Sara hadn’t come from a horse family.

  “It’s salve. The best on the market. You can use it for horses and people too. When we set out tomorrow, put a small pillow on your saddle before you mount up. Even though we can treat blisters, the best idea is to avoid them altogether.

  Tom took a hand-held radio on their journey, so they could stay in touch with the compound for their first two travel days. By the third day, they were out of range. Rather than carry a worthless radio on what could turn out to be a journey lasting several weeks, Tom stashed it.

  He turned it off to conserve the battery, wrapped it in plastic to protect it from the elements, and left it under a mesquite tree exactly fifty paces south of a high tension power pole marked with the number 805.

  He chose that particular pole because he was relying on Sara to remind him where they’d left it.

  And her birthday was August fifth.

  On their way home they’d retrieve it and use it to announce their progress as they neared the compound.

  An hour before sunset they stopped at one of the power poles and let the ponies graze while Tom started to climb up the tower.

  “Why don’t you let me do that?” Sara offered. “It’s my turn, and I’m younger and more agile than you are.”

  Tom’s muscles had gotten stiff and sore from three days in the saddle and he was inclined not to argue.

  So instead, he boosted Sara up to the first rung of the pole’s ladder.

  The pair knew that others used the road beneath the high-tension power line poles to travel north and south because they’d met several along the way. Some were on foot and others had horses.

  One couple had bicycles, and said they were trying to make their way to Minnesota.

  When Tom was told of their plans, he let out a slow whistle.

  “I definitely don’t envy you good folks.”

  The man told him, “Yeah, we know. We set out way too late. But we figure if we can make it as far as Kansas City before winter sets in, we can hold up there until spring. It might take a whole year to get to Minnesota but we’ll make it.”

  The wife added, “We have to make it. The people up there are the only family we’ve got left. Everyone else died. Even our baby, from the plague.”

  “Well, we wish you a safe journey, and will pray you get there safely.”

  It was the walkers which worried Tom the most. Some had been friendly, and others had looked shady. A couple of them eyed the pair’s horses in obvious envy.

  “We’ve got to protect what’s ours,” Tom had told Sara the first day on the trail.

  Part of that process was finding a safe place to bed down each night.

  And that was why Sara was on the pole. She was looking for a clearing in the nearby woods, a quarter to half a mile away. From that distance, no one would be able to see their small campfire after darkness fell. They might be able to smell it if the wind was right. But like an echo in a canyon, smoke in the woods was hard to pin down.

  She also kept an eye out for a water source. They brought enough water for two days’ ride. That meant that every other day, they had to find water they could boil to refill their canteens.

  But that wasn’t a problem. This part of Texas was littered with playa lakes, ponds and streams.

  Most of them also had a healthy population of fish or frogs.

  “Okay, Tom, There’s a small clearing due east. Maybe a quarter mile. And there’s a pond just north of that, maybe a hundred yards or so.”

  “Hot dog! We’ll be eating good tonight.”

  On the first night of their journey Tom had scored two catfish and a couple of bullfrogs as well. Sara ate her fill of the fish but shied away from the frogs.

  “I’d have to be awful darn hungry to eat Kermit and his friends.”

  That struck Tom as funny.

  “But it doesn’t bother you at all to eat Nemo’s cousins, huh?”

  “That’s different. Fish are made to be eaten. Frogs are made for…”

  She was suddenly at a loss.

  “I honestly don’t know what frogs are good for. To hop around and go ribbit, I gues
s.”

  “Well, food might not always be easy to come by. If you get hungry enough you’ll eat it, I’m pretty sure.”

  “You’re probably right. But I’m not that hungry yet.”

  As Sara climbed off the tower, Tom put a finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet.

  Then he pointed to a jackrabbit about seventy yards away. Only the top half of its head was visible above the heavy grass.

  He spoke in a whisper.

  “Think you can do it?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.”

  She took a .22 rifle from a sheathe on her saddle. The .22 was for hunting small game on their journey.

  Tom had a deer rifle for the bigger game they might come across.

  Sara took a knee and took steady aim. She chose as her target a spot in the grass about six inches below the rabbit’s eyes. That was where she expected his chest to be.

  She took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. Through her scope she could see her prey slowly turn his head and look directly at her.

  Then she saw him fall.

  The dead rabbit was on their way to the clearing where they’d build a small campfire and spend the night.

  “You know,” Tom said as they led the horses, “Before the blackout most people wouldn’t eat a jackrabbit. The meat’s tough and gamey. But these days, with meat being scarce and all, you gotta get it wherever you can.”

  “How bad do you think it was, Tom? In the cities, I mean.”

  “Well, honey, I’ve heard stories from Scott and from Hannah. It depended on how well people prepared, and how much they had stockpiled. Those who were ready for a crisis and who were in a position to protect their goods and property probably had a relatively easy time of it. Those who were caught totally off guard had to scavenge alongside many others for the same limited food and water. In that case, I think it was probably survival of the fittest. The weaker people got squeezed out.”

  “Do you think my mom suffered much over the last couple of years?”

  “Well, she survived when the majority of the people didn’t. That’s very telling right there. It means she was strong. It could also mean she was driven. Maybe she had to survive. Maybe she had no choice. Maybe you saved her life and didn’t realize it.”