Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley Page A

down, pressed a handkerchief to the wound on my neck, and rummaged through his kitchen for a clean towel. Still trembling, Archie shook himself and came over to me. I dropped to one knee and brushed the remaining bits of glass from his coat using the towel. When I finished he scrubbed my face with puppy kisses while I hugged his neck with one arm. “Thanks, big boy,” I said in a husky voice. “You saved my life.”
    I flopped down on a threadbare couch and leaned back for a moment. The shock of what had just happened sunk in. It was my turn to tremble, the shakes starting in my gut and rippling down my legs. I felt like an idiot and was glad no one was around to see me like this.
    After I calmed down I started poking around the house. I glanced at my watch and figured I had, at the outside, a couple of minutes. In any case, I’d hear their sirens coming in. I felt a twinge of guilt at the prospect of mucking around in a crime scene. After all, I’d spent a career in law enforcement. On the other hand, I wasn’t going to disturb anything. And I felt like I’d earned the right to know if there were any clues in Watlamet’s house that might tell me who had killed him and nearly blown my head off.
    I saw nothing of interest in the living and dining rooms. A desk containing a pile of papers—mostly bills, credit card receipts, and copies of a church newsletter—stood in a corner of the kitchen. I glanced through them without spotting anything. In the bedroom I found a cell phone that I’d missed in my earlier search. It lay on a nightstand, partially obscured by a lamp and a large, leather-bound Bible. Using a pencil, I flipped it open and scrolled down to Recent Calls. Under Calls Made, there were two numbers, under Calls Received, three. I jotted the numbers down on a business card from my wallet. As I closed the phone, I heard a siren in the distance.
    I waved with both hands to the Wasco County Sheriff’s cruiser that came down Sherman Watlamet’s dirt drive. I knew they’d be on high alert and wanted to make damn sure they saw I was unarmed and had no reason to confuse me for the gunman who’d shot the Indian rancher through the head.
    I gave a deputy—C. Grooms by her name tag—a quick rundown on what had just happened. She seemed satisfied that I was the innocent bystander I claimed to be, and when I told her I didn’t want an ambulance, offered to give me first aid. Her partner was, by this time, over in the cottonwoods looking for shell casings. The medical examiner and forensic team hadn’t arrived yet.
    A big woman with blond hair combed up in front, Grooms had biceps that filled her short-sleeved shirt and small gray eyes that were hard, like ball bearings. She retrieved a first aid kit from her patrol car, took a closer look at my neck, and made a face. “I’ll bandage this up for you, but you’re gonna need to get those splinters removed.” I nodded and she set about the task as she began questioning me. “So, Mr. Claxton, you said you got a look at the man in the truck who passed you comin’ in here?”
    Thinking of all the witnesses I’d questioned in my career, all the expectations I’d had about their ability to remember important details, I had to laugh inwardly. Now the tables were turned, and I wasn’t so sure how much I’d picked up in my quick encounter with the man I assumed was the shooter. “Yeah, I did get a look, and then he turned away. He looked surprised as hell to see me. Not a lot of traffic out here.”
    â€œSeein’ the way he circled back on you, he must consider you a witness, for sure.”
    I nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right about that.”
    She smiled and snipped off a piece of tape. When the tip of the scissors touched my neck, I flinched. “Hold still,” she said sternly. “Tell me what you saw, Mr. Claxton.”
    â€œHe was