"Maybe we should talk this out," Kerney said.
"I do need some talk, Kerney. Good, old-fashioned girl talk. That's why I'm going to Tucson. My best friend from West Point lives there."
"Are you coming back?"
Sara's eyes searched Kerney's face.
"Am I invited back?"
"You bet."
"I'll call you from Tucson," Sara said as she opened the front door.
She gave Kerney a quick kiss and a fleeting smile.
"You've done nothing to upset me."
"I hope that's true."
Sara dropped to one knee and scratched Shoe's chest. He dropped the sneaker and licked Sara's chin.
"Take care of your dog, Kerney," she said as she stood up.
"He's a sweetheart."
"I'll do that."
"See you soon."
"Yeah."
Kerney stood at the door and watched Sara load her bag in the Jeep and drive away. She waved once before she passed out of sight.
"What was that all about?" he asked the dog as he closed the front door.
Shoe gave the sneaker a vigorous shake and trotted off to the kitchen.
Kerney tagged along, wondering what nuances he'd missed, what mistakes he'd made, and whether he'd completely turned Sara off.
He hoped she was leveling with him and that her sudden departure wasn't prompted by something he'd done. The thought didn't relieve the hollow feeling in his gut.
The dog leash was on the kitchen table. Kerney picked it up. There was still time to get to one of the shopping mails and buy a travel cage for Shoe. In the morning he'd make arrangements to have the dog shipped to the Knox boy in California.
Shoe saw the leash in Kerney's hand, let go of the sneaker, and jumped up on Kerney in eager anticipation.
"So, you're ready to leave, too, are you?"
Shoe dropped down on all fours and headed straight for the front door.
Orlando Gonzales sat at a table by the window of the Rough Rider Bar.
Across the street stood the old Fred Harvey Hotel and the train station. A slow freight moving south along the tracks rumbled like a low bass note in harmony with the Tex-Mex CD playing on the stereo behind the bar.
He took a pull on the long neck beer and started at Bernardo.
"You wanted to talk. About what?"
"We need to catch up," Bernardo said, flashing a smile.
"I thought the plan was we weren't going to hang together anymore."
"Did you read the story in the newspaper about the bones the cops found on the mesa?"
Orlando's hand froze as he reached for his beer bottle.
"Jesus. Was that her?"
"Part of her. I spread the body around. Some parts here, some parts there. The cops will never be able to ID her."
"You cut her up?" Orlando asked in a choked whisper.
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because you couldn't handle it."
"We should have just let her go."
"Yeah, straight to the police. Listen, we both raped her."
"I know that. But you killed her."
"to the eyes of the law, both of us did. You should know that, being a cop's son and all. It's called murder during the commission of a felony."
"I know what it's called," Orlando hissed.
"You're still all fucked up about it, aren't you?"
"Keep your voice down."
Bernardo looked over his shoulder. A few viejos sat at the bar in front of an enlarged photograph of Teddy Roosevelt and members of his Rough Riders, many of them New Mexican cowboys, taken at the top of San Juan Hill. A middle-aged couple played a video game at the back of the room where pictures from the old Rough Rider reunions once held in Las Vegas were hung on the wall. Nobody was within earshot.
"Listen, the bitch was a Mexican who was never reported missing. I checked it out."
"You did what?" Orlando asked.