Additional firepower came in with the new customers.
The scruffy pine tables covered with plastic tablecloths in the dining area filled with people, mostly ranchers wearing pistols, and the sound of conversation grew. The sight of so many civilians with weapons made Kerney uneasy. He positioned his chair so he had a clear view of the room.
"We need to look at the documents Gatewood took from the trailer," he said, as Jim finished wiping the last of the egg yolk off his plate with a piece of toast.
"If they were important enough for Padilla to bring along, they must have some meaning."
Stiles nodded and spoke between bites.
"Can do.
The sheriff will let me see them. Omar's okay. Not smart, but okay."
"Not smart' is an understatement. Do you know anybody who might remember the Padillas?" Kerney asked.
"Just about any of the old-timers should, I imagine.
But in this county that's sixty percent of the population." Stiles rubbed a napkin across his mustache and mouth, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the empty plate.
"That's not what I wanted to hear."
"I know it, but maybe we don't need to ask everybody over the age of seventy about the old man. Jose Padilla can tell us. We are going to talk to him, aren't we?"
"We aren't. I am."
"You'll need an interpreter."
"Yo cero que lo puedo hacer," Kerney replied.
Jim screwed up his face.
"Estas lleno de sorpresas.
Yo no sabia que pudieva hablar espaflol."
"You didn't ask," Kerney replied.
"Anyway, you seemed determined to give me a Spanish lesson yesterday. I didn't want to spoil your fun."
"Thanks a lot," Jim grumbled.
"When do you plan to see Padilla?"
"After I get some sleep."
Phil was waiting for Karen in his truck outside of Cattleman's. There was no place for Karen to park in front of the fake old-west storefront that hid the metal skin of the building, so she left her car across the street. Phil saw her coming and opened the passenger door as she approached.
"It's been a long time, cousin," Phil said as Karen got in the truck.
She was wearing jeans, boots, and a brown sweater vest over a crewneck top.
"Yes, it has. How have you been, Phil?"
"Holding my own, I guess. Ranching doesn't get any easier." He shifted his position so that his back rested against the door.
"I we got to ask-what in hell are you doing back in Catron County?"
"It was time to come home," Karen answered.
"For a lot of reasons."
"Are you planning to take over the Triple H?"
"That's part of it."
"Think you can handle it?"
Karen smiled sweetly at Phil.
"Do you think it's too much for a woman to take on?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you thought it, didn't you?"
"I was hoping your daddy would sell out to me when the time came."
"I don't think my father started that ranch from scratch to see it wind up in the hands of his brother's son. Is that why you've been such an attentive nephew over the years? So you can get the Triple H at a family discount?"
"You're still as sarcastic as ever."
"Maybe if you fed me breakfast like you promised, I wouldn't be so testy. My stomach is demanding some food."
"Best to wait until the crowd thins out," Phil said.
"Looks like everybody from town is inside, talking about the Elderman Meadows murder."
"What murder?"
"Some Mexican was killed. The police think a poacher was responsible."
"Any suspects?"
"Not that I know of."
"So, I might get to start my new job with a murder case," Karen said.
"That would be interesting. Why did you want to see me, Phil? Surely you can't want to talk over old times."
"I don't. Your daddy paid my daddy a visit yesterday morning."
Karen searched Phil's face with disbelieving eyes.
"That's not likely."
"It's true," Phil confirmed.
"Were you there?"
"No. By the time I saw Edgar's truck and left my house, he was driving away like a bat out of hell. Pop wouldn't talk to me about it, of course. He didn't say a word."
"Such a sweet old man," Karen said.
"Don't start, Karen. Pop's hard to deal with, I'll grant you that, but he is my father."
"Horseshit," Karen replied.
"He never was a father to you. The day your mother left him, he just got meaner. He's a nasty old man. If you hadn't held it all together and busted your ass for the last twenty years the ranch would have gone to hell."
"I don't need you ragging on my daddy," Phil shot back.
"And I don't need a family history lesson."
"Maybe you do."
"Let's stay on the subject. Until yesterday, our fathers haven't spoken to each other in sixty years.
What changed that?"
Karen took a long minute before replying.
"I'm not sure."
"Has anything unusual happened recently?"
"Daddy got a letter yesterday. A man dropped it off at the house while he was in Silver City with Mom. Dad read it and then left for town.
When I asked him about it, he said it was nothing to worry about, but he seemed upset."
"Who was the letter from?"
"I don't know. But the man who delivered it said he was Hector Padilla."
Phil looked surprised.
"Hector Padilla is the name of the man that was killed at Elderman Meadows."
Karen smiled vaguely at an older couple as they left Cattleman's, then frowned.
"That's a little more than strange. There was an old man with Hector Padilla. Daddy's age, a little older perhaps, but the same generation.
He stayed in the truck. Do you know what happened to him?"
"Jim Stiles and a temporary ranger named Kerney found him near the foothills of Mangas Mountain.
In shock, from what I've heard. He's hospitalized in Silver City."
"This fellow Kerney gets around. He stopped at the house yesterday to ask Dad about a black bear poaching."
"Yeah, that's how I met him, too. PJ and I found the bear."
Karen faced her cousin squarely.
"Didn't the family know some people named Padilla back in the thirties?"
"Padilla is a pretty common name in these parts.
At least, it used to be."
"Maybe the old man knew Daddy and Uncle Eugene."
"Isn't that stretching it a bit?" Phil rebutted.
"No," Karen replied.
"It doesn't seem like a stretch at all. Dad gets a letter, goes to see his brother he hasn't talked to in sixty years, and the man who delivers the letter turns up murdered."
"I don't think what happened sixty years ago has anything to do with the murder of some Mexican national."
"Do you know what happened sixty years ago? I sure don't. I'd love to know what it was."
"Ask your father," Phil snapped.
"Is that what you did?"
Phil shrugged.
"Of course you didn't. You wouldn't dare."
Phil threw back his head and laughed.
"What's so funny, Phil?"
"You are, cousin. You don't know me half as well as you think you do."
Karen closed her eyes and sighed.
"We're bickering, Phil. Just like old times. Let's give it a rest, okay?"
She opened her eyes, looked at Phil, and forced a smile. Jim Stiles and Kevin Kerney were standing next to Phil's truck. Both men looked dragged-out.
They had day-old beards and weary eyes and wore dusty, wrinkled uniforms.
"Hi, Jim," she said.
"Karen. Phil," Jim said, greeting both with a nod of his head.
"If you folks came to town for breakfast, the waitress is just now cleaning off our table." "Thanks," Karen said.
"Do you two know Kevin Kerney?" Jim asked.
"Sure do," Phil said.
Karen nodded in agreement.
Kerney nodded back.
"Mr. Cox," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion, "I'd like to stop by and see you this evening. Would that be convenient?"
"Sure, drop by," Phil replied.
"We'll set out an extra plate. You look like you could use a home cooked meal."
"Good enough."
"What about me?" Stiles asked jokingly.
"Don't I get an invite?"
"Come along," Phil replied.
"I guess we can feed you, too."
"Just kidding," Jim responded.
"Besides, I don't see the fun in spending time with two old duffers like you and Kerney."
"Watch what you say there, youngster," Phil shot back with a smile.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Cox, sir," Stiles said solemnly. He slapped his hand on the truck hood.
"Gotta go. See you, guys."
Karen leaned across Phil to the window and smiled sweetly.
"Wrong gender. Jimmy. Are you still confused about sex, girls, and the birds and bees?"
"I'm slowly working it out."
"God help her, whoever she is." She switched her gaze quickly to Kerney.
"It's nice to see you again, Mr. Kerney."
Her directness caught Kerney off guard. He'd been staring at her without realizing it. She was a damn fine-looking woman.
He smiled self-consciously.
"My pleasure."
As the two men walked away, Karen studied Kerney for a minute, a vague memory tugging at her consciousness. It faded without expression. She returned her attention to Phil, told him to get off his butt, take out his wallet, and buy her breakfast.
"You won't pick another fight?" Phil inquired.
"It's a deal. No more fights. You can fill me in on Doris and the kids."
"What's the story on the woman?" Kerney inquired.
He and Stiles were at their trucks. The overflow from Cattleman's Cafe had spilled across the street to Griffin's Bar, a long building done up with a slat-board facade, a porch with a railing covered by a sloping roof, and a wooden walkway, designed to give it a frontier appearance.
Stiles waited until a logging truck rumbled by before answering.
"Real good-looking for an older babe, isn't she?"
"She doesn't look like an older babe to me."
"I knew you were going to say that. Her name is Karen Cox. Phil's cousin. She used to be my babysitter.
Left years ago for college up in Albuquerque.
Dropped out. Stayed in the city. Got married, went back to college, and taught school for a while. Then she got herself a law degree, and a divorce, and took back her maiden name. She's our new ADA. Starts tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I thought you'd met her."
"I did, but not officially," Kerney answered.
"Wait until you meet old Gene Cox, Phil's daddy."
"Tell me about him."
"He's a tough old son of a bitch. Got himself crippled up in a shooting accident when he was a boy. He's been almost completely paralyzed from the waist down ever since. It didn't slow him down much when he was younger. He even got married and sired two sons.
"Until Phil took over the ranch. Gene worked it with a truck and a golf cart that were fixed up with special controls. For a long time he kept riding-he even trained a horse to respond to hand and rein signals. He installed a winch and hoist on the truck so he could cut and haul wood.
Used a walker to pull himself around when he was working outside."
"He does sound tough."
"And then some. What's next?" Jim asked.
"I need some rack time," Kerney replied.
"Meet me at my trailer in six hours. You can go with me to see Jose Padilla."
"Yes, sir," Stiles said, giving Kerney an offhand salute.
Kerney got to his trailer, gathered up every bath towel he could find, and soaked them in hot water.
He stripped out of his uniform and wrapped the hot towels, one at a time, around his bad knee. One full and one partial ligament held the leg together. He sat in the living-room chair and let the heat work on the pain. Through the open door of the trailer he could see the forested mountains east of Reserve that squeezed against the open fields and forced the San Francisco River into a confined, fast-running channel at the end of the valley. At the high school, children from a nearby subdivision were playing a softball game on the athletic field.
Under the floor of the trailer the mice were busy.
There were fresh rodent droppings on the carpet by a window. The threat of hantavirus registered in Kerney's mind. It was a pulmonary illness, spread by deer mice, that killed people. He tried to remember the precautions, but he was too damn sluggish to think straight. He would let his landlord deal with the problem.
Kerney put the soggy towels in the kitchen sink, took four aspirin, closed the front door, set the alarm clock, and fell on the bed, asleep almost immediately.
Karen said goodbye to Phil at Cattleman's and walked down the street to the county courthouse, an ugly two-story red brick building with aluminum clad windows. The front office of the sheriffs department, a single-story annex, was manned by a radio dispatcher who sat at a console behind a long counter. Karen asked to see Sheriff Gatewood.
Gatewood came out of a rear suite of offices. A burly man in his late fifties with a slight potbelly, he wore an off-white straw cowboy hat and civilian clothes. His badge of office was clipped to his belt next to the high-rise holster that contained a four inch.357 revolver.
"Miss Cox," Gatewood said. His voice was raspy and his face looked haggard.
"Why are you being so formal, Omar?" Karen said, shaking Gatewood's hand.
"Well, you aren't just Edgar Cox's little girl anymore, are you?" he said with a smile.
"I sure don't want to get off on the wrong foot with the new assistant district attorney." He gestured to the open door behind him.
"Come on in. I was just about to call you anyway. Figured you might want a rundown on the Padilla homicide."
"I do," Karen answered.
It took half an hour for Gatewood to finish his briefing. He sat behind his oak desk, made by inmates at the state penitentiary, and answered Karen's questions.
"No leads on any suspects?" she inquired. Gatewood's office was a small cubicle with one window that looked out on an empty lot.
"Not a one. Until Dr. Padilla recovers enough to be interviewed, we don't even know if we have a witness."
"What's his condition?"
Gatewood shrugged and rubbed the corner of his eye with a finger.
"Don't know. The state police aren't releasing any information to us.
That's typical.
They know I don't have anybody on staff who's worth a damn as an investigator. We'll do whatever grunt work they decide to throw at us," he added unhappily.
"From what you told me, it was Kevin Kerney and Jim Stiles who found Padilla, discovered the murder victim, secured the crime scene, and located the camper trailer."
"That's true."
"Happenstance?"
"You could chalk it up to that," Gatewood responded, "but I wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Until he got shot and had to retire, Kevin Kerney had a reputation as one of the best criminal investigators in the state. He was chief of detectives up in Santa Fe. There was even some talk that he was going to be the next police chief."
"When did he get shot?"
"Three or four years ago."
"Tell me about Jim Stiles."
Gatewood sighed.
"I'd hire Jim in a flash, if I had the money and could pry him away from Game and Fish. He's smart and well trained. Carol Cassidy over at the Luna station has put Kerney on the poaching case full-time and arranged with Game and Fish for Stiles to work with him. Don't know how much good they can do with limited police powers."
Karen considered the information.
"Can you arrange to have them meet us early tomorrow morning?"
"That shouldn't be a problem. What do you have in mind?"
"If we can get some free talent, why not use it?
Running a murder investigation out of Socorro, a hundred and thirty miles away, isn't going to get the job done, no matter what the state police say. I'll appoint Kerney a special investigator and you deputize Jim Stiles."
The frame squeaked as Omar Gatewood leaned back in his chair. He had come up through the ranks before getting elected and needed one more term in office to qualify for a full pension. His opponent in the June primary was a former sheriff with a lot of support who wanted his old job back. Gatewood didn't give a damn about the dead Mexican, but if he could show the good people of Catron County that he was using every possible means to solve the case, it might make a big difference come election day.
He looked at Karen Cox with a new appreciation.
"Now that's an idea that warms my heart."
Edgar Cox found Margaret in the kitchen with Elizabeth and Cody, busily preparing Sunday breakfast.
The Silver City paper was folded neatly on his place mat along with a steaming cup of coffee. A vase of fresh-cut flowers formed a centerpiece. From the aroma in the room, he knew Margaret had cooked up apple pancakes, one of her specialties.
"What are we celebrating?" he asked, smiling at his wife and grandchildren.
"A beautiful morning," Margaret replied, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans, the way she always did when she was cooking. She walked to her husband, gave him a warm kiss, and stroked his cheek with her hand.
Edgar studied her face. She wasn't hiding anything from him as far as he could tell, and she looked fine.
He loved the tiny over bite to her mouth. And her long, elegant neck was as flawless as it had been forty years ago. Margaret wore her hair in a bun the way he liked it, which was usually reserved for very special occasions.
He asked the gnawing question anyway, his worry a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"How are you feeling?"
Margaret's expression changed to mild reproof.
"The question is, how do I look?" she asked, her head held high.
Margaret at sixty-five amazed Edgar. With soft brown eyes that didn't miss a trick, full lips above a strong chin, high cheekbones, and pale skin, Margaret Atwood Cox was still a beauty.
"Gorgeous," he admitted.
"That's the right answer," she said, patting him on the cheek.
"Now, go sit down, read your paper, and drink your coffee. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."
"Where's Karen?"
"Meeting Phil for breakfast in Reserve."
"Any particular reason?" he asked cautiously.
"No," Margaret said, turning back to the stove.
"Just to visit and catch up, I imagine."
With Cody and Elizabeth to distract him, Edgar didn't get to read the Sunday paper until breakfast was over and the dishes were washed and put away.
When Margaret went to dress for church, he sat in his favorite chair in the living room and unfolded the paper. The front page blazoned the story of a murder on Elderman Meadows. Edgar read it with interest. His curiosity quickly changed to apprehension.
He didn't know the victim. Hector Padilla, but he sure as hell knew Jose Padilla.
He got up from his chair and walked rapidly to the bedroom. Margaret stood in front of the full-length mirror, fastening her brassiere. He prayed she wouldn't need a mastectomy and that the lump was benign. And he hoped to God Jose Padilla was dead in the Silver City hospital.
Margaret saw her husband's face reflected in the mirror and turned. A small twitch at the corner of one eye telegraphed Edgar's anxiety.
"What is it?"
"I have to go to Silver City."
"Why?"
"Business."
Margaret slipped into her blouse, her eyes locked on her husband.
"What does that mean?"
"Just what I said," he replied.
"Take yourself to church. Karen should be back before you need to leave."
"Edgar?"
"Yes?" "What kind of business?" she demanded.
"Old family business."
Margaret took a deep breath. Edgar's phrase was the euphemism he used to talk about Eugene.
"I'll go with you."
"I don't want you involved."
Margaret tucked her blouse into her skirt and walked to her husband.
"It's forty years too late for that. Now, tell me what's wrong." Edgar told her, and when he finished, Margaret wrote a note to Karen and left it on the kitchen table, so her daughter would know the clan was off for an impromptu Sunday drive and lunch in Silver City.
Church bells tolled for late Sunday services as Kerney got up and dressed. He had time before Stiles was due to arrive. He walked the quarter mile to his landlord's house, and asked if it would be possible for the mice to be removed from in and under the trailer. Doyle Fletcher, a man who looked about Kerney's age, with a suspicious, stingy face, stood in the partially open doorway, grunted in agreement, and said it would take him a day or two to get around to it. Kerney thanked him, went home, and waited for Jim, wondering why Doyle Fletcher seemed so put out.
He shrugged it off and passed the time listening to a Haydn concerto, trying not to think too much about Karen Cox. He'd gone back to his solitary lifestyle after Sara Brannon, the Army officer who had worked with him on the White Sands case, left for her new duty station in Korea. That was more than a while back, and he found himself missing her.
After Stiles showed up, they drove to Silver City hospital and learned that Jose Padilla was still in the Intensive Care Unit. A hospital security guard at the I.C.U door asked Kerney and Stiles who they wanted to see. Kerney gave him Jose Padilla's name and showed his badge. The guard shook his head and said the state police had forbidden any visitors. Kerney asked to speak to the nursing supervisor.
Eriinda Perez came to the door and inspected Kerney's badge.
"What does the Forest Service have to do with this?" she asked.
Nurse Perez, a thin, middle-aged woman with a long, narrow nose, had coal-black eyes and a rather stern demeanor. She crossed her arms and waited for an answer.
"We found the gentleman," Stiles said in Spanish, before Kerney could speak, giving the nurse his most winning smile.
"We're interested in how he's doing."
Eriinda relaxed a bit. She answered in English for the other man's benefit.
"Mr. Padilla will be with us for a while. He had a stroke a few hours after he was admitted."
"Is he oriented?" Kerney inquired.
"Not to time, place, or person," Eriinda responded.
"We have him stabilized, but it will be some time tomorrow before the doctor can determine the extent of the cerebral damage."
"What's your prognosis?" Kerney queried.
"I'm not a doctor," Eriinda replied.
"That's why I asked."
Eriinda smiled.
"I'd say fair, but you never can tell. He has some physical impairment.
The right side of his body is paralyzed. He may recover from that, to a degree. With any trauma to the brain it's impossible to predict how much function can be restored. Especially at his age."
"Has he talked about anything at all?" Stiles wanted to know.
"Names? Places? Events?"
"He calls me Cariotta. That's it." "His wife's name," Kerney said.
"He told me she was dead. Has the family been notified?"
"Yes. His daughter should be here shortly. She's flying in from Mexico City. It was her son who was murdered."
"Any other visitors?" Stiles asked.
"Just the two of you and some reporters. People may have called or asked about him at the front desk. You can check there. I've got to get back."
"Thanks for your time," Kerney said.
At the reception desk Kerney asked the volunteer lady if anyone had called or stopped by to inquire about Jose Padilla.
"Yes. An older couple," the woman responded.
"They came in this morning."
"Did you get their names?"
"No, but I remember seeing them on Friday. I usually only volunteer on Sundays, but one of our girls was out sick, so I filled in for her that day. The woman came in with her husband for an outpatient test."
"What kind of test?"
"A mammogram. She asked me where she needed to go."
"Did she give you a name?" Kerney asked.
"No. But the admitting office is open. They might be able to help."
The clerk in the admitting office resisted releasing the names of the mammogram outpatients until Kerney convinced her he wasn't interested in medical information, just names. She checked with the administrator on duty, got approval to give out the information, and wrote the names on a piece of paper.
Kerney took it, read it quickly, and passed it to Jim.
"Who is Margaret A. Cox?" he asked.
"I'll be damned," Stiles said.
"The only Margaret Cox I know is Karen's mother."
"Do any other names look familiar?"
"Not a one."
"Let's pay Mr. Cox and his wife a visit."
"I thought he might be somebody I knew," Edgar said. He sat back in his reclining chair, his long legs dangling over the footrest, looking at Kerney with an expressionless gaze. Margaret was across from Edgar on the overstuffed couch, sitting next to Jim Stiles.
K-erney sat in an easy chair at the narrow end of a squat maple coffee table.
The room felt snug and lived-in. There was a television in a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that held a small but nice collection of Indian pots and framed family photographs. The furniture was ranch-style, all in good taste, with a few antique pieces mixed in.
"You thought you knew Jose Padilla," Kerney repeated back to Edgar Cox.
"I went to grammar school in Mangas with a boy by the same name. It was a one-room schoolhouse with about sixteen students. Jose was one of the older boys at school that I liked. I'd say he would be in his early eighties by now."
"And you got the information about Padilla from the Sunday paper,"
Kerney added.
On the wall behind Edgar Cox was a glass display box containing military memorabilia. It held four rows of service ribbons, the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel, a Combat Infantry Badge, a World War II unit insignia, and an impressive array of medals, including the Purple Heart.
"That's what I said," Edgar replied.
"So, you wanted to renew an old acquaintance?" Kerney probed.
"Look, my wife and I took our grandchildren out to Sunday brunch. The medical center was nearby. It was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing."
"You were just checking to see if it was the same Jose Padilla you knew as a boy."
"This is getting old real fast, Mr. Kerney," Edgar replied.
Margaret Cox, her arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looked only at her husband. Everything about her posture was tense and secretive.
Kerney's smile in her direction had no impact.
Kerney pushed on.
"Was there something specific you wanted to say to Mr. Padilla?" "Am I under suspicion for something because I asked about the welfare of a patient at the hospital?" Edgar retorted.
"Not at all," Kerney answered.
"It's just that we know very little about Dr. Padilla. The more we can learn about him, the better our chances to find out why his grandson was murdered."
"I can't help you. I never got to see him. I'm not even sure if he's the Jose Padilla I knew or not."
Kerney fell silent and watched Edgar Cox. A minute passed without conversation. Cox's hands were gripping the armrests of the recliner when Kerney broke the silence.
"Assuming Senor Padilla is your old friend, can you think of any reason he would come back to Catron County?"
"When you get to be my age, Mr. Kerney, there's a tendency to want to reacquaint yourself with the past. If Jose Padilla is my old school chum, I will enjoy seeing him, and offer him a helping hand, if he needs one."
"That makes sense," Kerney agreed, standing up.
"Thanks for taking the time to talk to us. It was very kind of you."
Edgar Cox rose from his chair and said nothing in reply.
Kerney and Jim said goodbye to a distant and worried Mrs. Cox at the door. Her husband stood as though his feet were glued to the floor.
"What do you think?" Jim asked, as they climbed into the truck.
"He's holding something back," Kerney replied, "and his wife knows it."
Karen heard a vehicle leaving as she left her house to round up Mom and Dad. Finally, everything was clean and organized. Even the books were arranged on the shelves that covered most of the walls in the small living room. Cody and Elizabeth were freshly scrubbed and neatly dressed-an achievement for Cody-and Karen looked forward to serving her parents the meal she had prepared to celebrate her homecoming. She found Edgar alone in the living room, looking wistfully at the family pictures on a bookcase.
"Did you have visitors?" she asked.
Edgar turned his head in Karen's direction and nodded.
"Jim Stiles and a ranger. That Kerney fellow you met. They wanted to ask some questions about the black bear that was shot on the mesa. I wasn't much help. How was your visit with Phil?"
"We started out arguing, as usual."
"I wish the two of you could get along."
"That's hard to do when we're on opposite sides of a lifelong feud between two brothers, and neither of us knows what the conflict is about."
Edgar winced at Karen's criticism.
"I'm sorry it strains your relationship with Phil."
"It might help both Phil and me, if we knew why you and Uncle Eugene hate each other so."
"It would do no good to talk about it. Nothing would change." "Phil told me you went to see Uncle Eugene yesterday."
"I sort of figured he would."
"What was it about. Daddy?"
"It was a business matter," Edgar replied shortly.
"You'll have to do better than that," Karen snapped, sticking her chin out.
"It doesn't concern you."
"If your meeting with Eugene has anything to do with the murder of Hector Padilla, it damn well concerns me."
"Are you accusing me of wrongdoing?" Edgar could hear the annoyance in his voice.
"No, and I didn't say that. But if there is a connection between Hector Padilla's delivery of a letter to you and his murder, in my official capacity I need to know about it. The case falls under my jurisdiction."
Edgar waved off his daughter's demand.
"There is no connection."
"What did the letter say?"
There was a long silence before Edgar answered.
"The letter was for Eugene, requesting payment on a shipment of Mexican cattle."
"The letter was addressed to you, and Hector Padilla asked for you by name, not Uncle Eugene," Karen countered.
"He made a mistake."
"Why didn't you drop the letter in the mail?"
"Because I figured there was some urgency to the situation. Are you finished giving me the third degree?"
Karen bit her lip. It all sounded reasonable, except for a feeling she had that her father was lying. The visit to his brother was an unheard-of event in the family.
"We'll leave it at that for now," she said, studying her father's face intently.
"Tell Mom dinner is ready. That's if you're still planning to eat with us."
Edgar looked away, then looked back and forced a smile.
"Of course we are."
Karen could not recall a time before when her father had lied to her.
Demoralized by the thought, she tried unsuccessfully to dismiss it.
With Jim off on his own to interview the area ranchers who knew about the mountain lion translocation project, Kerney headed for the Slash Z.
The homestead looked much the way he remembered it.
His only visit had been years ago as a teenager when he had competed in the state high school rodeo championships. He and his best friend. Dale Jennings, made the trip in an old truck and camped out at the rodeo grounds to save money. Unable to get away, both Dale's and his parents were back at the Jennings ranch, where Kerney's father worked as the foreman.
Cory Cox, Phil's older brother, who was also competing in the championship, had invited Kerney and Dale out for dinner, which had turned into a rather gloomy event. Eugene Cox had not been a gracious or pleasant host.
The old man on the porch in the wheelchair grunted at him as he walked up the ramp.
"Who the hell are you?" Eugene Cox demanded.
"Kevin Kerney."
Eugene squinted at him.
"I know that name. Did I ever meet you before?" He looked exactly like his brother except for sunken cheeks that gave his face an unhealthy cast and a mouth fixed in a perpetual scowl.
"A long time ago, Mr. Cox. When I was in high school."
Eugene stared at him for a long time.
"Damn if you aren't right. You're that kid from Engle who beat Cory in the finals of the high school rodeo championship, the year they held it in Reserve. Cory should have won that buckle."
Kerney smiled.
"That's what you told me then."
"I still mean it. What do you want?"
"How is Cory?"
"Dead. Vietnam."
"Sorry to hear it." "Don't be," Eugene said flatly.
Kerney sat on the porch rail and looked at the view. The Slash Z was close to the Mangas Mountains.
The sun was low in the sky, about to drop below the crest. A red-and-gold sheen frosted the forest canopy. Kerney could imagine himself running a spread like the Slash Z. He couldn't think of a happier thing to do with his life. But it would take a mountain of cash to buy anything equal to the Slash Z these days; it was a multimillion-dollar ranch.
The thought of the ranch his parents had lost to the Army still made Kerney's gut ache when he dwelled on it too much. He shook it off.
"Pretty country," he finally said.
"It'll do." Eugene pushed his chair closer to Kerney. "Did you drive out here to look at the view?"
Kerney chuckled.
"No. Phil asked me to stop by and visit."
Eugene pointed at the house at the other side of the horse pasture.
"He's home."
"I see his truck," Kerney said.
"What do you think about the murder at the meadows?"
"I'll tell you what I think. Last ten years or so there's been a hell of a lot of Mexicans coming up here trying to buy every ranch that comes on the market. I think somebody got sick and tired of it. I know I am."
"The victim was a medical student," Kerney noted.
"I know that," Eugene growled.
"It doesn't change my feeling. It's a damn shame that our government lets foreigners buy American property. There ought to be a law against it."
"There was an older man with him by the name of Jose Padilla, who may have lived here at one time.
Does that ring a bell with you?"
"Jose Padilla, you say? No. There were a lot of people by the name of Padilla living in Mangas back in the twenties and early thirties. I went to school with some of them, but I don't remember anybody by that name. Doesn't mean he wasn't living in the valley. But I don't recall him. I didn't socialize all that much with those folks. Still don't."
"Your brother said he might know him."
"Did he, now? That doesn't surprise me. He always took to Mexicans a lot more readily than I did."
Kerney smiled, tipped his hat, and took his leave.
Phil's wife, Doris, was setting the supper table when Kerney was ushered into the house by PJ, who introduced him to his mother. A tiny woman, Doris wore no makeup, and her brown hair was cut short.
She had straight eyebrows that almost ran together.
After a shy greeting, her brown eyes darted away as she returned her concentration to arranging place mats and setting out the knives and forks.
"Phil's cleaning up," she said.
"He'll be with you in a minute. PJ, take Mr. Kerney into the living room and make him comfortable."
In the living room Kerney met PJ's younger brother and sister. Bobby, about the same age as Karen's son, had a chunky frame and a sober baby fat face. Looking bored, he wandered off after a few minutes to the television set in the family room.
Jennifer, who was two years younger than PJ, looked a lot like her mother, with the same coloring, thin frame, and shy smile. Kerney tried some small talk with her and PJ, which fell flat. Both children seemed shut down, with nothing much to say. He was rescued by Phil Cox and a call to the dinner table by Doris.
Over dinner, a meat-and-potatoes meal, Phil dominated the conversation.
The children stayed quiet, and Doris kept her contributions to automatic slight nods of her head whenever Phil looked her way. She busied herself serving food and correcting the children's table manners, with an occasional glance and small smile in Kerney's direction. It reminded Kerney of his long-ago meal with Eugene Cox.
Kerney asked Phil a lot of questions and found that he had nothing of value to add to the investigation, but the food was decent, and Phil seemed to enjoy the company.
After dinner, with the children excused and Doris in the kitchen, Kerney was about to take his leave when Phil was called to the phone.
He returned shaking his head and chuckling.
"That was my father," he said, as he pulled out his chair and sat down.
"I told him you had stayed for supper, and he didn't like it one bit.
Said I shouldn't be letting the man who stole Cory's championship eat at my table. Why the hell didn't you tell me who you were?"
"That happened a long time ago."
"Yeah, it did, but I should have remembered. I'll tell you one thing:
Cory never saw it the way Dad did. He said you won that buckle fair and square."
"That's good to hear."
Phil stood up.
"Let me get PJ in here. He'd love to hear about how you and his uncle Cory went head to head in the state finals." He stopped at the kitchen door.
"Doris, bring us in some coffee," he ordered.
Before leaving, Kerney spent a pleasant hour talking with Phil and PJ about horses, rodeo, and Cory. He got the impression PJ was Phil's favorite.
Jennifer and Bobby never reappeared.
A deputy sheriff was parked at the trailer when he got home. The deputy asked Kerney to stop by and see the sheriff in the morning. Kerney asked why, but the deputy didn't know. He was just the messenger boy.
Kerney told the deputy he'd be there. stretched out on his back, fast asleep, Edgar Cox snored. After one final ripping snort, his breathing slowed and became tranquil. Margaret waited for a few minutes, got out of bed, gathered up her robe and slippers, and went softly into the living room.
Outside, false dawn had faded into morning and the first robin of the day sang. Bubba, the children's puppy, met her halfway to Karen's house. He sniffed Margaret's slippers, wagged his tail, and barked a greeting. She reached down and scratched his ears.
Karen sat on the top porch step of the old ranch house dressed only in a tank top, shorts, and sandals.
Margaret wrapped the robe tightly around her waist and wondered how Karen could be so warm in the morning chill.
Karen smiled, scooted to one side, and patted the porch step in an invitation for her mother to join her. They sat in silence for a moment watching the robin until it flew away.
"How do you like being back home?" Margaret asked.
"I love it," Karen replied.
"No regrets about leaving the city?"
"I don't miss Albuquerque at all."
"There was a time when I thought you'd never come back to the ranch."
Karen laughed.
"Neither did I."
"Are you absolutely sure you want to live here?"
"I am," Karen answered with an emphatic nod of her head.
"No regrets about Stan?" Margaret asked.
"God no. It wasn't a marriage. He wanted to own me. I think I knew I would eventually divorce him. It was just a question of when it would happen."
"I could never understand what made Stan believe he could hold on to you. In a conventional sense, I'm not sure any man can."
Karen's eyes danced in amusement.
"You've always known that about me, haven't you?"
"Has it changed?"
"No. I don't think marriage suits me. I'm sorry things were so tense at dinner last night." "Edgar said you had a rather heated conversation with him. You and your father are two of a kind.
That can make the sparks fly."
"I see no reason why he can't talk to me about Uncle Eugene."
"He doesn't talk to anybody about it."
Karen shook her head, rejecting the statement.
"That's not completely true. He talks to you about it. He must."
Margaret rubbed her daughter's arm affectionately.
Karen's skin was warm to the touch.
"That's different."
"This time the situation is different. If it's a legitimate inquiry into a homicide investigation, I may have to force him to talk about it."
"I'd rather you wouldn't push it. Your father has enough on his mind right now."
"Are there problems?"
Margaret remained silent. She had hoped Karen would ask the question.
"Is something wrong?" Karen prodded.
"Oh, he thinks I'm going to die. He can't stand the thought that he might outlive me."
Karen's hand covered her mother's.
"Die? What's wrong?"
"I had a mammogram last Friday. The doctor's fairly certain I have cancer. I was going to wait to tell you until the biopsy results came back."
"When will you know?"
"Tomorrow." Margaret could see tears in the corners of Karen's eyes.
She wiped them away with a fingertip.
"Don't cry."
"Why not? It makes me so damn sad and angry."
Margaret laughed gently.
"I'm going to beat it, sweetie. I plan to be around for a while. Long enough to become a very old, crotchety great-grandmother."
Karen sniffled.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Call it woman's intuition. I just feel it. I'll survive." Margaret got to her feet.
"Edgar will be up soon, wanting his breakfast. He loves you very much."
"I know."
Margaret bent down and kissed Karen on the forehead.
"And so do I."
Karen stood and hugged her mother tightly.
"Send the children down to the house when you're ready to leave for work," Margaret said.
"I can't have you watch them for me. Not now."
"Don't be silly." She kissed her daughter again.
"I'm looking forward to it. I need to spoil them a bit more."
Margaret returned home. Edgar was out of bed and in the bathroom shaving. She made fresh coffee, feeling somewhat guilty about her talk with Karen.
Everything she'd said was true, but her motives were sneaky. If disclosing her illness deflected Karen from pursuing Edgar's secret, it was worth the effort.
In the parking lot at the county courthouse, Jim Stiles lounged against the front of his truck, one foot on the bumper. He was wearing jeans, a straw cowboy hat, a white shirt, and a pair of snakeskin boots.
Kerney limped toward him. The hitch in his right leg seemed a little more pronounced. Kerney's getup Cretty much matched Jim's, except for a big rodeo buckle Kerney wore on the belt around his waist.
He stood with Jim facing the entrance to the sheriff's department, a forlorn annex to the courthouse, plastered adobe brown.
Stiles stared at Kerney's belt buckle.
"Is that the real McCoy?"
"Sure is. Somebody reminded me I won it, so I dug it out and decided to wear it."
Jim squinted to make out the date it was awarded.
"It's a damn antique."
"Watch what you say, youngster," Kerney cautioned lightly.
"Just kidding." Jim's green eyes crinkled with humor.
"I'm impressed. Hell, I'm jealous. I didn't know you were a rodeo cowboy."
"That's stretching it," Kerney replied.
"I was a ranch kid who liked to rodeo."
"Do your parents still ranch?"
"They're dead," Kerney replied.
"The Army took our ranch when White Sands Missile Range expanded.
My father got a job as a foreman at a nearby outfit."
"That sucks."
"It's old news."
"I don't think I could be so cool about it if it happened to my parents."
Kerney's laugh was tinged with bitterness.
"I only sound indifferent. It's not the way I feel." He started walking toward the sheriff's office.
"Got any idea why Omar Gatewood wants to see us?"
"None whatever," Jim admitted, as he walked alongside.
"How did your interviews go?"
"Chalk up a big fat goose egg. Not one of those good folks has had any problems with cougars killing their stock. They don't know where in the hell Mexican Hat is and never heard of Jose or Hector Padilla, and the closest thing to an ATV I saw was one of those sit-down John Deere lawn tractors.
How did you do with Phil Cox?"
"About the same," Kerney replied, holding open the door to the office.
Sheriff Gatewood had a guest with him, Karen Cox. At the front of Gatewood's desk were two straight-backed chairs. Karen sat in a padded vinyl armchair at the side of the desk, Kerney took the empty chair closest to Karen. In a dark blue business suit, a linen blouse, hose, and pumps, she looked elegant and professional. The office, a small space with cheap wood paneling, felt oppressive. On one wall hung Gatewood's framed commission as sheriff and a dozen training certificates from various law enforcement seminars, all of them listing slightly off center Karen nodded a greeting at Jim and Kerney. Her skirt stopped at mid thigh and revealed her slender, well-formed legs.
"Thanks for coming in, boys," Gatewood said, leaning back in his squeaky chair.
"What's up?" Jim asked.
Gatewood gave Jim his most winning smile.
"Miss Cox and I have a proposition for you."
As Gatewood explained the purpose of the meeting-commissions for Kerney and Stiles with primary responsibility to conduct the Padilla murder investigation on behalf of the department- Kerney kept his attention on Karen, who seemed to deliberately avoid making eye contact with him.
Finally she looked at him, and a small smile crossed her lips.
Gatewood finished his pitch, and Jim chuckled.
"Is this another one of your schemes to get me to go to work for you, Omar?"
"I'd like that, but I can't afford you," Omar replied with a grin.
"Nope. This murder case needs to get the attention it deserves. Unless we do something it will go on some state police investigator's back burner within a week, and that doesn't sit right with me. Now, I don't have the manpower or the specialists to solve the damn case, so Miss Cox here had an idea: we borrow the two of you and put you to work on it."
He turned to Kerney for a reaction.
"What do you think?"
Kerney looked at Stiles, who was nodding his head vigorously.
"The idea has merit."
Gatewood smiled and rested his hands on his stomach.
"I figured you boys would like the idea." "Who would we report to?"
Kerney asked.
"To me, of course," Gatewood replied.
"What you're proposing. Sheriff, is a special operation.
That calls for as much independence as possible.
If you want this scheme to have more than a snowball's chance in hell to succeed, turn the case completely over to us."
"I won't do that, Kerney," Gatewood retorted, scowling.
Kerney stood up, caught Jim's eye, nodded at the door, and smiled at Karen, who had been watching Kerney intently.
"I'm sorry you've wasted your time," he said to her.
Karen rose and held Kerney back from leaving.
"One minute, Mr. Kerney. Suppose we give you the autonomy you want, with the understanding that you are to operate strictly under the color of the law, and consult with me on all legal questions. Would that satisfy you?"
"Almost."
"What else do you want?"
"A thousand dollars to buy information."
"What kind of information?" Karen demanded.
"Padilla's murder was not premeditated. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why kill a complete stranger over a crime that, at the most, would cost a fine and six months in jail? According to Jim, money is probably the motive. There has been a pattern of organized big game and exotic animal kills that may be tied to a smuggling operation that exports rare animal parts to Asia. Information about a scam like that isn't going to fall into our laps."
Sheriff Gatewood cocked his head back and snorted.
"Charlie Perry has been working poaching cases for a couple of years now, and I've never heard him talk about any smuggling."
"It's an angle we need to pursue," Kerney replied.
"Do you assume the killer is from the area?" Karen asked.
Stiles got to his feet.
"Absolutely. Only a few people in the area even knew cougars had been trans located to Elderman Meadows."
"The poaching was done for sport, if you ask me," Gatewood said, as he pulled himself out of his chair, feeling like the odd man out.
"This smuggling notion is way off base. I think whoever shot that Padilla fella did it to cover his tracks."
Kerney concentrated his attention on Karen.
"We'll chase down any theory that holds water, but I think we need to look at them all."
Karen mulled it over before answering.
"I'll put up the money you need from the DA's account.
You'll carry a commission through my office." She switched her attention to Gatewood.
"Sheriff, I'd like your cooperation on this. If it will make you feel more comfortable, you can commission Jim and assign him to work under me."
Gatewood grunted, thought about it for a moment, and smiled shrewdly.
Karen's offer would allow him to lay off any blame on her if things went wrong and the shit hit the fan.
"I'll go along with that."
"Then it's agreed." Karen glanced from Kerney to Stiles to Gatewood and back to Kerney.
"Is that satisfactory?"
"Good enough," Kerney replied.
"I'll keep you fully informed."
"See that you do," Karen replied.
A politician's smile spread over Gatewood's face.
"I'm glad we got this ironed out. I already gave the Silver City paper a statement on your appointments."
Kerney looked at Gatewood in amazement.
"That was a stupid thing to do."
"Now wait a minute, Kerney…" Gatewood blustered.
"I'll try to get the story killed," Karen cut in, freezing Gatewood with an abrupt look.
"Good," Kerney replied.
Kerney and Stiles signed the necessary paperwork, got sworn in, and left. Kerney had a draft for a thousand dollars from the local bank tucked in his wallet. In the parking lot, Jim shook his head in disbelief.
"You played hardball in there," he said.
"I don't want Gatewood calling the shots," Kerney answered.
"Besides not being very bright, he's a politician. We're going to have to improvise if we hope to solve this case, and Gatewood would keep us on a short leash. Fill me in a bit more on Karen Cox.
Where does she get her influence?"
Jim laughed.
"Her daddy served two terms on the county commission, helped Gatewood get hired as a deputy, and supported him for sheriff when he ran for office. Edgar carries a lot of political weight. The last thing Omar wants to do is piss off Edgar or his daughter. Especially in an election year."
"Is everybody in this county in bed with each other?"
Jim grinned.
"Not me. My girlfriend lives in Silver City."
"Exception noted. Are you bragging or complaining?"
"Both. So what's next, boss?"
"You get to review every piece of paper that was found in Jose Padilla's travel trailer. I want a full report when I get back."
Jim groaned in dismay.
"You wanted to do real police work, remember?"
Stiles groaned again.
"Why did I ever say that?
And where in the hell are you going?"
"South," Kerney replied.
Earlier in the day Karen had rearranged the office so she could sit at her desk and look out the window.
The seventh judicial district operated on a circuit court schedule in Catron County, and she had a week to prepare for her first court appearance. A stack of active files filled her briefcase. She was pretty much up to speed on the contents.
She sat down, pushed her shoes off, and wiggled her toes. She hated to wear panty hose. As far as she was concerned it was the major drawback to the job.
When Kerney had stood up, ready to walk out on the deal because ofGatewood's stubbornness, Karen had momentarily lost her train of thought. The belt buckle he wore sparked a forgotten memory. At the age of twelve, she had accompanied her parents to the state high school rodeo championships in Reserve to watch her cousin Cory compete.
Afterward, she and her girlfriends giggled and fantasized for weeks about the tall, good-looking high school senior from Engle with the square shoulders and the pretty blue eyes who had beaten out Cory for the best all-around cowboy title. Kevin Kerney. She smiled at the girlhood silliness of it all.
Kerney had aged well, she decided. He was a little taller now and slightly fuller in the chest, with a flat stomach and baby-fine brown hair that was just barely receding. All in all, a good-looking man. It was Kerney's intense blue eyes that drew Karen in, and during the meeting she had worked hard to keep from looking at him. He had caught her sneaking a glance only once.
She smiled at the thought that Kerney seemed much more interested in her now than he had when she was twelve. The smile faded as Karen thought about her mother. She stopped herself from reaching for the telephone.
There was no sense in disturbing Mom with her overabundant concern. Let her enjoy her time with Elizabeth and Cody, Karen thought, as long as she is able. But how long would that be? It frightened Karen to think about it. Her mother had always been an anchor point in her life.
She pushed back the emotion and found herself thinking about her father.
He was a strong-willed man who didn't bend easily. The prospect of pressuring him to reveal the contents of the Padilla letter was distasteful, although she was still mad as hell at him for lying about it. For now, the issue could remain dormant. Karen hoped it would stay outside the scope of Kerney's investigation. But what if it didn't? How could she protect her father without violating her professional ethics?
If necessary, she would have to rein Kerney in. Somehow, she didn't think Kerney was the type of man who would take that easily.
She put in a call to the Silver City paper and got through to the editor, who told her it was too late to kill the story. She hung up wondering if Omar Gatewood even realized how badly he had blundered by letting the cat out of the bag to the media.
She seriously doubted it.
Kerney cashed the check, drove to his trailer, and swapped the Forest Service truck for his own vehicle, a late-model GMC pickup. Making a quick stop at the hospital in Silver City, he found the same guard at the door of the I.C.U and asked to speak to Eriinda Perez.
She arrived quickly, stepped halfway into the hall, and held the door open with a hand.
"I'm very busy, Mr. Kerney."
"I won't take much of your time. Did Dr. Padilla's daughter show up?"
"She's here now."
He gave Eriinda a business card and switched to Spanish.
"Please give her my condolences, find out if she will tell me where she's staying, and ask if I may speak with her this afternoon. Tell her I wish to be of assistance in finding the person who killed her son."
Eriinda nodded, told him to wait, and returned after a few minutes. She told Kerney where the woman was staying.
"She'll be at her motel in the afternoon," she added.
"She would like to meet with you."
"That's great. What's her name?" Kerney asked.
"Cornelia Marquez."
"Have the police talked to her?"
"I don't know," Eriinda said.
"How is Senor Padilla?"
Eriinda shrugged.
"The same. He fades in and out. Not very responsive. He remembers almost nothing."
"Is he talking?"
"Not really. A word here and there. The doctor thinks the damage may be permanent."
"Thanks."
"For nada." Eriinda watched him leave. Generally, she was not impressed with cops. But this gringo didn't run a macho game or act like a tough guy. Also, he didn't wear a wedding ring. She wondered if he was married.
Kerney burned up the road getting to El Paso. In Juarez he drove through the sleazy tourist district that never seemed to change, except to smell worse and look more appalling. He fought his way around crazed motorists until he was off the strip and heading for the suburbs.
Francisco Posada's home, a modern two-story affair with arched windows, a red tile roof, Grecian columns under a domed entrance, and meticulously landscaped grounds, qualified as a mansion. It harmonized nicely with the rest of the Juarez neighborhood.
The entire district could easily be part of any wealthy Southern California enclave.
Senor Posada's houseboy answered the door, recognized Kerney, and blocked his entrance.
"I don't think it is wise for you to be here," Juan said.
"I need to see him now," Kerney replied.
"Don't make me walk over you to do it."
Juan considered the threat, his soft black eyes ill flickering over Kerney's face, and decided not to resist.
"Very well," Juan said.
"Follow me."
Escorted into the spacious living room and left alone, Kerney sat in front of the Diego Rivera portrait of a beautiful Mexican woman that had captured his admiration during his first meeting with Posada, when he'd been tracking down Eppi Gutierrez's smuggling contacts. Hung above the fireplace, it was a remarkable painting, filled with an odd mixture of passion and piety, and Kerney was delighted to see it again.
Glass walls on either side of the fireplace climbed to a vaulted ceiling, bringing the outdoors virtually inside. The yard had as a centerpiece a large Swimming pool and cabana ringed with palm trees and potted tropical plants. In the living room were three separate seating areas of matching, richly upholstered chairs and couches that blended nicely with the off-white carpet and walls.
Guided by Juan, Francisco Posada entered from the adjoining library.
Kerney stood up. The old man shuffled slowly to him. The arthritis that so grotesquely crippled his hands had obviously worsened.
Deep circles beneath his small eyes stopped at his cheekbones. The loose skin around his neck looked almost detached. Pain was etched in his expression.
"Please sit," Posada said in his elegant Spanish.
He joined Kerney on the couch, Juan helping to lower him down.
"I did not expect to see you again, Senor Kerney."
Juan, slight, dark, and as slender as a girl, stood at the side of his employer, eyes fixed on Posada, his expression guarded. During Kerney's past visit, Juan had seemed much more attentive to Posada.
He wondered what was up between them.
"Nor I you, Don Francisco," Kerney replied in Spanish.
Posada smiled.
"I assume you did not come to present your apologies for deceiving me."
On his past visit, Kerney had hoodwinked Posada into selling him valuable information that had led to a major break in shutting down a smuggling operation and solving the murder of Kerney's godson.
"Circumstances prevented me from telling you the truth," Kerney replied.
"I am not interested in that. I am interested in the money you owe me."
As an inducement to do business with him, Kerney had agreed to pay Posada a percentage of the gross profits from the sale of the stolen historical artifacts.
"The percentage you were promised was based on the delivery of certain items. The delivery was never made."
"It was never intended to be made."
"You did not consider that possibility," Kerney countered.
Posada laughed nastily.
"Have I amused you?"
"I do not like the notion that I was so easily duped."
"Can we do business?"
"It depends. What is it you require?"
"I need the names of people who smuggle endangered animals to the Asian trade. Specifically for compounds used in medicines sold by folk healers and herbalists."
"Is this a police matter?"
"Yes."
"Does your investigation extend into Mexico?"
"No."
"Can you pay my fee?" Posada asked.
Posada charged a minimum of five thousand dollars for information.
"Not all of it up front," Kerney admitted.
"But I'm willing to trade. I'll give you a thousand dollars cash and provide advance warning when we plan to shut down the pipeline. If you move quickly, you should be able to corner the market and turn a tidy profit from the last shipments that cross the border."
Posada's eyes narrowed.
"You know my fee is not negotiable. I see no reason to put my trust in you, given your past performance. It gives me great pleasure to refuse you, Senor Kerney, Please do not come back here again. Juan, would you show Senor Kerney out?"
Kerney got to his feet and bowed in Posada's direction.
"Goodbye, senor," he said gravely.
"I am sorry we were unable to do business."
"Old enmities die hard," Posada replied flatly.
Juan walked Kerney through the grand vestibule to the front door.
"Senor Posada will not live much longer," he said.
"What will happen to you when he dies?"
"I hope to continue in the trade," Juan answered.
"But the senor has severely cut back on his workload, and does not seem inclined to turn over the business to me. He has a niece who will inherit."
"I would welcome the opportunity to do business with you," Kerney proposed.
Juan made an empty gesture with his hands.
"A thousand-dollar fee does not suffice, Mr. Kerney.
Unlike the senor, I do not have the resources to act on the information you proposed as a trade."
"The expenses of starting out can be considerable," Kerney noted.
"Is there something else that might satisfy you?"
"I would welcome the opportunity to have a permanent American visa. I would like to offer my services in the North American market without fear of legal entanglements."
"I believe that can be arranged. I know a customs agent who could be very helpful." Kerney held out the thousand dollars. The money disappeared into Juan's shirt pocket.
"Call me in two hours," Juan said, giving Kerney a phone number.
"Senor Posada will be resting. We can exchange information then."
Kerney's contact in the El Paso U.S. Customs office was very interested in Juan as a potential longterm informant. After advising Juan on how to get in touch with the agent, Kerney wrote down Juan's information and hung up. He had a short list of three smugglers: two in El Paso and one in Deming, New Mexico, a small city thirty miles from the Mexican border. According to Juan, the market was highly specialized and controlled by only a few people operating in the States.
The motels in Silver City, mostly mom-and-pop businesses mixed in with a few budget franchise operations, were concentrated along the state highway that ran north from Deming. Cornelia Marquez was registered at a motel on the main drag fairly close to downtown. The establishment boasted a restaurant that looked out on the highway and featured a daily radio talk show aired by a local station.
Kerney stopped in for a light meal. His stomach was grumpy-the norm rather than the exception with half of his gut shot away-and he had to eat judiciously in order to keep it functioning properly.
The talk-show host, at a table with a microphone and two telephones, sat by the large plate-glass window taking calls about a small group of environmentalists who had used the courts to stop timber sales in the Gila. Loudspeakers let the customers listen in on the conversations.
One caller phoned in to say that the members of the group had better stay the hell out of Catron County, since they were nothing but a gang of radicals who didn't know a damn thing about the west or its people.
The customers, mostly working men in for a coffee break, applauded in agreement.
Kerney finished his meal as the subject of repealing the Endangered Species Act was introduced by the host. The first caller to respond wondered why the government thought spotted owls were more valuable than people. It kicked off a diatribe against Washington politicians.
Cornelia Marquez opened the motel-room door immediately after Kerney knocked. A matron in her fifties, of average height with a thickening body, she wore a plain tan dress and a pair of sensible flats.
Her eyes were puffy and red and her mouth was drawn in a tight, sad line.
Kerney identified himself and showed the lady his badge.
"Nurse Perez said that you found my father," Cornelia said, sniffling.
She stepped aside to let Kerney enter.
"I am most grateful."
"It was nothing," Kerney replied. Something about her made him take a formal tone.
"Would you rather I came to see you some other time?"
"No." Cornelia's smile was thin-lipped.
"I would welcome some distraction. My husband cannot join me until this evening. He was in Argentina on business and is flying in from Buenos Aires."
She sat at the small table in front of the window and asked Kerney to join her. The room was a standard motel box with a queen-size bed, television, and dresser. A mirror and several silk-screen prints of desert flowers were securely fastened to the walls.
"Have you found who killed my son?" she asked.
"Not yet. If I knew why your son and father came here it might be helpful."
"How would that be helpful? The state police investigator who spoke to me at the hospital said that Hector was shot by a stranger. A poacher."
"That is probably true," Kerney allowed.
"But other possibilities cannot be ignored. Yesterday, I spoke to an older gentleman who said that he might have known your father many years ago. His name is Edgar Cox."
"The name is not familiar to me."
"Is there some reason for him to believe he knows your father?"
"It's possible. My father was born here. In the Mangas Valley. His ancestors settled the area. But he has lived in Mexico most of his life. Ever since he was a young man in medical school."
"Dr. Padilla seemed to have had a specific destination in mind. Do you have any idea why he went to Elderman Meadows?"
"I never heard of Elderman Meadows until today."
"How about a place called Mexican Hat?"
Cornelia frowned.
"I have heard him speak of such a place."
"In what context?" Kerney asked.
She toyed with the band of her diamond wedding ring and wet her lips before answering.
"My father has an obsession. He believes his father was murdered at Mexican Hat."
"What gave him that idea?" Kerney inquired.
"When my aunt died last year, he was the executor other estate. She had many of the old family papers.
Among them he found official letters from the American government to his father questioning the legal title to the land."
"What suspicions did those letters raise?"
"I'm not sure. He was very secretive about it."
"Why?"
"Because it opened an old wound between my parents. Long before I was born, my grandfather died and my parents traveled to New Mexico to attend the funeral. An argument developed between them. My father wished to drop out of medical school and remain in Mangas. Mother threatened to leave him if he did. They were newly married.
She was also a medical student, and they had planned to go into practice together. But she hated New Mexico. It was not her world. It was too isolated and unsophisticated. She was a city girl.
She made my father promise never to take her there again."
"And he kept his word?"
"Yes. Until the day my mother died, three months ago. There was really nothing for him to go back to.
His brothers and sisters had scattered. The ranch was lost. The village abandoned."
"Did she share his theory that Don Luis was murdered?"
"I don't think she cared, one way or the other."
"So he returned with your son to uncover a murderer," Kerney proposed.
"Real or imagined," Cornelia agreed testily, her voice rising.
"My father is gravely ill. Possibly he will never get better. And do you know how I feel, Senor Kerney? Right now, I am angry with him. To the depths of my soul, I am angry. My son is dead because of an old man's obsession with the past. It is senseless."
"I am truly sorry for your loss, senora," Kerney said.
Cornelia Marquez did not hear him. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed.
Kerney stayed with her until she stopped crying.
When he left he took with him Senora Marquez's written permission to visit Jose Padilla in the hospital.
The house Jim Stiles lived in, a hundred-year-old adobe with a high-pitched tin roof and buttresses at the corners to hold the adobe walls in place, sat in the valley exactly halfway between Reserve and the old Spanish settlement known as Lower San Francisco Plaza.
With his feet propped on a chair, Jim lounged at the kitchen table with the back door open, reading the documents found in Padilla's travel trailer.
Omar Gatewood had given him permission to sign out the evidence and take it home.
The day had turned hot, but the thick walls kept the house cool. A slight breeze pulsed through the doorway, bringing with it the sound of the river gurgling over the rocky streambed two hundred yards away.
Stiles finished a document and turned it upside down on the stack he'd already read. The papers and letters were all written in Spanish, and while Stiles spoke the language pretty well, he was much less proficient at translating the written word. What he could make out was damn interesting stuff, although it didn't seem to have a bit of relevance to the murder of Hector Padilla.
Among the papers were the last will and testament of Don Luis Padilla and a plat of the village of Mangas that had been filed with the territorial government over a hundred years ago. There were a lot of personal letters to Don Luis from important New Mexicans of the day.
Solomon Luna and Thomas B. Catron, two political heavyweights during the first years of statehood, had written to Don Luis about investing in something called the American Valley Company, whatever the hell that was.
Until Stiles could find someone to do an adequate translation of the material, all he'd be able to tell Kerney was that Jose and Hector Padilla were descendants of the same clan that had settled the Mangas Valley, and that the government had challenged Padilla's title to his land holdings back in the early thirties.
The phone rang just as Stiles started in on another letter. He grabbed the receiver from the wallmounted telephone, hoping it was Kerney.
"Hombre," Amador Ortiz said.
"I hear you've changed jobs."
"What are you talking about, Amador?" "The Silver City newspaper. Jimmy.
It says you and Kerney are working for the sheriff and the district attorney."
"Shit! That story was supposed to be killed."
Amador chuckled.
"You know you can't keep a secret around here. So is it true?"
"It's a temporary thing. I'm still with Game and Fish. What's up?"
"I've been thinking about Kerney wanting to know if I saw anything suspicious around Mangas Mountain."
"What have you got?" Stiles tried to hold back the excitement from his voice.
"Maybe nothing. You know that old mine at the upper end of Padilla Canyon, north of the lookout tower? Last week I was with my crew barricading the road to the mine to keep hikers out of the canyon. I saw some tire tracks."
"What kind of tire tracks?"
"Looked like an ATV to me. T1-; morning I got to thinking you can get to the meadows from the upper canyon, pretty easy. At least you could before we blocked the road. A game trail runs from the mine to the meadows. Elk use it a lot. I thought maybe you'd want to pass that on to Kerney." "Hell yes. Thanks, mano," Stiles said.
"De nada, primo. You owe me a beer at Cattleman's if you find something."
"You got it," Stiles responded.
He hung up the phone, went quickly into a small second bedroom that served as his study, and pawed through the quadrangle maps on the desk.
If he remembered correctly, it was maybe a two-hour hike from the mouth of Padilla Canyon to the mine.
Stiles found the map and studied the contours. It was a no-sweat walk in the woods. With the map in his back pocket, he returned to the kitchen, gathered up Padilla's papers, and stuffed them into a manila envelope. He whistled to himself as he left the house and fired up the truck. He switched the radio frequency to the sheriffs department, and called in to report he was operational.
When the dispatcher responded, he gave his destination and ETA, and left a message for Kerney to meet him at Padilla Canyon. He thought about waiting for Kerney or asking for backup, and dismissed the idea. It would only slow him down.
Besides, ifAmador was right, he might have the first break in the case.
That would make Kerney sit up and take notice.
Damn! Nobody had thought to look north of the meadows in Padilla Canyon. The search had been concentrated south into the foothills and valley.
He'd buy Amador a case of beer if the tip panned out.
Stiles reached down and hit the switch to the emergency lights. He'd run with lights flashing all the way to the mouth of Padilla Canyon. It would save him a good thirty minutes.
Unexpectedly summoned to a meeting, Carol Cassidy sat in the small conference room at the Glenwood District Office with the forest supervisor from Silver City, the regional forester from Albuquerque, and Charlie Perry. Samuel Ellsworth Aldrich, the acting regional forester, a heavy-boned man with a double chin and thick lips, presided over the meeting. He had his suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, and tie loosened. He was smiling pleasantly at Carol.
Charlie and the regional forester were across the table. Perry whispered something to Aldrich, who nodded automatically back at Charlie. Jack Wyman, the forest supervisor and Carol's boss, a contemporary she had worked with for a number of years, avoided looking at her. It was not going to be a cordial meeting.
Aldrich concluded his opening remarks, which consisted of bitching about being unable to get out into the field as often as he would like. He spread his hands palms down on the table and gave Carol a patronizing smile.
"Thanks for coming down on such short notice, Carol," he said, nodding in Wyman's direction.
"Jack and I have some concerns we'd like to discuss with you."
"I'd like to hear them, Sam," Carol replied, wondering what in the hell was brewing. Her annual operational review by the regional office was months away. There had to be a special reason Aldrich wanted to see her.
"I got a telephone call this morning from an Associated Press reporter,"
Aldrich went on.
"She wanted to know if the Catron County sheriff and the ADA had usurped the state police investigation in the Elderman Meadows murder case. I told her I didn't have a clue what she was talking about. So she faxed me a copy of an article from the Silver City newspaper. She told me Gatewood gave the story to the newspaper. Have you seen it?"
"Yes."
"Is it accurate?"
"It is. Sheriff Gatewood called me after the fact to tell me about the appointments. I had no prior knowledge."
"I'll accept that." Aldrich stopped to clear his throat.
You damn well better, Carol thought to herself.
"To make a long story short, I called Jack for a briefing on the situation and he didn't know anything about it either. Charlie Perry filled me in. He was meeting with Jack when I called."
"You could have called me, Sam," Carol said, "instead of relying on secondhand information."
She shot a hard look in Charlie's direction.
"From a reporter," she added.
Aldrich smiled charmingly.
"That's why you're here. And that's why I flew in from Albuquerque to meet with you. What, exactly, is going on?"
"To set the record straight, the investigation hasn't been usurped. I've assigned an experienced investigator who is working in tandem with a state Game and Fish officer on the poaching case only.
Since the poaching and the murder may be tied together, it seemed the sensible thing to do."
Aldrich shook his head in disagreement.
"That's not how the state police feel about it. I got a call from the chief. He isn't happy with Sheriff Gatewood, the ADA, or you. Thinks the story is bad press for his department and nothing more than small town political posturing. I tend to agree. As hard as I tried to stop it, a follow-up article on our unusual involvement in the case is going to hit the Albuquerque paper this afternoon. And I've had calls from two television reporters while we were waiting for you to arrive.
They're asking pointed questions. Has the Forest Service lost confidence in the state police?
Why have a ranger and a Game and Fish officer been given authority by an assistant district attorney and the local sheriff to investigate a murder case? We've got a damage-control problem here, Carol. There is already too much resentment about the Forest Service in the community.
It has to be solved quickly."
Carol saw the writing on the wall.
"How do you want it solved?"
"The man you assigned to the investigation…"
Aldrich thumbed through some papers.
"Kevin Kerney. He's a temporary employee, correct?"
"That's right. Hired out of your office."
"Terminate him. I want you and the district out of this before it becomes an imbroglio. My staff has prepared a press release which should put the matter to rest. It will clearly state that we see a conflict of interest in having one of our employees reporting to another law enforcement agency, and that Mr. Kerney has been released from his job so that he can pursue the investigation for the district attorney."
"That's not fair to a man who has done excellent work for me," Carol said evenly.
"He may well be outstanding, but now he's a liability. If he's so damn good, the district attorney's office can put him on their payroll. I've got ranchers and environmentalists barking at my heels. I don't need to have the state police and others in the law enforcement community joining in the chorus. Terminate him."
Carol stood up. Jack Wyman's eyes were lowered.
Charlie Perry was twiddling a pencil between his fingers, looking pleased.
She decided to test a growing realization.
"I'll assign someone else to cover the poaching case."
"That won't be necessary," Aldrich replied.
"Charlie will handle it."
"I see," Carol said, heading for the door.
"It's good to see you again, Sam. Come visit more often."
Aldrich's charm returned.
"I will, Carol."
Wyman gave her a weak smile and Charlie nodded a haughty goodbye as Carol closed the door behind her.
After getting over being steamed with Aldrich and his spineless bureaucratic meddling, Carol was back in her office when an idea came to her. In spite of Aldrich's order to fire Kerney, maybe she had some latitude. It was worth thinking about.
Padilla Canyon ended abruptly at a new rock barrier and fence that forced Jim Stiles to travel on foot. He checked his day pack to make sure he was adequately equipped. With a flashlight, water, freeze-dried rations, flares, matches, a first-aid kit, sweater, and a lightweight tarp, he could handle just about any situation. He added a hand-held radio and his holstered sidearm to the pack, slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, and started out at a brisk pace.
The new trail, built by Amador's crew, soon separated from the road and scaled the canyon wall.
Jim stayed on the roadbed, searching for any indication of motorized travel. Halfway up, he found a pull tab to a beverage can in the fine sand of a small arroyo that cut across the road. He bagged it, made a search of the area, found nothing more, and moved on. Beyond him, the new trail dipped to a low ledge before twisting up the side of the canyon. He scrambled to the trail and scanned the old road in both directions. A glimmer of reflected light in a cluster of boulders caught his eye. He climbed down to investigate. It was an aluminum beer can. Using a twig to retrieve it, he bagged the container and put it in his pack.
The canyon, wide at the mouth, narrowed as it ran against Mangas Mountain. Tree cover thickened until the forest canopy cut off his view of the lookout tower on the peak. The canyon closed in sharply before it fanned out into a small clearing at the mine. All that remained at the site was the rubble of a stone cabin, a few rotted pilings that once held up a wooden sluice used to divert water from a small creek, and a ramp with tracks for ore carts that ran from the shaft to where the canyon floor met the creek.
The creek was still running. Jim splashed water on his face before shedding his pack and looking around. Maybe Amador had seen evidence of an ATV, but all Jim could find were elk tracks near the creek that trailed off in the direction of Little Springs, the last watering spot before the meadows.
It wasn't surprising; wind and recent rain would have erased any tread signs.
Stiles turned his attention to the mine. Above the shaft entrance a horizontal row of logs braced by two vertical timbers held back the hillside. The entrance, trussed with a thick beam and joists, was square-cut and less than six feet high. He crawled in, flashlight in hand. The chamber plunged abruptly, the angled walls supported by heavy timbering above the ore cart tracks. It looked decidedly unsafe. The beam of his flashlight was swallowed up by the darkness of the tunnel.
Disappointed, Jim sat back on his heels. There was no way he could climb down without a rope and someone to pull him up in case he ran into trouble.
He crawled out, stood up, and felt something sticky on his knees. His jeans were stained with motor oil.
He rubbed a finger on the smudges and sniffed it to make sure. There was no doubt.
Back in the mine he found an area saturated with oil. Smiling to himself, Jim worked on a scenario.
Any poacher who knew his business would scout the meadow on foot until he was sure of the cougar's territory. An elusive animal rarely seen in the wild, a mountain lion could range up to fifty square miles in two days or less. It would take a lot of stealth and patience to bring the animal down, and driving an ATV deep into the cougar's range would Spock it and defeat any possibility of a sighting. The old mine was a good place to stash the ATV while hunting the cat.
It plays out. Stiles thought. The killer had to know that the Padilla Canyon road was closed the day he took the mountain lion and shot Hector Padilla. So he followed the horse trail partway with the ATV, hiked in, baited his trap, and waited at the shooter's blind. He was probably in position long before the mountain lion appeared to take the bait. Only an experienced, patient hunter could pull it off.
He sopped up the oil with a handkerchief and put it into his shirt pocket, thinking a lab analysis might help identify the type of vehicle that had been hidden in the mine.
Outside, Jim nestled the flashlight under his arm lit and bent over to brush the grime off his jeans. As he straightened up, he felt the bullet slam into his left side. The impact drove him against the cliff.
A second round missed, splintered rock fragments into his face, and blinded him. It felt as if he had been gouged by dozens of flaming-hot barbs. He lay where he fell, unable to see, pain searing down his arm.
He couldn't tell if the first shot had passed through his upper arm into his lung. The shots had come from above him on the canyon rim. The shooter would have to work his way down to confirm his kill.
He stayed motionless, opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He thought about trying to crawl to the day pack for his handgun and gave up on the idea. Even if he could make it to the pack, he couldn't see to shoot.
He would play dead and hope his sight came back. He listened intently, trying to make out the crunch of footsteps, the whisper of movement through the trees, the sound of snapping twigs. He felt pretty stupid about coming up the canyon alone.
Then he lost consciousness.
Kerney arrived at the Catron County Sheriff's Department expecting to find Jim Stiles stashed away in a cubbyhole studying Jose Padilla's papers.
Instead, he encountered a lone dispatcher in the outer office who looked like a younger version of Omar Gatewood, with the same puffy cheeks and stocky frame.
Kerney introduced himself and asked for Stiles.
"Ain't here," the boy replied.
"He's up in Padilla Canyon."
"Doing what?"
"Don't know. Said for you to meet him there. At the old mine."
"When did he leave?"
"About three hours ago."
Kerney pointed to the radio.
"Call him up."
"Can't," the kid replied.
"Transmitter won't reach into the canyon. It's a blind spot."
"Who can talk to him?"
"The forest lookout on Mangas can," the kid replied.
"Call," Kerney suggested.
"See if they've had any contact with Stiles."
"Sure thing."
The kid made contact, and Kerney listened to the conversation. There had been no communication between Stiles and the lookout tower.
The kid looked up at Kerney.
"Anything else?"
"Who's working in the tower?"
"Henry Lujan."
"Ask Henry the quickest way to get to Padilla Canyon."
"I can tell you that," the kid replied.
"Fine. Then ask Henry to get Stiles on the radio.
Tell him to keep trying until he gets a response."
"Ten-four," the kid replied. He passed along the message and gave Kerney directions to Padilla Canyon.
"Put search and rescue on standby," Kerney said, as he headed for the door.
"And tell your father."
The kid's eyes brightened. This might turn out to be as good as the Elderman Meadows murder. He was keying the microphone before the door slammed behind Kerney.
Kerney found Jim's truck and started up the trail at a fast pace, his anger with Stiles building as he ran. Going into the canyon alone was dumb, and failing to call in made it worse-raising the possibility that something had gone wrong.
He pushed himself to run faster, and his knee almost buckled in protest.
He hated the damn thing for slowing him down. The pain that ran like a spike up his thigh he could handle, it was the permanent sub par performance the knee caused that really pissed him off.
Finally the knee locked up and he was forced into a slow trot. Pockets of white clouds, empty of any rain, blocked the late-afternoon sun and cooled him down, but he had lost a lot of body fluid and his mouth felt like dry cotton. He started sprinting again when he saw Stiles sprawled in front of the mine entrance. Breathing hard, he reached Jim and bent over his body. He was alive but unconscious.
His face was a bloody mess, and his left eyelid was almost torn off. A bullet had cut through muscle in Jim's left arm and he was bleeding freely. On the ground were the shattered remains of a flashlight.
Using his handkerchief as a tourniquet Kerney stemmed the flow of blood and checked Jim's pulse.
It was fast and erratic, and his skin felt cool to the touch.
Jim's day pack yielded a first-aid kit. Working as quickly as possible, Kerney cut off the sleeve with a pocket knife, cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide, and bandaged it. When he saw the small dark stain on Jim's shirt pocket he flinched. Quickly he ripped the shirt open and found nothing but a deep bruise on the rib cage. If the flashlight casing and batteries hadn't stopped the bullet. Stiles would be dead.
He pulled a soggy handkerchief from Jim's shirt pocket and took a whiff.
It smelled like motor oil.
Using the hand-held radio, Kerney called Henry Lujan at the lookout tower, gave his location, and reported an officer down. He picked Stiles up, carried him to the creek, stretched him on the ground, raised his feet, and covered him with a sweater and tarp from the day pack. He flushed Jim's face with water, cleaning off the blood and some of the rock fragments, working carefully around the eyes. Then he gently put gauze over each eye and taped them for protection. Stiles moaned as Kerney finished up.
"You're going to live," Kerney said.
"Jesus, Kerney, is that you?"
"It's me."
"I can't see a fucking thing."
"Your eyes are patched."
"Am I blind?"
"I don't think so. Who shot you?"
"Didn't see him. It happened too fast. The son of a bitch probably followed me up the canyon."
"No. I saw only your tracks on the way in. Who knew you were coming?"
Stiles forced a small laugh.
"Probably half the county. I used the police frequency to give my destination. Every citizen with a scanner could have been listening."
Kerney started stuffing some aspirin in Jim's mouth.
"What are you doing?" Stiles mumbled, his mouth half full of capsules, as Kerney put the canteen to Jim's mouth.
"Aspirin," he explained.
"It will dull the pain a bit." K-erney watched Stiles drink deeply.
When Jim finished, he treated himself to a swallow, and looked around for a chopper landing site. The canyon was too narrow for a helicopter to fly in, and there was no adequate clearing where it could set down.
He looked back at Jim. Stiles needed to get to a hospital as quickly as possible.
"Can you walk?" Kerney asked.
"Help me up," Stiles replied weakly.
Kerney stuffed the gear back into the pack, slung it over his arm, got Stiles to his feet, and walked him a few yards down the canyon. Jim leaned heavily against him, wobbly and uncoordinated. Walking him out wasn't going to work; he would have to be carried. Kerney put the day pack on Stiles and slung the man on his back. When Jim protested that he could make it under his own steam, Kerney told him to shut up.
Each time Kerney stopped for a brief rest, Jim told him a bit more of what had happened. They heard the chopper long before it passed overhead, and soon the distant sound of sirens echoed through the mountains. Kerney picked up the pace. After a long stretch without stopping, Kerney stumbled and almost fell flat on his face. He put Stiles down and collapsed next to him.
"Almost there," he said, gasping, trying not to sound completely winded.
His chest was heaving, and his knee felt as if someone had pounded it with a hammer.
"Let me try to walk."
"There's no need," Kerney replied. Four search and-rescue team members came into view, trotting quickly up the canyon.
"We're about to be rescued."
Stiles turned his head in the direction of Kerney's voice.
"Did I remember to thank you?"
"You just did," Kerney answered, removing the day pack from Jim's back.
He turned Stiles over to a paramedic, who did a quick check of vital signs, started an IV, elevated Jim's feet, and wrapped him in a blanket.
The patches over Jim's eyes were removed, the damage quickly assessed, and fresh dressings applied. Kerney's spirits sank as the paramedic pointed to his own left eye, shook his head, and made a face, before ordering his companions to put Jim on a stretcher.
Kerney followed the men to the landing zone. No time was wasted getting Jim in the chopper and on his way to the hospital. At the barricade a half mile farther down the canyon, he found a gathering of men and vehicles, including Omar Gatewood, two deputy sheriffs, a Game and Fish officer, and one of Carol Cassidy's permanent rangers. For some unexplained reason, two sheriffs patrol cars had emergency lights flashing, the colors almost completely washed out in the bright aquamarine sky. It must be for crowd control, Kerney reckoned, eyeing the canyon, empty except for the small circle of men, thinking that he was starting to catch Jim's offbeat sense of humor.
Sheriff Gatewood pulled Kerney aside for a briefing.
They stood next to Gatewood's patrol unit. The police radio cracked with traffic about the ambush.
"What in the hell happened up there?" Gatewood demanded.
Kerney filled Gatewood in with an absolute minimum of facts.
"Who would want to shoot him?" Gatewood asked, as though Kerney could supply the answer.
"The more important question is why was Jim shot," Kerney proposed.
"Hell if I know," Gatewood admitted, tugging an earlobe.
"I'll send the boys up the road to see what they can find." He waved his hand in a come-here gesture at the officers.
"Give your boss a call," he added.
"She wants to see you."
"What's up?" "Can't say," Omar said, bending down to brush dirt off his shiny boots with a handkerchief. He walked to meet the officers halfway, issued some orders, and caught up with Kerney at his truck.
"I'm going to make sure Jim gets a special commendation out of this."
"That's a good idea," Kerney replied, trying to bite back the sarcasm.
It didn't work.
"After you do that, why don't you dispatch a deputy to patrol the Mangas road and get a reconnaissance chopper in the air, just on the off chance they may spot somebody coming out of the forest."
Gatewood's expression changed to a scowl.
"You got a bad habit of telling me what to do, Kerney. You know that?"
"Wrong, Gatewood. I'm just suggesting that maybe you ought to get your priorities straight." He threw Jim's day pack in the cab, fired up the truck, and left Gatewood in a puff of road dust. In the rearview mirror he saw Omar bending down to brush off his boots with a handkerchief one more time.
The early-evening sky was a banner of pink-and white clouds bordered by azure blue. Kerney checked his watch. Quitting time had come and gone.
Carol was probably at home. He'd swing by and see her.
Charlie Perry drove past as Kerney turned onto the road to the compound where Carol and her family lived. Kerney waved at Charlie to be polite and got a quick nod in exchange.
Carol's husband answered Kerney's knock, invited him inside, and had him wait in the front room. With a piano against one wall, a loom with an unfinished weaving next to a window, and the remaining space filled with homey overstuffed chairs and oak furniture, the room felt both cluttered and comfortable. Carol came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.
"I've been listening to the scanner," she said, before Kerney could greet her.
"Is Jim going to be all right?"
"I think he'll make it."
"Thank goodness." She draped the dish towel on the arm of a chair and sat down.
"Please," she said, motioning to another chair across from her.
Kerney joined her.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just barge ahead. I've been ordered to fire you."
Kerney took it in.
"Is that why Charlie Perry was here?"
"Peripherally. He's been given the mountain lion case."
"Any particular reason why?"
"Because the acting regional forester, who's some thing of a barracuda, decided my decision to use you on the investigation was ill-advised.
Charlie kissed up to him and got the assignment."
"Are you in trouble?" Kerney asked.
"No way. Charlie hasn't got that kind of juice.
Neither does the regional forester."
"So what's this really about?" Kerney inquired.
Carol shrugged.
"Public relations. Bad press. Inability to take the heat. You name it. Aldrich got bitched at by the state police chief and grilled by some reporters. Seems that Omar Gatewood's press release raised the attention of the media."
"That man is a real work of art."
Carol shook her head.
"Tell me about it. I chewed him out for not including me in on the plan."
"I assumed you knew."
"Not until I read it in the newspaper."
Kerney gave Carol an apologetic look.
"I should have told you what was happening. Are you sure you're not in hot water?"
"Not to worry. I already told you I wasn't." Carol stopped talking for a minute.
"You seem more concerned about me than yourself."
Kerney laughed.
"It hasn't sunk in yet. I've never been fired before." "I haven't told anyone about your termination, although I'm sure Charlie Perry will get the word out, if he hasn't already. So, I'm giving you two weeks' notice, and placing you on administrative leave with pay. Technically, your commission will remain valid till then."
"Do you want me to work undercover?"
Carol's eyes flashed.
"You bet I do. Especially after what happened to Jim Stiles. Now it's personal.
I like that young man a hell of a lot. This shooting wasn't a random act of violence. It couldn't be. It has to be tied in with the murder at Elderman Meadows. Are you game?"
"More than game," Kerney replied.
"Catch the bastard, Kevin."
"It would give me great pleasure."
"Two weeks," Carol reminded him.
"That's all the time I can squeeze out for you without being insubordinate."
"A lot can happen in two weeks," he replied.
Henry Lujan, the seasonal employee who manned the lookout tower on Mangas Mountain, gave Kerney a tour. The building, an elevated room on steel pillars with an outside deck that ran around the perimeter of the structure, was glassed on all sides. The amenities consisted of an outdoor privy situated under a tree at the base of the structure and a holding tank for drinking water, replenished by truck as needed.
Kerney walked the deck with Henry, a college student in his third year as a summer worker. The views in every direction were incredible, especially to the west, where a blood-red sunset slashed across the horizon. Lujan pointed out some landmarks before taking Kerney inside: a mountaintop in Arizona, the solitary Allegros Peak on the Continental Divide, and the barely visible plateau that marked the sacred Zuni Salt Lake.
"I can't believe what's been going on around here," Henry said. He hitched himself into a sitting position on a counter that held communication equipment, his feet dangling off the floor. He was about five feet five with a well-developed upper body. He had an easygoing style.
"First the thing at Elderman Meadows, and now Jim Stiles getting shot."
He shook his head in disbelief.
"Too much, man."
"Jim talked to you about Elderman Meadows."
"Yeah. The same day it happened. There wasn't much I could tell him. I don't pay any attention to the meadows. Nobody goes in there except our people and Game and Fish."
"What were you doing at the time?"
Lujan nodded at the cot in the corner of the room.
He had a young face for his age, bony and not yet fleshed-out. Under the cot was a set of barbells. A color television on a metal stand stood at the foot of the cot.
"I was crashed. The radio traffic woke me up. Weekends, I work split shifts because we've got more people camping in the forest. Mornings and nights, that's when I work. When the man-made fire danger is the greatest. Campfires. Cigarettes. That kind of stuff."
"So you were asleep?"
"Yeah. I heard Stiles call in that you'd found that old man. I listened for a minute and went back to sleep."
"You didn't get up to take a look?"
Lujan laughed.
"Look at what? I can't see anything through the forest canopy. I didn't start scanning the meadows until you reported finding a dead body. By then I was awake."
"Did you see anyone today in the vicinity of Padilla Canyon?"
Lujan pushed himself off the counter, got a pair of field glasses, gave them to Kerney, and pointed in the direction of Padilla Canyon.
"That's almost impossible for me to do. Take a look for yourself.
The canyon is hidden by timberland. You can't even tell it's there, except for a few small breaks in the cover. I can't see anything."
Kerney trained the glasses where Henry had pointed. The kid was right.
All he could see in the fading light was a faint gash of the deep ravine obscured by forest.
"Did you have any visitors?"
"Today? Just you."
"How often do you report in by radio?"
"Every hour I log onto the fire watch system.
That's during working shifts. I keep the scanner going and the radio on all the time."
Kerney handed Lujan the field glasses. It should be easy to verify Henry's schedule.
"Do you know a fast way to get from Mangas Campground to Padilla Canyon?" "Maybe fly?" Lujan suggested with a grin and a shrug.
"I haven't the foggiest. Hiking isn't something I'm into. Besides, some of the trails are new.
Not even on the map yet."
"But you can see some trails from here," Kerney proposed.
"Sure. I'll do a visual sweep if someone's reported lost or overdue.
Otherwise, I concentrate on general surveillance."
Next to the cot was a workbench with some tools and a partially disassembled portable shortwave radio-one of the old vacuum-tube models.
"I hear you're going to college," Kerney said.
"Yeah. I just finished my second year at Western New Mexico in Silver City."
Kerney looked at the workbench.
"What's your major? Electronics?"
"No, it's forestry. I bought the radio at a garage sale for ten bucks.
It doesn't work. I'm just tinkering with it to see if I can fix it. It passes the time when there's nothing good on the tube."
"Sounds like fun. Play any sports?"
"What? Oh, you mean my weights. I wrestled in high school. Don't have the time for it now, so I work out just to stay in shape."
"Good idea." It was dark outside. The blackness of the forest was vast, interrupted by the dim lights of the few small hamlets that shimmered like frail earthbound stars in the valleys. It was time to get going.
"How well do you know Amador Ortiz?" Kerney asked.
"He's my uncle," Henry replied.
"He helped to get me this job when I graduated from high school."
"Did he talk to you about seeing tire tracks in Padilla Canyon?"
"If he did, I don't remember it."
"Do you keep any guns up here?"
"I don't, but there's a twenty-two rifle behind the door. It belongs to the Forest Service. You can look at it if you like."
Kerney knew it hadn't been a twenty-two that put the hole in Jim's arm.
"That's not necessary.
Thanks, Henry."
"Come back and visit anytime. And tell Jim I'm sorry about what happened. Tell him to hang in there."
"I'll do that."
Henry walked Kerney to the deck, watched him climb stiffly down the ladder and get in his truck. He waved as Kerney drove out of sight.
Inside, he wrote down the time of Kerney's visit in his daily log, made a quick visual sweep with the field glasses, and started working on the shortwave radio.
Dr. Harrison Walker, ophthalmologist, surgeon, and former Army medic with two Vietnam tours to his credit, walked into the lobby of the Gila Regional Medical Center. Visiting hours were over, and the lobby was empty except for one man, sprawled in a chair, fast asleep. A pile of papers had spilled from his chest onto the cushion. From personal experience, Harrison Walker knew what it meant to keep a vigil for a buddy. If he was hurt, you had to be there for him, period. End of story. It was a code Walker believed in and liked to see practiced by others. He picked up the papers and glanced at them. Some were official documents and others were handwritten letters, all in Spanish.
The fatigue etched on Kerney's face made Walker reluctant to wake him up. From what Walker knew about the incident in Padilla Canyon, Kerney had found Stiles, treated his wounds, and carried him out most of the way on a badly damaged leg.
Walker shook the man gently awake.
"Mr. Kerney."
Kerney's eyes snapped open.
"Doctor," he replied, sitting up.
"Mr. Stiles is in his room, and his parents have gone home. You can have a couple of minutes with him. Then I'm going to kick your ass out and order you to get some rest."
Kerney smiled in agreement.
"How are his eyes?"
"The fragment cut a ligament and damaged the cornea in his left eye. It missed the optic nerve but partially detached the retina. I've repaired the damage.
The right eye was a breeze-mostly fine grains of rock dust with one small perforation. He can use it, although things may be fuzzy for a day or two.
He'll keep his vision."
"That's good news. Thanks, Doctor."
"Thank you for patching him up and helping to get him here quickly. It reduced the chances of further damage." Harrison stopped, studied Kerney's face, and shook his finger.
"I'm serious about you needing some sleep. You look like shit."
"Is that a medical opinion?"
"It's an expert medical opinion," Harrison retorted.
"You'd do well to act on it."
"I believe it."
Harrison held out the documents.
"You may need these."
"Thanks, Doc," Kerney said, taking the papers.
Kerney found Stiles awake in his bed, his left eye covered with a dressing wrapped around his head.
The surgical team had repaired the muscle damage in his arm. There were bouquets of flowers from the Fraternal Order of Police and the Game and Fish Department on the bedside table.
"You look like shit," Jim said, holding out his hand.
Kerney grabbed it and squeezed.
"I thought you couldn't see anything."
Jim grinned.
"I can see your ugly face. Dr. Walker said maybe all I'll need is physical therapy to strengthen the eye muscles."
"That's great." Kerney searched Jim's face. It was still a mess. At least two dozen shrapnel wounds had been repaired, some requiring stitches to close the lacerations.
"And the arm?"
"The bullet missed the bone. It's my face I'm worried about. I look like I have permanent chicken pox."
"You're not going to be pretty for a while," Kerney agreed.
"But then you never were."
"Thanks a lot."
Kerney sank into the chair next to the bed, grateful to be off his feet.
"You missed my parents. I wanted you to meet them."
"I just got here," he fibbed.
"Some other time."
"Count on it. My dad said my department wants to give me a commendation. Omar Gatewood called and told him. Can you believe it?
An award for getting ambushed."
"Let them do it."
"Are you serious?"
"You take a risk every time you put on a badge and gun. That counts."
"I suppose you're right." Jim's mouth was dry from the anesthesia. He took a sip of water.
"Did you bring my day pack?"
"It's in my truck. Do you need it?"
"No, you do. I picked up an empty beer can on the road to the mine.
It's in a plastic bag along with a pull tab. See if you can get any prints off them."
"That's a long shot."
"I know it. One more thing-when you pop open a cold one, do you pull off the tab before you take a drink?"
Kerney looked at him quizzically.
"No. What's your point?"
Jim smiled.
"I do. Sometimes my mustache gets caught on the tab. It hurts like hell when it happens.
The beer can I found didn't have a tab."
"So I should look for a guy with a mustache who drinks beer?" Kerney ventured.
"Unless you know a woman with a really hairy upper lip," Stiles countered.
"You've narrowed the field down to one gender.
Good thinking," Kerney replied in mock seriousness.
"It's a clue," Jim shot back.
"I can't be expected to do everything for you."
"You can do something for me." Kerney dropped Jose Padilla's papers on the bed. He had read through the documents before falling asleep in the waiting room.
"Use your contacts and find somebody to research the history of the Padilla ranch. I want to know everything about the American Valley Company. Incorporators. Stockholders. How it was organized. What happened to that part of it Don Luis Padilla owned. And I need a search of newspaper archives on the Padillas, especially anything having to do with the death of Jose's father."
"I know just the person to recruit,"
Stiles said with a grin.
"As long as he's trustworthy and can keep a tight lip," Kerney cautioned.
"She's absolutely trustworthy," Jim replied, with a smile.
"Good enough."
"Sorry I fucked up today. Thanks again for bailing me out."
"Learn from it," Kerney replied.
"You don't have a job that allows for poor judgment."
Jim took the criticism like a slap in the face, and Kerney wished he could erase his words. He patted Jim's hand.
"Forget I said that. I'm dead on my feet and you're all shot up. You don't need me ragging on you. I'm just glad you didn't get yourself killed."
Jim's smile came back.
"Well, that's some consolation."
He left Stiles and stopped by the I.C.U. The state police had pulled security off the door. He rang the buzzer. The duty nurse, a man with an amiable expression, opened up. Kerney asked to see Jose Padilla.
The nurse sadly shook his head.
"He died two hours ago."
"Thanks." Kerney turned on his heel and left, stewing over the information. It was the perfect end to a shitty day, he thought. He had been counting on the old man for some answers. He swallowed hard against the memory of his ill-timed scolding of Jim Stiles. It had been poor form and bad manners, coming as it had on the heels of Jim's expression of gratitude.
He drove to a motel, got a room, soaked his knee with a hot compress, and collapsed in a stupor on the bed.
It was early morning when Kerney turned the corner of the hospital corridor on his way to see Jim before leaving Silver City. He almost ran over Karen Cox. She wore black linen trousers and a vanilla colored jacket over a silk shirt. It made her seem even more willowy.
"How's Jim doing?" he asked, glancing down the hallway to the hospital room where Stiles temporarily resided.
"He seems okay, thankfully. I expect a full briefing from you."
"Whenever you say."
"Not now. I'm running late. I understand you had a talk with my father," she said.
"What was that about?"
"Didn't he tell you?"
"I'd like to hear your version."
"According to your father, he came to the hospital on Sunday to find out if Jose Padilla was someone he once knew."
Karen blinked. Kerney waited for more of a reaction.
"And?" she demanded.
"He's not sure," Kerney replied.
"But if it turns out that Padilla is an old acquaintance, your father may be a source of information."
Faced with confirmation that her father had lied to her about his meeting with Kerney, Karen struggled to keep her composure.
"What did you learn about Jose Padilla?" she asked.
Kerney read the distress in Karen's eyes.
"He was born here. He was attending medical school in Mexico City when his father died. He came back because he believed his father, Don Luis, was murdered sixty years ago."
Karen's tone became guarded.
"I thought the working hypothesis was that Hector Padilla was shot to protect the poacher's identity."
"That's one motive," Kerney said.
"Another is that the killer simply panicked when Hector came on the scene. A third motive is that the killing might be tied to Jose and Hector Padilla's arrival in Catron County to look into the death of Don Luis."
"When can I talk to Jose Padilla?"
"You can't. He died last night. What I've learned was supplied by his daughter, who came up from Mexico City."
"I want to talk to her." Kerney told Karen where Cornelia Marquez was staying.
She nodded, broke eye contact, looked at her wristwatch, and glanced at him impatiently.
"Anything else?"
"What can you tell me?" Kerney leaned forward to test Karen's reaction.
She inched back from him.
Something had her uptight.
"I have no new information."
"Do you think your father is holding something back?"
"Why would he do that?"
"I don't know." He held out the special investigator commission card.
"Here. Take it. I'm afraid you can't borrow my services any longer."
Karen looked from the card to Kerney's face, her expression vexed.
"What's this all about?"
Kerney shrugged.
"Politics. I got fired. Read the morning paper."
"What will you do?"
"I'll think of something," he said, placing the card in Karen's hand.
She reached out and touched Kerney on the arm.
"I'm sorry."
"Me too. I was looking forward to working with you."
She reacted with a flush of agreement in her voice.
"I still need you to fill me in on what happened."
"I will." He left her standing in the hallway and paid a quick visit to Jim.
"You just missed Karen," Jim said. He was propped up in bed with two pillows stuffed behind his head.
Kerney nodded.
"How are you doing?"
"The food sucks and I want to go home."
Full vision was back in Jim's right eye, but the doctor wanted to keep him under observation for another day. His arm was sore as hell. They talked a bit about Jose Padilla's death, and Jim promised he'd redouble his research efforts now that the only potential eyewitness was gone.
Kerney groaned at the pun and waved goodbye.
Jim belly-laughed as Kerney left the room.
As Kerney crossed the lobby he saw Karen in the gift shop buying the morning paper. For someone who was running late, he wondered why she was still at the hospital. He dismissed the thought as he walked outside. Carol Cassidy's decision to give him two extra weeks to solve the case was a nice gesture, but Kerney had already decided before the offer was made to nail the perpetrator, no matter how long it took. He hated leaving a job unfinished, and Jim Stiles deserved to have the asshole who shot him caught.
Karen bought the paper and looked at the wall clock in the gift shop.
Her parents were due to arrive soon for Mom's appointment with the doctor, and Karen had made arrangements to go to work late so she could be with them when they received the results of the biopsy. Mom had made sure Daddy knew that Karen had been told about the cancer.
Both had welcomed her demand to be included in on the meeting with the doctor.
She was angry at her father-much more so than before. He had lied to her twice. She wanted to believe that his lies were inconsequential, motivated by his desire to protect her from his personal conflict with Eugene. But now it seemed more damaging.
Raising the issue with him today was out of the question. She wondered if bringing it up with him at all was the right way to go. Maybe she needed to do some digging on her own before broaching the subject again.
She folded the newspaper under her arm and walked to the hospital cafeteria. It had just opened for business, and no one was in the serving line. She poured a cup of coffee, paid for it at the cashier's station, and carried it to an empty table in the corner of the dining room, away from the only other occupants, a surgical team dressed in green scrubs and plastic booties, sitting in an area reserved for hospital staff.
She took a sip, and opened the paper to the front page. The headline read: