Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Twelve

During the afternoon on the day Sara left for Iraq, Kerney spoke by phone with Susan Berman, the unit production manager for the movie, and explained he would be unable to honor his consultant contract unless child-care arrangements could be made for Patrick.

“That’s no problem, we’ve hired a nanny for some of the cast’s children.”

“Okay, good. There’s another problem, though. I’m going to be a day late getting to Playas. It’s a family matter.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My wife’s been deployed to Iraq unexpectedly.”

“I had no idea your wife was in the military. Of course you can delay your arrival. If I’m not around when you get here, ask for Libby. She’s the nanny. Including Patrick there will only be five children in her care, so he should get a lot of attention.”

“Good,” Kerney said, “he’ll need it.”

“This must be very hard on you.”

“Yes, it is.”

He spent the rest of that afternoon wrapping up little details; dropping off a change-of-address form at the post office, arranging for a lawn service to keep the grounds of the Arlington house tidy until the property sold, notifying utility companies where to send final bills, and meeting with the real estate agent to give him a house key.

The agent assured him the house would sell quickly and at a handsome profit. Kerney didn’t doubt him; real estate values had skyrocketed in the D.C. area over the last three years and the resale market was strong.

On Saturday the movers came to take everything away and put it into storage until Kerney and Patrick returned from the Bootheel. After they departed, Kerney and Patrick took a number of boxes filled with usable castoffs and nonperishable food to a local charity. Then they went back to the house to clean it up.

Patrick seemed to welcome the activity and pitched in as best he could. Once all was in order, Kerney spread out Patrick’s sleeping bag on the bare living-room floor and gave him his stuffed pony.

“You need to take your nap, son.”

Patrick looked around the empty room. “Everything’s gone.”

“To our Santa Fe home,” Kerney said. “That where we’re all going to live from now on.”

“Will Mommy be there?”

“Yes, but not right away. I’m going to need your help with the horses.”

The thought of the horses cheered Patrick slightly, but he still looked unhappy as Kerney tucked him in. After he fell asleep, Kerney sat on the front stoop and called his old and best friend Dale Jennings, who’d been hired as a wrangler for the movie. He gave him a heads-up about Sara’s deployment to Iraq and his delayed arrival in Playas.

“Damn, if that isn’t bad news,” Dale said with a heavy sigh, concern flooding his voice. “Seems we both have wives who are in a fix.”

“What’s up with Barbara?”

“She had an emergency appendectomy three nights ago, and I had to bow out on the movie job. We’re not going to Playas.”

“Is she all right?” Kerney asked.

“She’s healing up nicely but sore and cranky,” Dale replied. “The girls went down to Las Cruces this morning to enroll late in their fall classes at the university, so I’m chief cook, bottle washer, and nurse until Barbara gets back on her feet.”

“Give her my best,” Kerney said, trying to sound upbeat, although the thought of missing out on Dale’s company in the Bootheel wasn’t a happy one.

“I sure will. Tell Sara we’ll be praying for her and thinking about her.”

“Thanks.” Kerney hung up, feeling a bit depressed. With Sara in Iraq, Kerney’s enthusiasm about the movie had waned, and now that Dale wouldn’t be there, the whole idea was even less appealing. But he’d promised Sara he’d take Patrick and go, so he would do it.

On Sunday morning, after spending the night in a hotel near the airport, Kerney and Patrick flew home to New Mexico. Usually a good traveler, Patrick was hyperactive and irritable during the flight. Not even Pablito the Pony or any of his favorite toys held his attention for long.

At the ranch Kerney decided the best medicine for his son would be to wear him out. They spent the remainder of the day cleaning out stalls, laying down fresh straw and sawdust, rearranging the tack room, and clearing manure from the paddocks. It was slow going, with Patrick taking frequent breaks to give biscuits to the horses and getting brief rides around the paddock on Hondo’s back while Kerney led the horse by the halter.

“I want to go see Mommy,” Patrick said as Kerney plucked him off Hondo and carried him to the house.

“Mommy has to work in a place where children can’t go,” Kerney said. “She can’t be with us until the army sends her home.”

“Fourteen days.”

“Is that what Mommy said?”

Patrick nodded. “The last time she went away.”

“That’s a long time.”

Patrick pouted unhappily.

“She’ll be gone a little longer than that.”

“No,” Patrick said emphatically, as if to make it so.

After dinner Kerry saddled up Hondo and took Patrick for a ride to the railroad tracks. They got there just in time to watch the excursion train that ran from Santa Fe to the village of Lamy pass by. The tourists riding in the old carriages waved, smiled, and pointed at the cowboy and his son on horseback. The engineer tooted his horn as the train rumbled by at ten miles an hour over the spur line.

Patrick loved trains. He waved back at the passengers until it passed out of sight and, on the ride back to the ranch, didn’t ask once about Sara. It gave Kerney hope that Patrick would adjust to living with him.

That night, long after Patrick was asleep, Kerney turned on the television news and listened with growing interest as a local weekend anchor reported a breaking story out of Dublin. George Spalding, a U.S. Army deserter and international fugitive now in custody, had named Thomas Carrier, a retired colonel with close ties to high-ranking defense officials and senior White House aides, as a member of a smuggling ring that had operated during the Vietnam War.

As the news anchor talked about how the story had been leaked, a video clip from the blog was shown, and Kerney got his first look at George Spalding. Except for a touch of self-importance in the way he held his head and moved his mouth, he was nondescript in every way.

On the Sunday-morning television news show panels Carrier was a hot topic. Spokepersons from the White House and Department of Defense distanced the administration from Carrier. Opposition party leaders called for an investigation. Legal analysts discussed complex judicial issues. Spin doctors predicted the controversy would either fade away or cause irreparable damage to the credibility of key government officials.

Kerney wondered how the story had surfaced. Sara had hinted that it might go public, but she’d refused to say how. He worried that the brass would put her in their crosshairs again.

The morning they were to leave for the Bootheel, Kerney woke up dreaming of rows of flag-draped caskets. He shook off the sensation as best he could, checked his e-mail for a message from Sara, and found a short note. She’d arrived safely, reported to her brigade, been assigned a billet, and had immediately started working. She’d write again within the week when she had time.

He fired off a quick note in return and went to the kitchen to fix Patrick a breakfast of apple pancakes. There were still no blueberries in the house.

As they drove into Playas, Patrick stirred in the car seat and looked around eagerly. With a full movie crew in town Playas was a beehive of activity. The baseball field on the edge of town had new bleachers, lights, and a bandstand for the filming of the country-music benefit concert. Behind the nearby community swimming pool a parking lot had been established for a fleet of trucks and trailers, with a separate area cordoned off for cast and crew vehicles.

In the village center all the buildings looked occupied and prop vehicles were parked along the streets. The area had been dressed with lampposts, street signs, and parking meters. Several of the residential neighborhoods had been spruced up and there were rows of houses made to look inhabited with fresh coats of paint, curtains in the windows, and landscaped front yards complete with flower beds.

Dozens of people were out and about. Some were unloading props, others were building flats, and a long line of extras was queued up at the back of a wardrobe trailer.

Kerney parked and walked with Patrick past a dozen or more makeup trailers, motor homes, prop trucks, light- and sound-equipment vehicles, and a small fleet of transportation vans used to take the cast to and from locations.

The old mercantile building where the tech scout team had taken meals had been turned into an office. Desks and chairs were scattered around the large room and large bulletin boards on rollers were plastered with assignment sheets, shooting schedules, inventory documents, and memos.

Kerney checked in with a production assistant, who told him that Malcolm Usher and a crew were on location at the Jordan ranch. She gave him his housing assignment and directed him to the location of the child-care center. It was in a house on the hill where the mining company managers had once lived.

Libby, the nanny, was a pleasantly plump, young-looking woman with soft brown hair and a calm manner. She immediately took charge of Patrick and introduced him to her four other charges, three girls and a boy who ranged in age from two to five. Patrick eyed his new companions warily for a minute before making a beeline for a toy train set that sat on a pint-size table.

Kerney watched Patrick settle in, and by the time he left he felt that his son was in good hands and among friendly children. At the apartment he and Patrick had been assigned-a far cry from the house Johnny Jordan had promised to provide-he dumped the luggage and left for the Jordan ranch.

First he’d check in with Susan Berman and then see if he could find out if Ray Bratton, the young Border Patrol officer, had begun his undercover assignment as an apprentice set dresser. As he drove the empty highway, the events of his earlier trip to Playas flooded into his mind: the dying Border Patrol agent he’d found on the highway to Antelope Wells, the mysterious airplane that had landed south of the Jordan ranch, Walter Shaw’s late-night trip to the old barn on the Harley homestead, and the beacon light on the shut-down copper smelter that guided smugglers and illegal aliens across the Mexican border.

Kerney had some questions for Agent Bratton. Had the feds developed any more evidence against Jerome Mendoza, the Motor Transportation officer who lived in Playas? Had they identified the man Kerney had seen driving away in Mendoza’s van?

He thought about Walter Shaw, the ranch manager at the Jordan spread. The cursory background research he’d done on Shaw had been inconclusive. He’d turned the task over to Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino for follow-up and had heard nothing back.

Rhetorically, he wondered if he should just drop the whole damn thing and let Agent Bratton deal with it. It wasn’t Kerney’s case or even within his jurisdiction. He should forget about it and give his full attention to Patrick.

Kerney knew he couldn’t do that, no matter how tempting. He still carried a shield, a law enforcement officer had been murdered, and those responsible for the crime remained at large. With that locked in his mind he turned off the highway and headed down the dirt road past the rodeo grounds, toward the Jordan ranch.

From a distance Walter Shaw stood in front of his house at the Jordan ranch and watched Julia flirt with Barry Hingle, the construction supervisor for the movie. The two were off by themselves, away from the cast and crew that had assembled around the director at the cattle-guard entrance to the ranch headquarters. Julia leaned against Hingle, talking, touching him on the arm, laughing and smiling. Shaw wondered if she’d screwed him yet.

At one time Shaw would have been jealous, but that was many years ago, before he’d come to realize that she was nothing but a slut. Once, he’d hoped to marry her-for the ranch, not for love, although sex with Julia was outstanding.

Shaw’s plans for marrying Julia had been quickly discarded when he’d come upon her straddling a hired hand in her pickup truck at the Shugart cabin. When Shaw had ridden up, she had stared at him with her eyes wide open through the rear window of the truck as she bounced up and down on the cowboy’s lap, her lips thin and her teeth bared like those of an animal pouncing on its prey.

Out of convenience Shaw still slept with Julia now and then, when she was between new bedroom talent. But he kept his emotional distance as he would with any feral animal.

From time to time he toyed with the idea of killing Julia and her parents. But he could never hit upon a strategy that promised to give him legal control of the ranch once they were dead, not with Johnny still in the picture.

Shaw had been successful in the past when it came to murder. As a child he’d bounced from one foster home to another, until Ralph and Elizabeth Shaw had adopted him at the age of twelve and turned him into an indentured servant on their Virden farm. Over the next six years Elder Ralph and Sister Elizabeth recited the glorious teachings of the Mormon church while they worked him day and night during the summers, and every early morning, evening, and weekend during the school year.

When spiritual instruction and honest labor failed to keep him in strict bounds, they employed corporal punishment. Two or three times a week he paid for an ill-advised remark or look with a beating.

At eighteen, unconverted to the faith, mean, and filled with hate, he graduated at the bottom of his high-school class, escaped into the navy, and spent the next six years on an aircraft carrier. After his discharge he worked on a ranch outside of Willcox, Arizona, before taking the manager’s job with Joe and Bessie, where he bided his time for a while.

Every year the residents of Virden celebrated their Mormon ancestors’ trek to the Gila River Valley after being forced to flee Mexico in 1912 because of the revolution that made Pancho Villa famous. During one such celebration, while the villagers were at the annual picnic, Shaw sneaked into Elder Ralph and Sister Elizabeth’s house, found their last will and testament leaving everything to a Mormon clinic in El Salvador, destroyed it, and loosened the gas line to the bedroom wall heater.

They were dead by morning, and after a lengthy probate hearing, Shaw inherited the farm and immediately leased out the land. Although the money from the leasehold agreement gave Shaw a steady income stream, with land prices skyrocketing it was far from enough to buy a good-sized ranch of his own, even if he sold the farm outright. But soon he would never again be somebody’s hired hand.

As he watched Julia and Hingle, Shaw decided she hadn’t screwed him yet. She was still playing her cunning little seductive game with him, acting enchanted by everything Hingle said, as though he alone could delight her. It was such bullshit the sight of it almost made Shaw laugh.

His attention switched when he saw Kevin Kerney get out of his truck on the other side of the fence and walk toward the movie types clustered at the cattle guard. They were surrounded by cameras, lights, electrical equipment, and some metal frames covered in a black fabric that were used to shade sunlight.

The damn cop was a snoop. When he’d been down here last, Kerney had taken a solo tour of the ranch. Shaw had backtracked on Kerney and found evidence that he’d been to the barn at the old Harley homestead and tromped around the landing field on the Sentinel Butte Ranch. Shaw didn’t like people butting into his business, and although he had no reason to believe the cop was onto him, he was wary nonetheless.

He watched Susan Berman, the pretty woman who always had a notebook or clipboard in her hand and a harried look on her face, break away from the group, greet Kerney, and give him a manila envelope.

The two chatted for a time and Shaw lost interest. The stock had been gathered at the Shugart cabin for the cattle-drive movie scenes, and the horse wranglers for the film company would be trucking in the remuda this afternoon. The new corral was finished, and Shaw’s day hands were hauling feed to the site in preparation for the arrival of the horses. It was time to check and see how far along they were with their chore.

He pulled himself into the cab of the truck and headed south, kicking up dust on the ranch road and wishing Hollywood would just pack up and go away. He had a shipment arriving soon and he didn’t like the idea of transporting contraband with a movie crew and a police chief parked under his nose.

When Susan Berman rejoined Malcolm Usher, who was running over the setup for the establishing shot of the ranch, Kerney paused to look around. As promised, Ethan Stone, the set designer, had turned Joe and Bessie’s pristine ranch headquarters into a hardscrabble, weather-beaten movie set. The exteriors of the houses and the barn were painted a dingy, sun-bleached gray, and a rusted water tank and an old windmill had been planted squarely in front of Joe and Bessie’s house along with two large, dead evergreen trees. The construction crew had added a rickety porch to the front of the house with a roof that seemed about to collapse. Several old, wrecked vehicles that looked like they’d been hauled down from vacant lots in Hachita were scattered around, and a pile of scrap metal had been dumped next to the barn.

There was no sign of Joe, Bessie, or Johnny, but Kerney noticed that Julia and Barry Hingle were looking pleased with each other. He smiled at the prospect that Julia might have found someone more receptive to her advances.

He opened the manila envelope. It was from the SFPD and inside were the NCIC wants and warrant reports on the cast and crew that his department had run. The name of one crew member, a transportation driver named Hoover Grayson, was circled. He had an outstanding warrant from Grady County, Oklahoma.

A sealed business envelope addressed to Kerney was attached to the paperwork. It contained Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino’s memo on her further findings regarding Walter Shaw. The deaths of Shaw’s adoptive parents had been ruled accidental, and no autopsies had been performed. Shaw owned the Virden farm free and clear, which consisted of the house, barn, and ten acres of land. With six years in the navy he’d been given a general discharge and denied reenlistment after being busted in rank twice by summary court-martial. Both times he’d gone AWOL and been arrested by the shore patrol for fighting.

On her own initiative Pino had researched Shaw’s juvenile record. As a teenager he’d been picked up in Duncan, Arizona, for shoplifting and released to his adoptive parents after pleading guilty and paying a fine. Child welfare reported that he’d been in seven different foster homes before his adoption placement with Ralph and Elizabeth Shaw, and that he had been removed from most of the previous placements because of incorrigible destructive behavior.

Financially, Shaw wasn’t well off. He had some money in the bank, but not much, and the value of the Virden farm wouldn’t cover the median cost of a Santa Fe house.

Kerney put the memo back in the envelope, stuck it in his shirt pocket, dialed Santa Fe dispatch on his cell phone, and asked them to confirm the warrant on Hoover Grayson out of Grady County, Oklahoma.

Ten minutes later dispatch called back. The warrant was valid. Grayson was wanted on two counts of residential burglary. Kerney got a physical description of the man and went looking for him. He spotted him sitting in the cab of a truck, reading a magazine.

Kerney passed by without stopping. When he was out of Grayson’s sight, he called the Hidalgo County sheriff, Leo Valencia, and gave him a heads-up.

Kerney knew and liked Valencia from meetings of the New Mexico Sheriffs and Police Association. He had a no-nonsense approach to policing, little tolerance for incompetence, and a quick wit.

“Are you sure about this guy Grayson?” Valencia asked.

“As much as I can be without confronting the man,” Kerney replied.

“I’ll have to confirm the outstanding arrest warrant myself and get a copy.”

“Of course.”

“Give me your exact location.”

“The ranch headquarters of the Granite Pass Cattle Company off the Antelope Wells highway.”

“Joe Jordan’s place, where they’re making that movie?”

“That’s right,” Kerney said.

“What in the hell are you doing down there?” Valencia asked.

“Trying to break into motion pictures, Leo. I’ve got to find something to do after I take my pension.”

Valencia chuckled. “Isn’t there some retired Chicago cop who’s a big star now? The guy who plays an NYPD detective on a TV crime show.”

“Yeah,” Kerney replied. “He’s my role model.”

Leo laughed in disbelief. “Okay, Mr. Budding Movie Star, what are you really doing down there?”

“I’m the law-enforcement technical advisor for the film.”

“Sounds like easy duty. Okay, hang tight. We’ll come for Grayson if it checks out. But if it doesn’t, I may pay you a visit anyway. I’ve always wanted to see how movies get made.”

“I’ll arrange a screen test for you,” Kerney said. Valencia declined the offer and disconnected.

While Kerney waited for Leo’s arrival, he watched Usher fine tune the exterior shots of the ranch. The cameras were equipped with a video feed, and Usher stood behind a table loaded with monitors and quietly asked for minor adjustments. He and the crew seemed to be well in sync, and he soon told an assistant director to start filming. Everyone fell silent and the cameras rolled: one on tracks that moved straight in on the ranch house, while a second camera panned from the ranch house to the barn.

What had taken an hour to set up was over in a matter of minutes, and the crew got busy readying the next shot, which called for the ingenue playing the rancher’s daughter to rush out of the house and speed away in a pickup truck.

If Kerney remembered correctly, it was the scene that had been added to the shooting script to show the daughter hurrying to find her rodeo cowboy brother and tell him about their father’s trouble with the feds.

The ingenue, a striking redhead with a thousand-watt smile, did several run-throughs before Usher was satisfied. Kerney couldn’t see the necessity for it and wondered what he was missing. They all seemed pretty much the same to him.

Just as filming started, two Hidalgo sheriff’s units with lights flashing came into view on the ranch road and wheeled to a stop at the cattle guard.

“Cut!” Usher hollered, looking totally pissed.

The ingenue froze on the porch step, and all eyes turned toward the police cruisers. Kerney, who’d stayed within striking distance of Hoover Grayson, stopped him with an armlock as he scrambled out of the truck, and put him facedown on the ground.

“Shit,” Grayson said.

Kerney put his knee down hard on Grayson’s back to pin him. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

“Good work, amigo,” Valencia said as he reached Kerney with his chief deputy at his side. “You’re not over the hill yet.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Kerney pulled Grayson upright. Leo cuffed him, fished out Grayson’s wallet, made the ID, and read him his rights.

“Mind if I stick around and watch for a time?” he asked as his chief deputy led Grayson to his unit.

A red-faced Usher arrived before Kerney could respond. “What’s this about?” he demanded. “What did he do?”

“Residential burglary,” Leo answered. “Two counts.”

“Are you planning to arrest anyone else?” Usher asked sharply.

Over Usher’s shoulder Leo scanned the faces of the cast and crew. “I don’t know. Does somebody else need arresting?” he asked innocently.

Usher stared at Valencia for a long moment. Leo had a round face and a walrus mustache that made him look like Pancho Villa-an asset with both Anglo and Hispanic voters, he’d found. He gave Usher a toothy, election-day smile.

Usher glanced at Kerney, who was trying hard to keep a straight face. “No,” he said as his irritation vanished. “That’s enough reality for one day.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Leo said.

Usher returned to the shoot and the two men stood at the fence by the cattle guard and watched Hollywood magic being made.

“Aside from trying to intercept drug shipments and chase coyotes smuggling migrants across the border, are the feds up to anything else in the Bootheel?” Kerney asked.

“There’s been a big upswing in cigarette smuggling,” Leo replied. “Counterfeit brands out of Asia. They cost two bucks a carton wholesale and get sold for ten times that. The feds had an investigation going for a time in El Paso, but it petered out.”

“Who ran the investigation?”

“Hell if I know,” Leo said. “Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, I’d guess.”

“That’s all you know?”

Valencia gave Kerney a sideways glance. “That’s it. Are you onto something?”

Kerney hitched his boot on a fence railing. “Just trying to stay well informed.”

“That’s a good thing to do.” Leo eyed the production crew as they set up equipment for the next shot. When they finished, Usher reminded everyone how the scene had been blocked out, and then watched it on the monitors as the young actress did a run-through. Just as they were about to start filming, the drone of an airplane overhead interrupted the take. Everybody relaxed and stood around, waiting for the plane to pass by.

“So this is how it’s done,” Leo said.

“It’s not very glamorous, is it?” Kerney replied.

“Maybe if they blew something up, it would be more interesting.”

“I’ll pass along your suggestion.”

Leo laughed, thanked Kerney for his help, and left. After filming ended for the day and everyone returned to Playas, the arrest of Hoover Grayson had people buzzing. For a time Kerney’s popularity soared as he answered questions about the bust. When he finally broke away and went to get Patrick, he found his son playing cheerfully with his new companions. They had dinner with the cast and crew, and much to Kerney’s relief, Patrick’s good mood held throughout the evening. Long after Patrick had gone to bed, Agent Ray Bratton knocked on the door.

“How’s it going?” Kerney asked as the young man stepped nervously inside.

“The only criminal activity I’ve seen so far is a few of the crew members smoking pot.”

“You’re just getting started,” Kerney said, motioning at the couch. Stiffly, Bratton sat on the edge of a cushion. “Is this your first undercover assignment?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

Kerney settled into the easy chair that faced the couch and smiled warmly at Bratton. “Just a guess. How long have you been with the agency?”

“I’m three months out of the academy. They sent me here from Laredo, Texas, on special assignment. I go back when it’s finished.”

“Did you know the murdered agent?”

“No.”

“Have you learned anything more about Mendoza, the Motor Transportation officer, and his van?”

“Mendoza checks out clean. But Agent Fidel still thinks he might be our guy. Mendoza had a cousin staying with him for a week, when you were down here last. The guy’s name is Paul Rangal. He lives in San Diego and works as an apprentice machinist at the naval shipyards. We took a close look at him. Nada.”

“Are you looking at anyone else as a suspect?” Kerney asked as he got up.

“Agent Fidel thinks Ira Dobson, the guy who manages the water-works for the town and the smelter, may be involved.”

“Fidel still thinks the smelter may be being used as a safe house for smuggled illegals?”

“That’s his theory,” Bratton replied.

Kerney walked Bratton to the door. “Good luck with it.”

Bratton smiled. “Thanks. I’ll keep you informed.”

After Bratton slipped outside into the night, Kerney thought about what he’d just heard. It made sense to use an undercover rookie agent, assuming he’d been well coached and adequately prepared, to bust up a smuggling ring. Cop shops frequently used novice officers in such roles. But Bratton seemed completely out of his element and totally uncomfortable in his assignment.

Why would the Border Patrol bring in a second fresh-faced rookie after the first one had been killed? That didn’t make any sense, especially if the smuggling ring included dirty cops. The circumstances called for experienced investigators to be working the case.

Kerney realized that he actually had very little specific information about the case-he didn’t even know the murdered agent’s name. The more he thought about it, the more he questioned why Fidel had asked for his assistance.

Could it be Fidel was playing him? There was no compelling need for Bratton to pass information to Fidel through him. Bratton could easily reach Fidel directly by cell phone without drawing attention to himself.

The night of his meeting with Fidel the agent had managed to get Kerney to help short-circuit Officer Sapian’s investigation. Then he had kept the murder covered up and the victim’s identity hidden from everybody, including Bratton. Kerney found himself wondering if the dead man on the highway was actually a cop at all.

He went over his conversation with Bratton one more time. Fidel had the kid concentrating primarily on Mendoza and Dobson as suspects, in spite of no hard evidence to support it. None of it made any sense.

Kerney decided to check into Agent Fidel’s operation a bit more thoroughly before cooperating with him any further.

An early call had Kerney up long before dawn. Reluctantly, he woke Patrick, who had no desire to get out of bed, and after they were dressed the two of them went outside into the chill of the desert night, where the sky was a flat dark slate. Under a big tent in the mercantile-building parking lot a long line of people was queued up for the buffet breakfast. It seemed that the size of the film company had doubled overnight. He checked the call sheet for the day and discovered that several street scenes, requiring a large number of extras, were scheduled to be shot by the second camera unit, while Usher continued filming at the Jordon ranch.

He looked around for familiar faces and saw Buzzy and Gus, the gaffer and the key grip, hurrying off toward loaded equipment trucks. None of the leading or featured actors was present at the picnic tables inside the tent. Kerney assumed they were either breakfasting in the privacy of their custom motor coaches or preparing for the day’s work in the wardrobe or makeup trailers.

He was about to take Patrick to the nanny when Johnny Jordan came up behind him.

“This must be your son,” Johnny said, reaching out to rub Patrick’s head, which earned him a quizzical look. “Good-looking kid. Where’s your wife?”

“This is Patrick,” Kerney said, although Johnny clearly didn’t care what his son’s name was. “Sara couldn’t make it.”

“That’s too bad. I wanted to meet her.” Johnny plopped down on the bench next to Kerney. “I hear Dale had to bail out because Barbara got sick.”

“Emergency appendectomy, but she’s going to be fine. Where have you been?”

“L.A.,” Johnny replied, looking pleased with himself. “I drove all night to get here. I’ve got big things happening, Kerney. Couple of deals in the works. Can’t tell you about it yet, but I’m moving to Hollywood after we finish the picture.”

“So you’re going to be a movie mogul.”

Johnny grinned. “Something like that.” He was full of nervous energy, thumping the heel of his boot against the bench leg as he talked. “The talent in L.A. is incredible, man.”

“I’m sure lots of creative people live there.”

Johnny chuckled as he scanned the people in the breakfast buffet line. “I’m talking about the women, Kerney. They’re unbelievable. Have you seen Susan Berman?”

“No. What can you tell me about Walt Shaw?”

“Why? Did you have a run-in with him?”

Kerney shook his head. “Have you?”

“Nope. My parents swear by him, and for a time I thought he and Julia were going to be a serious item, but I can’t tell you more than that.”

“Where are Joe and Bessie?”

“Off at their cabin in Ruidoso for the duration, and I’m glad they’re gone. The last thing I need is to have the old man bitching at me about how much he dislikes seeing his ranch turned into a movie set. He’s getting a chuck of money out of it, plus some improvements to the ranch, which you’d think would make him happy.”

“I guess,” Kerney said noncommittally, thinking back to Julia’s comment about all the money Johnny had borrowed from Joe over the years and never repaid.

Johnny got to his feet and flashed one of his patented smiles. “Gotta go.”

Prepared to give full value for his consultant services, Kerney spent the morning on location at the ranch and soon realized that he had little to do. At sunrise the shot of the police cruisers speeding down the ranch road, with emergency lights flashing through a haze of dust and a brilliant dawn breaking over the mountains, was captured on film in one take. At the ranch headquarters Usher got the initial confrontation between the rancher and the police out of the way and then ordered multiple takes of emotional interactions between the leads.

Kerney had sometimes seen military or law-enforcement technical advisors listed in movie credits and had wondered why the films were so inaccurate. Now he knew. In moviemaking action and drama trumped authenticity every time.

After a catering truck arrived with lunch, Kerney sought out Susan Berman and asked if there was anything she needed him to do for the rest of the day.

Berman flipped through some papers in a three-ring binder. “Not really. You’ll be a cowboy in the cattle-drive sequence, but we don’t start filming at the Shugart cabin until the day after tomorrow. I do know Malcolm wants you nearby when we’re shooting at the smelter, and he may have some technical questions for you during the courthouse sequence scheduled for next week.”

As if she’d read his mind, she said, “If you’d like to spend some time with your son, I can always reach you on your cell phone in case you’re needed.”

“I’d like that very much,” Kerney replied.

When Kerney arrived to pick up Patrick, he found the door to the house open and the playroom empty. He called out for Libby and Patrick and got no response. Through the kitchen window he spotted Libby reading a book to the other four children as they sat on the backyard lawn under a shade tree, but there was no sign of his son.

“Where’s Patrick?” Kerney asked as he stepped onto the patio.

Libby got to her feet. “He went to use the bathroom just a few minutes ago.”

Kerney searched the bathrooms, found them empty, and went through every other room of the sprawling house looking for Patrick. By the time he’d finished, Libby and the children were inside.

“How long has he been gone?” he demanded.

“No more than three or four minutes.”

Kerney circled the house. Behind the backyard it was all desert. Cactus, creosote, and fluff grass peppered the chaparral slope of the low hills, and rock-strewn, sandy arroyos flowed down from brushy mountain hogbacks. How far could a three-year-old wander in five minutes?

Driving up, he hadn’t seen Patrick on the street, but he checked around the adjacent houses anyway, yelling his son’s name as he ran, his heart pounding in his chest. He entered the chaparral, zigzagging to cut Patrick’s trail, hedgehog cactus thorns biting at his legs. A startled Gambel’s quail rose up from the underbrush, sounded a sharp quit quit in alarm, and fluttered away. He cut across an arroyo, looking for a sign. There were the distinctive four-point-star tracks of roadrunners everywhere, and long, thin lines of snake trails etched in the sand, but no footprints.

Kerney stopped, gathered his breath, bellowed Patrick’s name, listened, and took a long look around before running with his head down, eyes scanning the ground, until he reached the wide mouth of another arroyo that curved toward the valley floor. There, two hundred yards from the house, he found tiny shoe prints in the sand. Up ahead he saw Patrick sitting on a boulder with tears streaming down his face.

“Are you all right?” Kerney asked as he reached his son and pulled him into his arms.

Patrick sniffled and nodded.

“Did you hear me calling for you?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you answer, sport?”

Patrick rubbed his nose. “ ’Cause you sounded mad at me.”

It kicked Kerney in the gut that Patrick didn’t know every tone of his voice. “I’m not mad,” he said. “I was worried about you. What are you doing out here?”

“I was looking for you,” Patrick replied.

“Well, here I am, okay?”

“Okay.”

With Patrick in his arms Kerney turned to see a half-dozen men fanned out behind the row of houses, coming in his direction. He whistled, waved, and held Patrick above his head for all to see. The men stopped and waved back.

“What are they doing?” Patrick asked.

Kerney lowered Patrick to his chest, kissed him on the cheek, and started back toward the house. “Looking for you.”

“I wasn’t lost, Daddy,” Patrick said.

“I know you weren’t. But no more of this, champ. You stay with Libby and the other children. Okay?”

Patrick nodded. “I saw a big snake. It curled up and rattled its tail.” Kerney’s legs turned to stone and he stopped in his tracks. “Did it bite you?”

Patrick shook his head. “Nope.”

Back at the house Kerney thanked the men who had started to search for his son and accepted Libby’s apology. She promised that Patrick would never be out of her sight again.

He told Libby that Patrick would be with him for the rest of the day, put him in his car seat, and drove away. “How about some ice cream?” he asked.

Patrick’s face lit up and he kicked his feet. “Ice cream,” he echoed, apparently without the slightest inkling that he’d panicked his father almost beyond belief.