Tularosa

Chapter 1

Early-morning clouds, shreds of a heavy late-night rainstorm, masked the Ortiz Mountains. Wispy tendrils drifted over the foothills, turned into translucent streamers, and vanished in the sky. The cabin roof had leaked during the night, soaking a stack of unopened junk mail and the borrowed copy of a Winston Churchill biography left on the cushion of an easy chair. The chair smelled like wet cat piss, and Kerney didn't own a cat. Kerney mopped up the floor, dragged the chair outside into the sun, and tipped it over. The junk mail and catalogs dribbled into a brown puddle in the driveway, floated momentarily, and sank out of sight. The cover model on the Victoria's Secret catalog pouted up at him as the brown stain seeped into her eyes.

The saffron sun in the east, an extravagant eye, washed the mesa in soft light. Inside, Kerney popped the Tchaikovsky tape in the cassette desk and cranked up the volume. The music, pushed along by a slight breeze, followed him to the horse barn, where a gallon of roof asphalt sat next to the ladder, both conveniently at hand for the leaks that never failed to materialize after a soaking, windblown rain. He had patched the roof so many times it was now nothing more than a routine challenge. Given a few more storms, every seam, nail hole, and protrusion on the pitched roof would be coated with asphalt gook. The old cabin wanted to sink into oblivion. Listing on a stone foundation, it was pretty to the eye, with a fresh coat of white paint and dark green trim around the windows and doors, but sadly in need of major renovation. Kerney strapped on a tool belt, deciding he would pull up the whole strip of roofing paper and slop gook directly on the boards over the leak. He carried the ladder to the cabin, set it against the side of the house, and stripped off his shirt. With the asphalt can in one hand, Kerney hauled himself up the ladder, dragging his right leg slowly to each rung. The knee just didn't bend the way it used to, in spite of the best efforts of modern medicine. He nailed a two-by-four to the roof to serve as a brace, crawled off the ladder, and planted his left foot against the brace to keep from sliding backward. In position, he stretched out on his stomach and got to work with the hammer pulling nails and stripping off the tar paper in the area of the leak. His reconstructed right knee, extended as far as it would go, protested. The planks under the tar paper had separated, leaving an inch gap between the boards. He smeared asphalt into the crevices and on the boards, thinking it was time to ask his landlord to spring for the cost of materials for a new roof. Quinn would oblige, and Kerney would have another project to occupy his time. The Tchaikovsky concerto recycled several times on the stereo before Kerney finished the patch job. He're nailed the tar paper, coated the nail heads with gook, and looked out over the basin. There was a flash of reflected light on the dirt road that cut through the rock escarpment to the ranch. The road, still filled with runoff from the storm, glistened like a wire ribbon in the sharp morning light. He dropped the empty asphalt can to the ground and climbed down the ladder, using his left leg to hop from rung to rung. He walked to the gate and swung it open, leaving sticky black fingerprints on the railing, and watched the vehicle bounce in and out of the ruts of standing water, spewing mud as the tires dug through the puddles. There was no reason for a visitor. Quinn, his landlord, employer, and chief book lender, was presenting a paper at a medical convention in Seattle. After that, he was flying to Germany to attend another conference and take a long vacation. Kerney liked working for a wandering landlord. Most of the time he had the place to himself.

The car splattered through the mud and swerved through the slimy dirt in the roadbed, the tires throwing up a heavy spray of brown paste. Windshield wipers, operating at high speed, smeared the ooze over the glass, making it impossible for Kerney to see into the vehicle. He walked to the porch, sat on the step, and started cleaning the asphalt gook from his hands with a rag drenched in paint thinner. The fumes of the solvent made him sneeze, and he covered his nose with sticky fingers. Before he could go in and clean his face, the car plowed through the last puddle by the gate and rolled to a stop on the packed gravel driveway. It was a new, slick-top police cruiser with emergency lights mounted on the front bumper. Even close up, with the wipers going full blast, the man behind the wheel was obscured by a grimy film of dirt. In Kerney's time at the ranch-well over a year-this was the first visit by a cop.

A stocky man in a white uniform shirt got out and stood behind the open door of the cruiser, with the engine still running. He wore a tribal police badge over the left pocket of the uniform shirt and a Sam Browne belt with a. 357 pistol in a high-rise holster.

From the waist down he wore blue jeans and cowboy boots. The two men stared at each other cross the ten yards that separated them.

"Goddamn mud," Terry Yazzi muttered, reaching in to turn off the engine. Kerney stood up and said nothing as Terry left the car and walked toward him. In the cabin the tape deck recycled once again and the lyrical first movement of the concerto began anew. Terry stopped three feet from Kerney, his eyes avoiding contact. Instead, he looked at the foreman's cabin, a white clapboard box with a small covered porch, then switched his gaze to the ranch house behind it, nestled at the base of a mesa. He took in the horse barn and corral off to one side across a small meadow, and the upended chair in front of the cabin porch. He compressed his lips and finally looked at Kerney. As he opened his mouth to speak, Kerney hit him flush on the jaw, knocking him flat on his ass. The blow made Terry's teeth ache. He got to his feet and brushed himself off.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"No. I hurt my hand," Kerney replied. "What are you doing here, Terry?" Terry's face had a healthy glow. His brown eyes were clear and serious. He had shed some weight and looked fit. Three years could bring changes.

"I asked you a question," Kerney said. God, he wanted to hit him again.

"I heard you," Terry answered. He glanced at Kerney's naked stomach, turned away, and looked out at the expanse of the Galisteo Basin, trying hard to regain his composure. The land rolled down from the ranch through thickly studded stands of pinon and juniper trees. It gave way to rangeland that butted against an escarpment that looked almost like an enormous, ancient man-made fortification. He took it in indifferently, and swallowed hard to keep down the bile that welled up in his mouth from the sight of the scar on Kerney's stomach. The ugly entry wound and the long surgical incision brought the memory smashing into his head like a freight train. In spite of himself, he remembered the day three years ago at the stakeout. The image of Kerney curled into a ball clutching his gut as the blood came gushing out made Terry wince. He turned around and glanced at the scar again.

"You've got some tar on your face," he said finally, raising his eyes.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Around your nose and mouth."

"No shit?" Kerney rubbed his nose and inspected his fingertip.

"You're right. Thanks for pointing it out. Now go away, Terry." Terry stared back at him. His long, black hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, accentuated his Navajo features: a high forehead above dark brown eyes and round cheeks. His tense lips were pressed thin.

Kerney wondered how long it would be before Terry stared at the scar again. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.

"Did you get my letter?" Terry finally asked, shifting his gaze back to the scar.

"Letter? Let me check." Kerney walked to the puddle, retrieved the soggy envelopes, and pulled apart the coagulated mess until he found Terry's unopened letter. He held it up by the corner.

"This must be it," he said, dropping it back in the puddle.

"What did it say?"

"You're still really pissed, aren't you?"

"Not at all. I just don't give a damn." Terry rubbed his jaw.

"You punch pretty hard for somebody who doesn't care."

"I appreciated the opportunity to deck you. Why are you here?"

"It's Sammy. He's missing. He's A.W.O.L. from the Army." Kerney took in the information, his nger at Terry dissipating as concern about Sammy rose to replace it. Terry's son was a person he cared about.

"That's hard to believe."

"He's been stationed at White Sands for the past eight months. He disappeared six weeks ago. I've used up all my annual leave looking for him, por nada. Nothing. And the Army hasn't a clue why he's missing."

"Maria must be worried sick."

"Both of us are," Terry said.

"We want you to find him for us." Kerney's laugh was bitter. "I don't do that kind of work anymore."

"Listen, as far as the Army is concerned, Sammy is just another enlisted fuckup. All I got was a lot of bullshit about how I should go home and let them do their job. I was stonewalled at every turn."

"What makes you think I'd be treated any differently?"

"You won't be, but you're the best investigator I know. It's in your blood. You've got the right instincts."

"Is that so?" Terry shook his head at the sarcasm in Kerney's voice.

"I'm not trying to butter you up. I'm a street cop, not a detective. Sammy deserves better than what I can give."

Kerney said nothing for a minute.

"I've never heard you sound so modest. Have you stopped drinking?"

"I've been sober for two years." Terry tried to force himself to keep his attention off Kerney's stomach. It didn't work. He looked one more time.

"Like it?" Kerney asked.

"Wallace Stegner once wrote that the lessons of life amount to scar tissue." Terry shifted his weight uneasily. "It makes me want to puke. You should have fired my ass."

"I would have," Kerney agreed, "if you had told me the truth." Terry nodded in agreement.

"That too."

"Don't start apologizing," Kerney retorted, "or I'll start to puke." He pointed at the badge on Terry's shirt and changed the subject.

"I see you found another job after the department canned your ass."

"Maria pulled strings with the tribal council. I had to go through treatment before I could start the job. I'm on like a permanent probation. One drink or major fuckup and I'm fired."

Kerney weighed Terry's words. He sounded solid and straight. And it took some courage for him to show his face, Kerney thought.

"I hope it works out for you," he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

"I'll make it work. Find Sammy for me," he insisted.

"I can't help you." Kerney turned and walked into the cabin, letting the screen door slam behind him.

"Can't or won't?" Terry called out over the concerto's cadenza.

In the bathroom Kerney scrubbed ferociously with a washcloth to get the asphalt off his face, cursing to himself under his breath. He heard the screen door slam shut again over the strains of the final coda, threw the cloth into the basin of the sink, and went back into the living room to kick Terry out of his house. One look at Terry, legs rooted to the floor, told him he'd have to drag him out inch by inch. He walked to the tape deck and turned it off. Silence flooded the room.

"You're a persistent son of a bitch," he said.

"Sammy's my only child. You're his godfather, for chrissake. Don't hold my fuckups against him."

Terry squinted, looked away, and ground his teeth together to keep himself from begging. If it came to that, he'd do it. He took a breath and surveyed the room. It was sparsely furnished. Two old Navajo rugs, the sum total of Kerney's inheritance from his family, hung on the walls. A single bookshelf under a casement window held a television, radio, stereo, and some hardback books. A wrought-iron cafe table with a glass top and a matching chair stood to one side of the kitchen door, positioned for the view out a front window. It was as bleak as Terry's trailer; a far cry from the comfortable Santa Fe apartment Kerney had once shared with his girlfriend, now long gone.

"Get out of here, Terry," Kerney ordered. Terry unbuttoned his uniform shirt, extracted an envelope, and held it out.

"I'll pay for your time. Five thousand dollars." Kerney didn't touch the envelope.

"You don't have that kind of money."

"Banks do," Terry responded, thrusting the envelope closer. "I borrowed it."

Kerney plucked the envelope out of Terry's hand and opened the unsealed flap. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He felt the weight of the currency in his palm. Kerney waved the envelope at him.

"Guilt money, Terry?" Terry glared at him.

"No way."

"I could spend it all and find nothing."

"I'll get more if you use it up." Kerney stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his jeans.

"Tell me everything you learned at the missile range."

Terry gestured at the door. "I've got a file in the squad car. It's slim pickings."

"Let's see it," Kerney said, following Terry outside. The New Mexico sky was piercing blue and the air felt humid with the promise of more rain. The volcanic escarpment that blocked the highway from view sat under a cloud, the jagged points of the rift vague in the distance. Terry moved quickly to his squad car, reached in through the open door, and retrieved a folder. Kerney took it.

"I'll get started right away."

"You don't know how much I appreciate this." Kerney didn't respond. Head down, he leafed through the papers, scanning them quickly. "Kevin?"

Kerney turned away. "I'll be in touch."

"When Sammy came to see you… before he went into the Army… I mean, what was that about?"

"He wanted to ask my opinion about enlisting. I told him to blow it off and go to college."

"Did he tell you what I said?"

"As a matter of fact he did. It seems you preached the gospel of Duty, Honor, and Country."

"Stupid," Terry muttered. "If anything happened to him because of what I said…" He shook off the thought.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Kerney cautioned. He closed the file and nestled it under his arm.

"Did you develop any leads off the base?"

"No. Sammy stayed pretty close to the post. He spent some time in Las Cruces, but as far as I can tell he wasn't into the bar scene or doing a lot of skirt chasing."

"Was he having any personal problems?" Kerney asked.

"None that he talked about with me or his mother. Maria would have known if he was bummed out, or in a bind. She has a kind of radar about Sammy that way. His buddies I talked to drew a blank when I asked if he was in any trouble."

"Are you and Maria back together?"

"Not a chance."

"Still living in the same place?" Terry nodded.

"Same phone number?" Terry nodded again.

"I'll be in touch."

Terry handed him a business card. "Leave a message at the office if I'm not at home."

Kerney studied the card. "Okay, Chief," he said, slipping it into the folder. The sarcasm stung.

"Why didn't you finish kicking the shit out of me?"

Kerney laughed. "You'd let me do that?"

"No way," Terry replied. He got in the police car, closed the door, rolled down the window, and started the engine. The two men looked at each other.

"Thanks," Terry said.

"I'm doing this for Sammy, not for you."

"I know it."

Kerney watched the man responsible for his early retirement bounce the police cruiser down the ruts of the road. Three years ago he'd been chief of detectives for the Santa Fe Police Department. The first year after the shooting he'd been in and out of the hospital for reconstructive surgery on his knee and stomach, followed by a rehabilitation program that took every ounce of his willpower to complete, and put him in the best shape of his life, except for the patched-up gut and bum leg he had to live with. Terry had it easy as far as Kerney could tell.

Alcoholism was a reversible disease. Moreover, drunk or sober, Terry had managed to stay a cop; which was now something beyond Kerney's reach. He touched the throbbing scar on his stomach. Too much stretching in the wrong direction on the roof, he decided. As the cruiser pulled slowly through the mud at the end of the road, Kerney halfway hoped Terry would get stuck and have tocall for a tow. He wanted the pleasure of watching him sitting in mud over the hubcaps, just for the spite of it. No such luck. Terry passed around the escarpment where the dirt road met the highway and drove out of sight. Back in the cabin, Kerney sat at the table and tried to read the file, but his mind kept wandering to the money in the envelope. He put the file down and counted the bills. The five thousand dollars matched what Kerney had in a bank account. His dream since coming to the ranch had been to lease acreage from Quinn, buy some good cattle stock, and get into ranching in some small way. There were two thousand acres of prime rangeland, unused except as solitude for Quinn. To Kerney it was an unnatural waste. All the right ingredients for ranching existed on the property. Live streams cascaded down from Glorieta Mesa, native grass was abundant, and the water table was excellent. He considered how many yearlings he could buy at auction after putting up the lease money for the land. Not many if he went with prime stock. But it sure would feel good to get started. He stuffed the envelope into a pocket, shook off the daydream, retrieved the file, and read it again in greater detail. The information consisted of notes from interviews Terry had conducted with members of Sammy's unit and a meeting with Sammy's commanding officer, a Captain James Meehan. The only official information supplied was a summary of Sammy's military service up to the point of his disappearance. Specialist Fourth Class Samuel Yazzi had graduated at the top of his advanced training class, received an accelerated promotion, and been given the option of picking his permanent duty station. In his eight months at White Sands, his performance ratings had been excellent. With no blemishes on his record, Sammy was considered a prime candidate for continued advancement through the enlisted ranks. Captain Meehan, the commanding officer, knew of no incident which might have prompted Sammy to go A.W.O.L.. There was no rumor of a budding romance with any of the local girls that might have contributed to his disappearance, and no evidence of dissatisfaction with military life. In fact, Sammy apparently liked his job and had adapted well to the military. Terry's talks with the soldiers who knew Sammy confirmed that he wasn't using drugs, drinking heavily, or spending his money in the Juarez whorehouses or gambling dens. Nobody was riding his tail, and to the best of everybody's knowledge he had no enemies. Everyone liked him, although he was characterized as quiet and something of a loner. He played on the post baseball team as a reserve right fielder. Sammy's coach was a master sergeant by the name of Wiliam Titus McVay. Terry hadn't spoken to the man. McVay had retired two weeks after Sammy vanished. A clerk in the personnel office reported McVay had turned in his papers months before Sammy disappeared from the base. There was no follow-up by Terry to find and talk to the coach. Terry had made a few visits to some of the GI hangouts in Las Cruces, where Sammy was vaguely remembered, and had interviewed Sammy's closest buddy, Alonzo Tony, a full-blooded Navajo PFC who told him that for about a month Sammy had dated a girl who worked on the post. Tony hadn't been surprised when the girl lost interest in Sammy. She was a notorious husband-hunter who had moved on to greener pastures, and Sammy, according to his friend, hadn't been dating anyone else, as far as he knew. Sammy's roommate had confirmed Tony's observations about the girl but had no clue why Sammy would have gone A.W.O.L.. A meeting with the officer in charge of the investigation, Captain S. J. Brannon, had turned into a question-and-answer session, with Brannon asking most of the questions. Terry hadn't gotten anything at all helpful out of the interview.

Kerney closed the file and looked through the front window. The clouds were gathering for another afternoon shower. A shaft of light cut through a small thunderhead, spotlighting the deep slash of a narrow canyon in the mountains. The view dissolved as the cloud covered the sun and shadows blunted the outline of the mountains.

He decided to leave the Salvation Army easy chair outside and take it to the dump when he had the time. He would treat himself to something better when he got back. Kerney walked up the driveway to the ranch house, wondering what in the hell had happened to Sammy. The border of privet bushes he had planted in the fall was thriving. The old mountain ash trees, slow to bud in spring, were finally putting out new growth.

Shrubs and trees framed the driveway and drew the eye to the house, where the wide veranda offered shade and comfort. Usually the walk to the main house pleased him. Today it seemed much too artificial, like a movie set piece. Quinn had been urging him to take a vacation. By choice, Kerney had worked for over a year with rarely a day off. He had rebuilt the horse barn and the corral and repaired fence lines. Once again water ran in the stock tanks as the windmills pumped them full, attracting deer, antelope, and coyotes. All done, Quinn pointed out, as he willingly paid for the improvements, for one domestic animal, a half trained nameless mustang Kerney had bought at a Bureau of Land Management auction.

The double-walled adobe house was a survivor of the days when the ranch ran two thousand head of cattle over thirty thousand acres. The veranda, with comfortable wicker chairs scattered about, provided tremendous views of the Galisteo Basin. Quinn's part-time housekeeper kept the terra-cotta pots filled with fresh petunias and geraniums. The porch, supported by hand-peeled logs dark with age, gave deep shade and welcomed the slightest breeze. Above the veranda the angle of the pitched roof was interrupted by a series of gabled windows.

Kerney crossed the polished plank floor, entered the front door, and went directly to the library, his favorite room. Originally the living room, it was a long, rectangular space with a stone fireplace against the far wall, set off by two wide south-facing windows. The remaining walls, lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, contained Quinn's extensive library.

A large Early Colonial desk in the center of the room was bracketed by soft leather reading chairs. Quinn's library, Kerney's primary source of recreation, contained an excellent collection of biographies and histories. He would have to remember to replace the ruined Churchill book. Fortunately, it wasn't a prized first edition, and he knew a used book dealer in Santa Fe who probably had it in stock.

He walked across the flagstone floor to the desk, wrote out a salary check for himself on one of the signed bank drafts left behind for his use. He scribbled a note that he was taking some time off, just in case Quinn decided to stop over before flying to Germany, and taped it to the monitor of the computer so it wouldn't be overlooked. He left another note on the refrigerator in the kitchen for the housekeeper, locked all the windows and doors, and returned to the foyer, where he switched on the security system. The house was, as usual, too quiet. Not used enough, Kerney thought.

The mustang ignored him when Kerney approached the corral. A bit too long in the back with a thick muzzle and withers set too far forward, the horse was no show animal, but his muscling was good and he would be a sturdy ranch horse once he was fully conditioned and trained. Kerney cleaned out the stall, opened the barn doors for ventilation, set out a new salt lick, and put out feed. Fresh water was no problem; the stock tank in the corral filled automatically.

At the cabin he packed a bag with enough clothes to last several days, dug out his emergency cash, and checked the time. If he got his tail in gear he could bank the five thousand in Santa Fe, cash his paycheck, pay a visit to Terry's ex-wife, and be on the road to Las Cruces before much more of the day was gone. He slung the bag over his arm, grabbed a handful of cassette tapes, and started for his truck.

Ten steps away from the porch, Kerney realized he was walking as fast as his bum leg would carry him. It felt damn good to have an adrenaline rush again, he thought.

Maria Littlebird Tafoya sat in the small studio where she created jewelry sold exclusively under her name at one of the best Santa Fe galleries. The room, both a studio and porch, had been added to the house by her mother, who had taught her the silversmith's craft. Now that the demand for Maria's jewelry stretched far beyond the boundaries of the pueblo, she could afford a more expensive home, but she had no intention of moving. One day she might build a place for herself when Sammy came back from the Army, finished school, married, and started a family, but that was a long way off. The house, on the edge of the pueblo's plaza, had views of the Jemez Mountains beyond the Rio Grande.

Ordinarily, the vista was comforting; she could look up from the workbench and rest her eyes on the scene that rolled earth and sky into a passionate steel-blue tapestry of constantly changing patterns. Her home had been too quiet since Sammy went into the Army. During the last six weeks it had seemed more so. The pattern on the bracelet before her, a turquoise-and-coral inlay mosaic wrapped in silver, required a harmony and balance that were missing. Unhappy with the design, Maria debated removing the stones, putting the silver setting aside to salvage later, and starting another piece. Lately she simply couldn't seem to concentrate.

A muddy pickup truck with a dented fender halted in front of the porch. Maria sighed. She was constantly pestered by bargain hunters who wanted to buy directly from her at cut-rate prices. She would have none of it. A man stepped out of the truck, walked with a limp to the porch door, and smiled at her through the screen. She got quickly to her feet, pulled Kerney inside by the hand, and hugged him tightly.

"It's you," Maria exclaimed, smiling up at him.

"And it's you," he replied, letting her go.

She stepped back and looked at his face. He smiled down at her, but his blue eyes didn't sparkle. His brown hair, slightly longer, covered the tips of his ears and showed a wisp of gray near the temples. His handsome uneven face, deeply tanned and older-looking, with the same square chin, broad forehead, and Celtic nose, was less expressive than Maria remembered it to be.

"It's been too long," Maria said.

"Much too long," Kerney agreed.

"Terry called and said you might stop by."

"Was it your idea to bring me in on this?"

"Terry suggested it, and I encouraged him to ask you."

"That's good to know." Kerney's smile brightened slightly.

"So the two of you are talking to each other again, I take it."

"More than we did before the divorce. Isn't that strange?"

"Not necessarily."

"Come inside." Maria took his arm and led him into the living room. She wanted to ask Kerney a million questions about what he would do to find Sammy. She wanted him to assure her that he would bring Sammy home safe and sound. She held back, busying herself with getting Kerney settled, offering him food and something to drink. He accepted her offer. She got him seated and went quickly to the kitchen. He waited patiently as she clattered about, asking chatty questions, her nervousness betrayed by quick appearances in the doorway as he responded. He sat in the missionstyle rocking chair next to the kiva fireplace and wondered when she would simply fall apart and start sobbing.

"How is Mary Beth?" Maria queried.

"Long gone," Kerney said. All sounds from the kitchen stopped. The original house, built by Maria's great-grandfather, was a hundred years old. The puddled adobe walls bulged at the bottom and flowed unevenly to the ceiling. The floor, packed dirt mixed with ox blood, had a deep red patina. Maria stood in the kitchen door looking sadly at him.

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

"She said I wasn't fun anymore. She was probably right." Maria's expression was sympathetic.

"Is that it?"

"Not really. I don't think she liked the idea of living with an invalid. It was taking me much too long to recover." Maria made a face.

"That stinks."

"I thought so."

Maria started to speak, changed her mind, shook her head disparagingly, and disappeared from sight. She brought a small tray of cheese and grapes along with a large glass of lemonade and placed it on the end table next to the rocking chair. Kerney's gut didn't react well to cheese, but he selected a small slice anyway and washed it down with the lemonade. The grapes were sweet and chilled, just the way he liked them.

She sat across from him on a love seat covered with an antique Navajo rug. She was perfectly still, her hands folded stiffly in her lap. He could see the tension in her back and neck. Her long flowing skirt draped to the floor. Only the toes of her beaded moccasins showed under the fabric. Kerney got up, moved to the love seat, and sat next to her.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, Kerney, I'm so sorry about Mary Beth."

"Don't worry. I'm over it."

"How can you be?"

"You're right. I'm almost over it. But in a strange way she helped me get over being so damn mad at Terry. She gave me someone else to be angry at besides him." He patted her hand.

"How are you holding up?" Maria gave him a brave smile.

"I'm scared, Kerney."

"I know you are."

"It isn't like Sammy to vanish. He's such a responsible person." She shook her head vigorously to keep away the tears and looked at a framed picture of her son on the fireplace mantel. He wore his Army uniform and was photographed at an angle to display the insignia on his sleeve and a single row of ribbons on his jacket.

"I bet you talked him into sitting for that picture," Kerney ventured. He needed her to stay coherent. Maria's smile returned.

"I did. I admit it. I'm a proud mother."

"He's a handsome man. Why was he so determined to join the Army?"

"Oh, all the usual reasons. Said he wasn't ready to go to college and wanted to do something different." Exasperation crept into her voice. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he has a stubborn streak just like his father. That's why I sent him to see you. I thought maybe another man could talk some sense to him. Terry was no help whatsoever."

"I figured you had a hand in his visit." Maria shrugged.

"I'm your typical meddling mother. What's done is done. He plans to use the GI Bill after his discharge to attend the Art Institute in Chicago. He's already been accepted." Pride crept into her voice.

"He's still drawing and painting," Kerney ventured, trying to keep Maria upbeat and positive.

"Oh, yes. I think soon he'll be the best artist the pueblo ever produced. He has remarkable talent."

"You must be proud of him."

"Very." Maria fell silent. She was a striking woman, slender and fine-boned, with a symmetrical face and small nose. Her dark almond eyes, usually filled with vitality, were restless and tight. Her long black hair was thick and straight and spilled over her shoulders. There was a slight tic in the corner of one eye.

"When will you start looking for him?" she asked.

"I already have," Kerney answered. "You're my first stop." Some of Maria's stiffness dissipated. She turned and faced Kerney squarely.

"How can I help? I want to do something. Anything."

"Answer some questions. Can you think of any reason why Sammy would go A.W.O.L.?"

"No. The Army investigator asked me the same question. It made me angry. He implied that Sammy had personal problems that made him go A.W.O.L.. He was looking for character flaws. I told him Sammy wasn't the kind of person to abandon his responsibilities."

"Sometimes people change," Kerney proposed.

"Not Sammy," Maria replied sharply, her eyes snapping. "I know him." She got up, walked to a small, standing cabinet, opened the door, removed a packet of letters, and thrust them at Kerney.

"Read his letters. Go ahead. They're filled with his plans for the future. These are not the words of a young man in trouble." Her outstretched hand was shaking.

"I believe you, Maria," he said gently, taking the letters from her. "But sometimes hard questions have to be asked." She sagged almost imperceptibly, and the anger drained from her voice.

"I know. Forgive me. I feel so frustrated. He's been gone for so long."

"I understand. Did the investigator talk to anyone else?"

"Yes. Just about everybody. Former classmates, old friends, and most of the family. He wanted to know if Sammy had a girl in trouble or if he used drugs, or drank a lot when he was home on leave. He even checked with Terry to see if Sammy had an arrest record."

"I'm sure Terry liked that."

"It made him furious."

"Can I keep Sammy's letters for a while?" Kerney asked. "I'll return them when I'm done."

"Of course you can. Those are just the ones he wrote from the missile range," she explained.

"I have more in my bedroom."

"These will do for now."

"Are you sure?" Kerney nodded.

Maria smiled regretfully. "I'm sorry for snapping at you."

"Don't apologize. This is hard stuff. You're holding up beautifully."

"Am I?" She searched Kerney's face for any sign of false reassurance. "I feel powerless and ready to explode." Her voice broke with a little quiver.

"That's normal. Keep your chin up." She's about to lose it, Kerney thought.

"When was the last time you spoke with Sammy?"

"About two weeks before he disappeared. I called him to ask if he was planning to come home to dance at a feast day. He said he wouldn't be able to get away."

"Did he talk about anything else?"

"No. It was a short conversation."

"How did he sound?"

"If you mean was Sammy upset, he wasn't." Kerney stood up and put Sammy's letters in his shirt pocket.

"Can I take a look at Sammy's bedroom?" Maria hesitated.

"Go ahead. I'll wait here, if you don't mind." He could see the tears welling in Maria's eyes. She blinked them back. He walked through the narrow hallway that denned the end of the old part of the house into the addition Terry had built while the marriage was still intact. It was a suite of two bedrooms and baths that fanned out behind the original structure. He opened the door to Sammy's bedroom. The room had changed since Kerney's last visit. Gone were the high school treasures. The walls held a variety of Sammy's framed pen and pencil landscapes. They showed sensitivity, substance, and a keen eye for detail. On a writing table were a small electronic keyboard, some sheet music, and a desktop computer. Tacked to the bulletin board above the desk were a collage of snapshots and some unfinished watercolors. Kerney was surprised to see a picture of himself and Sammy in the collage. Both of them stood grinning at the camera while Sammy gripped the handlebars of the new bicycle Kerney had presented to him on his seventh birthday. He closed the bedroom door and searched quietly, not wanting Maria to hear him rummaging through Sammy's possessions. She was feeling enough strain already. He opened every drawer, searched the closet, looked under and behind the furniture, and scanned the papers, books, and stacks of drawings. He turned out the pockets of Sammy's clothes and probed through the packing boxes on the floor of the closet that were filled with Sammy's childhood toys. When he finished, he put everything back in order. He had found nothing of interest.

Maria was standing in the living room when he returned.

"That was hard for me to let you do," she said.

"I know," Kerney said.

"Sometimes I think I hear him in his room. I catch myself walking back there to talk to him."

"That happens."

"The mind plays such mean tricks." This time Maria could not stop the tears.

"I thought I was finished crying for the day." He took her gently by the shoulders, pulled her close, and let her cry herself out. Finished, she dried her eyes and wiped her nose.

"Find Sammy for me."

"I'll do my best," Kerney replied.