Tularosa

Chapter 11

Seated at the table on the patio of Fred Utiey's house, James Meehan watched the setting sun on the western horizon while Fred stirred the charcoal in the barbeque pit, his back stiff with irritation. Meehan smiled to himself and dropped his gaze to the foothills of the subdivision where Utiey lived. The new single-family homes were gradually creeping up the hills toward Utiey's lot. Fred had thrown up a six-foot wall to protect his privacy from the encroachment. Meehan switched his attention back to Fred and watched as Utiey plunged the poker into the hot coals one last time before walking to the table. He took his glasses off to clean them and peered nearsightedly at Meehan.

"How could Gutierrez lose the last shipment?" Utiey demanded, his tone verging on a whine.

"Eppi got careless," Meehan replied.

"He moved the merchandise to the ranch house before he went to play with his sheep. When he came back for it, it was gone."

"Where is Gutierrez now?"

"Sulking in El Paso with Benton."

"The stupid son of a bitch. What do we do now?" De Leon expects a full shipment." Utiey held his eyeglasses close to his nose, decided they were still dirty, and cleaned them again.

"How do we do that?" he grumbled.

"We get the merchandise back," Meehan said, rising to mix another drink at the wet bar near the patio door. "I know who has our property."

"Who?" Utiey adjusted his eyeglasses on his nose.

"Your girlfriend," Meehan replied.

"Sara?" Fred asked incredulously.

"How did she get it?" Meehan shrugged.

"Luck. The details aren't important. We need our property back." Utiey laughed caustically.

"From Sara? I doubt it."

"She'll cooperate."

"You don't know Sara," Fred rebutted. Meehan sighed and walked back to the table.

"I have all the information I need to encourage her to cooperate."

"Like what?"

"Leave that to me. It won't be difficult." He patted Utiey on the cheek, his hard gaze locked on Fred's face. "I need your help." Utiey shook off Meehan's touch, his eyes fearful.

"I want no part of it." Meehan held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

"We're that close to millions of dollars, Fred. Do you want to see it go down the drain simply because we didn't even try to meet our obligation to De Leon."

Utiey's defenses started to collapse. He wanted the money a lot more than he cared about Sara.

"I can't face her," he said weakly, sinking into a chair.

"You don't have to," Meehan reassured him. He sat down, stretched out his legs, and gave Utiey a friendly smile.

"You won't hurt her?" Meehan chuckled.

"Of course not. I'll have her detained until we're safely out of the country. By the time she's released you'll have a new identity and a passport that will take you anywhere you want to go. With enough money to last a lifetime."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Call her," Meehan responded.

"Get her to come over here on a pretext. Tell her it's important and you don't want to talk about it on the phone." Meehan stood up and looked at his watch. "She should be home by now."

"What do I say?"

"Keep it simple. A personal crisis. A death in your family." Meehan touched Utiey's arm and walked him to the patio door. Utiey took the cue and followed.

"Something like that would do nicely," Meehan added.

"I don't know if I can do it."

"We have no other option," Meehan said gently, as he slid the door open.

"Come on, let's get it over with. We'll get through this, Fred. It's just a little bump in the road."

"I hope so," Utiey replied. Meehan waited for Fred to go first, closed the patio door behind him, and followed him into the living room. He stood close with an encouraging smile and watched Fred dial the number with a shaking hand.

Fred's nervousness should help encourage Sara to agree to come, he thought happily. Utiey used the death-in-the-family ploy. His voice cracked nicely, and he sounded persuasively distraught. He hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.

"She's coming over in half an hour. That was hard for me to do."

"I know it was," Meehan said, patting him on the shoulder. He grabbed Fred's lower jaw with his left hand and yanked down as he jammed a pistol into the now-gaping mouth with his right hand. Utiey didn't have time to scream as the bullet exploded in his brain. Meehan relaxed his grip and Fred collapsed on the floor, the pistol protruding from his mouth. Meehan smiled, bent over the body, wiped the pistol grip clean, wrapped Utiey's fingers around the weapon, and got busy tidying up. The suicide angle might just hold up indefinitely, but it wasn't essential.

It was Friday night and Utiey wouldn't be missed over the weekend. That gave him more than enough time. Meehan checked his watch, his hands sweating inside the latex gloves he wore as he removed all traces of his presence. Sara would arrive soon, and Benton should call shortly after that to report on his meeting with De Leon He hoped Sara wouldn't crack too easily. *** Sara had half a notion to call Fred back and tell him she wasn't coming over, but the sudden death of his mother had obviously shaken him up. Fred wasn't one to ask for unnecessary attention, and the demands of her job often forced her to neglect the few good friends she had. In spite of Fred's unwelcome romantic interest in her, he was still a friend. With no word from Kerney or Eddie Tapia in the last twenty-four hours, she was more than a little worried about them. She recorded a short message and Fred's phone number on her answering machine for Kerney, and suddenly realized that she missed him. The question was, how long would the feeling last? So far, it felt very authentic. In her Jeep Cherokee, she checked her hair in the visor mirror. Her smile amused her; it was blatantly lascivious. Chalk another one up for Kerney, she said to herself. Fred's car was in the driveway when she arrived, and the drapes to the large picture windows on either side of the front door were closed. She walked up the brick path to the house and rang the bell.

When it opened, Jim Meehan stood in front other, a friendly smile on his face.

"Hi, Sara," he said amiably.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I've been waiting for you," he replied, as he raised a sap from behind his back. She saw the blow coming, tried to sidestep it, and drove the palm of her hand at Meehan's nose. He turned his head and the blow caught him on the cheek. She clawed for his eyes with her fingers as he hit her hard with the sap above her ear. She was unconscious before the side of her head bounced against the doorjamb. Meehan grabbed her as she fell and carried her inside. She woke up handcuffed, tied to a straight-backed chair, with her feet bound. Fred Utiey, sprawled on his side, his cheek pressed against the carpet, stared at her with a dead, startled eye. A gun stuck out of his mouth and his lips were seared black with powder burns. Sara felt her stomach turn over. She swallowed, held her breath until the sensation passed, and looked for Meehan. He sat on the couch at the far side of the room with a boyish, pleased smile. The back of her head hurt like hell. She raised her wrists away from the small of her back, and handcuffs bit into the bone.

"Why did you kill Fred?" she asked, concentrating on Meehan to avoid the grotesqueness on the floor.

"He killed himself," Meehan answered casually. "The strain of becoming a rich man was just too much for him. What kind of funeral do you think he'd like?"

"Didn't you ask?"

"I didn't have the time," Meehan said.

"I think something original would suit him. A Tibetan ritual, perhaps. By ancient tradition they put bodies on a mountainside for the vultures to pick clean. Do you think Fred would like that?" Sara shrugged.

"How about you? What kind of funeral would you like?"

"Full military honors," Sara answered.

"Something you'll never get." Meehan laughed. "You're so spunky." He got up from the couch and stood over her, rubbing his hands.

"A spunky, meddlesome cunt in uniform."

"Fuck off, Jim." He slapped her.

"Pissing me off isn't smart." He smiled and walked behind the chair. Sara froze when she felt his fingers on her shoulders. Gently, he rubbed her neck.

"You're all tensed up."

"Take your hands off me." He tightened his fingers around her neck.

"I want the coins and letters."

"I don't have them."

Meehan laughed. "That's what Kerney said before he died in Juarez." He felt her stiffen. He twisted her face upward, forcing her to look at him.

"You must be bad luck, Sara. Both of the men you were fucking are dead." He could feel Sara's jaw tighten as she clamped her mouth shut. He released her face and patted her cheek.

"We'll keep Fred company for a while," he informed her cheerfully.

"It will give you time to think about your options." Humming to himself, he turned out the lights and returned to the couch. *** Eddie stopped the car in a parking lot on the El Paso side of the bridge. The stink from Kerney's vomit had dissipated enough to make breathing bearable. He could hardly believe all the stuff the lieutenant had told him about a secret cave with hidden treasure. It sounded like something out of the movies.

"Your turn," Kerney prompted.

Eddie told him what he knew about Benton and De Leon.

The main problem, Kerney mused, was putting the final pieces together before they ran out of time. "Did Benton mention any names when he was talking with De Leon he asked.

"No."

"We need to find out more about him," Kerney proposed as he opened the car door.

"I'll backtrack on Benton," Eddie volunteered.

"Maybe I can find out where he was staying, where he hung out-that sort of stuff."

"You need to get that arm looked after," Kerney countered.

"I will. You're not in great shape yourself," Eddie reminded him.

"I'll survive," Kerney said.

"Okay, see what you can dig up. I'll let Sara know what you're doing."

Kerney pulled himself out of the car, his hand gripping the door to keep his balance.

"Thanks."

Kerney shut the door and looked at Eddie through the open window. "Don't thank me. I owe you a lot. I'm too old to be brawling in dark alleys with guys like Benton. Leave a message with Sara Brannon if you find anything." Eddie nodded. "You're heading back to the base?"

"Yeah. Be careful, Eddie."

"You got it, Lieutenant," Eddie said, shifting the car into gear. He watched Kerney hobble to his truck. The vehicle lurched and stalled as Kerney tried to drive away. He cranked the truck engine again, eased the clutch out, and rolled slowly through the parking lot.

Kerney was some piece of work, Eddie decided. With the odds totally against him, Kerney had stood his ground and done a lot of damage before Benton had him down. Eddie wondered if he could do as well under the same circumstances. *** The living room was dark except for the weak light that spilled into the room from the kitchen and illuminated Fred's body. Meehan was behind her, and all Sara could hear was the sound of his breathing. The handcuffs were killing her, and she had lost most of the sensation in her fingers. She tried moving her hands to restore the circulation and bit her lip to keep from gasping with pain. She heard the rustling of clothing as Meehan paced behind her chair.

Was Kerney really dead? She didn't want to believe it, but the possibility plagued her. She needed to stop dwelling on it and stay focused on Meehan-stay angry. He planned to kill her, she was sure of it, but he was waiting for something to happen first. It gave her time. She made another attempt to force her finger into the back pocket of her jeans. She'd stopped for gas in town and out of habit had stuck the charge slip in her pocket. She brought her hands as high as she could and wiggled a finger into the pocket. Meehan heard the sound.

"Are the handcuffs too tight?" She froze.

"Yes. Please loosen them."

"I don't think so," he said after a long pause. He started pacing again, and she dug her finger back into the pocket. The receipt was crumpled and wedged in a corner. She inched it slowly along the seam and checked her movement when Meehan stopped pacing. In the mirror above Fred's body she could see his silhouette. His back to her, he gazed out the patio door. Slowly she wiggled the receipt free, and it fell out. She probed for it on the chair cushion but couldn't find it, so she shifted her fanny to the back of the chair, hoping to conceal it.

"Restless?" Meehan asked, turning toward her.

His thoughts were on Benton. The phone call was way overdue. Each minute added to the chance of discovery. He needed to move on.

"Bored," Sara replied. Her class ring was almost over the knuckle of her finger. She kept pressing against it with her thumb.

"You've been very patient. I appreciate that." He came around the chair and stood directly in front of her, his groin inches from her face. She pulled back her head and closed her eyes, waiting for him to touch her again. He stroked her face with the back of his hand.

"It's time to go," he announced.

"I'm fine right where I am," Sara snapped. The ring came off her finger, and she palmed it.

"Why are you always so bitchy?" Meehan inquired, as he slipped on the latex gloves.

"Nothing seems to please you." He untied the rope from around the chair and pulled her to him so she could feel his erection. She tensed up nicely. He released her, turned on a table lamp, and put the chair back in its original position.

Meehan didn't notice the credit card receipt on the cushion; he was busy rubbing the chair's indentations from the carpet with the heel of his shoe. Satisfied, he turned off the lamp, grabbed her around the waist, and dragged her out of the house.

At the Cherokee, he bent her facedown over the hood and fished the car keys from her pocket. She dug her heels in the gravel as he yanked her to the passenger door. When he reached to open it, Sara dropped the ring. Meehan pushed her inside the Jeep, walked to the driver's side, and got behind the wheel. Two clues, she thought gratefully. Enough to raise suspicion, if found. Much better than nothing. The night was warm and still. A million stars sparkled in a clear sky. Meehan smiled affectionately at her as he started the engine and drove away. She smiled back through thin lips, wondering if she would get a chance to kill the bastard. *** Kerney made it back to Las Cruces in just over a half hour, driving at top speed. At a gas station off the interstate the attendant kept a wary eye on him. Dried blood covered his suit jacket, shirt, and face, his right eye was half closed, his lip was puffy, and his pants were crusted with dirt.

Kerney smiled at the kid as he dialed Sara's number at the pay phone. The kid probably figured him for an ax murderer, he thought. The message on Sara's answering machine gave him Fred Utiey's number to call. He hung up in exasperation and dialed the number. He let it ring for a long time before disconnecting. He had a peevish thought that maybe Sara and Utiey didn't want to be disturbed; if that was true, he had become a one-night stand for the first time in many years.

Business is business, he decided, looking up Utiey's address in the phone book. If he interrupted something, so be it. The attendant seemed ready to dive under the counter when Kerney approached him and asked directions to Utiey's house. He stammered a lot but finally gave Kerney the information he needed. Kerney left a ten-dollar tip on the counter.

Utiey lived in a trendy rural subdivision in the foothills outside the city limits. Scrub-covered, waterless hills good only for rabbit hunting now had hundred-thousand-dollar homes tucked into knolls, banked against outcroppings, and standing monolithic on scoured plots. City lights winked in the valley below, fading into darkness where the rich bottomland and the irrigated farms near the river met the urban sprawl.

Utiey's house, some distance from the others, was dark when Kerney arrived. Only one car was in the driveway, a Japanese sport coupe. The thought that Sara had gone home pleased him. Ringing the doorbell brought no response. Maybe they were out somewhere in Sara's Jeep. He went back to the truck, got a flashlight, and inspected the coupe. It had a civilian employee pass to the missile range on the bumper and was unlocked. He found Utiey's registration in the glove box. He swept the driveway with the beam of the flashlight. Two grooves in the gravel, deep and closely spaced marks, caught his attention. There was a glitter of gold in the gravel. Kerney picked it up. It was a West Point ring with Sara's initials engraved inside the band. He got his pistol from the truck and tried the front door. It was locked. At the side of the house was a high wall with a locked, wooden gate. He climbed the wall and walked around the house to a covered patio. Charcoal in the barbecue pit was still warm. He stood to one side of a sliding patio door and gave it a push. The door slid open. He made a quick scan, saw nothing, and stepped into a large combination kitchen and dining area. He moved quietly to the living room. He saw a body, dropped to a prone position, and killed the flashlight. There were no sounds in the house, but he waited several minutes before shining the flashlight at the body again.

It was Fred Utiey and he was very dead. Kerney did a fast room search of the house before returning to the living room and turning on the lights. From the color of his skin, Utiey hadn't been dead for very long. For some reason a chair had been moved in front of Utiey's body and then replaced in its original position. The carpet fibers had been partially fluffed up to erase the imprint of chair legs. There were slight signs of abrasions on the wood finish, and a wadded-up piece of paper on the cushion. He picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a gasoline credit card receipt charged to Sara's account. Utiey's death was no suicide, and Sara had been here, tied up, and then taken forcibly away from house. She was alive when she left but could be dead and lying in a ditch by now. His pulse quickened. He used the telephone in the bedroom to call Andy Baca. *** The doctor at Fort Bliss looked Eddie up and down and asked him suspiciously where in the hell he had been. Eddie told him Juarez, and the doctor made him strip and wash with a disinfectant while he called to verify that Eddie was really an investigator assigned to White Sands Missile Range. Flat on his stomach, covered with a hospital gown, Eddie watched while the doctor worked on him. The nerve blocker dulled the pain but not enough to keep the surgery from hurting.

After Eddie was sewed up, the doctor bandaged his arm while a haggard-looking nurse gave him a tetanus shot and a sheet of written instructions on how to care for his wound. Eddie had left his personal car at Fort Bliss after dropping Isabel and the baby at the bus station, and an MP sent to fetch his travel bag stood by the door watching him dress, holding Eddie's gear.

"You want me to take you to your car?" the MP asked.

"Not yet," Eddie said, reclaiming his handgun, wallet, and badge case from the bag. He stuck the bolstered weapon into his belt, put the wallet and case in his back pockets, and motioned for the MP to follow him. Outside the hospital, Eddie searched Benton's car while the MP waited. It didn't take long to find out where Benton had stayed in El Paso. The ashtray contained a room key and a bunch of motel receipts.

A workout bag in the backseat held a smelly sweat suit, a towel, a jockstrap, and a very choice 9mm handgun, with three extra clips. Eddie turned the gun and clips over to the MP and asked him to have the vehicle impounded and the weapon checked. The MP called for a tow truck and gave him a ride to his car. The motel, in a barrio bordering an industrial section of the city, was a fleabag. A row of smokestacks from a nearby smelter dwarfed the houses and the businesses along the strip. Three hookers waved to him as he drove into the parking lot.

Eddie let himself into Benton's room. It was a box with a bathroom and closet jutting out of one corner. It smelled of years of cigarettes and cheap booze. He started his search and quickly found out that Benton liked guns. Under the pillow on the bed was a Colt38 revolver, and in the bathroom a toiletry kit contained a. 22 Saturday-night special. The single dresser held a Gideon Bible and nothing else. Benton kept his clothes in two large canvas duffel bags, clean clothes in one and dirty clothes in the other. He probably didn't like the cockroaches getting into his wearing apparel, Eddie thought, as he watched one dart out of the wastebasket. The only thing in the trash can was a greasy brown paper bag containing food wrappers and a cash register receipt from the Caballito Bar.

He took another tour through the room before leaving and found a laptop computer and printer in a carrying case on the floor by a phone jack. Next door a hooker cooed and moaned in time with the squeaking bedsprings. He grabbed the computer case, locked the room, and stood in the parking lot. Just down the street, on the opposite corner, the neon outline of a rearing pony flashed on and off above the entrance to a bar. Eddie smiled to himself, put the computer in his car, and walked to the Caballito Bar. The bar, filled with workers from the factories, bustled with activity. Eddie found room at the bar and ordered a cerveza. When the bartender brought it, he gave him a twenty-dollar bill and asked if he knew a gringo named Benton.

The bartender, a man with a hook nose and dark circles under his eyes, took the bill, made change, and said he didn't know anybody by that name. He walked away to serve another customer before Eddie could ask another question. The wall over the bar held a velveteen painting of a conquistador and another painting of a senorita wearing a lace mantilla.

A hand-printed lunch menu was tacked between the two pictures. Eddie called the bartender back and asked if a gringo had been coming in recently to buy take-out lunches.

"Oh, that guy," the bartender answered, taking another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie's hand, plus the eighteen dollars in change on the counter. He stuffed the money into a tip jar and lowered his voice.

"I don't know his name." The Freddy Fender song on the jukebox ended and the bartender stopped talking. A man at the pool table dropped more quarters in the slot and started punching buttons. The music blared; a mariachi song. Two female shift workers at the end of the bar started singing along.

"If it's the guy I'm thinking about," the bartender continued, "he comes in to buy take-out. Always orders a hamburger and fries. He doesn't like Mexican food." Eddie described Benton to the bartender.

"That's him." The bartender walked away to fill an order. Along the rear wall, a small audience watched the pool game. Behind them was a mural of wild mustangs galloping across a mesa. When the bartender finished pouring drinks, Eddie motioned for him to come back.

"Did you ever see this guy on the streets?" Eddie inquired. The bartender plucked another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie's fingers.

"Once. I saw him over by the self-storage units."

"Where is that?"

"Down by the factories. You can't miss it."

"What was he doing when you saw him?" Eddie asked. The bartender smiled.

"He was driving through the gate. Probably checking on his property. Everybody who rents space there keeps a close eye on their merchandise. The city can tear down Smeltertown, but they can't stop the contrabandistas." Eddie thanked the man, finished his beer, and went to the telephone next to the jukebox. It was time to call Kerney.

Andy Baca watched his officers work. They had cordoned off the driveway and brought in high intensity lights to help with evidence collection. An officer photographed the heel marks and tire imprints, while another searched Utiey's car. Inside, the crime scene unit lifted prints, vacuumed rugs for fibers and trace evidence, and photographed the body. On the patio a deputy sifted through the ashes in the barbecue pit.

Kerney was inside with Andy's captain of detectives, giving a statement. The medical examiner arrived with two paramedics in a county ambulance and started unloading a gurney. The sound of another motor came up the road. The driver parked behind a patrol unit, got out, and walked over to him. Andy nodded when Major Curry drew near.

"Tom," he said.

"Thanks for coming."

"No problem," Curry replied.

"Are you sure this cop of yours has his story straight?"

"I believe him," Andy replied, "and the evidence backs him up."

"He thinks Sara was abducted?"

"It looks that way. I've got a statewide APB out on her vehicle, plus El Paso and west Texas. Kerney's worried that she may have been taken somewhere and killed."

"Jesus," Tom Curry snorted.

"I've got a patrol covering her quarters in case she turns up. Do we have a suspect?"

"No, but another wise guy surfaced in Juarez," Andy said.

"Who is it?"

"Kerney didn't tell me, but he's probably on ice in the Juarez morgue."

"Did Kerney take him out?"

"No, one of your people did. A Corporal Eddie Tapia. Kerney says the corporal saved his life."

"Where is Tapia?" Curry asked.

"In El Paso. He took a knife cut on his arm. Nothing serious. He's probably finished getting sewed up and is backtracking on the perp."

"Where's Kerney?" Andy nodded at the front door as Kerney stepped outside the house.

"Be gentle, Tom," he advised. "The man has had a shitty night, and his attitude stinks right now."

Curry watched Kerney limp down the walk to a pickup truck and open the door. His suit was dirty and spattered with dried blood. Curry and Andy walked to him.

"You're Curry?" Kerney asked, looking at the uniform and the insignia of rank. He opened his bag, searched for a clean shirt, and pulled one out.

"I am."

"Good. I need to talk to you. Eddie Tapia just called. He found where Benton was staying, and he has a lead on a rented storage unit. I'm going down to hook up with him."

"Greg Benton?" Curry asked.

"That's right." He slipped out of the suit jacket, undid the tie, unbuttoned the shirt, and stripped it off. The scar on Kerney's stomachwas nasty, as bad as any combat wound Curry had seen. Kerney threw the dirty clothes into the cab of the truck and put on the fresh shirt.

"You know who he is?"

"I know who he's supposed to be," Curry replied.

"Is he CIA? Defense Intelligence? NSA?" Kerney asked, stuffing his shirttail into his pants.

"I don't know," Curry answered.

"He belongs to somebody," Kerney said.

"Check it out."

"Of course. Are you assuming Utiey was part of it?" Kerney got in the truck and slammed the door.

"He had to be." He smiled at Andy. "I'll be in touch."

"Let me send somebody with you," Andy pleaded.

"I can handle it," Kerney retorted. He drove away.

"I need to make a phone call to Washington," Curry said, frowning at the receding taillights.

"Be my guest," Andy replied. *** De Leon meeting with Francisco Posada was short and to the point. Posada promised him all the required facts about Kevin Kerney, and he would see what could be learned about Eddie the jorobado. Most certainly Don Enrique would know by morning where Kerney lived, so he could be found and killed quickly. Carlos was due to return with a progress report on the search. De Leon waited patiently at his table, watching the action on the floor. Luisa, his diversion for the weekend, still occupied her time gambling with his money at the monte tables. He looked forward to his weekend with her. She hoped for marriage and eagerly demonstrated her talents, but he saw no future in marrying any woman. Eventually, all of them grew tiresome. Dominguez waddled in through the back door, looking very pleased with himself. His belly heaved in exertion as he stopped in front of De Leon

"Senor?" He was out of breath.

"What is it, Dominguez?" De Leon replied. Dominguez opened his hand.

"I thought you might like to have this." He held out a wallet.

"I took it from the dead man."

"Put it on the table," De Leon said, without interest. Dominguez did as he was told.

"Senor?"

"What is it now, Dominguez?" De Leon said testily.

Mother Mary help me if I ever need a real policeman, De Leon thought to himself. Dominguez unbuttoned his shirt pocket, took out a plastic card and a key, and handed them to De Leon

"I also found these on the body." De Leon indifference faded as he looked at the card. It was a keyless entry card to a storage compound in El Paso. He turned over the metal locker key. A number was stamped on it. De Leon smiled.

"How much money was in the wallet?" Dominguez's grin faded.

"Four hundred dollars, patron," Dominguez admitted.

"Is it securely in your pocket?"

"Yes, Don Enrique."

"I will double it. You have done me a service." Dominguez's grin returned, filled with gratitude.

"I am glad you are pleased."

"I am. Now go and wait for Carlos. Send him to me as soon as he arrives."

Dominguez left, almost running. De Leon turned the card over in his hand. Truly, could it be so easy? Was he holding the key to a fortune that did not have to be bought and paid for? When Carlos arrived he would be sent to investigate. Perhaps Eddie, the charlatan jorobado, had brought him luck after all. If true, it would make an amusing story; one he would enjoy telling. De Leon laugh was loud enough to make some nearby customers pause and look in his direction. *** Benton's car was not in the motel parking lot, and there was no response when Meehan knocked at the door of the room. Sara was on the floor of the backseat of the Cherokee, gagged and covered with a blanket. The heavy traffic of hookers with their customers made sticking around unwise. Meehan decided to cross the border into Mexico, tuck Sara safely away, and come back to look for Benton. Meehan bypassed the direct route to Juarez and crossed the border at Santa Teresa.

The road to Casas Grandes, a dirt washboard that intersected a main highway, was lightly traveled. He turned east toward Juarez before reaching the highway, staying on farm roads and skirting the few little settlements south of the city. To the north, the runway lights of the Juarez airport came into view, shimmering in geometric rows. When he was parallel to the Rio Grande, Meehan cut over to a paved highway that passed through several small villages. He turned off at two barren ridges that loomed up to a plateau above the river bottom. The road dwindled to a set of ruts in the dirt and dropped suddenly toward the river. His headlights lit up crumbling walls, old foundations, and deteriorated stone fences. Across the river, low-lying west Texas mountains showed a wrinkled, windswept face to the night sky. The ruins of the hacienda, protected in a hollow against the ridge, surveyed a narrow strip of bosque at the banks of the Rio Grande.

Meehan stopped in front of a rock stable that encircled a stone granary. He found a flashlight in the glove box, pulled Sara out of the vehicle, and removed the gag.

Sara looked at the granary. Chiseled stone steps twisted around the outside of the tower. At the base, an entrance wide enough for a horse and wagon stood like an open black mouth. The house, an old hacienda undergoing restoration, was roofless. Scaffolding surrounded the walls, and a parapet had been rebuilt with new bricks. Freshly peeled vigas-beams for the ceiling-were secured to the walls, and rough wood framing defined new openings for doors and windows.

"This is interesting," Sara said. "Is it a new theme park?" Meehan smiled.

"It's more like a nature center. Let me show you around. There's one attraction I think you'll really like." Sara looked pale and dispirited, in spite of the attempt at humor. She had softened up nicely, Meehan thought. He turned her by the shoulders, pushed her against the hood of the car, and cut the rope around her ankles. She spun, kicked for his groin, and missed, catching him on the shin instead. He slapped her in the mouth with the butt end of the flashlight. She fell against the Cherokee, stunned but conscious.

Meehan grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her neck. "You think you're a tough little bitch, don't you?" he snarled.

"No," Sara answered. She could feel the blood in her mouth. "I'm not a bitch at all."

"Move, cunt." He pushed her along in front of him, through the remnants of a kitchen, past a crumbling adobe fireplace, to a stone staircase that descended to an underground room. Sara balked at the top step, and he jabbed her in the kidney with the flashlight. She stumbled forward, Meehan holding her by the handcuffs to keep her from falling. Bags of concrete on pallets, milled lumber, and construction equipment filled the underground room. De Leon's restoration project was further along than Meehan had realized. It meant he would need to deal quickly with Sara to avoid any chance encounters with the construction crew.

He prodded her through the large room, past a pile of tarpaulins and rags, to a massive wooden door anchored in the bedrock by thick iron hinges. He raised the heavy latch and pulled the door open. The air, cool and stale-smelling, rushed out. Sara recoiled, so he jabbed her again in a kidney to force her to move.

"Get in," he ordered, pointing the beam of the flashlight into the pitch-black room. He pushed her to her knees and lit a kerosene lamp that hung from the low ceiling.

"Stand up and turn around," he said when the lamp was burning. Sara did as she was told. The rock walls of the tiny room were uneven and black with soot. The jagged ceiling was inches above her head. The lamp cast a pale glow.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?" she asked. Meehan nodded and poked at some rotting boards with the toe of his shoe. A dozen insects scurried into view.

"Scorpions?" Sara asked.

"Big ones," Meehan confirmed, lifting the lamp off the hook and setting it on the ground.

"Heat attracts them. Especially body heat. Some of them drop from the ceiling. Keep your chin up." She stared at Meehan with loathing. He stepped back, swung the door shut, and threw the latch.

"I'll try to get back before the lamp runs out of fuel," he called to her.

"If not, keep yourself entertained."

"Screw you," Sara replied. She barely heard Meehan's receding laughter as he walked away, her attention riveted on the ceiling. The thought of scorpions falling on her made her shudder. She saw an insect dart from under a board and squashed it with her boot. She killed several more before she realized that she was crying. *** Eddie sat in his car feeling frustrated. Bordertown Storage Company was a series of long, rectangular concrete buildings surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped off with concertina wire. Finding it was no sweat, but locating the locker Benton had rented would be an entirely different matter. He coasted to the motorized gate and stopped at the curb. The manager's office inside the fence was closed for the night. The sign on the door advertised twenty-four-hour access, but there was no way in unless he climbed the fence and crawled over the concertina wire. He drove slowly past the gate and looked down the long rows of buildings, hoping somebody was inside who would let him in. The aisles, wide enough for semitrailers to maneuver in, were empty. He went back to the front gate and wrote down the phone number on the company sign. Back at the bar he would call, get somebody to come out to open up, and wait for Kerney. He turned the car around and headed back toward the barrio. *** Leaving the Little Turtle, Carlos was in fine spirits. Instead of having him beaten, as he'd expected, De Leon had given him an entry card and a locker key and ordered him to go to El Paso to search a storage unit. A careful man by nature, Carlos took his customary precautions. He drove past the business without stopping, and circled behind two large warehouses opposite the storage units. He parked in the darkness, took out his binoculars, and trained them on the fenced compound. He studied each aisle thoroughly. All seemed quiet. He would wait ten minutes before entering, just as a precaution. He put his thumb in his mouth and adjusted his upper plate. Headlights appeared on the pavement, and a car came into view, traveling slowly. It stopped in front of storage compound, motor running. He picked up the binoculars, but the glare of the lights by the gate blocked his view into the car. After a few minutes, the car moved away. Soon the car came back, and Carlos picked up the driver in his glasses. He grinned to himself when he recognized Eddie, the phony jorobado. He put aside the binoculars and reached for his gun. It would be interesting to talk to Eddie again, Carlos thought.

Eddie's car made a U-turn, and Carlos started his engine, headlights off. He let Eddie travel a short distance away from the bright lights before he made his move. He accelerated, jumped the curb, and rammed into the rear of Eddie's vehicle. The collision was harder than Carlos anticipated. Both cars recoiled, tires skidding, as Eddie responded to the sudden impact by hitting the brakes. Carlos was thrown forward, the seat belt tightening across his chest. He only had seconds in which to act. He got out, ran to Eddie's car, pulled open the door, and stuck his pistol in Eddie's face.

"My little jorobado friend," Carlos growled. "It is very nice to see you again." He brought the barrel of his weapon down on the front of Eddie's head. As Eddie slumped forward, he caught him, then pulled him from the car and carried him into the darkness between two buildings. He dumped Eddie next to a propane gas tank and went back to the automobiles stalled in the middle of the street. He kicked the pieces of broken glass toward the gutter and moved the cars to the curb, parking them close together to hide the damage.

Eddie was still unconscious when he returned. He rifled his pockets, found a wallet and a small leather case, and used his cigarette lighter to inspect the contents. The case contained a military police badge and an identification card with Eddie's picture. The hunchback was a United States Army criminal investigator. Carlos grunted. Don Enrique would be very pleased to have Eddie back. And pleased with Carlos, also. The wallet was less interesting, except for the money.

Carlos extracted and counted the bills: over seven hundred dollars. Masquerading as a beggar was profitable. He put the money into his coat pocket. He lit a cigarette and nudged Eddie with the toe of his shoe to see if he was awake. Eddie did not move. Using his lighter, he inspected Eddie's face. He was still unconscious. The blow to the head had sliced the scalp. A flap of skin dangled at the hairline on Eddie's forehead, and blood trickled down his face.

As soon as Eddie stirred, Carlos sat him upright against the propane tank. He wanted Eddie to see what was going to happen to him. He placed Eddie's hands palm down on the pavement of the parking lot and waited for his eyes to open. When they did, Carlos stomped on each hand with the heel of his shoe. *** Kerney stopped in front of the bar. Before he could get out of the truck, a fat hooker with a round, cherubic face leaned inside the open window. She wore a sleeveless dress that showed tattoos on both of her substantial arms.

"No thanks," Kerney said, pushing against the door to move her out of the way. Her bulk made it impossible for him to budge her.

"Are you Kerney?" the hooker asked.

"Yes," Kerney answered, puzzled.

"Eddie asked me to give you a message."

"What is it?"

"He said you'd pay me." Kerney didn't believe her but decided not to quibble.

"How much?"

"Fifty dollars," the hooker announced.

Kerney dug out his wallet and handed over the money. It was the last of his emergency cash.

"What's the message?" he demanded. The hooker pulled down the top of her dress and stuck the bills inside her push-up brassiere. There was a tattoo of the Virgin Mary above her left breast.

"He went to the self-storage units. He said if he wasn't back when you got here, you could find him there."

"What self-storage units?" Kerney asked. The hooker pointed down the street. The fat underside of her arm jiggled.

"Bordertown Storage. You can't miss it. Look for the lights." Kerney nodded, clutched, and put the truck in gear. His right foot missed the accelerator and the engine stalled. He was having a hell of a time with the leg.

"Want me to drive you there for another fifty dollars?" the hooker asked with a grin. Kerney glared at her.

"No thanks." He restarted the engine and drove down the street behind a slow string of low-riders. He was annoyed at Eddie. Deja vu all over again, he thought. Another cop who couldn't stay put. Away from the clip joints and motels, rows of assembly plants, sweatshops, and warehouses lined the street. Beacons from the smelter stacks across a field blinked warnings to aircraft in the night sky. The glow of a bank of mercury vapor lights announced the presence of

Borderland Storage. Kerney drove past two parked cars and stopped at the locked front gate.

There was no sign of Eddie. He cruised for a block before swinging back for another pass. His headlights picked up fresh skid marks and small bits of reflective plastic in the middle of the street near the cars. One car had a Chihuahua license plate. He couldn't see the other license plate, but there was damage to both vehicles. That was enough for Kerney. He turned onto a side street, killed the engine, and got his pistol from the glove box. His knee barely tolerated the shock as he trotted to the cars. He was halfway there when he heard Eddie scream.