Tularosa

Chapter 8

The only sound on the deserted plaza was the idling engine of Kerney's truck. The tourists were gone for the day and the pueblo was quiet. Kerney stopped at the end of the dirt lane that bisected the plaza. Across the empty square was the tribal administration building where Terry had his office. A long, squat structure with a series of narrow doors and small windows, it looked like an unfriendly sanctuary built to keep out intruders. At one end of the building, three squad cars were parked in front of the police station door. Kerney turned his head and looked over the line of adobe houses that bordered a section of the plaza. Against the western mountains, the setting sun seemed cold in the pink light. He tried not to think about the pain that faced Terry and Maria. His own sadness felt like a sharp wound cutting through him. How much worse it would be for Terry and Maria he could only imagine. He touched the portfolio on the seat next to him.

The five thousand dollars was safely tucked inside. He put the truck in gear and coasted to a stop in front of the building. From the moment Kerney stepped through the door of the one-room office carrying the portfolio, Terry knew his son was dead. A phone call would tell him Sammy was alive, but only his death would bring Kerney to his door with that grim look. His heart sank and he stood up slowly, testing the steadiness of his legs.

The two young officers in the room were suddenly quiet, shoptalk frozen in the air like hot breath on a cold winter's day. Terry tilted his chin in a wordless greeting, afraid to speak, his unblinking dark eyes locked on Kerney's face.

"I came here first," Kerney explained. Terry nodded his appreciation and cleared his throat. No words came. He unbuckled the Sam Browne belt that held his bolstered pistol and stowed it in a desk drawer.

"Will you walk with me to Maria's?"

"Of course."

"I will be with my son's mother," he told the officers, not seeing them at all.

"Ask her family to join us there." The two officers nodded wordlessly as Terry walked out the door with Kerney. Crossing the plaza, Terry felt detached from his surroundings. The familiar buildings looked strange, and his heart pounded in his chest like a powerful drumbeat. Oddly, he thought of corn meal and pollen. He needed to gather both for the burial ritual. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he reached Maria's front door. She looked at him, glanced at Kerney, and her hand flew to her mouth. Terry opened his arms and she exploded against him, small and vulnerable. She buried her head in his chest and sobbed. He looked for Kerney, and found him at his side, fretfully shifting his weight, staring at the ground.

When Maria stopped crying and relaxed her grip, he spoke to Kerney.

"Come inside and tell us what happened." His voice sounded gruff as the words tumbled out. Supporting Maria, he led the way. In the small living room, Kerney listened to the sounds of the house while Terry and Maria waited, dull-eyed and stunned, for him to speak.

A breeze sighed through an open window, the old wood ceiling creaked, and the hum of the refrigerator drifted in from the kitchen. Kerney wanted to melt away with the sounds. Maria and Terry sat close together on the small love seat. Terry's hand clutched Maria's. Maria spoke first.

"What happened to my son?" The truth would only send Terry on a rampage.

"It was a hiking accident," Kerney lied.

"In the mountains. On the missile range."

"When did you find him?" Terry asked.

"Yesterday."

"Did he suffer?" Maria asked.

"No, I don't think so."

"And his body?" Terry asked.

"Is it…"

"Intact," Kerney replied quickly. Terry looked relieved. Maria smiled bravely, her gaze riveted on empty space. She touched her hair, pinned casually into a loose bun, and quickly forced her hand back into her lap.

"He was saving his money for a new car," she said in a faraway voice.

"He wanted to pay for it himself. He was so proud about doing things on his own. I kept asking him to come home for a visit, but he wouldn't.

Not until he could take me for a ride in the car." Kerney picked up the portfolio from beside the chair and handed it to her.

"For you." Maria took the case, put it on her lap, stroked it gently, and with a shaking hand unzipped it. Terry leaned close as Maria unfolded the portfolio. For a very long time, they examined Sammy's work without speaking. It seemed so personal, Kerney wanted to vanish.

When they finished, Maria closed the case and smiled in Kerney's direction, her mouth a razor thing line of grief. Terry held the envelope with the five thousand dollars in his hand.

"This is your money," he said hoarsely.

"No," Kerney replied.

"Take it, please," Terry countered. His face looked ready to shatter into pieces. He was barely in control. Kerney shook his head.

"I can't do that." Sounds from outside the house intruded; cars arriving, subdued voices, footsteps on the gravel path. The family was gathering. Kerney stood up.

"I have to go." Maria held him from leaving with a gesture.

"Do you know when they will send Sammy home to us?" she asked.

"Soon," he promised. Maria stood and hugged him, patting his back as though it would ease her pain.

"I'm sorry," Kerney said. Maria looked up and released him.

"I know." She walked away to greet her guests. Old and young began to fill the front room, children hushed, adults somber. Condolences expressed in several languages floated on the air. Terry was at Kerney's side.

"Thank you," he said.

"I did nothing." Terry grunted in disagreement, searching for more to say.

"I'll call you about the services."

"I'll be there." He smiled dismally.

"Sammy would like that."

"Will you be all right?"

He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before answering.

"I need a drink. A dozen drinks."

"Will you take them?" Kerney asked.

"I won't."

"Good. Call me if you need to talk."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I do." Terry held out his hand. Whatever rancor Kerney felt about Terry was gone, part of a dim, unimportant past. He pulled Terry to him in a hug, and held him tight while his old friend finally cried.

Kerney slipped through a group of people waiting outside and walked up the dirt lane. On the plaza, filled with people moving in small groups toward Maria's home, he felt even more like an intruder. Some of the older women were veiled, and several elders were wrapped in ceremonial blankets. All looked at him with sidelong, passive glances. At the front of the police station, the two young tribal officers were in their squad cars, emergency lights flashing. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror. The officers had blocked the plaza with their cars. The pueblo was now closed to outsiders. *** Andy came through with a search warrant, signed by a local judge and delivered to Kerney by a bored city patrol officer who was parked in front of the apartment complex where Eppi Gutierrez lived. Kerney thanked the patrolman, turned down his offer for backup, and went to find the apartment manager. He showed the warrant to the man and learned that Eppi lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. He got the key and directions to the unit.

The complex, on a main throughway of Santa Fe, had been built by an out-of-state developer. Gutierrez's apartment was a string of three boxy rooms on the second floor, the layout dictated by the developer's computer program and slapped up with a few touches to create a cut-rate Santa Fe style. Gutierrez liked his toys: the living room had a big-screen television and a costly rack sound system, the kitchen counter held a variety of expensive gourmet appliances, and the bedroom contained a king-size water bed and a top-of-the-line mountain bike. The bike was against the wall, used as a dirty clothes rack. Kerney tore the place apart systematically. There was nothing taped under the dresser drawers, no incriminating notes in the pockets of clothing, and no coins and letters like those found in Gutierrez's truck. He dug through clothing, shoes, boxes, and papers. The living room, bathroom, and kitchen yielded the same dismal results. Packages in the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets held nothing but food. A high-powered hunting rifle and a set of golf clubs were in the hall closet, just where a burglar would expect them to be. The bathroom, including the toilet tank, held no surprises. What jewelry Gutierrez owned was scattered on the top of the sink counter, in plain view. Either Gutierrez had nothing to hide or he was an expert at concealment. He started over again, reversing the search. He upended the living-room furniture and pulled apart all of the cushions. He dug through the dead ashes of the fireplace, turned over the pictures on the walls, and looked through every book on the bookshelf.

Gutierrez's taste ran from horror novels to popular mysteries. He took one last look around the room, put the couch upright, and sat down in disgust, thinking maybe there was absolutely nothing to find. On the carpet by the overturned lamp table was a stack of unopened mail, mostly bills and advertising flyers. He flipped through the accumulation. One thick envelope had a return address from Gutierrez's office and carried first-class stamps instead of the usual metered imprint government agencies use. He opened it. Inside was a handwritten list on sheets of lined yellow paper. Kerney read it with growing awe.

Rifles, pistols, saddles, uniforms, sabers, holsters-all in quantity and all dated as over a hundred years old. Many were brand-new, according to Gutierrez's estimate. If the list was real, and there was no reason to doubt it, Gutierrez had been moving truckloads of material off the base. He read on. Military clothing: boots, coats and hats, dress uniforms, greatcoats were listed by the dozens, all packed in the original crates. There was enough to outfit several squads of pony soldiers and their horses. The tack list was just as impressive: saddles, halters, bridles, saddle girths and blankets, saddler and blacksmith tools. The inventory went on for pages, written in Gutierrez's compulsively neat script: leather cartridge boxes, forage sacks, waist and saber belts, fatigues and stable frocks, halter chains, gloves, cartridge belts, and spurs. Kerney stopped reading and visualized the cave at Big Mesa. It must have been packed to the ceiling. He returned to the list. Gutierrez had recorded every coin and letter recovered from the truck. Each coin was described by type, denomination, date, and condition. Each letter was summarized by author and subject. The last entry was for another mail pouch. Again, Gutierrez provided a summary of each letter; most of them were from members of the 9th Cavalry to family and friends back home. Gutierrez had added a note in the margin, written with a different pen. It read:

"Delivered to buyer to prove authenticity." Kerney folded the list and put it back in the envelope. Gutierrez had hit a treasure trove; definitely the spoils from at least one Apache raid-maybe more. He couldn't begin to estimate the value, but people paid enormous sums of money for rare historic objects. He needed to get a general idea of the value, just to be sure. The next question was equally simple: where would Gutierrez find the most likely buyer? Probably through a broker, eager to do business with him. It was stuff that museums, universities, and individual collectors would drool over. *** There was no sign of activity at the ranch when Kerney got home. His arrival was greeted by the whinnying of the mustang in the horse barn. It was the lonely sound of a neglected animal. He chastised himself for keeping the horse penned up for no good reason other than his own convenience. He apologized with fresh oats, a clean stall, and some soothing words, which didn't seem to be quite enough. The mustang snorted and turned away. He got a halter from the tack room and slipped it over the animal's head.

"You deserve better," he said, leading him out of the corral. There wasn't going to be any breeding stock on Quinn's ranch for a very long time, if ever. No big deal. It was just another setback. He opened the gate to the north section, where the grass was best and the restored windmill fed clear water into a stock tank. The horse picked up his ears in anticipation. Kerney scratched the mustang's nose and apologized again. Halter off, he wheeled through the gate and galloped into the darkness. Silently he watched until the thought struck him it was time to give the mustang a name. He'd call him Soldier, in honor of Sammy. It wasn't very imaginative, but he hoped Sammy, wherever he was, approved. *** Greg Benton picked the lock to Gutierrez's apartment, flipped on the light, and surveyed the mess. Not good, he thought to himself as he closed the door and eased the semiautomatic out of the pocket of his windbreaker. He did a quick room-to-room search, encountered nothing except more disarray, and left the apartment complex, hurrying quickly to his car. Two blocks away he stopped at a convenience store, dialed a long-distance number, let it ring three times, and disconnected. He repeated the process, got back in his car, an inconspicuous compact rental that was too cramped for his large frame, and headed for the interstate. His mind was racing. It was bad enough that Gutierrez had blown the rendezvous to deliver the merchandise, but now it looked as though Eppi had flapped his mouth and queered the whole gig. Time for damage control, Benton decided, with a tight smile. He held the car at 65 and settled back to think things through. Traffic on the interstate was light. In the distant Jemez Mountains, Los Alamos winked down at Santa Fe. The pinon-studded hills along the right-of-way were filling up with subdivisions, and across the valley, streetlights lined new roads to new neighborhoods outside the city limits. Too much was riding on the deal to let it go sour now. Benton wondered if Eppi had decided to keep the last shipment for himself and do a little freelancing.

A dumb move. But the apartment had been tossed by a pro, probably looking for the goodies. Benton had to find Gutierrez. *** Leonard Garcia smiled warmly at his visitor and had him sit by the window with the nice view of the interior courtyard of the Palace of Governors Museum. The morning sun barely touched the tops of the trees and the robins were undisturbed, yet to be chased off by museum visitors. As a high school senior, Leonard had persuaded a small band of his friends to help him protest the closing of the last drugstore on the Santa Fe Plaza.

Armed with a truckload of cow manure, they waited for the day the new art gallery was to open in what had once been their favorite hangout. In the middle of the night they dumped fresh dung against the entrance and drenched it with gallons of water. It was so much fun they did it again the next night. The daily newspaper carried the escapade as front-page news. It was the talk of the town. It was heady stuff for the anonymous heroes or villains-depending on the point of view. Leonard had plotted a third foray against Santa Fe gentrification and been caught in the act by the man sitting in his office. Leonard owed Kerney one very big favor. Officially, he and his pals were never apprehended.

Kerney took them one by one to their parents and had each boy confess. Punishment was left up to the family. Leonard lost his driving privileges for the summer, which, in turn, resulted in the loss of his girlfriend. For that he was grateful. He might never have started college if Loretta hadn't broken up with him in order to date Roger Gonzales, who, at the time, owned a very fine raked and lowered Chevy. Roger was now paying considerable child support to Loretta for their three children. He asked Kerney what he could do for him.

"You're the only delinquent I know who has a doctorate in archaeology, runs a history museum, and owes me a favor," Kerney replied.

"I'm rehabilitated," Leonard countered. "Anyway, there isn't enough cow shit left in Santa Fe County to cover all the boutiques, galleries, and tourist shops. What can I do for you?" He handed Leonard the inventory.

"Take a look at this." Kerney watched Leonard's eyes widen as he read through the list.

"Is this real?"

"Yes." He read the list again while Kerney waited. Garcia had red hair and classic Castilian features. He could trace his family roots in Santa Fe to the Spanish reconquest of New Mexico. He tapped his finger against the papers.

"This is a major find. One any curator would give his eyeteeth to acquire. If it was purchased intact, I could get the museum foundation to build a new wing to house it."

"How much would you be willing to pay?" Leonard studied the list again.

"On the open market, who knows? It would be a bidding war. If I had an exclusive option, I'd offer three million dollars and probably go as high as four. Maybe more."

"And if the collection was sold piecemeal?" Kerney ventured.

"It would take longer to dispose of it, but you could make even more profit. Add another million," Leonard answered.

"Everything on the list has value. Especially now that anything to do with the frontier west is such a hot commodity among collectors. For example, the letters from Grant and Sherman to General Howard: it's correspondence about Grant's peace policy regarding the Indians. Howard was a crusty, one-armed, pious son of a bitch who served with Grant in the Civil War. His men called him the praying general. Grant made him a presidential emissary. Any presidential correspondence of historical significance commands top dollar. Those letters are even more valuable because they fill in some gaps. Historians would kill to have them. I wouldn't sneeze at the Sherman letters, either. He ranks right up there as an important American personality of the time. The letters alone could bring hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"Thanks, Leonard." Kerney reached across the desk and retrieved the list.

"I'd love to have an opportunity to make an offer. Do you know who the buyer is?"

"Not yet," Kerney replied. "Any ideas where I should look?"

"It depends on the type of buyer. I'm assuming this isn't kosher."

"It isn't." Garcia gazed at the ceiling.

"Unfortunately, it isn't that hard to find unscrupulous dealers. If I was in the market to sell something illegally, I'd lower the risk and ship the merchandise out of the country. Western Americana is a hot item among collectors in the Far East and Europe. Especially the Japanese and Germans. They couldn't beat us in the war, but they sure can outbid us in the marketplace."

"Would that be likely?" Leonard nodded.

"With the quantity and quality of the list, I would say it's very likely. The mega bucks are overseas, and once the items are on foreign soil, the chances of getting caught are almost nil."

"Could an average citizen pull it off?"

"I don't think so. Not without a broker. There are too many complexities to deal with. If your crook isn't an expert in the field, he's going to have to split the profits with somebody who has the right contacts." *** Eddie Tapia felt right at home on the Juarez strip. The gaudy, hot colors of the buildings, the rawness of the streets, the carnival atmosphere of the hustlers, whores, and street urchins, and the smells from the street vendors hawking food to pedestrians combined into one loud pulse of Mexican life. The streets were crowded with drivers playing a mad game of bumper cars. Shills made bilingual pitches along sidewalks, selling fake designer watches and gold jewelry that would turn green within a week. Bars cranked out loud Tex-Mex music to attract attention. The hookers wore dresses that stopped at the ass and pranced around in their spiked heels and cowboy boots working the streets. Open stalls in alleys displayed velvet paintings of Elvis, cheap sombreros, and pin atas Tapia soaked it all up.

The first twelve years of his life he'd grown up in Mexican border towns along the Rio Grande. From Matamoros on the Gulf to Piedras Negras, he moved with his family from job to job. His father, who rebuilt generators, particularly those for prized American-made cars, could always find work. Still, it was necessary for Eddie and his brothers to make money. At the age of five, he became a beggar's apprentice, working for his Uncle Adolfo. Every day Uncle Adolfo put on a harness with a padded hump and transformed himself into a jorobado-a hunchback. To Mexicans the jorobado brought luck. Gamblers, whores, housewives-even the priests-would touch Adolfo's hump for luck and give him money for the privilege. Eddie shilled and sold talisman jewelry.

After putting Isabel and the baby on a bus to Brownsville, Eddie had purchased all the material needed for his transformation: soft cowhide, which must feel like skin under his shirt; padding, which had to be firm yet pliable; a harness to round his shoulders; and finally the clothes of a beggar. He crossed the bridge into Juarez as a hunchback. Neither his wife nor Captain Brannon would have recognized him. Finding Petty Officer Yardman's trail hadn't been all that difficult. Concentrating on the GI hangouts and clip joints, Tapia quickly learned that Yardman had won a considerable amount of money and had stayed in Juarez for over a month. His winning streak was remembered by the dealers in the clubs he favored. There was talk that when he started losing. Yardman borrowed heavily to keep gambling, before dropping out of sight. Some people thought he was still in Juarez, hiding from a loan shark, while others reported he'd left town.

If he was still around, nobody knew where. After a long night, Eddie left the strip and walked through a working-class neighborhood. The casitas were small and packed tightly together along the street, but the sidewalks were clean and the houses well cared for. There were no whores, hustlers, or junkies in sight. He came to a small plaza with a gingerbread bandstand in the center, a wrought-iron fence around the square, and tall shade trees. He sat by the gate of an old hacienda with high, whitewashed adobe walls and watched the morning parishioners on their way to early mass. The church, with two tall spires and a bell tower, also painted white, gave the neighborhood a small-town feeling. Opposite the church, the largest building fronting the plaza was a converted general store that had been turned into a nightclub, restaurant, and gambling parlor. Lettered in Spanish on the door was the name of the establishment: the Little Turtle. It was open for business, and morning customers-mostly locals on their way to work-ducked in for a quick roll of the dice, a cup of coffee, or breakfast.

It was a relief to get off his feet. Eddie's muscles ached, and the straps around his shoulders had rubbed the skin raw. He wanted a shower, with lots of hot water and clean, dry towels. It would have to wait. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and checked the grime under his fingernails. Next to the gambling house was a boarded-up cantina. The two front windows were covered with plywood. On the sidewalk, padlocked to a streetlight, was a homemade food cart. It had automobile tires for wheels, a tin awning supported by metal brackets, and a screaming-pink paint job.

A stern voice interrupted Eddie's preoccupation. "Move on, jorobado. You cannot beg here." The policeman standing over Eddie had small eyes above full cheeks, thick jowls, and a head much too big for his body. A pencil-thin mustache under a fat nose drew attention to his crooked teeth. Eddie smiled, reached into his pocket for some bills, and held out his hand.

"Perhaps you would allow me to stay." The cop took the mordida. With the bribe transacted, he smiled at Eddie.

"What is your name?"

"Eddie."

"I am Dominguez." The cop was burly, broad chested and had a huge gut.

"You will not make much money this time of day."

"No matter," Eddie replied.

"I will rest for a while and be on my way." Dominguez nodded and rubbed Eddie's hump for luck.

"Don't stay too long," he warned, before lumbering away in the direction of the gambling house. Eddie watched Dominguez enter the nightclub. The door to the adjacent cantina opened and a man in a white apron hurried out carrying trays of food. He was a fair-skinned, blond gringo with a full beard that hid his face. Yardman was blond and the same size as the man in the apron. The man placed the trays in the cart and went back into the cantina. Soon a street vendor emerged, opened a compartment at the rear of the cart, and put a box inside. Then he removed the padlock and pushed the cart down the street. During the next half hour, carts arrived at the cantina on a regular basis and the same routine occurred.

The gringo brought the food, and the vendors stowed boxes in a compartment of each cart. To Eddie, it looked like the cantina was used to distribute more than just tacos to sell on the streets. He decided to get a closer look. He crossed the plaza, sat on the curb, and watched the next group of vendors. They stocked the carts with bags of marijuana and cocaine. "Get out of here, pendejo.

"The gringo was behind him. As Eddie hurried to his feet, the gringo kicked him in the butt and shoved him off the curb into the street, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. Keeping his temper, Eddie shuffled away, convinced the gringo wasn't Yardman. He decided to move on, find a telephone, and report in to Captain Brannon. Dominguez stopped him as he crossed the square.

"Did you have a problem with the gringo junkie?"

"Who?"

"Duffy. I saw him kick and push you." Dominguez shook his head. "That was wrong of him to do. I will tell Senor De Leon."

"Senor De Leon?"

"A very important man. Well connected. He owns the Little Turtle."

"Does he also own the cantina?"

"Of course. It is one of his businesses."

"There is no need for you to tell the senor," Eddie replied.

"You are wrong, my friend. If I do not tell him, someone else will, and I could lose a mordida I have come to depend on." Dominguez stopped at the corner.

"Will you come back?"

"Perhaps."

"I will look for you."

"I welcome your protection," Eddie said. *** Tom Curry sat at the conference table with Sara and an FBI agent named Johnson, a dour man with thin lips and a long, serious face, matched by a lanky frame. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and regimental striped tie.

"Who found the body?" Johnson asked, tapping the tip of his pen on the desktop, prepared to take notes.

"An MP on patrol," Sara answered.

"He found tire tracks in a restricted area and followed them. Specialist Yazzi's body was in a cave, wrapped in a tarp. The back of his head was crushed. Possibly by a rock or some other blunt object. From the appearance of the body, Yazzi has been dead for some time. We have the area cordoned off." Johnson wrote a note and looked at his wristwatch.

"My people should be landing there right about now," he said.

"Was anything found with the body?"

"A sketchbook, his dog tags, and his wallet," Sara replied.

"Nothing else."

"I'll need those," Johnson said. Sara slid a manila envelope across the table. Agent Johnson picked it up and set it next to his elbow.

"Was there any indication that Yazzi was killed elsewhere and his body moved to the cave?" Johnson inquired.

"None that we could find," Sara answered.

"Weapon?" Johnson asked.

"We didn't find one."

"Suspects?" he inquired dryly.

"One possible," Sara noted.

"There was a vehicle accident in Rhodes Canyon yesterday. A state Game and Fish officer, Eppi Gutierrez, was killed by a rock slide He had been staying at an old ranch that's used by wildlife and conservation officers when they're on the range. It's approximately ten miles from where Yazzi's body was found." Johnson smirked.

"A dead suspect isn't much good. What do you know about Gutierrez?"

"The usual background information," Sara answered.

"He was a wildlife manager. Single. Never married. No military experience. No police record. No traffic tickets in the last five years. He held a degree in biology from New Mexico Highlands University. Started working for Game and Fish right after college. Had slightly over ten years on the job with steady promotions. I've ordered a deeper background check on him."

"Was anything found in the vehicle?" Johnson asked, writing in his notebook.

"We don't know that yet," Sara replied.

"His pickup is buried in rock from the slide. The site is under guard with instructions to leave everything as is until further orders. I'd like you and your people to look at it, if that's possible." Johnson nodded and closed his notebook.

"Be glad to."

"Excellent," Major Curry responded, rubbing a hand over his bald head. "Do you have any more questions. Agent Johnson?" Curry's eyebrows were almost an invisible white against his pale complexion, which made his eyes seem huge behind the reading glasses. There was no humor in his gaze. Johnson shook his head.

"Not right now." Curry stood up.

"Keep Captain Brannon informed."

"I'll be in touch," Johnson said, rising and reaching across the table to shake hands with the officers. As the door closed behind him, the smile dropped off Tom Curry's face.

"What in the hell are you doing. Captain?" Curry demanded, yanking off his glasses and leaning across the table.

"Sir?"

"Don't 'sir' me, Sara." He waved his glasses at her.

"I read the dispatcher reports every day, just like you do. Gutierrez's radio had the same locator chip that every MP unit on the base carries.

I know exactly where you were when you called and left that message for Sheriff Baca." She felt his rebuke like a slap across her face.

"Sir," she said weakly.

"You found that goddamn body. Do you know how serious it is for an officer to falsify official reports and order subordinates to lie for them?"

"Yes, sir, I do." She was numbed by Curry's criticism. He had every right to slam her.

"Will your people stick to the line of bullshit you fed to Johnson?"

"Yes, sir, they will." Tom got up from the conference table, walked to his desk, lowered himself into his chair, and stared at Sara across the room.

"I want to know why you did this."

She told him about the burglary, her conversation with PFC Tony, the phone call to Sergeant Steiner, and her suspicions about Meehan's involvement. Curry's look didn't soften.

"You would jeopardize your career because of some stupid rivalry with Jim Meehan, who doesn't have to operate by the rules? There'd better be more to this fuckup than that. Tell me exactly what happened at Big Mesa and Rhodes Canyon." Sara collected her thoughts.

"I can tell you how we found the body. Or I could start with Gutierrez's attempt to kill us." She paused. "But perhaps the major would like to hear about the two thousand gold and silver coins and the letters from President Grant we found."

Incredulity spread across Tom Curry's face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, stuffing the glasses into his shirt pocket.

"Start at the beginning. And just who in the hell is we?" *** "He had every right to jump down my throat," Sara concluded. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it and twisted her class ring. Kerney sat at the far end of Sara's couch, legs extended, feet crossed. His cowboy hat rested on the cushion, still dusty and slightly mangled-looking. He wore a collarless maroon pullover shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of blue jeans. Sara wondered if he owned anything but jeans. The shirt accentuated Kerney's well-formed upper body.

"I'm glad to see you're not feeling sorry for yourself." Gutierrez's inventory was in his shirt pocket, yet to be revealed.

"Don't be snide." Kerney blinked in surprise at Sara's reaction.

"I meant it as a compliment. What did Curry say?"

"I think my report dampened his enthusiasm to have me cashiered. I got off with an unofficial reprimand."

"Are you off the case?" In the act of taking a sip of her wine, Sara pulled the glass away from her lips.

"Um, no. Officially, the FBI has the ball. A special agent by the name of Johnson is heading up the investigation. Did you find anything in Santa Fe?"

Kerney grinned, took out the inventory, and waved it at her.

"Gutierrez mailed an interesting letter to himself. Care to guess what was in it?"

"Don't give me a hard time." She wiggled her fingers at him. "Come on, fork it over." Minutes passed after Kerney gave her the inventory before she peered at him over the edge of the paper.

"This is incredible."

"Three to four million dollars' worth of incredible," he replied. "I had an expert give me a rough estimate. There's more. I stopped at the historical museum in Truth or Consequences. They have archival material on the history of Fort McRae, a post that operated on the north end of the Jomada during the Indian Wars. According to the records, in the spring of 1873 a detachment left the fort with military supplies bound for Fort Stanton. The convoy was attacked as it entered the Tularosa Valley. Eight soldiers were killed, along with three scouts, and all the mules and horses were stolen."

Sara waited for Kerney to continue. He didn't. She prodded him.

"Is that all?"

"The entire supply train was sacked by a band of Warm Springs Apaches led by a chief named Victorio. Nothing was ever recovered."

"Does it match the inventory?"

"I don't know. That information wasn't available. The person I talked to said it was probably in old War Department records. But I think Gutierrez found the spoils of that raid."

"That's extraordinary," Sara said.

"If you're right, Gutierrez was moving the cache in stages."

"And we showed up during the last run," Kerney agreed.

She flicked the papers with a finger.

"But moving it where?"

"Gutierrez would need an agent to manage the sale. The best way to sell it without getting caught is to a foreign buyer."

"Where does that take us?"

"Juarez," Kerney said.

"We're only forty miles from the border. Mexico is too close not to be his first choice. Customs should be able to tell me who the big smugglers are. Chances are Gutierrez at least put out feelers in Juarez, trying to connect with somebody." Sara shifted position and started pulling at her ring.

"You're assuming the transaction hasn't been concluded."

"I am. The postmark on Gutierrez's letter is dated last week. His notes indicate that he sent some samples to a buyer to prove he was selling legitimate goods. Besides, why would Gutierrez have any inventory left if the deal had been consummated? It wouldn't make sense."

"I'm way overdue for a leave."

Kerney shook his head. "Don't even think about it. You've got a career to protect." Her expression turned serious.

"You shouldn't go in alone."

"There's no risk."

"I'll query Interpol and see what they can tell us." Sara chewed on her lip reflectively before continuing.

"I've got an investigator in Juarez, Eddie Tapia, working an WOL case. He knows the area like the back of his hand."

"That would help. Can you contact him?"

"I should hear from him by midmorning."

"I can't wait that long. When he calls, give him my description and ask him to keep an eye out for me."

"He knows who you are," Sara replied.

"He was on your tail for two days." Kerney laughed, stood up, and tested his knee. It almost buckled on him. He started for the door, a grimace of pain on his face.

"Where are you going?"

"It's late and I'm leaving." Sara motioned for him to stay.

"You can sleep in the spare bedroom." The invitation was appealing for a lot of reasons, but he kept moving.

"I don't want to impose."

"Don't be silly. You look like you won't make it ten feet without collapsing. The spare bedroom is made up and the hall bathroom is right next to it. You won't disturb me a bit."

"Okay, you talked me into it. I'll get my gear." He was almost dragging his right leg as he went out the front door.

Michael McGarrity

Tularosa — Michael McGarrity *** Unable to sleep, Kerney flipped the covers back, sat up, and painfully lifted his leg over the side of the bed. His thigh and calf muscles were cramping badly, the result of too much time behind the wheel frozen in one position, no exercise, and the persistent strain on the leg from his unnatural gait. He turned on the lamp and stared at the leg with loathing; it hadn't hurt this much in over two years. Hobbling to the hall bathroom as quietly as he could, he sat on the toilet seat, ran hot water in the sink, soaked a towel in water that scalded his hands, and wrapped it on the leg, gently rubbing the warmth into the muscle. When the heat dissipated, he wrung out the towel, ran more hot water, and repeated the process. He was starting a third application when a tapping at the closed door came and he heard Sara's voice.

"Are you all right?"

"More or less," he answered.

"Can I come in?"

"I guess." Sara slipped inside the small bathroom, misted with condensation. On the toilet seat, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, Kerney held his calf with both hands, a steaming towel against the skin, a look of pure suffering on his face. Kerney's rebuilt knee had an abnormal bulge. The scar on his belly seemed to cut his torso in half.

"Would a heat pad and some ointment help?" Sara asked.

"Very much."

"I'll get them. Go stretch out on the bed." She left quickly.

In the bedroom, Sara put a heating pad on his lower leg and rubbed ointment on his thigh. As she kneaded the muscles, her eyes drifted to the scar, but she said nothing. After switching the pad to the thigh, she worked on his calf before ordering him to roll over on his stomach. She rubbed more ointment on his leg and, using the heating pad and her strong hands, eased the tightness.

After a long time she stopped, and the room was silent except for their breathing. Kerney couldn't see her. He started to turn over and felt her hand pressing between his shoulder blades.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Much better," he said.

"How much better?"

"A lot."

"Good," she said softly. The light went out, and he felt her weight on the bed. Her fingers traveled down his back and tugged at his shorts as she stretched out beside him.