Under the color of law

Chapter 13

Sara's early-morning cranky stomach slowed them down. She drank a special herbal tea she'd brought along and waved off Kerney's suggestion to proceed without her. His attempts to comfort her were likewise rebuffed.

She dressed while Kerney booked the hotel suite for the remainder of the weekend. She emerged from the bedroom looking shaky and pale.

Kerney wondered how she could do a five-mile run every weekday morning before her classes at Fort Leavenworth.

On the streets school buses collected small groups of waiting students at intersections, slowing up impatient drivers who zipped around the buses as soon as the red warning lights stopped flashing.

They waited behind a bus and Sara said, "Before Lieutenant Molina showed up, I did some Internet surfing on Trade Source. Proctor Straley was one of the original investors. He netted fifty million dollars after the company went public, and still holds a sizable block of shares."

The school bus moved. Kerney let cars go around before passing.

"That tangles the web a bit," he said.

"What if the information Phyllis Terrell passed on to Father Mitchell came from her father and not the ambassador?"

"I've given that some thought," Sara said.

"If Straley is involved in the cover-up, Ingram will have warned him by now about our interest in his Trade Source connection."

"If Straley's guarded when meet with him, or not the grieving father, that could tell he's been alerted."

"Not necessarily," Sara said.

"Straley's a heavyweight corporate player. He's dealt with hostile take-overs, angry shareholders, and a Justice Department antitrust probe. I bet he knows how to hold a good poker hand."

On the valley road to the Stewart residence an SLJV filled with school-aged teenagers sped by. Sara looked at the hillside houses and the sweet mountain views. Cloudlike wisps of snow floated off higher peaks. Soft morning light sparkled against the tree cover.

"Nice neighborhood," she said.

"Why don't we rent something up here until we build?"

"Are you serious?"

"Don't be such a penny-pincher, Kerney. Spend some of those riches you've inherited."

Kerney rolled to a stop in Stewart's driveway.

"Let me girl-talk with Mrs. Stewart," Sara said.

"Are you feeling up to it?"

Sara ate a saltine cracker, gave Kerney a winsome smile, swung her legs out of the truck, and said, "I'm fine."

Kerney hung back and let Sara take the lead. The older woman who let them into the foyer spoke in hushed tones. Her daughter couldn't possibly be disturbed, the family was in mourning, the children would become even more upset than they already were.

Sara countered with a sympathetic smile and reassurances. She understood completely, the visit would be brief, there was new information to be shared.

The woman left to consult with her daughter. She came back and took them down a long hallway past a kitchen where an older man was preparing breakfast for two silent young boys sitting at a long country-style table. They climbed stairs to a second-floor master suite where Mrs.

Stewart sat on a couch in a sitting room clutching a pillow around her stomach. A long velour skirt covered her legs. Her hair, parted in the middle, fell loosely across her shoulders. She had a sharp nose that didn't detract from her wholesome good looks, and eyes that seemed slightly tranquilized. An untouched cup of coffee sat within arm's reach on an end table.

"Lori, are you sure you want to talk now?" the older woman asked.

"It's all right, Mother."

"Do you want me to stay with you?"

"No, you go on."

The woman left and Sara sat on the far end of the couch. Kerney moved to a horizontal window that framed the valley panorama below and perched silently on a low ranch-style bench.

Sara turned to face Lori.

"Thank you for seeing us. I know this must be hard."

"What do you want to tell me?"

"We have evidence that strongly suggests your husband was with Phyllis Terrell the night she was killed," Sara said.

Lori Stewart studied Sara unflinchingly.

"What bearing does that have on Randall's death?"

"You're not surprised?"

"From what I've read, her killer was identified by the FBI," Mrs.

Stewart replied.

"Randall may have been many things, but he was not a murderer."

"Many things?" Sara echoed.

"I'd rather not go into it."

"I can understand how you might want to keep family matters private,"

Sara said.

"My parents adored Randall," Lori said.

"Now that he's gone I see no need for them to feel otherwise."

"He was with Phyllis the night she was murdered."

"I'd rather not comment."

"I know how difficult it can be to talk about personal matters with strangers," Sara said.

"If you wish, for the sake of your parents and your children, what you tell us doesn't have to be made public."

Lori reached for her coffee with a shaky hand. She clasped the cup with both hands, took a sip, and said, "You can promise me that?"

"Yes," Sara said.

"Please tell me about Phyllis and Randall."

"I never wanted Randall dead. I only wanted him out of my life. I knew he was sleeping with Phyllis. It wasn't the first time he'd been unfaithful."

"Tell me how you knew."

Lori Stewart put the coffee cup down.

"It started six months after Phyllis moved in. We'd met her socially at neighborhood gatherings, and I could see that Randall was drawn to her.

She started calling and asking if she could borrow him to help her with her computer. He liked to think he was something of an expert.

Soon after that it became obvious what was happening."

"How so?" Sara asked.

"He changed his jogging schedule. Said he thought it would be better to go running later at night, especially during the warm weather. He'd be gone much too long."

"Did you confront him with your suspicions?" Sara asked.

Lori Stewart shook her head.

"No. I talked to an attorney about divorcing him.

He said I'd be much better off to wait until after our tenth anniversary to do it. The court takes a more favorable view of equitable settlements if the marriage has had longevity."

"Was that your plan?"

"Yes, I was going to file for divorce in six months."

"And Randall didn't know about it?" Sara asked.

"No one did. It would've been hard enough to face my parents and the boys when the time came. As far as Randall was concerned, he was happily married with a nearby honey pot to dip into."

"On the night Phyllis Terrell was murdered, did you know he was with her?"

"Yes. He said he had to stay up late to do some work. I went to bed.

After he thought I was sleeping, he left the house. I saw him cut across the arroyo to the Terrell property. I stayed awake until he came back.

He was gone for an hour."

"What time was that?"

"He left at a quarter to eleven and got back shortly before midnight.

The next day, when I learned that Phyllis had been murdered, I thought about telling the police. But I was certain in my mind that he couldn't have killed Phyllis. No one who has done something terrible like that can fall asleep so easily."

"Could he have left the house again after you went to sleep?"

"I would've known it. Randall always wakes me up when he gets out of bed. I'm a very light sleeper."

"Thank you," Sara said.

Kerney stood up.

"What size shoe did your husband wear?"

Lori Stewart gave Kerney a bewildered look.

"A size nine. He had very narrow feet. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," he said, stepping to the door. The shoe print found at the Terrell residence was a size larger.

"That's all for now. We won't take any more of your time."

Traffic backed up along the feeder road to the Interstate. Soccer moms cut across lanes, hurrying to get kids to school before the tardy bell rang. Big-rig truckers pulled off on the shoulder of the road at a twenty-four-hour stop-and-rob near the southbound onramp for coffee refills.

"If you're going to become an alley cat, Kerney, tell me now," Sara said.

Kerney laughed.

"I bet Lori Stewart, on advice of counsel, kept a diary of her husband's late-night visits to Phyllis Terrell."

"What a good idea," Sara said brightly.

"I'll have to remember that. I almost choked when she said she didn't want her husband dead."

"At least she managed to keep the dollar signs from flashing in her eyes."

"Tidy-looking lives can be so messy," Sara said.

"Let's not do that," Kerney said.

"Do what?"

Kerney shrugged.

"Fake it with each other."

Sara patted Kerney's cheek.

"Not a chance."

"You don't think it's possible?"

"Ask me in ten years."

Kerney accelerated south down the Interstate. It was a good four-hour drive to Ramah, where Proctor Straley lived. None of the vehicles behind him looked suspicious. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror anyway.

Sal Molina went to Jake's home, only to be told by his wife that he was up on the mesa for the weekend at the family's ranch feeding cattle.

She gave him directions and Molina drove the all-wheel drive minivan up the unpaved rocky country road, skidding over frozen mud bogs, digging through deep snow-covered slushy ruts, until he reached the old abandoned farming settlement of Ojo de la Vaca. Roofless church and schoolhouse walls still stood along the dirt road and a few dilapidated cabins peppered the valley. Molina drove down a dirt track to a cabin where smoke rose from the chimney and a hay trailer hitched to a pickup truck was parked outside.

An unsmiling Jake waited for him on the front step. Bits of hay clung to his faded sweatshirt and dusted his curly salt-and-pepper hair.

"What are you doing here?" Jake asked.

"You've got cows, Jake?" Molina said.

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah, I've got cows. What do you want?"

Molina looked across the narrow valley to a pine forest that filled a ridgeline.

"It's pretty out here. Old family place?"

"My great-grandfather settled it. Get to the point, Molina."

"You know what I want."

Jake shook his head.

"You got your favor for helping my son, so I'm off the hook with you, Molina."

"Don't put me in a position that could cost you your job, Jake," Sal replied.

"You've gotta need the money it brings in. Look, up to now, you're a nameless confidential informant. Let's keep it that way."

"Don't threaten me."

"Come on, Jake. You were a cop for twenty-five years. How many times did you have to give somebody a little push?"

"Enough. But I never ratted off a snitch."

"Neither have I, and I don't want to. I've only got a couple of questions. Did you ever get a look inside the basement room?"

"What if I did?"

"I don't care about the people in the room. I'm just interested in the equipment and machines you might have seen, stuff you would have easily recognized."

"Are you going for a search warrant?"

"If we do, there will be no names in the affidavit and we'll ask for a sealed order."

"Good luck," Jake said.

"Help me out here, Jake. I've got dead bodies piled up and the feds lying through their teeth to me."

"The way I hear it, the damn case is solved."

"You heard about the murdered priest? It's part of the same investigation "You gotta be kidding me," Jake said.

"I'm not. Cut me a break, Jake. I promise you won't be involved.

What's in the room?"

"I only went in once to do a search when a bomb threat was called in.

That was seven, maybe eight months ago. Mostly it's filled with communication gear and computers."

"Any surveillance equipment?" Molina asked.

"Some of that too."

"Like what?"

"Wand microphones, wiretap units, miniature video cameras, room bugs."

"Keep going," Molina said, writing everything down. *** Blindfolded, cuffed, and shackled, Charlie Perry felt hands lift him off the bed into a standing position. His body felt rubbery, alien, feeble. The heavy dose of muscle relaxants made his knees buckle, his arms flap at his sides. His mind was giddy, untroubled, his thoughts scatterbrained. He could sense the presence of a goofy smile on his face. He giggled and wondered what type of psychotropic drug they'd used on him.

Two pairs of hands removed his cuffs and shackles and stripped off his clothes.

The blindfold stayed in place throughout. He shivered as the cold metal cuffs and shackles were tightened down and locked around his wrists and ankles. Guided to a chair, he sat and waited. A hand rubbed warm lather with the scent of cheap shaving cream across his face. A razor scraped across his chin. He felt the blade nick his Adam's apple. A hand grabbed his wrist and straightened his arm.

He felt the prick of a needle in a vein.

The cuffs and shackles came off again. He was lifted to his feet and dressed.

Everything fit perfectly. Keys and a wallet went into his trouser pockets, socks and shoes went on his feet, tape was pressed over his mouth, an empty shoulder holster was strapped on.

Restrained again, walked to the bed and laid out, Charlie wondered why the hands didn't just kill him and put him in a coffin. He tried to keep track of time, but lost count as a wave of memories flooded his mind. He was back salmon fishing in Alaska with his father, then walking a Jamaican beach with his first girlfriend after college. He couldn't remember her name.

The sound of chopper blades intruded. He was pulled to his feet and marched outside. The cold air had a parched, dusty smell, his feet crunched on hard-packed sand, the wind whistled relentlessly.

Bundled into the helicopter, Charlie knew he was leaving the desert.

But he didn't care. He was still trying to remember the name of the girl on the beach.

Outside Albuquerque, Kerney and Sara headed west up Nine Mile Hill.

Soon the old trestle bridge that straddled the Rio Puerco on a dead-end stretch of old Route 66 came into view. Fifty miles to the south Ladron Peak, a hideout for thieves and rustlers in the territorial days, broke the horizon.

They sped through hill country that dipped and rose to reveal the ancient Laguna Indian Pueblo, where low adobe homes clustered around a humble white church.

Kerney eased off the Interstate at Grants. Established as a coaling station for the railroad, the town had thrived on logging and mining operations for a time, but now survived on the payroll from a state prison and the money travelers left behind as they stopped for meals, gas, or a night's lodging.

The icy state road to Ramah forced Kerney to slow down. For a while Sara imagined herself simply on a pleasant weekend outing. The porous black lava beds of the malpais mesmerized her. Stark and vast, it had a harsh, unrelenting beauty.

The badlands drew Sara's thoughts to Kerney. Could he ever be drawn away from a place of such breathtaking horizons, immense spaces, limitless skies, sweeping mountains? Probably not. Much like her father and brother, who ranched in Montana, Kerney's connection to the land was inbred and strong. In her heart that affinity made him even more endearing.

She rubbed her hand on his leg.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sara said.

The weather closed in, bringing wind-driven snow. Past the badlands they moved through frosted mountain woodlands that gradually gave way to fallow pastures and glimpses of red rock mesas. The storm lifted outside of Ramah, swirling away to reveal a cold blue sky.

They passed El Moro National Monument, a massive sandstone butte with Indian ruins on the top and inscriptions carved into the soft rock at the bottom by early Spanish and Anglo explorers. yond El Moro giant monolithic figures, carved out of the sandstone by wind and rain, stood like sentinels overlooking a broad valley. They climbed a gentle rise, dropped into a shallow basin, and entered the Mormon settlement of Ramah, a charming village of stone and wood-frame houses with pitched tin roofs, fenced yards, and massive cottonwood trees. The fresh snow made everything look picture-postcard perfect.

Kerney stopped at a restaurant and got directions to Proctor Stra ley's ranch.

He cut fresh tracks on a snow-covered dirt road that wandered past some ancient cliff dwellings, narrowed down to a fence-lined track, and then opened onto miles of rangeland. The road led to one solitary round-top mesa where a cluster of buildings stood.

As they drew closer, Sara studied the buildings. The original ranch house had a hand-chiseled stone exterior, an enclosed front porch, and dormer windows. Some distance away on a small rise stood a flat-roof, modern Santa Fe-style adobe home. Beyond it, a little higher still, an estate-size residence with separate guest cottages, a swimming pool and cabana, and a detached six-car garage surrounded by perfectly landscaped grounds sprawled at the foot of the mesa.

"My, my," Sara said as Kerney braked to a stop, "what a nice place Proctor Straley has here."

"Where's the barn?" Kerney asked.

"The shipping pens? Equipment sheds? Not to mention the cattle."

"Gentlemen ranchers prefer to have such things out of sight," Sara answered in a highbrow tone.

"After all, it's a question of ambience."

Kerney laughed.

"You mean they don't want to get cow shit on their boots."

"Exactly," Sara said, climbing out of the truck.

"Let's go see what kind of feed supplement Proctor Straley favors for his herd."

Kerney laughed again. It felt good. *** A housekeeper took them through a great room with an arched wood ceiling offset by pale white smooth plaster walls. Recessed lighting accentuated oversized western paintings by modern cowboy artists. Deep green sofas and chairs were arranged to create quiet conversation areas.

Large slabs of polished marble on pedestal bases served as tables, and expensive Navajo rugs littered the hardwood floor.

Proctor Straley waited for them in front of a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace in a study room. A row of windows gave a view of the open range and forested ridge beyond. Under his feet on the flagstone floor was an early Navajo chief's blanket with strong alternating black and red horizontal stripes broken by a series of zigzag diamond motifs.

Heavyset with a ruddy complexion and closely clipped gray hair, Straley carried his seventy-plus years well. He had the eyes of a man who knew how to watch and listen.

Kerney flashed his shield and introduced Sara as Lieutenant Brannon.

Straley moved behind an oval mahogany desk, motioned at two low-back leather chairs, and waited for Kerney and Sara to settle in.

"Did you get a call that we were coming?" Kerney asked.

"No," Straley replied.

"Then I'm sorry if we've inconvenienced you," Kerney said with a smile.

"My secretary was supposed to call."

"She didn't," Straley said.

"Why are you here?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"What are they?"

"Were you aware of your daughter's affair with Scott Gatlin?" Kerney asked.

"Yes, but what's the point?" Straley asked.

"We're not convinced your daughter was murdered by Gatlin," Kerney said.

"Does that possibility interest you?"

Intense curiosity flickered in Straleys eyes.

"I hired Scott Gatlin, brought him to this ranch, treated him like a member of the family, trusted him. If he killed my daughter, I bear part of the burden. How do you think that makes a father feel?"

"Terrible," Sara said softly.

"How did you learn other affair with Gadin?"

"Phyllis never hid who she was or what she did from me, although there were times I wished she had. It took me many years to accept that she was a woman with strong appetites who didn't care what other people thought of her."

"It must have been difficult to raise such a daughter," Sara said.

Straley smiled wanly.

"We were always clashing. She could be as tough minded as any man I've known. While her mother was alive, she protected Phyllis from my censure. I was very disapproving of the way she lived. We had what you might call an uneasy truce over the past ten years."

"But you kept a relationship with her," Sara said.

Straley nodded.

"Absolutely. I did love her and I miss her deeply. She could light up a room with her exuberance. She had a special charisma that drew people to her, especially men."

"What do you know about her relationships with men?" Sara asked.

"She would only talk about them if I asked, and for a long time I avoided the subject. She had what she called her one-love rat-a time rule. As far as I know she never deviated from it, no matter if the affair lasted a week or a year.

Occasionally a lover would filter back into her life, but most were permanently banished. I think, in her own way, she was looking for the perfect mate to match her."

"You know this as fact?" Sara asked.

Straley nodded.

"After years of arguing she forced the issue with me. We spent an entire night staying up and talking right here in this room over a bottle of Scotch. She wanted me to understand why she lived as she did."

"What did you learn?" Sara asked.

"That she saw no reason not to find pleasure with men. That few could match her as equals. That she had no desire to be possessed or owned.

She firmly believed she could live by her own rules."

"Was she faithful to the ambassador?" Kerney inquired.

"Until the point of their separation, I'd say yes."

"What caused the break?" Sara asked.

"She never said, but it came suddenly. I assume Hamilton tried to dominate or control her, which was something that wouldn't do with Phyllis. After all, he had spent many years in the military as a high ranking officer and was used to being in command. Starting out, I think Phyllis may have been drawn to the qualities of leadership she saw in Hamilton. Perhaps she felt she'd found that perfect match," Sara asked questions about the ambassador's personal qualities. Straley sketched Terrell as confident, mature, responsible, and even tempered.

He noted that Terrell had been aware of Phyllis's reputation, appeared unconcerned about it, and seemed very much in love with her.

It wasn't a portrait of the bullying, self-serving officer Kerney remembered from Vietnam. Either Straley wasn't as sharp as he seemed, or Terrell had done one hell of an acting job.

Kerney approached the issue from a different angle.

"How did Terrell wind up on the Trade Source board of directors?"

"I recommended him at his request," Straley said.

"He was between diplomatic appointments at the time, and with his government and military background I thought he could serve the corporation well."

"In what ways?" Kerney asked.

"Trade Source was founded as a venture capital company looking to expand into South American media, publishing, print, and television markets.

The Hispanic population is burgeoning, becoming more sophisticated, especially in large South American cities. That caught my interest as an investor. In Hamilton's prior diplomatic postings he'd worked closely with foreign officials who could open doors to overseas investors. We wanted to make sure each entry into a foreign market would have strong local appeal."

Sara picked up the thread.

"From what I've learned, Trade Source doesn't have a strong media focus anymore," she said.

"Which is why I left the board," Straley said.

"I'm a media man, always have been. Newspapers, magazines, television, the Internet, and radio stations interest me. That's where my corporate expansion goals lie."

"Why did Trade Source veer off in a different direction?" Sara asked.

"Hamilton brought a proposal to the board that had the strong backing of the Commerce, Treasury, and State Departments. They were interested in helping developing nations in South America establish a banking and financial technological infrastructure without using foreign aid appropriations. Trade Source was asked to provide the venture capital, identify subcontractors, and oversee the initiative under a memorandum of understanding that guaranteed reimbursement for all costs plus an equitable profit margin. I opposed it."

"Why?"

"It wasn't where I wanted the company to go, and I didn't think we had the resources to take on two major corporate initiatives simultaneously."

"How did it play out?" Kerney asked.

"Hamilton arranged important meetings between Trade Source corporate officers and ranking financial leaders and money managers in Peru, Venezuela, and Ecuador. Ultimately, Trade Source signed contracts to supply hardware and software products, plus provide technical assistance and training."

"Was Trade Source acting as an agent for a U. S. Government foreign aid package?"

Kerney asked.

"You could look at it that way," Straley replied, "but it wouldn't be accurate.

Using privatization strategies to achieve government goals has become commonplace on the federal level."

"Why did Trade Source buy APT Performa?" Kerney asked.

"As I understand it, that was done based on Hamilton's recommendation.

I was off the board by then, but I heard that APT Per forma had exactly what was needed to begin putting the necessary systems together."

"Do you know Clarence Thayer?" Kerney asked.

"Only by reputation. I understand he runs a tight ship and knows his business."

"What about SWAMI?" Kerney asked.

"That's another issue entirely. As I understand it, Thayer sold the company but kept the rights of certain proprietary inventions. SWAMI was one of those. It was at an early stage of development at the time and not much was made of it.

From what I've read recently it's about to make Thayer and his outside investors very rich men."

"Do you know anything about Terrell's personal finances?" Sara asked.

"Hamilton lives comfortably," Straley said.

"He's not rich by any means, although I know he'd like to be."

"What if he's found a way to become rich?"

Straley gave Sara a studied look.

"Are you suggesting Hamilton may have held back what he knew about SWAMI from the board for a piece of the action from APT Performa?"

"Why not?" Sara replied.

"A technological breakthrough like SWAMI is almost priceless. Granted, Terrell would have eventually made some profits through the stock he held as a board member if Trade Source had secured the rights to SWAMI."

"But what if he cut a sweetheart deal with Thayer to keep SWAMI off the negotiating table for a bigger piece of the pie?"

Straley cocked his head.

"Hamilton has always wanted to be a major money player."

"Think about it," Sara said.

"Terrell brought the APT Performa proposal to the Trade Source board, made the arrangements to bring various federal agencies to the table, and coordinated meetings with South American financial representatives.

Did he do it solely for patriotic reasons?"

"I doubt it," Straley said, holding up a hand to stop further questions.

"But what does any of this have to do with your contention that Scott Gatlin may not have murdered my daughter?"

"We think your daughter was killed because of what she knew," Kerney said, "not because of who she slept with. We believe she learned secrets about her husband's activities that may be directly related to Trade Source, APT Performa, and the SWAMI project."

"What do you think she knew?" Straley asked.

"First, let me give you some facts," Kerney said. He highlighted the major points, concentrating on the FBI cover-up of Phyllis Terrell's murder, her connection to. Father Mitchell, the priest's probe into intelligence operations in South America, and Hamilton Terrell's involvement in the coverup.

"These facts are fully documented?" Straley asked when Kerney stopped talking.

"They are."

"So, what did my daughter learn that got her killed?"

"That, we don't know," Kerney said.

"But, one way or another it directly relates to your son-in-law."

"If it's a government secret, you're never going to know," Straley said.

"Are you willing to share your documentation with me?"

"This isn't a news story, Mr. Straley," Sara said.

Straley looked at Sara straight on.

"I know how the government can manipulate the media under the guise of national security to suit its own purposes, young lady. I have no intention of falling into that trap. But I want to look at your facts for myself before I decide what to do."

"What can you do?" Kerney asked.

"If Terrell played an active role in causing my daughter's death, as you've suggested, I will find a way to poison his reputation. Sometimes innuendo can ruin a career just as quickly as a front-page scandal headline."

"Perhaps something will show up in your mailbox from an anonymous source," Kerney said as he stood up.

"I'll keep my eye out for it, Chief Kerney." *** Until Kerney and Sara Brannon left Santa Fe, Applewhite had worried about finding the right killing field. Since the hit had to be staged, icing Kerney at home wouldn't do. No matter how well orchestrated, neighbors might see things, remember little details, especially on a weekend, when people were at home.

Applewhite went high-speed mobile down the Interstate in Charlie Perry's car, putting the details into play on the radio. She had Charlie airborne. The pilot had instructions to maintain a holding pattern once he was in range. The men tailing Kerney were in Ramah, ten kilometers away from Proctor Straley's ranch, ready to follow Kerney as soon as he moved. She punched up images on her onboard laptop that gave her satellite visuals of the terrain, roads, vehicles, and structures along Kerney's route.

The area was bracketed by National Forest, Indian land, and the malpais, and had few permanent residents. A winter storm in the mountains had brought local traffic to a standstill.

Storm clouds masked a portion of the satellite visuals. Apple white switched to a Global Positioning System that highlighted topography of the area. Defined by a prominent ridgeline, the uplift ran for a good sixty miles. A state road cut through it at the Continental Divide, dropped out of the mountains, and ran straight west for about fifteen miles through canyons, mesas, and frontage pasture land. The stretch of road would do nicely for a killing field.

Charlie's luggage was in the trunk, along with a wad of greenbacks and a bank confirmation of a six-figure deposit in an offshore account. The money could easily be traced back to Enrique De Leon The fast-moving storm slammed into her east of Grants. She fought her way through it, breaking into sunshine and a slushy pavement. The chopper pilot radioed a diversion around the storm. She caught the turnoff to Ramah through the badlands just as the helicopter reported a twenty-minute ETA.

Past the village of San Rafael the highway was snow packed with no traffic. As she entered the Zuni Mountains the road turned to snow-covered ice.

The chopper came into view out of the southwest. Applewhite asked for an LZ location. The pilot radioed he could off load at a clearing near the road to Paxton Springs.

"Give me a visual on traffic," Applewhite said.

"There's one four-by-four behind you, eight clicks back," the pilot replied.

"Nothing's coming at you for a good twelve clicks, and it's slow moving all the way. The LZ is behind tree cover and out of sight from the highway."

"Copy that," Applewhite said.

She plowed off the pavement at the Paxton Springs turnoff through eight inches of snow, and bumped her way to the waiting chopper. The wash of the slow-moving propeller blades dusted snow off the tall pine trees, creating eddies that puffed and then disappeared in the wind.

Applewhite gave the pilot orders while two men in fatigues loaded a drugged, rubbery Charlie Perry into the backseat of the car.

The pilot nodded, put a hand to his headset, and said, "The target is moving."

"Let's do it," Applewhite replied.

Bobby Sloan lost sight of Applewhite on the curves through the mountains. When she'd switched to Perry's car in the APT Performa parking lot, he'd been forced to maintain visual contact. He put the Bronco into low four-wheel drive and pushed it to the max to make up ground. Wheels spun snow and tires whined as he hit ice. He pointed the Bronco down the middle of the road, fishtailing through curves, downshifting on short straightaways, until he made it through the pass and had a clean line of sight down the empty road. Nothing.

Where the hell was she? She couldn't have been moving that fast. With no homing devices on Charlie Perry's car, he had no way to track her.

A helicopter came out of the mountains, flying low, gaining altitude, moving toward Ramah. It changed course, came straight back at him, and flew overhead.

He watched in the rearview mirror as it cleared the mountain and disappeared from view.

He slowed, made a cautious U-turn, and went looking for Applewhite.

She had to be somewhere behind him. But where? He crawled along at ten miles an hour looking for car tracks off the road. At the Paxton Springs turnoff Applewhite's car almost sideswiped the Bronco as she slid onto the highway.

She careened by, steering into a slight spin before straightening the wheels.

Bobby took a quick look, ducked his head, and kept moving in the opposite direction. When she was out of sight he pulled to the side of the road.

Applewhite had left Santa Fe alone, of that Sloan was certain. But he was just as certain he'd seen a head bob up in the backseat when she passed him.

He swung the Bronco around, hoping he hadn't been made, wondering what in the hell was going on.

The tape across his mouth didn't keep Charlie Perry from giggling.

Although the blindfold kept him from seeing things, the helicopter ride had been exciting.

For a while they'd gone up and down like a bumpy roller coaster with the blades thud, thud, thudding, and the wind swoosh, swoosh, swooshing outside. It had been lots of fun.

Now he was swishing along in a car. This was better than Disneyland, where his father had taken a picture of him pulling Donald Duck's tail.

Charlie tried to grin. The tape across his mouth made it impossible, his ankles and wrists were hurting a little bit, and he wished someone would take the blindfold off. He wondered if he'd done something bad, and what was going to happen next.

Muddy slush from the ranch road splat ted the truck windshield. Kerney turned on the wipers while Sara weighed in with her take on the Straley interview. Hamilton Terrell had been the point man for the operation since day one. He'd married Phyllis Terrell to position himself favorably with Proctor Straley, and then used Straley to wangle his way onto the Trade Source board. After that it had been just a matter of swaying the board with the promise of a lot of easy money from the public coffers.

Kerney agreed it had all been a setup to mask SWAMI and set the stage for Terrell's secret trade mission. Both had to be tied together, otherwise all the killing made no sense. But proving anything still remained highly remote, getting to Terrell wouldn't be easy, and time was running out.

Most of the tire tracks on the snow-covered road gave out when they reached the Pine Hill Navajo Reservation cutoff. They passed the snow-tinged butte of El Moro National Monument. The powerful, beautiful presence of it made Sara want to stop and play tourist. She wistfully thought about asking Kerney to bring her down on a weekend jaunt, and quickly nixed the idea. There might be no weekend jaunts with Kerney if she didn't stay alert and focused.

The vehicle tracking Kerney reported in. He had a five-minute ETA to Applewhite's location. She asked about road traffic. No vehicles other than Kerney's were traveling east. She told the surveillance driver to keep it that way.

Applewhite had spotted Detective Sloan when she'd passed him at the Paxton Springs cutoff. She got confirmation from the chopper pilot that she was still being followed.

"Keep him out of my zone."

"Affirmative," the pilot said.

"Are you authorizing deadly force?"

"Do whatever it takes," Applewhite said, as she eased to a stop along a straight stretch of road.

"Is anything else moving toward me?"

"Negative," the pilot said.

"Close the road behind me," she said.

Applewhite staged a one-car accident. She drove the car at an angle off the road, turning the wheels to put it into a skid. She backed up and adjusted the car's position so that a raised front hood would keep Kerney from seeing in as he approached. She pulled Perry out of the backseat, put him behind the steering wheel, took off the blindfold, ripped the tape from his mouth, locked him inside the vehicle, and popped the hood.

Charlie gave her an insipid smile through the car window. She got a rifle and ammunition out of the trunk, moved over a fence into tree cover, and waited.

The cop in Kerney would force him to stop and investigate.

Taking him out would be another enjoyable hit. But the prospect of whacking Sara Brannon made Applewhite break into a big smile.

Bobby Sloan saw the helicopter land on the pavement and went cross-country through the trees to get around it. He caught a glimpse of the pilot watching him and talking rapidly into his headset as he bounced by. He ground the Bronco through a snowbank to get back on the road and the front wheels bottomed out in a ditch. He slammed the gearbox into reverse and the back tires screamed as he inched his way out.

Just as the rear wheels gripped solid, Sloan heard the chopper. He geared into low, took the ditch at an angle, and spun rubber down the road. Before he could make the curve, the chopper dropped down sideways in front of him. The door on the chopper slid open, and the windshield exploded in Sloan's face as he took fire.

He felt a nick on his neck as he gunned the Bronco back into the trees.

The back window blew out and he could hear rounds slamming into the tailgate. He redlined the engine, bounced off a tree, topped a rise, and barreled down to the highway.

He could see Applewhite's car in the distance and the tiny outline of a vehicle coming from the opposite direction.

He downshifted and waited for the chopper to come at him again. Cold air whistled through the vehicle, freezing his face as he punched the accelerator. He felt tired, woozy, unable to focus. He looked down and saw his blood-soaked shirt. He put his hand up to his neck and felt wet spurts as his heart pumped his arteries empty.

Realizing he was a dead man, he tried to squeeze the wound closed anyway. His foot found the brake and the Bronco did a quick three-sixty before tilting on its side and spinning into a tree. Just before impact Bobby Sloan passed out.

Kerney saw the stranded car two hundred yards ahead and slowed. He touched the brake, scanned the vehicle for damage, and couldn't see any.

"What do you think?" he asked Sara.

"I can't tell from here."

He caught a flash of light at the edge of some trees off the south side of the road. He touched the brake again.

"I saw it," Sara said, opening the glove box. She grabbed Kerney's 38, checked the rounds in the cylinder, and emptied a box of ammunition in her coat pocket.

"Do you think it's a setup?"

Kerney unsnapped his holster.

"It may be nothing."

He upshifted, and tried to look inside the car. The raised hood obstructed his view. It was a late-model four-door Ford, just like the one Charlie Perry had been driving. His misgivings jumped ten notches.

"Get down," he snapped.

"I'm going to ram it."

He gunned the engine, drove off the road, and hit the Ford at a slant.

Airbags filled the cab, rounds blew holes in the passenger window and deflated them. He hit the gas pedal hard. Metal crinkled and snapped as he slammed the Ford further off the road. The truck lurched to a stop and Sara followed him out the driver's door and crouched with him behind the protection of a tire.

Rounds peppered the Ford, shattering glass. Kerney took a quick look inside and saw a body slumped awkwardly in the driver's seat.

Blood splatter stained the windshield. He sneaked another look at the trees, took fire, and spotted the shooter's position.

"There's a dead man in the car. The shooter is south of us, in the trees, half a click to the left about ten yards in. Look for the tree with the broken branch."

Sara got a fix on the location.

"Give me covering fire," she said.

"I'll go."

"You can't run that fast, Kerney." She moved away before he could stop her, snaking her way back to the truck.

Kerney followed her, ducked behind the open truck door, reached up, and cut away the deflated airbag from the steering wheel with a pocket knife.

"What are you doing?"

"I can drive faster than you can run," he said.

"You cover me." He pulled out spare magazines and stuffed them in his back pocket.

"We both go," Sara said.

Kerney looked at her hard, ready to argue.

"We don't have time for this, Kerney," Sara snapped.

"Take the right flank."

"Okay." He levered the driver seat back as far as it would go, crawled into it with his head below the windshield, and geared the engine into reverse.

"Ready?"

Sara nodded and moved back to the car. A bullet took out another window in the Ford. Kerney hit the accelerator, raised up, spun the wheel, and headed for the wire stock fence, firing out the driver's-side window in the direction of the trees.

Sara ran zigzag around the trunk of the car to the fence line. Rounds dug into the snow inches away from her. Kerney rammed his way through the fence. Sara crawled under the wire, firing as she went. She got up and started running in a low crouch.

Kerney closed on the sniper's position. The front wheels dipped into a trench and the driver's-side mirror blew apart. He wheeled the truck, hit the brakes, and heard bullets dig into steel. He bailed out, looking for Sara. He saw only her tracks in the snow. He called to her and got no answer. He slammed in a fresh magazine, crawled under the truck, and scanned for any sight of her. A single rifle shot rang out.

"Sara," Kerney yelled.

He saw her rise up out of the trench a hundred feet away and start running for a tree. He emptied the magazine at the sniper and loaded another clip. Sara made it to cover and pointed at the tree closest to Kerney. She pulled off two rounds and kept firing while Kerney sprinted forward.

He slid headfirst behind the. tree, emptied the magazine at the shooters position, fed in another clip, and looked at Sara. She patted her chest and pointed ahead, signaling her next move. Kerney shook his head and watched helplessly as she reloaded and crawled away from cover. He pumped rounds and watched as she disappeared from sight into the grove.

Everything got quiet. The tree with the broken branch was dead ahead.

He looked for movement. Every muscle in his body tensed as he searched for a hard target.

"It's clear," Sara called.

Kerney stayed zeroed in on the tree until Sara stepped out and waved him in. He found her standing over Applewhite's body. There was a bullet hole in her leg, but the killing shot had come from the rifle Applewhite had stuck in her mouth.

"Meet Elaine Cornell," Sara said.

"She was hard core to the end. Let's get out of here."

They drove back to the Ford. The man in the front seat was Charlie Perry. He had a nasty hole in his left temple.

"So that's Charlie Perry," Sara said.

"What's he doing here?"

"I think he was supposed to play patsy," Kerney said.

She reached inside the shattered car window, grabbed the microphone, and keyed it.

"Listen up, you bastards," she said.

"Elaine Cornell is dead, Agent Perry is dead. If you want more, bring it on."

She smiled sweetly at the incredulous look on Kerney's face and tossed the microphone inside the car. A helicopter came out of the forest and veered away. Sara's cell phone rang. She dug it out of an inside pocket.

"Maybe they're calling in their regrets," Kerney said.

"Let's hope so."

Kerney waited impatiently, watched the chopper until it moved over the Zuni Mountains, then gave the truck a quick look-over. The bumper was crumpled, a headlight shattered, and the grill was pushed in. There were scratches on the hood and bullet holes in a front fender, door, and window.

"I've been ordered back to Fort Leavenworth," Sara said with amusement.

She dropped the phone in a pocket and brushed snow off the front of her jeans.

"The Pentagon wants a peacekeeping mission drawn up. Seems there's trouble brewing somewhere in Africa."

"Do you believe that?" Kerney asked as he checked the engine for damage.

It seemed intact.

"Does that thing run?" Sara asked.

"It better."

Sara nodded in agreement.

"It's not unusual for the school to prepare tactical plans and operational field doctrines for peacekeeping missions. Geopolitical assessments based on proposed strategic military deployments have to be factored in if the mission is going to succeed."

"Really?" Kerney said as he cut away the deflated passenger's-side airbag. The road was clear in both directions.

"But do you believe it?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sara said innocently.

"Aren't you interested in geopolitics and military field doctrine?"

"I'm deeply interested. Tell me about it while I drive."

Sara slid onto the seat.

"No, I'd just be babbling."

"Babble all you want," Kerney said as he pulled onto the highway.

"After what just happened, I need the distraction."

Sara prattled a little and Kerney asked stupid questions. Several miles down the road they found Bobby Sloan's body inside the Bronco and their survivors' euphoria vanished.