Hermit_s Peak

Maj. Sara Brannon arrived at her office fifteen minutes before she was due to report to Gen. Henry Powhatan Clarke. She sorted through her mail, looking for a letter from Kevin Kerney. There was no envelope with either a New Mexico postmark or his familiar scrawl.

Disappointed, Sara set the mail aside, took off" her fatigue jacket, and glanced at her wristwatch. It was evening in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and she wondered if Kerney was home from work. With the demands of his job as deputy chief of the New Mexico State Police and his gloomy description of the small guest house he was renting, she doubted he spent much time at home. Born Kerney and she were working long, hard hours in pressure-cooker jobs, and camping out in less than inviting quarters.

Late March in South Korea had brought a series of cloudy, dreary days that made spring seem a long way off. Sara yearned for sunshine and home. But with several months remaining on her tour of duty, it was too soon to start daydreaming.

Her office desk faced a full wall of situation maps documenting all recent North Korean DMZ incursions, infiltrations, and violations. As commander of allied G-2 ground reconnaissance and intelligence units, she was directly responsible for monitoring North Korean troop activity along and inside the DMZ. Her squads had to catch whatever the electronic eyes in the sky missed.

Sara routinely accompanied the patrols to assess their effectiveness and efficiency.

For the last forty-six years, battle-ready armies had faced each other across a swath of rugged mountains two-and-a-half miles wide and a hundred-and-fifty miles long that cut across the Korean peninsula, keeping the zone free of any human activity except intermittent skirmishes. Once blasted by artillery, bombed and strafed by aircraft, burned and left barren by infantry, the DMZ now flourished as a nature preserve. The reforested mountains, abundant grasses, and wildflowers, the deer, brown bears, and wildcats that grazed and fed peacefully in the valleys and the high country, reminded Sara of her family's Montana sheep ranch and Kerney's still unrealized hope to return to his ranching roots in New Mexico.

When G-2 had received advance notice of the itinerary for the secretary of state's South Korean visit, Sara concentrated her attention on Panmunjom, the neutral village within the DMZ fifty miles due north from Seoul. The secretary had scheduled a quick visit to the site, to be accompanied by high-ranking military and civilian dignitaries.

During a series of late-night sweeps at Panmunjom, Sara had spotted the tracks and scat of a Korean wildcat.

On a subsequent patrol, under a full moon, she caught sight of the animal, an adult male about the size of an American cougar. Through night-vision binoculars, she watched it lope quickly across the cleared area around the village and move on.

Two nights before the secretary of state's arrival, she saw the animal again on the same traverse. Halfway across the clearing the big cat froze, turned to catch a downwind breeze coming from the village, reversed direction, and quickly retreated.

Whatever startled the wildcat needed looking into.

Sara got permission to go into the DMZ for a closer look. Her team jumped off late at night from a staging area in a canyon south of Panmunjom, and belly-crawled to the open perimeter surrounding the village, where they waited for the full moon to set.

Under cover of darkness, Sara spread her people out and put the area under close surveillance. For hours nothing moved, but Sara sensed that the North Koreans were up to something. She ordered a ground sweep into the village. As Sara and her team crawled across the clearing, automatic weapon fire opened up from three hidden positions, taking out her point man.

Sara popped flares into the night sky, called for cover fire from the infantry platoon stationed behind the wire, and kept the team moving forward as rounds whined overhead. The green dots from the AK-47 tracers, the red dots from the M-60 machine-gun tracers, and the searing white of the flares cast carnival colors across the night sky.

Using rocket grenade launchers, the team took out two of the positions and stormed the third, capturing a wounded North Korean soldier.

As Sara pulled back with the wounded North Korean and two shot-up team members, the enemy answered with return fire from behind the village.

Another soldier took a round in the exchange, but Sara got everyone out. They hit the safety of the fence and a bank of ten-thousand-watt spotlights lit up the village. All shooting stopped.

Sara stayed with her wounded until the medics got them stabilized and ready to airlift. Then she reported to the command bunker. A South Korean infantry officer was on the telephone in a terse exchange with his opposite number on the other side of the DMZ. The officer hung up and reported to the American colonel at his side an immediate stand-down by the North Koreans.

At dawn, Sara took a platoon of infantry back into the DMZ to inspect the area. They found three tunnels with shielded ceilings to block any traces of body heat that could be detected by satellites. Dug from the North Korean boundary, the tunnels ran to within five hundred feet of the viewing platform that looked over the DMZ, and were positioned to rake the viewing platform in a cross fire. Commando sniper rifles with silencers and telescopic sights were retrieved from the tunnels. Then each tunnel was sealed and destroyed with explosives.

As a result of the thwarted assassination plans, the secretary of state's DMZ visit was cancelled.

Weeks later, Sara was still waiting to hear what the CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency had to say about the incident. The Beltway spy shops had taken full control of the investigation and dropped a heavy security blanket over the episode. Since the firefight, most of Sara's time had been spent either undergoing intense questioning by teams of Intelligence analysts or debriefing Pentagon and National Security Council officials.

She had put her people in for commendations and medals, but hadn't heard a word back through the chain of command. Perhaps the incident would be buried so deep that there'd be no recognition of her team's outstanding performance. Such a morale-buster wouldn't make the rest of her tour any easier. She would have to think of ways to keep the unit's performance at a peak.

Sara looked at her wristwatch again. She had five minutes before her meeting with General Clarke. She put on her fatigue jacket and walked across the street to the headquarters building.

Upon assuming command of Combined Forces in Korea, Gen. Henry Powhatan Clarke had taken one look at his senior staff dressed in their Class-B headquarters uniforms and issued his first order, making fatigues the duty dress of the day for all personnel regardless of rank or assignment. As commander in chief of a combat-ready army, Clarke wanted the staff that would run the war and the line soldiers who would fight it dressed, equipped, and prepared to respond at a moment's notice.

It was the first of many changes Clarke made to hone his army to a high state of readiness.

In a rare exception to his own policy. General Clarke had worn his Class-A uniform to work. His schedule for the day included a meeting with the United States ambassador and senior members of the embassy staff. Of all the ribbons he wore above his left jacket pocket, his most prized was the Good Conduct Ribbon, awarded only to enlisted personnel Serving in "Vietnam at the age of twenty, Henry Powhatan Clarke had won a competitive service appointment to West Point, and had graduated in time to return as platoon leader during the 1968 Tet Offensive.

At his desk, Clarke thumbed through the Defense Intelligence Agency report that had been delivered to his quarters late last night by a special Pentagon courier.

The contents of the report, along with a letter and attached orders from the secretary of defense, had prompted his request to have Maj.

Sara Brannon report to him.

A knock at the open door made General Clarke look up. He smiled and moved to the front of his desk.

"Come in. Major," he said, gesturing toward the two army-issue, metal straight-back office chairs that, by design, made long sit-down sessions almost unbearable. Clarke liked short meetings that got his people up and moving as quickly as possible.

"Thank you, sir," Sara answered as she sat in the butt-numbing chair with more grace and ease than Clarke would have imagined possible.

She watched as the general gathered papers from the desk and sat across from her. He had pale blue eyes, a round face that belied his toughness, and close-cut, thick brown hair that curled slightly at the ends.

Sara met his gaze directly.

Clarke knew that Maj. Brannon was an exceptional officer. Any man who only saw her good looks-her sparkling green eyes, strawberry blond hair, and the mischievous line of freckles across her nose-would be seriously underestimating her.

"We finally received a conclusive Intelligence report on the sniper operation," General Clarke said.

"A North Korean diplomat defected and confirmed the assassination plot was mounted by a fanatical element within the North Korean officer corps. They wanted to force Kim Jung II into a war with South Korea."

Sara nodded and waited.

"The three snipers had orders to kill the South Korean president, the secretary of state, and me." Henry Powhatan Clarke smiled.

"Personally, I like to think that shooting an American four-star general would have pushed us into a war."

"I'm glad that didn't happen, sir," Sara said, smiling back.

"So am I, Major. I understand you've been asking my chief of staff about the status of your request for promotions and commendations for your team."

"I have, sir."

"I like an officer who goes to bat for her people."

"They've earned the recognition. General," Sara said.

"Agreed, Major," General Clarke said, as he put some papers in Sara's hands.

"Each enlisted rank gets a meritorious promotion and the Army Commendation Medal.

Additionally, the wounded men receive Purple Hearts."

"That's good news, sir," Sara said breaking into a smile as she scanned the orders and citation documents.

"There's more," General Clarke said, handing Sara another sheet of paper.

"At the request of the secretary of state, and upon the recommendation of the secretary of defense, you are to receive the Distinguished Service Medal."

Stunned into silence, Sara read the citation. Finally, she raised her glance.

"I don't know what to say."

"Congratulations, Colonel Brannon."

"Excuse me?" Sara said incredulously, forgetting protocol.

General Clarke laughed.

"We couldn't promote everyone else on the team and leave you out, now could we? I can't think of anybody in your academy class who is walking around as a light colonel."

"A few are on the short list. General."

"Well, you'll have seniority over all of them. You'll get orders for your next duty assignment within the week. You're going home early."

"Where to, sir?"

"After you report from leave, you'll be attending the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth."

"I wasn't scheduled to attend C and GS until next year," Sara said.

"We can't have a highly decorated, new light colonel running around without her C and GS College ticket punched," General Clarke replied with a warm smile.

"You'll need it in your personnel jacket for your next promotion to full colonel. Considering that you kept the North Koreans from sending me home in a body bag it was the least I could do."

"Thank you, sir."

"No sweat. Colonel. Meet me at the Officers' Club tonight at twenty hundred hours. I'll pin on those silver oak leaves and douse them with beer, as tradition demands."

Til be there. General."

General Clarke stood and walked to his office door.

"Any time you want to return to my command. Colonel Brannon, just give me a holler. I want nothing but stud officers serving with me, and I don't give a damn what gender they are."

Sara stood outside the headquarters building in the drizzle paying no attention to the enlisted personnel who walked past snapping off salutes. She recovered her composure and started moving in the direction of G-2, across the street. A convoy of troop carriers held her up.

Sara remained on the sidewalk after the convoy rumbled by, trying to calculate the miles from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to Santa Fe. She guessed it to be seven hundred miles. It certainly put Kerney within striking distance.

She smiled as a thought crossed her mind. They had been writing to each other more frequently as the time for her to rotate stateside grew closer, making plans for a visit. Maybe she'd just show up in Santa Fe unannounced and early.

Sara's smile turned into a slightly wicked grin. She had hammered her sexuality into submission by working eighteen-hour days and avoiding even those men who were not off-limits under the current sexual relations policies. Avoiding the whole sex issue had been the most realistic way to survive with her career intact in a combat-ready command, and she was damn tired of abstinence.

A young soldier gave Sara a salute and a sidelong glance as he passed by, and Sara wiped the grin off her face. The cloudy day had turned cold. Sara zipped up her fatigue jacket, yearning for the dry desert heat that she'd bitched so much about during her tour of duty at White Sands Missile Range.

She stepped off the sidewalk and hurried to find her Field Intelligence and Reconnaissance Unit squad leaders.

She wanted to be the first to tell her people about the promotions and citations before word leaked out from other sources. Then she'd finish her workday and celebrate after General Clarke pinned on the silver oak leaves that evening.

It was, It. CoL. Sara Brannon thought, one of the best days in her ten years as an officer in the United States Army.

Kevin Kerney sat in the passenger seat of Dale Jennings's truck with th e window rolled down, while his old friend from the Tularosa Basin drove down a San Miguel County dirt road in Northern New Mexico, about fifty miles due east of Santa Fe.

It was an unusually warm and pretty early April morning, but Kerney wasn't paying any attention to the weather or the vistas. His thoughts were on Erma Fergurson.

Erma was his mother's college roommate and life long friend. When his parents died in an auto accident over twenty-five years ago, Erma became one of the few people left in Kerney's life with a link to his boyhood on his family's Tularosa ranch.

Erma taught art at the state university in Las Cruces for almost forty years. After her retirement, she became one of the most renowned landscape artists of the Southwest. She'd never married, never had children.

Kerney had last seen Erma in November on a visit to Las Cruces. in her seventies, she remained a head-turner. She was vibrant, vital, elegant, and classy. They went out to dinner, reminisced about Kerney's parents, and talked about his college years when Erma served as his surrogate mother.

A massive stroke had killed Erma in early February, and now Kerney was about to take his second look at the ten sections of high country ranch land she had left to him. He'd known that Erma owned property she once used as a summer retreat. But the size of it-6,400 acres-came as a complete surprise, as did her bequest of the land and the old cabin that stood on it.

Kerney glanced quickly at Dale, now the last living person connected to Kerney's childhood years on the ranch. Dale's arm rested on the open window and he steered the truck with one hand. His fingers were blunt and calloused, and his long forehead, covered by the bill of a cap pulled low, hid his thinning hair. His closely cropped sideburns showed a hint of gray and his face was weathered from years working in the scorching sun of southern New Mexico.

Dale ranched near the Tularosa, on land handed down through three generations. He'd been Kerney's closest neighbor and best boyhood friend.

They passed through the village of Qjitos Prios. An adobe church and a duster of homes-some of stone and others coated with cement or plastered with stucco-sat among irrigated fields mat rimmed the base of flat-topped Tecolote Peak. The small valley seemed frozen in the late nineteenth century.

"What is this place?" Dale asked as he drove through the settlement.

"What?" Kerney asked.

"What's the name of this place?"

"Qjitos Prios."

Dale glanced at Kerney with amused brown eyes.

"What's so funny?" Kerney asked.

"Cold Springs, huh? If we find one, maybe I'll give you a good dunking to wake you up."

"I'm here," Kerney replied.

"Not hardly," Dale said.

"You've been off in dreamland since I rolled up to your door early this morning."

Kerney laughed.

"I guess I have. I still can't believe Erma put me in her will."

"That lady loved you like a son," Dale said. Up ahead a fast moving stream ran across a dip in the road. He dropped the transmission into low gear and rattled the truck through the water, keeping an eye on the trailer hitched to the truck.

The trailer held two horses Dale had brought up from his ranch in the San Andres Mountains. One of the animals, Soldier, was a mustang Kerney had trained and later named in honor of his dead godson, Sammy Yazzi.

Sammy had been murdered while serving in the army at White Sands Missile Range, on land that once belonged to Kerney's family. Working with Sara Brannon, an army officer at the base, Kerney solved the crime, and the men responsible for Sammy's murder were dead.

Even though Kerney had given Soldier to him. Dale always planned to return the horse. Now, maybe soon he could.

Across the stream, the road curved and climbed the crest of a small hill that opened up on overgrazed grassland.

Along the streambed Dale could see deep erosion furrows, a sure sign of poor range management.

"Where exactly is this mesa you now own?" Dale inquired.

"A little farther down the road," Kerney answered, starting to feel a bit antsy.

Only three weeks had passed since he'd been informed of Erma's bequest of the land and the cabin, and due to the demands of his job as deputy state police chief, he'd been able to manage just one quick trip up from Santa Fe to look over his unexpected windfall.

What Kerney had seen looked promising. The foot of the low mesa held rich grassland, and a live stream wandered near a ramshackle cabin. But most of the land was on the mesa, and Kerney didn't have a due what to expect in the high country.

With Dale supplying the horses and coming along for the ride, Kerney planned to see it all before thie weekend ended.

The road turned east then north as the valley widened, and a long ridge line popped up, dense with trees that climbed steep slopes. Beyond, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains rolled back into the horizon, peaks still capped in deep snow.

"That's my mesa," Kerney said, when the cabin came into view.

"That's a pretty dinky mesa," Dale replied, tongue in cheek.

"Don't be a spoilsport," Kerney said. He directed Dale through the open gate and got out of the truck as soon as it came to a stop.

Dale eyed the cabin from the cab of his truck. Old stone walls sagged under a rusted, pitched tin roof. The front door and small windows were boarded up with scrap lumber. It looked completely useless.

He heard the sound of hoofs on metal and left the truck to find Kerney leading the horses out of the trailer and down the ramp.

"In a hurry?" Dale asked as he reached for Pancho's halter. Pancho was his best trail horse, surefooted and with endurance suited for long rides. Soldier stood nearby, pawing the ground and shaking off his confinement in the trailer.

"You bet I am," Kerney said, reaching for the riding tack in the trailer storage compartment.

Dale stretched his back to ease the tightness from the long drive and looked around. Off in the distance, he could see the outline of Hermit's Peak, two massive summits that stood like the hindquarters of a prehistoric animal. His gaze traveled to some smaller button-nose peaks that dipped off at the front end, and suddenly Hermit Peak looked like an upturned face with a gaping mouth staring into the sky.

He switched his gaze to Kerney and found him saddled and mounted.

"Let's get going," Kerney said.

"Slow down, cowboy."

"Slow down, shit," Kerney said with a grin.

"I want to cover it all before sundown. Saddle up."

Dale grinned back. It had been a long time since he'd seen Kerney look so damn happy.

An old ranch road petered out at the base of the mesa where a stock trail began, winding through a dense thicket of juniper and pinon pine trees. Halfway up the trail got rocky, and the horses picked their way carefully through loose stones and small boulders. They hit the top and encountered a stand of young ponderosas that gradually thickened into a dense climax forest. Kerney turned to look at the rolling valley below. His eyes followed the cuts defining the deep running streams that converged in the village of San Geronimo. Nestled in a shallow depression, the village was mostly in ruins, kept barely alive by the few ranching families who still lived there. The church stood, as did a vacant school and a few homes. But the remaining buildings were weathered empty shells surrounded by piles of hand-cut stone rubble.

The hills beyond the village cut off from view all but the uppermost third of Hermit's Peak, and the mountain looked like two giant loaves of homemade bread set out to cool on a windowsill.

"Every time I look at that mountain, it seems different," Kerney said.

"You're not wrong about that," Dale said, buttoning his jacket. A broad stream of clouds blocked the sun and chilled down the air.

"It will be the last nice view we have if these woodlands don't give way to some open country pretty soon."

"You don't like fighting your way through the brush?"

"Nope. Reminds me too much of work."

"Pray for open country," Kerney said.

They came out of the trees a thousand yards from the ridge line, where the ponderosas dwindled away and grassland took over. A barbed-wire fence barred their passage and they followed it, looking for an opening.

As he rode, Kerney eyed the wide mesa. There were small stands of pinon and juniper trees sprinkled over the land and folded rock outcroppings along the edges of shallow depressions. The land sloped westward, and several wandering arroyos had cut through the thin layer of soil down to the rock plate before draining into intermittent catchment basins.

Prom the map Erma's lawyer and executor, a man named Milton Lynch, had supplied, Kerney knew there was no live water on the mesa. But two windmills tapped groundwater, and Kerney was eager to find them. If they were in working order, it would ease the expense of putting cattle on the land.

They entered the grassland through an old cedar pole gate, and moved down an arroyo into a dry basin. The open range, Kerney guessed, took up four thousand acres of the ten section tract, and showed no sign of recent use. He figured the neighboring rancher who leased the grazing rights had decided to rest the land for a season or two.

As they came out of the basin, Kerney caught sight of a windmill and stock tank. A black dog with brown stockings limped away from a grove of trees, carrying something in its mouth. Even from a good distance away, the dog looked skinny under its thickly matted fur.

It heard the horses, stopped, turned, and retreated in the direction of the trees. Kerney couldn't quite make out the object in the dog's mouth. As he closed in for a closer look the dog froze, dropped the object, skirted around Soldier, and scampered for cover, yelping in pain as it ran.

"That pooch isn't doing too well," Dale said.

"It doesn't seem so," Kerney said as he broke Soldier into a trot toward the object on the ground. He looked down, fully expecting to see a dead rabbit. It was a chewed-up athletic shoe.

He dismounted and retrieved it. It carried a name brand and seemed to be sized to fit a woman. The faded label inside the tongue, barely readable, confirmed it.

Dale caught up, looked at the shoe in Kerney's hand, and shook his head.

"That dog sure isn't much of a hunter. A retriever, maybe. Do you want to leave it here and move on?"

"No, it's hurt. Maybe it got dumped or left behind by campers. We'll round it up."

As Kerney started to remount the dog broke cover, carrying another shoe, moving as quickly as the lame hind leg allowed.

Kerney took his boot out of the stirrup, looked up at Dale, made a face, and shook his head.

"Now what?" Dale asked.

"A dog carrying one shoe I'd call mildly curious. But a dog with two shoes piques my interest."

Dale laughed.

"Maybe it just likes to collect shoes."

"Maybe." Kerney looked around the empty mesa.

"But from where?"

"Good point."

"Think you can fetch that dog for me?" Kerney asked.

"Sure thing," Dale said, reaching for his rope.

"Bring the shoe back with you."

"What are you going to do?"

"Check out that stand of trees."

"Don't you ever stop thinking like a cop?" Dale asked as he broke Pancho into a trot.

"Probably not."

Kerney walked Soldier to a lone juniper at the edge of the grove, tied him off, looked into the shadows, and saw nothing. He pushed his way through some low branches, and knelt down on a thick mound of needles, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The dog had dug out a small hollow at the base of a pifion tree. Kerney's eye caught a touch of color in the loose dirt. Using a twig, he brushed away the dirt and uncovered a comb.

He backed away and scanned the ground of the surrounding trees. He saw a scrap of fabric that looked like denim. Next to it was a half-buried bone, with a human foot still attached.

Kerney had seen enough. Whatever else there was to be found, he would leave to a crime scene unit and the District State Police Office in Las Vegas. He came out of the grove as Dale rode up, carrying the dog over his saddle.

"Find anything?" Dale asked, as he handed Kerney the shoe. It matched the first one.

"The shoes were left here," Kerney replied, "with some human bones."

"No joke?"

"No joke."

"What are you going to do?"

"I left my cell phone in your truck. We'll head back and call the district office."

"What about the dog? It's a neutered male. I make him to be about five or six years old. He needs a meal bad and he has a gimpy hip."

Kerney looked at the mutt. Mostly black, with brown markings around the eyes that matched his stockings, he had flecks of gray on his chest and a salt-and-pepper tail.

He was hairy, filthy, skinny, and scared.

"I'll keep him," Kerney said impulsively.

"You need to give him water, food, and a name," Dale said.

"I'll call him Shoe, for now," Kerney said, as he opened his saddlebags and reached for one of the sandwiches he had packed for lunch.

He handed it to Dale and the dog wolfed it down. Dale cupped his hands and Kerney poured water from his canteen into them. Shoe lapped it up and Kerney gave him more.

He untied Soldier's reins and mounted up.

Dale held Shoe out to him.

"He's your dog. You might as well get used to his smell."

Kerney sided Soldier over to Dale, took the dog, put him across the saddle, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose.

"We'll head to that stock tank and clean him up a bit before we turn back."

"Good idea," Dale said.

"We should still have part of the day to explore after things settle down."

"What happens next?"

"Officers and a crime scene unit will come out and search the area."

"Damn, I'd like to see that."

"I'm sure you will."

"You sound grumpy."

"This is not the way I wanted to spend my weekend."

"Do you think you've got a murder on your hands?"

"I always think the worst when people turn up dead."

"Maybe you should call this place Skeleton Mesa."

"That's cute. Dale."

Dale shrugged his shoulders.

"Just a suggestion. I think that dog likes you."

Shivers ran through the dog as it laid across the saddle. Kerney could feel it breathing heavily. He ran his hand over the dog's back to calm him and scratched his ears. The dog looked at him with serious eyes.

"Not yet.

But I think he will."

Kerney spent more time than he liked briefing the two officers who showed up at the old cabin. Russell Thorpe, the rookie patrolman who responded to Kerney's phone call, had brought along his field training supervisor.

Thorpe was a new academy graduate in his last week of on-the-job training before being released for independent patrol.

Six feet tall, with a weight lifter's build and a boyish face, Thorpe nervously questioned Kerney under the watchful eye of Sgt. Gabriel Gonzales. Kerney figured that Gonzales had warned him not to screw up in front of the deputy chief.

After double-checking Kerney's statement for accuracy, Thorpe bagged the two sneakers as evidence and went to the patrol unit to call for a response team.

Sergeant Gonzales tagged along to oversee, and stood by the open door of the patrol car while Thorpe transmitted radio messages.

Kerney found Dale stretched out on the seat of his truck, snoozing. In the back of the extended cab, Shoe was curled up in a ball. He fashioned a collar and leash out of some rope, put the collar around Shoe's neck, got the dog out of the truck, and shook Dale awake.

"Got any flea powder?" he asked when Dale sat up.

"In the tool box," Dale said.

"There's a bottle of equine spray."

"That will do."

Kerney found the bottle, tied Shoe to the front bumper, and began spraying. Fleas started jumping off the dog.

"Chief."

Kerney turned to face Sgt. Gabe Gonzales. Twenty years on the force had set deep creases on either side of the sergeant's face. His eyebrows turned up at the corners of his eyes, and a stubby chin gave him a squared-off, serious cast.

"We'll have a helicopter here in thirty minutes with a crime scene unit," Gonzales said.

"Good enough."

Kerney rolled Shoe on his back and squirted flea spray on his stomach.

The dog started scratching busily.

Gabe eyed the dog's performance.

"You might want to spray the inside of the truck, while you're at it," he suggested.

"Good idea," Kerney said.

"Did your rookie do his job right?"

Gonzales smiled.

"By the numbers. He'll be a good one."

"Pass on my compliments," Kerney said.

Gonzales smiled and nodded.

"I'll do that. Chief. Do you want a copy of the field report sent directly to you?"

"You bet," Kerney said.

Gonzales went back to watch over his rookie, and Kerney finished up with the dog. He fed him some lunch meat from the cooler, put him in the horse trailer, and then sprayed the inside of the truck. He put a basin of fresh water in with the dog and added a sock. Shoe took the sock in his mouth, shook it, wagged his tail, and sat, looking pleased with his new possession.

"Are you ready?" Kerney asked. He turned to find Dale holding out Soldier's reins and grinning.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Hell, I'm having a good time. Cops, skeletons, homicide. This sure beats watching a police show on television."

"We'll stop by the crime scene so you can have some more fun," Kerney said as he took the reins and swung himself into the saddle.

"That's what I wanted to hear."

They cleared the tree line on the mesa as the sound of a chopper broke the silence. They entered the open grassland and the state police helicopter passed overhead, veering in the direction of the first stock tank.

It took half an hour by horseback to reach the grove where Kerney had found the bones. He slowed Soldier to a stop and watched. Gonzales and Thorpe were doing a field search around the perimeter of the trees, while two crime scene techs worked in the shadows under low branches.

Dale sidled up to Kerney.

"Aren't you going to see if they found anything else?"

Kerney didn't want to interrupt the search.

"We'll wait and watch for a few minutes."

Finally, a figure emerged from the grove and Kerney recognized Melody Jordan, a senior crime scene technician who specialized in forensic pathology. Jordan did all the preliminary assessments of human remains for the department.

Aside from being highly competent. Melody was an attractive woman. No more than thirty, she had lively brown eyes, a mouth with a sexy little pout, and wheat blond hair. Born and raised on a ranch in the Hondo Valley, she had a frank and casual style that Kerney found charming.

Melody walked in his direction, pausing briefly to brush some pine needles out of her hair. When she got close, he introduced her to Dale. She shook Dale's hand, stroked Pancho's neck, and looked Soldier over before turning her attention to Kerney.

"You made quite a find here, Chief," Melody said.

"How so?"

"We've recovered a pelvis and some bones from the lower extremities.

Femurs, fibulas, and feet. The pelvis strongly suggests it was a female. I'd guess she's been dead about a year. Maybe less."

"The skeleton is incomplete?"

"So far. There are some tool marks on the bones.

Prom the looks of it. I'd say the body was sawed or cut up."

"Was she lolled here?"

"That's hard to say. Maybe not."

"Was she dismembered here?"

"I don't know. We're looking for trace evidence now.

If we find fibers, hair, or bloodstains, we'll have a dearer picture.

But don't count on anything: weather probably washed it all away. I'll take the usual soil samples for analysis. Maybe we'll get lucky and some foreign matter will turn up."

"Did you find the scrap of fabric and the comb?"

"We did indeed. It's bagged and tagged."

"Do you have anything that points to the cause of death?"

Melody laughed.

"Dream on. Chief. I've got bones here, not a body. Some have been chewed on. But I can't wait to take a closer look at them under a microscope. I think the killer knew how to butcher a carcass."

"Any ranch hand worth his salt knows how to butcher," Kerney said.

"Don't I know it," Melody said.

"You've found no garments or personal items?"

"Nothing other than what you discovered. I'd say whoever did this didn't want the victim to be identified."

"Find the rest of the skeleton," Kerney said.

Melody looked out over the mesa.

"It could be scattered anywhere. There's a lot of ground to cover here, Chief."

"I know it. Bring in additional help. I want a full sweep of the mesa."

Melody smiled.

"Sergeant Gonzales said this is your land."

"It is," Kerney replied as he remounted.

"Welcome to the neighborhood."

Melody smiled.

"It's beautiful. I can think of better ways to spend a weekend in this country than scraping up soil samples."

"Me, too, and that's exactly what I intend to do."

Melody waved and watched the two men ride away, thinking Kerney looked very hunky on horseback.

"That's a nice-looking woman," Dale said, when they were out of earshot.

"Yes, she is," Kerney said, pointing Soldier toward the windmill.

"She sure seems to like her job. I never heard anybody sound so damn cheery about a butchered murder victim."

Kerney laughed.

"What did I say?"

"Nothing."

Dale trotted Pancho until he was even with Soldier.

"What?"

"If I remember correctly, you don't like puzzles."

"Never did," Dale said.

"When we were kids, you always figured the damn things out before I could."

"Melody likes puzzles."

"That's not all she likes," Dale said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you."

"Get serious."

"That was a thousand-watt smile she gave you when we showed up. Did you know that a lot of relationships nowadays start in the workplace?"

"Is that a fact?" Kerney said.

"That's a fact. You should take advantage of those opportunities when they come along."

"Since when have you become an expert on relationships?"

"I read about it somewhere."

Kerney laughed again.

"I thought so."

"But I've been living with women for over twenty years. A wife and two daughters can teach a man a lot about how women operate, how their minds work."

"I defer to your experience."

"That'll be the day. Think you have a chance of finding the killer?"

"There's always a chance."

They passed the stock tank and rode south through a thicket of big sagebrush that spread across the grassland.

They found the second windmill and tank, both in good working order, with no recent sign of cat de milling at the water source. Unless forced to move, cows stayed near water, trampling the ground bare and sterile.

The mesa rose gradually and seemed to run hard up against the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. They crossed a brake of cholla cactus, moving carefully around the long, spindly branches that could dig dusters of thorns into a horse and rider, and entered another large sweep of open country.

All Kerney saw told him the range had been well rested. New grass was greening up nicely among the un foraged knee-high blue grama. His mind started racing with all that needed doing to put the land into production.

Maybe the cabin-the only structure on the ranch-could be shored up to serve as temporary quarters.

He would need to get inside and inspect it. But a place to stay wasn't the half of it: a barn, stables, corral, shipping pen, a loading chute, and new fences to segregate pastures were essential to put the land to use. Then he had to buy livestock.

Reality hit: starting up a ranch wasn't going to be cheap. It would take a big mortgage to get things underway, and Kerney had no idea if he could swing a large bank loan. The thought that he might not be able to pull it off put a knot in his stomach.

"Deep thoughts?" Dale asked, as he rode alongside.

"You could say that," Kerney answered, nodding at the stand of ponderosas that denned the far edge of the mesa. He didn't want to talk about his newfound worries.

"Let's see what's on the other side of those trees."

They followed a game trail into the woods, tall pines cutting the afternoon sun to half-light, and reached a treeless, rocky shoulder that jutted out over the backside of the mesa. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains, austere and vast against the skyline, stood a close two ridgelines away.

Below, in a small defile at the edge of a narrow valley, a forty-acre swath of trees had been dear-cut. Only stumps, dead branches, and slash remained. An alluvial fan of gravel and sand spread out from a small occasional stream that ran through the defile. Erosion had begun in the sandy soil; water-filled down-cut troughs twisted around tree stumps at the edge of the stream.

"Jesus," Dale said, "who would do something like that?"

"Good question," Kerney said, trying to contain his anger. He nudged Soldier ahead and the horse picked his way carefully down the slope.

In the defile they scoured the area and found tire tracks that petered out on a rocky Jeep trail that climbed up the adjoining mesa. A hundred feet in, they discovered a cut barbed-wire fence and a discarded motor oil container.

Kerney had started the weekend with no intention of doing any police work. He was totally unprepared to collect or document evidence. He left the container where it was, staked it with a tree branch, and noted its location. Back in the defile, they inspected the tree stumps. The absence of weathering pointed to recent harvesting.

"What do you think?" Dale asked, as he picked out some burrs that had galled Pancho's flank.

"I think we've got a poacher who sells firewood for a living. Someone who knows his way around the area."

"He sure picked a spot to cut where he wouldn't be seen."

"Exactly" "You're going to lose this acreage to erosion if you don't act fast. About the best you can do right now is slow it down and keep it from spreading. It's gonna take a chunk of money and a lot of hard work to save it."

"I know." Kerney looked up at the mesa. The tips of the ponderosas were tinged gold by the afternoon sunlight.

"We need to get started back."

"Do you think the poaching and the murder are connected?"

"Could be. You never know."

"Barbara and the girls aren't going to believe a word of this when I get home."

"Don't start polishing up your story yet. The weekend isn't over."

"What else can happen?"

"Just about anything," Kerney replied.

They rode back to the crime scene. Another chopper was on the ground and additional techs were busy field searching an expanded area. He could see Melody Jordan in the distance at another grove of trees. She turned and waved, but she was too far away for Kerney to tell if she had a thousand-watt smile on her face.

He found Sergeant Gonzales and filled him in on the wood poaching.

"Do you want me to jump on it right away. Chief?"

Gonzales asked.

"How far along are you here?"

"Nothing more has turned up. We'll be back out in the morning."

"Do you think Officer Thorpe can pick up some evidence and photograph tire tracks without your supervision?"

"He should be able to handle it."

"Send Thorpe in the chopper. Loan me your notebook and I'll sketch the scene for him."

Gonzales pulled a notebook from his pocket and held it out. Kerney drew a rough map of the defile, noting the location of the tire tracks, the cut fence, and the empty oil container.

"Have Thorpe bring back a sample of the cut barbed wire," Kerney said.

"We might get a good tool mark to use as evidence."

"Will do," Gonzales said.

"Stay with it. Sergeant."

"We'll be here until last light."

The chopper carrying Officer Thorpe took off soon after Dale and Kerney left. They watched it rise in the distance and turn toward the poaching site. Enough daylight remained for the two men to follow the south end of the mesa back to the cabin. They dropped off the crest and skirted around a sheared bluff that resembled a poorly chiseled arrowhead. A ranch road plunged down the mesa in a series of switchbacks, and faded into ruts that followed a fence line.

They made the turn around the mesa and joined up with the county road.

Dead ahead, barely visible in the growing dusk, stood the cabin, truck, and horse trailer.

Before they reached the cabin, Kerney could hear Shoe barking. He dismounted to the clamor of the dog scratching at the metal floor of the horse trailer. The mutt was trying to dig his way out of captivity. When Kerney spoke to the dog, it stopped scratching and sat expectantly, eyes fixed on Kerney.

"You'll have to wait a few minutes," Kerney said.

Shoe's tail flapped in response.

Dale got busy with dinner and Kerney tended to the horses, watering them at the stream and feeding each a bag of grain. Then he hobbled them nearby for the night on some good grass where they could graze.

As he walked back to the trailer, rotor noise cut the stillness. He watched the lights of the helicopters pass out of the valley, let Shoe out of the trailer, and tied him to the bumper. The dog rolled on his back, and lifted his front paws in the air. Kerney gave him a tummy scratch.

When dinner was ready. Dale found Kerney in the truck with the cab light on, studying a plat map.

"According to this map, Nestor Barela owns land that parallels mine on the backside of the mesa," Kerney said, taking the plate from Dale's hand.

Dinner consisted of steak, a baked potato, and a large slab of homemade apple pie. He got out of the truck and followed Dale to the campfire.

Two camp stools had been set up. He sat down, balanced the plate on his knees, and cut into the steak with a knife.

"He might be worth talking to," Dale said.

"He holds the grazing rights on my property."

"He sure hasn't been using them."

"Maybe he went into the wood cutting business instead." Kerney took a bite of steak.

"This is good."

"Homegrown range-fed beef. Can you pay the taxes on this place?"

"I'm trying not to think about it. The appraisal is due next week. I don't have a due what the inheritance tax will be."

"It will be a pretty penny."

"Yeah, and it'll take a huge mortgage to cover the taxes and make the improvements the place needs."

"I've been yearning for some high-country summer grazing land."

"What are you saying. Dale?"

"This land is like a grass bank waiting for cattle that need fattening up. I've got yearlings that will add two hundred pounds easy in a summer up here."

"Do you want to buy me out?"

"I had a partnership in mind: your land, my beef. I'll take out a loan each year to make the tax payments, and you give me half interest in the property. You carry the bank note for the improvements. That way we share the load."

Kerney shook his head.

"I won't let you borrow against your land on my account. It's too risky."

"You're one stubborn son of a bitch."

"I know it."

"Well, think about it. It might work."

"I didn't know being land rich could be so damn frustrating."

"If you want to ranch, you're going to have to use somebody else's money to do it."

"I guess that's true. Hold off until I know what the taxes will be.

Okay?"

"Okay" "Did Barbara bake the pie?"

"She did, and sent it along with her love."

"Save your steak bone for Shoe," Kerney said.

"It's already got his name on it."

The dog, still tied to the bumper, flapped his tail, drooled, and kept his eyes fixed on the two men.

In the morning, it was Kerney's turn to cook. At first light, he fixed enough chow to insure leftovers for the dog. After cleaning up the dishes, he fed Shoe, put on the makeshift collar and leash, and took him for a walk.

Dale laughed as Kerney led the dog away. Shoe seemed perfectly content to be on a leash, and after sniffing around for the right spot, he did his business. The dog still limped. Kerney hoped that some weight gain and exercise would correct the problem.

Sergeant Gonzales arrived in a four-wheel drive pulling a horse trailer, followed by a Game and Fish truck, with another trailer, and several patrol units. Kerney questioned him about the crime scene search, and Gabe reported that nothing more had been found. Gonzales, his team, and the Game and Pish officer were all dressed in riding gear.

"Have the techs work the site one more time," Kerney said.

"They're on the way," Gonzales said.

"We'll cover the mesa on horseback. If anything else is there, we'll turn it up."

Kerney saw Gonzales and his team off, tied Shoe to the bumper of the trailer, borrowed Dale's truck, and promised to return in a hour. He wanted to pay a friendly visit to Nestor Barela and see what kind of neighbor he had inherited.

The ranch road leading to Barela's place was an expensive piece of work. Graded, crowned, and topped with packed base course, it was far superior to the poorly maintained county road. The headquarters sat in a horseshoe canyon about a hundred acres deep and half as wide. From the last cattle guard into the headquarters, the road was asphalt.

Kerney stopped before he crossed the cattle guard and looked the place over. The most prominent building was an indoor arena near a large horse barn. Expensive white pipe fences enclosed cool down areas, exercise rings, show jumping gates, and corrals. Two smaller outbuildings, a hay shed, and a loading pen were sheltered at the side of the canyon.

Across a pasture, tucked on the other side of the canyon, was an adobe house with a half-story attic framed with battens, a pitched roof, and a row of cottonwoods along the windward side. Laundry flapped on a clothesline steps away from a side porch.

The main residence dominated high ground at the back of the canyon where the winds would swirl and bluster. It was enormous, and obviously positioned for the view rather than for protection from the elements.

Built in a symmetrical H with pitched roofs, the house had a deep veranda running across the core of the structure that connected the two lateral sides. A chimney protruded in the center of each distinct roof line. A low wall with white-picket gates confined some shade trees at the front of the house. A free-standing three-car garage built in the same style stood below and to one side of the residence.

All in all, it looked like Barela had sold the place to somebody with a hell of a lot of money, who had converted the cattle operation into a horse ranch.

Erma's lawyer and executor, Milton Lynch, who lived in the southern part of the state, had only been able to provide sketchy information about Barela. Kerney had a name, a post office box number, what Barela paid for his lease, and the location of the ranch, all which could easily be out of date.

He stopped at the horse barn, where several trucks were parked. A hand-crafted sign above the doors read horse canyon ranch. He could hear the sounds of men and animals inside the barn. He called out and a middle-aged Anglo man, thick through the chest, wearing a stained felt cowboy hat, a plaid snap button shirt, jeans, and a pair of work boots caked with manure and straw, walked out to greet him.

Kerney introduced himself by name only.

"Is the foreman here?"

"I'm the ranch manager," the man said, pulling off his work glove to shake Kerney's hand.

"Emmet Griffin." His voice carried a trace of a brush-country Texas accent as he rolled his words together.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for Nestor Barela," Kerney answered.

"Barela sold out three years ago and moved to town," Griffin said.

"I understand he leases the Fergurson land."

Kerney's statement raised Griffin's interest.

"He does, but he doesn't really use it. He puts a few cows on it each spring, fattens them up, and slaughters them for his freezer. It keeps Pergurson's taxes down and fills Barela's stomach."

"That's a pretty expensive way to fill a freezer."

Griffin laughed, showing his teeth below his mustache.

"It sure the hell is."

"Do you think Barela would be willing to consider a sublease?"

Griffin shook his head.

"I've tried that. He won't sublease it, and the Fergurson woman won't sell. My boss would love to buy that property as a buffer. A lot of the big spreads east of here are being carved up and sold in five- to twenty-acre tracts. She doesn't want that kind of development along her boundary. She likes her privacy."

"Is your boss here?"

"Nope. She should be back in a day or two."

"What's her name?"

"Alicia Bingham."

"What breed of horses is she training?"

"We breed and train. Dutch Warmblood and English Anglo-Arab, for dressage and show jumping. We sell to an international market. Our buyers are mostly topflight competitors."

"Do you know how I can contact Barela?"

"Not really. One of his sons and a grandson go up to the mesa now and then to check on their lease holding.

But I don't know where they live, exactly. I heard the old man moved his whole family onto one piece of land."

"Thanks for your time."

"Hell, I'd rather talk to you than muck out stalls.

Good luck with old Nestor Barela. You'll need it."

Back at the cabin. Soldier and Pancho were saddled and ready to go, and Shoe was caged inside the horse trailer working on a steak bone. He wagged his tail when Kerney called his name.

Dale had pulled the wood off the cabin door and was nowhere to be seen.

Kerney found him inside, knee-deep in rotting hay. Thick cobwebs hung down from the log rafters, which had been nailed and tied with bailing wire to the bond beam that ran along the top course of the stone walls.

The tin roof was rusted through in spots, and one of the logs that spanned the ceiling had decayed and broken apart.

"You might as well knock this damn thing down and start over from scratch," Dale said.

"You've got vermin droppings and black widow nests everywhere."

He held out a yellowed, chewed-up piece of stationery.

"What's this?"

"Part of a love letter from Erma Fergurson."

"To whom?"

"Can't tell."

Kerney studied the faded handwritten letter. It spoke of a starry night on the mesa, not liking the idea of sleeping alone, and bodies entwined. It carried Erma's signature and had no date.

"Good for her," Kerney said with a smile.

"I hope she had a lot of fun with him, whoever he was."

"Want to look for more letters?"

"We'll let Erma's affairs of the heart stay where they are for now." He dropped the piece of stationery on the moldy hay.

"Did you see Barela?"

"Barela sold out and moved to town three years ago.

I haven't talked to him."

"So, no arrest is pending?"

"Not yet."

"That's disappointing."

"Don't fuss. Dale. You've got Erma's love letter to add to your adventures, once you get home." Kerney stepped outside.

"Let's go. I want to find out how those poachers hauled that wood away. There has to be an outlet from the valley through the next ridgeline. Let's see if we can find it on the north side. We haven't covered that stretch of land yet."

"Lead the way," Dale said, striding to Pancho.

They rode off Kerney's land toward the mountains where the country road veered toward San Geronimo.

An unimproved dirt track sliced into a canyon along a small stream, showing signs of recent vehicle travel. At the junction where two small creeks converged, snow covered the ground. Fresh tire tracks forked up the side of the foothills. They topped out to find a high mountain meadow, wedged between a small mesa and the mountains.

The meadow was fenced, and a locked gate and no trespassing signs barred their passage. Halfway in the meadow stood a new timber-frame house with a blue metal pitched roof. A child's bicycle leaned against the covered porch. No motor vehicles were present.

A rectangular greenhouse had been erected at the far end of the meadow, a good distance from the house.

Built with concrete blocks and rough-cut lumber, the roof joists were covered with thick translucent plastic panels.

"They sure are tucked away in here," Dale said.

"Are we going in?"

"We haven't been invited," Kerney said.

"How about I buy you lunch in Las Vegas?"

"It's a little early to eat."

"It won't be after I track down Nestor Barela and talk to him."

"We're packing it in?"

"As far as the trail riding goes." Kerney pointed to a dip in the tree line where the horizontal line of a mesa showed through.

"If I'm oriented correctly, that's my property over there. The defile should be just a little to the south and east. We may have found a neighbor who just might know something about the poaching. I'll pay him a visit when he's home."

"Then why go see Barela?"

"Because he may know something the neighbor doesn't."

"Makes sense," Dale said.

"You really do think like a cop."

"It's habit forming."

Shoe sat in the back of the extended cab on a jump seat, panting quietly, as they made the short fifteen-mile trip to Las Vegas, New Mexico. The city, situated on the edge of the high plains with Hermit's Peak and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains looming in the background, had its boom days late in the last century when the arrival of the railroad turned it into a major transportation center.

With almost a thousand historic buildings dating from early in the century and before. Las Vegas was staging a comeback. A number of the old buildings that ringed the plaza and spread down Bridge Street had been renovated, new businesses had opened, tourism had picked up, and newcomers were moving in.

They stopped at the police department on a corner of the plaza. Kerney went in, introduced himself to the shift commander, flashed his credentials, and asked a few questions. The officer knew Barela, and Kerney got directions to Nestor's house.

Barela lived just outside the city limits on land along the Gallinas River that he'd turned into a compound for his extended family. It consisted of four manufactured homes on concrete pads lined up in a row facing the highway.

A wrought-iron portal arched over the driveway, with the words Los Barelas spelled out in cursive writing.

Beneath the lettering was a fabricated cutout of a cowboy on horseback twirling a lasso. A fenced pasture dipped down to the river where a young man was cleaning out the inside of a four-horse trailer at the side of a barn.

Six quarter horses in the pasture looked up at the sound of Dale's truck on the dirt driveway, swished their tails lazily, and went back to grazing. There were eight cars and trucks of various makes parked in front of the house, none of them more than two or three years old.

The front door to a house swung open as they drew near, and a stocky man in his late thirties with reddish brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard walked off the porch to greet them.

Kerney waved, got out after Dale slowed to a stop, and limped to meet the man halfway. His right knee, shattered by a bullet in a gunfight, ached from his time in the saddle.

"I'm looking for Nestor Barela," he said.

"Are you here about the horse we have for sale?" the man asked.

"No, I'm here about the Fergurson lease."

"We're not giving up that lease until it runs out."

"When is that?" Kerney asked, knowing full well the lease expired at the end of the year.

The man thought about answering, shrugged it off, and nodded at the house where an elderly man stood framed in a doorway.

"Talk to my father. He's home."

Kerney reached the porch step and smiled at a sinewy man somewhere in his late seventies. His legs were bowed from years in the saddle. The back of his hands carried the scars from a lifetime of hard physical work He had a full head of gray hair and sharp, dear brown eyes.

"Mr. Barela?" Kerney asked.

"Yes," Barela answered suspiciously.

Kerney decided not to give too much away.

"My name is Kevin Kerney." He nodded in the direction of the truck, where Dale waited.

"My friend and I are interested in buying your grazing rights on the Fergurson land for the summer."

Barela's expression soured further.

"I'm not interested."

"I'd be willing to pay a premium for it."

"I don't keep it to make money," Nestor replied.

"Mind telling me why you do keep it?" Kerney asked.

"It hasn't been put in production for some time, as far as I can tell."

"You've been on the land?"

"Just for a quick look. I'd heard you weren't grazing it."

"It's posted. Stay off."

"I'd like to talk to the owner."

"You can't. She's dead."

"Do you think the land will come up for sale?"

"Everything is for sale at the right price."

"Are there woodcutters working in the area?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I saw a truck hauling logs out this morning."

"That's normal. Since the Forest Service started limiting permits, some of the private land owners have been selling woodcutting rights."

"Anyone in particular that you know of?"

"Osborn and Patterson, I've been told."

"Is anyone cutting wood on your leasehold?"

"Nobody cuts wood on that property."

"You're sure?"

"I would know."

"Who bought your ranch?"

"An Englishwoman owns it. I never met her. She lives in Los Angeles.

A local attorney handled the sale for her.

You ask a lot of questions."

Kerney smiled and shrugged off the comment.

"I'd really like to find some land where I can summer over my cattle.

I've heard there is a high meadow north of the mesa. Would that serve?"

"It's a small parcel on a bad road. You couldn't run more than five cows on it. A family from California bought it. The man used to teach college, or something like that."

"I'm sorry I've taken so much of your time, Senor Barela."

"Stay off the property," Nestor said.

"It is still under my care." He closed the door in Kerney's face.

Kerney made a quick stop at the state police office where he found the district commander on duty. Capt.

Victor Garduno briefed him on the continuing search of the mesa.

Additional skeletal remains had been found about a mile from the original crime scene, including parts of the spine, ribs, and an arm bone. But no skull.

"We're still looking," Garduno said. A lean, big-shouldered man, the captain had a self-contained, confident manner.

Kerney switched gears and gave Captain Garduno a brief rundown on his conversation with Nestor Barela, and his hunch that the wood could have been trucked out through the meadow.

"I'd like to learn more about Nestor, his family, and the owner of the timber-frame cabin," he added.

"Barela said the guy who built it moved here from California."

"That won't be a problem," Captain Garduno said.

"Can you get me crime statistics for the San Geronimo area?"

Garduno wrote a note to himself.

"Consider it done, Chief. Sergeant Gonzales has asked for a records search on missing women over the last ten years. You should have the report on your desk when you get back to your office."

"Good deal. Has Melody Jordan reported in?"

"She's back at headquarters, examining the bones.

Sergeant Gonzales would like to remain the primary officer on the case.

Chief."

"Are you recommending him?"

"He spent five years in criminal investigations before he made his sergeant stripes. I use him as an investigator whenever I can't get an agent assigned out of Santa Fe."

"Can you get along without him for a while?"

"A senior patrol officer can cover his duties."

"Give him the green light."

Kerney got back to the truck and Dale groused at him for taking so long, and complained of being hungry.

Kerney bought lunch at a Mexican place on the plaza.

Dale packed away the food while Kerney watched cars pull up in front of the Plaza Hotel. The hotel, a prominent city landmark, was a three-story brick structure with Gothic Revival columns, overhangs, and windows.

Dale ate and listened while Kerney repeated the gist of his conversation with Nestor Barela.

"So Barela wouldn't tell you squat," he said between bites.

"That's pretty suspicious. But I don't think that old man cut and hauled that wood away by himself. Just eyeing him from the truck, he looked pretty much worn down to me."

"Maybe it's a family affair." Kerney picked at his meal.

"He has strong backs to help him. They could haul a lot of wood in that four-stall horse trailer that was parked down at the barn, without raising any suspicion."

"I guess I just don't think like a cop." Dale wiped his chin with a paper napkin and dropped it on his empty plate.

"I'm gonna have to bring Barbara and the girls up here for a vacation."

"Any time," Kerney said, as he motioned for the check.

"I'll fix up my cabin for you."

Dale snickered.

"I said vacation, Kerney. That means a nice hotel with clean sheets every day, dinners out, and with three women, shopping. Lots of shopping. Since I can't afford Santa Fe, I'll bring them here."

"Sounds like a plan," Kerney said as he paid the bill and left the tip.

"Are you ready? I've got some work to do."

"More cop stuff?"

"Yeah."

Dale pushed his chair back and stood up.

"What a yarn I have to tell when I get home. And it doesn't need a bit of exaggeration."

"I'm glad you had a good time."

"Did I ever."

In the truck. Dale popped a George Strait tape into the cassette deck and cranked up the volume. Kerney groaned quietly. County and western was his least favorite music.

Shoe crawled out of the backseat, sat on Kerney's lap, and stared at him with serious eyes. Either the dog didn't smell bad anymore, or Kerney was getting used to him.

He was without a doubt the hairiest beast Kerney had ever owned.

Kerney's apartment was a furnished one-bedroom guest cottage in the south capital neighborhood, within a short walk to the Santa Fe plaza.

Although bland and boxy, it had a fireplace, reasonably decent furniture, and a small enclosed patio. Kerney liked the neighborhood with its old houses, narrow streets, and mature trees that gave a small-town feeling to the area. His landlord, Leo Dunn, was a retired cop who had built the cottage at the rear of his property solely for the rental income.

Over the years, most of Leo's tenants were officers going through divorces or just starting out in law enforcement. Leo knew firsthand how poorly cops were paid, so he kept the rent reasonable.

Kerney stopped at Leo's house, an older, pueblo-style single story with a long veranda, to introduce Shoe to his landlord. He got provisional permission to keep the dog as long as it didn't crap on the rug, chew up the furniture, or bother the neighbors.

Before leaving for the office, Kerney got Shoe settled, and left the patio door open to the small backyard so the dog could do his business outside. Since Leo was around most of the time to keep an eye on things, a burglary was highly unlikely. On top of that, Kerney didn't really have much worth stealing.

At the state police headquarters, a building complex that included the Department of Public Safety and the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy, Kerney found Melody Jordan in the laboratory.

She looked up from the microscope and smiled when Kerney approached.

"Great timing. Chief. I was about to ask dispatch to track you down."

"What have you got?"

"Several facts that may help. The body was dismembered while clothed.

I found minute fibers embedded in the bones-denim and wool. We might be able to match that fabric scrap you found with the maker. And we may get lucky with the wool fibers."

"Do you have any hunches?"

"The victim wore high-end apparel. Chief. Not the kind of do thing bought at discount stores. But we'll have to wait for our fiber expert to confirm it."

Melody swung her stool to face Kerney.

"More good news: We may not need the skull to make an ID. The left humerus shows a severe old break, about a third of the way down. It isn't the kind of injury that would go unattended."

"That is good news. Have the bones told you anything else?"

"Tentatively. Remember, we have to factor in the weathering of the bones, but I'd give the victim's age between twenty and thirty years, based on the microscopic examination of the fibula we found."

"The victim's race?"

"Probably Anglo or Hispanic, based on the size of the pubic bone. Find the skull and I can narrow it down further.

If you do, I'll have a facial reconstruction made."

"What's next?"

"I want to see if I can match up the saw marks to various types of hand or power tools. That will take some time. I'll also do an X-ray examination to see if I can discover any foreign or metallic objects. I still don't have a due how the woman was killed."

"You do good work, Ms. Jordan." Kerney turned away and started for the door.

"Thanks." Melody pushed her hair away from her forehead and stood.

"Was that a mustang you were riding on the mesa?"

Kerney paused at the door and looked back.

"You know your horses."

"Do you ride a lot?" The thousand-watt smile Dale had noticed on the mesa lit up Melody's face.

"Not as much as I'd like. I don't have the time."

"I have two quarter horses, a mare and a gelding. I stable them at a friend's place. I think you'd like the gelding.

I've been looking for somebody who can give him a good workout. He needs a firm hand. Interested?"

Kerney pushed back the appealing thought of a day in the saddle accompanied by an attractive woman, and chose his words carefully.

"I don't see how I can fit it into my schedule. Thanks again for the good work."

Melody's smile faded. She returned to the stool, low y ered her head over the microscope, and spoke without looking up.

"I'll have a follow-up report for you as soon as possible."

Kerney waited a beat for Melody to say more. She kept her eye glued to the microscope, picked up a pendl, and started writing. He left thinking there were a lot of drawbacks to being a boss.

Sgt Gabe Gonzales arrived at the district office after dark to find a pile of paperwork waiting for him. He thumbed through it quickly. It contained a note from his captain assigning him full-time to the murder investigation, a preliminary report of Melody Jordan's examination of the skeletal remains, a copy of the most recent crime statistics for the San Geronimo area that had been faxed to Chief Kerney, and a list of missing persons reports on women who had disappeared in northern New Mexico during the past ten years. Clipped to the paperwork was a note indicating that investigative reports on the targeted missing women had been received from various law enforcement agencies and could be accessed by computer.

Gabe read Melody Jordan's report first before scanning the computer files on the ten women reported missing from northern New Mexico. He found no medical information on a woman with an old fracture to the upper left arm. It didn't surprise him: that kind of detail usually didn't surface in a preliminary missing persons report.

He scrolled the computer files again. Eight of the missing women were residents of the state, and two were tourists passing through. Only three fell within the age range Melody had established. He would work those three as a short list before moving on to the others.

If nothing promising materialized, he'd access the National Crime Information Center data bank on missing persons and see what popped up.

He checked the time and grimaced. Since his divorce last year, getting home at a reasonable hour had become important to Gabe. He had one child from the marriage, Orlando, who lived with him, attended the local university, and worked part-time.

Both were busy, but when Gabe worked the day shift he liked to get home early and fix dinner for the two of them.

Tonight that wasn't going to happen.

He called home, got the answering machine, left Orlando a message, and started organizing his field notes for his report. It would take a good two hours to do the write-up, make fresh crime scene sketches, and mount the photographs on exhibit forms. Deputy Chief Kerney expected the report on his desk first thing in the morning, and Gabe wanted to make sure it got there complete and on time.

He sat back in his chair, rubbed the back of his neck, and thought about Kerney. He was an outsider who had been quickly elevated to deputy chief, but his reputation as an investigator was outstanding. In short order, Kerney had personally cleared two major cases, a multimillion-dollar Santa Fe art theft and the murder of a small-town cop. But he was also an old friend of the state police chief, Andy Baca, which kept the issue of cronyism alive among the department gossips.

Gabe decided not to waste his time worrying about whether or not Kerney was a good boss. That question would be answered as Gabe learned more about how the chief operated. He picked up the crime statistics report for San Geronimo that Kerney had requested.

During the last year there had been two incidents of cattle theft, two reports of illegal wood harvesting, and three acts of vandalism to cabins, along with eight burglaries to summer homes.

Gabe got out the two prior-year statistical reports and paged through the property crimes information. Up until last year, San Geronimo had been virtually crime free. He made a note to check with the county sheriff for an update on recent criminal activity in San Geronimo.

If the rising crime trend had continued into the new year, that would be very interesting information.

He put the reports away, turned to the keyboard, and began typing.

Tomorrow started his two days off, but he'd be back on the mesa at first light. They hadn't found the dead woman's skull yet, and Gabe wasn't about to stop searching until every inch of ground had been covered.

Before heading home, Kerney made a quick stop at a supermarket where he bought everything he needed to care for a dog. In the apartment he found Shoe on his feet, wagging his tail, with one of Kerney's sneakers clasped in his mouth. Three more shoes had been brought from the bedroom and scattered around the living room floor.

"Quite a collection you got there," Kerney said, as he extracted the sneaker from the dog's mouth. Wet with slobber, it had chew marks on the heel and tongue and some of the padding had been gnawed away.

"I guess it's yours now, boy."

He dropped it on the floor in front of the dog. Shoe snatched it up and gave it a shake.

The other shoes the dog had fetched were only slightly damaged. Except for the mate of the shoe he'd given to the dog, Kerney put the rest away with a reminder to himself to keep the bedroom closet door closed in the future. He spent an hour brushing tangles out of Shoe's matted coat, sprayed him again, cleaned up the dog hair on the carpet, and fed the mutt.

As Shoe ate, Kerney eyed the result of his efforts to groom the dog.

Salt-and-pepper hair dangled from his hindquarters and belly, and his tail was a twisted knot that needed dipping. The mutt still looked pretty ratty.

Kerney picked up and fanned through Saturday's mail, looking for a letter from Sara Brannon. He'd written to her last week. Given the distance his letters had to travel, he didn't expect a rapid reply, but occasionally their correspondence crossed in the mail. This time there was nothing. He hoped Sara hadn't changed her mind about coming to Santa Fe when her tour of duty ended.

All of the mail was junk, except for an envelope from Erma Fergurson's personal representative and executor of her estate. He opened the envelope and read Milton Lynch's letter. The appraisal had come in at two thousand dollars an acre. The land was worth almost thirteen million dollars. The final appraisal report would be mailed to Kerney within the week.

He stared at the amount in stunned silence before calling Lynch's home phone number. Lynch answered on the third ring.

"I thought I might be hearing from you," Lynch said.

"How in the hell can that land be worth thirteen million dollars?"

Kerney asked.

"I haven't seen the complete report, but it seems that some of the ranchers in the area have sold out to high bidders, or are subdividing their land. Five years ago, ten sections might have gone for eight or nine hundred dollars an acre, but not any more."

"Doesn't the land qualify under the farm-use value reduction provision of the tax code?"

"The two-thousand-dollar-per-acre figure is the reduction.

Subdivided five- to twenty-acre tracts are selling at four to six thousand dollars per acre."

"What will the taxes be?"

"You'll be taken to the cleaners, I'm afraid. The Taxpayer Relief Act defines a qualified heir as either a family member materially involved in the operation of the ranch for five of the last eight years, or an employee with ten or more years of employment prior to the decedent's death. You don't qualify for the one-pointdireemillion-dollar taxable estate exclusion. You'll pay taxes on the full value, less seven hundred thousand dollars."

"How much will I owe?"

"Federal taxes will exceed six million dollars. I haven't factored in th e state tax bite."

"How soon do I have to pay?"

"Nine months after Erma's death."

"Is that a firm date?"

"The tax forms are due then, but I could file a six-month extension for payment on your behalf."

"Is there anything I can do to avoid selling the land?"

"Installment payments to the IRS are possible. The estate can spread the cost out over fourteen years. But the IRS will charge interest-four to six percent."

Kerney did some quick mental calculations.

"That amounts to over four hundred thousand dollars a year, plus interest."

"That's right."

"Who did the appraisal?"

"I believe I've secured the lowest possible appraisal on the property."

"I'm sure you have. I need the appraiser's name for police business."

Lynch paused.

"Hold on."

After a minute, he came back on the line and read off the information.

A Santa Fe firm had done the appraisal.

Kerney scribbled down the name and address.

"Do you know who sold Erma the land?"

"She bought it from Nestor Barela in nineteen-sixty.

Don't ask what she paid for it. It would only depress you.

May I say something, Mr. Kerney?"

"Please do."

"Erma's estate is quite considerable. Not only did she inherit a sizable amount from her parents many years ago, she invested it wisely, and added to her net worth as the demand for her art drove up the price of her paintings.

Except for the land she willed to you, the remainder of her estate will become an endowment to the university art department."

"I understand that."

"Erma wanted you to be able to keep all of the land.

She knew how much it would mean to you. I advised her to establish a trust in your name, and she directed me to do so, with the proviso that I encumber sufficient resources in the trust to pay the inheritance taxes on the property. Her death occurred a week before the trust was to be established."

"I see."

"If you want to keep at least part of Erma's gift, let the estate sell some of the property for taxes. You'll still own a sizable chunk of land. I'm no rancher, but it seems to me you would have enough acreage left to start a small cattle operation."

"I'll think about it."

"You'll need to make a decision fairly soon," Lynch said.

"I know it."

"Let me know what you decide, Mr. Kerney. Remember, you stand to come out of this very well-off."

"I'm aware of that."

Kerney hung up in a foul mood, realizing he had no call to be so abrupt with Milton Lynch; he was a good man doing a good job. Erma had picked her executor wisely.

What grated Kerney had nothing to do with the windfall inheritance, although the amount of his net worth on paper staggered him. The thought of giving up thirty-two hundred acres felt like fate slapping him down again. As a child, he'd watched his parents lose the ranch on the Tularosa to the army when White Sands expanded. Now, he faced losing half of the best, and perhaps only, opportunity he would ever have to return to ranching. It felt like a bad dream or a sick joke coming back to haunt him.

He was glad he'd resisted Dale's offer to come in as a partner. With a tax bite in the high seven figures, it was totally out of the question.

For now, he didn't know what the hell to do, other than mull it over and think about options.

Shoe was at his feet, head resting on the sneaker, his eyes locked on Kerney. He reached down, picked up the sneaker, and tossed it through the archway into the living room. Shoe got up and fetched it back, his tail wagging.

"Let's see what else you can do." Kerney tried some common commands, and Shoe promptly obeyed each of them.

"Smart dog." He fed the dog a treat. Shoe dropped down on the floor and ate his biscuit.

Seconds before the doorbell rang, Shoe raised his head and let out a long howl.

"So you're a watchdog, are you?" Kerney said as he pulled himself upright.

Shoe followed him to the front door, the sneaker firmly clasped in his jaws, and sat. Kerney opened it to find Sara Brannon smiling at him from the front step.

"Good God, what are you doing here?"

"The army took pity on me and sent me home early.

You have a dog, Kerney," she said.

"Does it have a name?"

"His name is Shoe," Kerney said, grinning in delight.

"I can see why. He's pretty mangy looking."

"He's had a rough time of it. But he's smart; he can come, sit, fetch, roll over, and stay. He just moved in."

Sara knelt and scratched Shoe under the chin. The dog dropped the sneaker and gave her a kiss.

"Do you have any other roommates I need to know about?"

Kerney shook his head.

"None."

She held out a bottle of wine as she stepped inside.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Kerney took the bottle from Sara's hand.

"I think I need one."

"Don't you like surprises?"

"This one I do."

She slipped out of her coat and dropped it on-the arm of a sofa that faced a corner fireplace and a patio door.

On one side, an archway opened onto a kitchen that contained a small cafe table and two chairs. Opposite the kitchen, on the wall next to an open bedroom door, hung a small watercolor of a herd of horses moving through a snowstorm. It was the only personal touch in the room.

Sara inspected the watercolor.

"That's very nice."

"Pletcher Hartley did it. I wrote you about him. I think you'll enjoy meeting him."

"Prom what you've told me about him in your letters, he sounds like quite a character." She turned back and gestured at the bottle in Kerney's hand.

"Are you going to open the wine, or not?"

"You bet."

"Well, let's get started celebrating this reunion."

Sara sat at the kitchen table while Kerney searched for wineglasses and a corkscrew. He took his time doing it, glancing at Sara out of the corner of his eye. He had a snapshot of her, but it didn't convey the full impact of her physical presence. Her strawberry blond hair was a bit shorter now, further accenting the sensual line of her neck. Her green eyes sparkled with a hint of something Kerney couldn't quite decipher. Even in blue jeans and a mock turtleneck pullover, Sara look stunning.

He brought the glasses to the table, sat across from her, uncorked the bottle, and poured the wine.

"Cheers."

Sara touched her wineglass to Kerney's and took a sip.

"So tell me, Kerney, have you slept with many women since I've been gone?"

"How would you define 'many women'?"

"More than one," Sara answered.

"Then I have not slept with many women."

"Only one?"

"One."

"Tell me about her."

"Her name is Karen Cox. She's a lawyer, an ADA.

Divorced. Two children. She lives in Catron County."

"Attractive?"

"Very."

"Are you still seeing her?"

"No. I got a note from her recently. She's hooked up with a ranch foreman."

"She likes cowboys."

"So it would seem."

"That shows good taste. Any regrets?"

"No. And you?"

"I've been a very good girl, which hasn't been easy.

Will Andy let you take some time off?"

"He's out of town for the week at a convention in Florida. He left me in charge."

"That simplifies matters. I've really never spent much time in Santa Fe. Will you tour me around?"

"Of course."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Start the tour," Sara said, putting down her wineglass.

"I'd love to see your bedroom."

With her head on his shoulder and her leg draped over his thigh, Sara gently scratched Kerney's chest with her fingernails. The heat from her body felt like a long warm ember against Kerney's skin.

"That was a lot of fun," she said.

"It was my pleasure. Major Brannon."

"It's Lieutenant Colonel Brannon."

Sara's statement surprised Kerney. He had spent one tour in Vietnam late in the war as an infantry lieutenant and knew that only a remarkable circumstance would accelerate a very junior major to light colonel.

"Congratulations.

How did that happen?"

"I'll tell you about it later."

"Why so secretive?"

"I'm not accustomed to telling war stories. Have you ever wanted to be a father, Kerney?"

"I always thought I would, some day."

"Still interested?"

"I'm too long in the tooth."

"Not at all."

Kerney pulled back his head.

"Are you staring at me in the dark?" Sara asked. Her fingers traveled down to the gunshot scar on Kerney's stomach. She rubbed it lightly and felt the rough texture of the skin and the hard abdominal muscle underneath.

"I have excellent night vision."

Outside the closed bedroom door. Shoe whined quietly in dismay.

"Your dog wants to come in," Sara said, moving her fingers down to Kerney's hip.

"Don't change the subject. Are you thinking of having a baby?"

"I'm putting a stud book together, just as a possibility.

Your name is on the list."

"I'm honored to be considered. But you'd be taking a chance. I've never sired any offspring."

"You seem to have the necessary enthusiasm for the task."

Kerney laughed.

"Is this something you're serious about?"

"I'm not sure."

"How many names are in your stud book?"

"I'm not telling." Sara's hand traveled below Kerney's hip to his crotch.

"Now, that's very interesting."

She rolled on top of Kerney, and for a very long time conversation ceased.

Carl Boaz saw hoofprints in the snow at the gate when he got back to the meadow late Sunday night. He unlocked the gate, moved the truck through, relocked the gate, and drove to his cabin, wondering who in the hell had been snooping around. He made a quick tour outside with a flashlight, looking for any sign of trespassing.

Everything appeared okay.

Inside, Boaz kept his coat on while he lit a kerosene lamp and fired up the wood stove. Off the power grid, the cabin had no electricity other than what a gasoline generator supplied. Boaz rarely used electricity in the cabin; it was much more important to reserve the power for the greenhouse and the well pump.

He left the cabin and walked to the greenhouse.

Prom the gate at the top of the meadow, the greenhouse looked like a cheap, thrown-together structure. But hidden from view on the south side, a row of solar panels fed power to a bank of batteries that ran fans and heating coils. The system was so efficient Boaz only needed to use the backup generator after three or four consecutive cloudy days.

He circled the greenhouse, checked the door locks, looked for fresh tracks, found nothing, and walked back to the cabin. Boaz smiled as he passed the child's bicycle propped against the porch rail. Wanda the bitch had left it behind when she moved out with her bratty eight-year-old son to return to L.A. He had found the bicycle in the toolshed and decided to use it to give the place a homey, family kind of look.

The cabin had warmed up nicely. Heavily insulated, it consisted of a large room with two sleeping lofts, a small bathroom off the downstairs kitchen area, and an attached room at the back of the cabin Boaz had built for Wanda to use as a pottery studio. With Wanda gone, Boaz had converted the room into a woodshed. It easily held three cords of dry firewood.

He shucked his coat, put a tea kettle on the propane stove to heat up cofiee water, and turned on the battery-powered shortwave receiver. He liked listening to the BBC Sunday night broadcasts.

At the table, Boaz studied his sketch of a cornfield that he would plant after the last spring frost. He would move new nursery stock to the cornfield, use the corn to shield the marijuana, and start another greenhouse crop of grass right away. That would more than double his yield in one season.

In the morning he would dig up the cactus plants in the greenhouse that Wanda had transplanted from the mesa, and start some more marijuana seedlings. There were only twenty cactus plants, but they took up valuable space. He couldn't believe he'd let the bitch talk him into starting a little cactus garden.

The teapot whistled and Boaz got up and made his coffee. A BBC news reader was reporting on a New Zealand woman who grew rare nineteenth-century roses in her garden. He turned up the volume, listened to the batty old lady ramble on about her roses in a down-under accent, and started working on his finances.

Money was tight, and he wouldn't see a profit until he could market his product. Every dime he'd made from dealing at colleges in Southern California had gone into his enterprise. The land, the cabin, the greenhouse, the move last year to New Mexico, had cost a lot of money.

But if he could make it through the next six months, and get half a dozen more crops in, he would be a rich man.

Then he would finish his novel.

He stared at his piece-of-shit Ph.D. diploma from UC Santa Barbara that was nailed to a joist supporting the sleeping lofts. All those years in school, for what? A shitty teaching assistant position in some backwater philosophy department with no hope for a tenure-track appointment. Worthless.

A truck horn blared from the locked gate-two short beeps. Boaz grabbed his coat and went outside. A full moon and a clear sky made it easy for him to see Rudy's truck. The headlights were off and the motor was running.

It was about time Rudy showed up to pay him some money. He was weeks overdue.

"Where have you been, man?" Boaz asked as he climbed over the gate and approached the driver's door.

"Working," Rudy replied through the open truck window.

"You want to come in?"

"Can't stay."

"Did you bring my money?"

"Yeah," Rudy said, as he raised the pistol from his lap and blew a third eye through Boaz's forehead.

Up early, Gabe Gonzales made coffee, and sat at the kitchen table reviewing his completed reports. It was much too soon for Orlando to be awake, and the house was quiet.

Theresa, his ex-wife, had forced Gabe to buy out her equity in the house, a Victorian built by his grandfather on a street behind the Las Vegas Public Library. It took Gabe a second mortgage to do it, and he was still paying on an earlier loan used to renovate the house after his grandfather had sold it to him.

He had his eye on a lieutenant's vacancy that would ease some of the monthly pressure to pay bills. Orlando was on a full scholarship at the university and worked a part-time job to cover his personal expenses, so having him living at home wasn't much of a burden. But Gabe still walked around most of the time with a nearly empty wallet.

He looked at the dock on the kitchen stove, picked up the cordless phone, and called Officer Russell Thorpe at home.

"Wake up, rookie," Gabe said when Thorpe answered.

"I need you to run some paperwork down to Chief Kerney in Santa Fe.

Pick it up at my place."

"Then what?"

"Since you've just volunteered to work on your days off, call me when you get back. We'll do one more sweep of the mesa. I still think we may have missed something."

"Ten-four."

Thorpe picked up the reports, departed, and Gabe headed out. He took the paved road past the county detention center and followed it to where the pavement ended. Several miles in on the dusty dirt road he passed through San Geronimo.

Once a prosperous ranching community, in the late nineteenth century the village had spawned Las Gorras Blancas, the White Caps. It was a secret militant organization of Hispanic ranchers determined to drive out the Anglo settlers who had encroached on the old Mexican land grant with the help of corrupt politicians.

Wearing white hoods to conceal their identities. Las Gorras Blancas raided at night, burning barns and haystacks, ripping down fences, and shooting the land grabbers' livestock. They staged midnight rallies on the Las Vegas Plaza, circulated petitions to the citizens, and even had a leader elected to the territorial legislature.

But they couldn't stop the bleeding away of the land to the Anglo newcomers, and by the turn of the century much of it was gone forever.

Gabe thought about the recent rise in property crimes and wondered if, a century later, a modern version of Las Gorras Blancas was riding again. It was worth thinking about; land prices were climbing and the few old Hispanic families left in the valley were having a hell of a time paying their property taxes. Maybe somebody had gotten pissed off enough to start ripping off the latest wave of Anglo immigrants.

The morning sky changed from hot pink to flat gray as the sun broke above the horizon and disappeared behind a low, thick cloud.

Chief Kerney had asked Gabe to check out the owner of the cabin to the north of his property. He turned onto the dirt track that led to Carl Boaz's cabin in the meadow. Finding out about Boaz had been easy.

His property had been added to the fire department response grid map after the cabin had been built. Supposedly, Boaz lived there with a girlfriend and her young son.

If Gabe hadn't been driving a 4 x 4 state police Ram Charger, he would have stopped and walked in-the road was that bad. He made the last turn near the top of the hill and saw two crows sitting on the top of a steel gate. Above, several more circled lazily at low altitude.

He looked at a mound on the ground, and looked again.

He got out, walked to the mound, and bent over it.

A dead man looked up at him with blank eyes. Cold nighttime temperatures had left the body covered with frost. The bullet hole in his forehead was perfectly round, and his face was tattooed with pinpoint hemorrhages from powder burns.

He'd been shot at very close range. Gabe put on a pair of plastic gloves, tilted the body slightly, searched the back pockets for a wallet, found it, and looked for a driver's license. Issued by the state of California, it identified the dead man as Carl Boaz.

Gabe stayed low, keyed his hand-held radio, and called in the crime.

The crows didn't move from the gate until he returned to the vehicle.

Then they hopped away a few yards and perched on the top strand of the wire fence.

He crouched behind the open door and scanned the meadow with binoculars. Approaching the cabin would be risky. He would have to cover at least a hundred yards of open space from the gate to the cabin. There might be an armed hostage taker barricaded inside one of the structures with captives.

He saw no movement, but stayed put for a few minutes before getting a tarp out of the back of the 4x4 and covering the corpse. He didn't want crows feasting while he waited for backup.

He called for assistance, positioned himself at the rear of the vehicle where he had the most protection, and kept scanning the cabin and greenhouse. All the preliminary work-photographing, measuring, and evidence collection-could wait until he was sure the area was secure.

The crows flapped lazily off the wire, circled above him, and cawed.

There would be no free lunch for them today.

Kerney's bedroom phone rang. He reached for it and checked the time: it was seven o'clock. He listened to the dispatcher's report, asked for a helicopter to stand by, and hung up.

"What is it?" Sara asked as she sat up in the bed and pulled the sheet up over her breasts.

"Cold?"

"No, modest."

"I don't think so."

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

Kerney looked at Sara, wondering how she could look so sexy on such little sleep. They had stayed awake and talked through most of the night, catching each other up. Kerney now knew about the firefight in the DMZ that had led to her meritorious promotion, and the Distinguished Service Medal. Kerney thought the honors were richly deserved.

"A homicide at a cabin near my property," he said.

"Want to go with me?"

"Doesn't that sound romantic?" Sara said as she stretched out and put the pillow over her head.

"Is that a no?"

Sara muttered something.

"What?"

Sara took the pillow off her face.

"I'll pass. I'm going back to sleep and then I'm going shopping. I haven't bought any new clothes in almost two years, and I need a few things to wear. Besides, I drove straight through from Cheyenne yesterday, just to get here last night."

"Do you want me to find you another tour guide for the day?"

"Are you trying to pawn me off to somebody eke so soon?"

"No way." Kerney sat up and swung his legs to the floor.

"I'll leave you a key and be back in time to take you out to dinner."

"Pick a nice place to eat; I plan to be dressed to kill.

Are you in a hurry to leave?"

"The chopper will wait for me."

Sara kicked off the bed covers.

"Not sleepy anymore?"

"Not that sleepy," Sara replied.

"Come here."

Kerney saluted and followed orders.

Several hours into the preliminary investigation of Carl Boaz's murder, Gabe saw the chopper carrying Chief Kerney come over the mesa and land in the meadow.

From the porch he watched Kerney walk toward him.

He limped badly for a few steps before smoothing out his gait.

Gabe knew Kerney's knee had been shattered in a gunfight with a drug dealer. It had happened some years ago when Kerney was with the Santa Fe PD. It wasn't the only time the chief had used deadly force. In high-risk situations, the man knew how to keep his cool and survive.

In his twenty years as a cop, Gabe had never been under fire. He wondered how he'd stack up if he had to put it on the line.

Gabe had assigned Russell Thorpe the job of receiving evidence and recording the personnel entering the crime scene. He watched Thorpe intercept Kerney halfway across the meadow and hold out a clipboard with a sign-in sheet. Kerney signed it and spent a minute talking to the officer before moving on.

Down at the greenhouse, Ben Morfin, the district narcotics agent, was conducting an inventory of marijuana plants. He was at one thousand and counting.

"Bring me up to speed. Sergeant," Kerney said when he reached Gabe.

"Carl Boaz, age thirty-five, died last night from a single gunshot wound to the head, fired at close range.

There are no wants or warrants on the victim and no record of any arrests. Boaz held a doctorate in philosophy from a California university. Seems he dropped out of academia and went into organic gardening, specializing in the commercial cultivation of marijuana."

Kerney raised an eyebrow.

"How much?"

"When the tally is done, I'm guessing it will exceed two thousand plants. It could be a seven-figure cash crop."

"Is there any tie-in between Boaz and the skeleton on the mesa?"

"Just the dog so far. Chief. There's a snapshot in the cabin of Boaz, his ex-girifriend, her son, and the dog you found on the mesa. Want to know the dog's name?"

"Tell me."

"Buster."

Kerney laughed.

"Are you making this up?"

"No way."

"I guess every kid should have a dog named Buster, no matter who he lives with. Tell me about Boaz's ex-girlfriend."

"Her name is Wanda Knox. She moved back to California about a month ago, and started writing Boaz letters telling him he was a self-absorbed asshole. She also wanted him to ship Buster and her son's bicycle out to the coast. Boaz kept a journal. Chief. He sold drugs at Southern California colleges before he decided to go into the production end of the business. I've got a list of his dealers and his contacts."

"DBA will like that."

Gabe nodded in agreement.

"Boaz also noted in his journal that somebody by the name of Rudy owed him four hundred dollars. No last name. I think Rudy may be a local; the entry was made six weeks ago. There's an earlier entry from last September showing that Rudy paid Boaz the same amount."

"Porwhat?"

"Unknown, but I have my suspicions. I found the route the poacher took to haul the wood out. It comes right through the meadow. I think Boaz gave the poacher access to the dear-cut area and got paid for it."

"Boaz didn't cut the wood himself?"

"His truck tire tracks don't match up with any of the impressions we found on the route. Also, there is no evidence that he hauled wood out to cut and split here-no chips, no sawdust, no bark. At least not in quantity."

"So we need to find Rudy."

"Do you want me to start canvassing?"

"Not yet. Give me Wanda's current address before I leave. I'll ask the California authorities to locate and question her. Maybe she knows who Rudy is, and how to find him."

"Can I give you some questions for Wanda to pass along to the California police?"

"Sure thing."

Td like some help. Chief, if you can spare the manpower."

"Two agents will be up from Santa Fe in the morning, and I've already cleared it with your captain to assign the district narcotics officer to work with you.

They're yours as long as you need them."

"Thanks. Do you want the tour?"

"I do."

"There's something I want to show you in the greenhouse.

Boaz had a little cactus garden, separate from his marijuana crop. Just a single, small variety of twenty plants. I've never seen it before.

Neither has the narcotics agent. We think it might be used to produce some exotic type of hallucinogenic."

"Lead on," Kerney said.

By noon Sara was completely burned out on the frilly, fringed, beaded, cutesy, embroidered western fashions she'd seen in virtually all of the downtown boutiques near the plaza. The streets were filled with late-season skiers, dumping around in their boots and parkas with half-day ski passes dangling from jacket zippers, busily shopping Santa Fe.

Several blocks away on a side street in a lovely old brick Victorian house, she found a clothing store that had what she wanted: simple, elegant silk tops in earth-tone colors, a wonderful full-length, long-sleeved brown dress with a high neckline that looked very sleek when she put it on, and new designer jeans that made her look equally slinky. After so many months in starched fatigues and tailored military uniforms, the fabric felt satiny and sensual against her skin.

She didn't wince at all when she paid the bill, although the prices were outrageous. It was her treat to herself for two years of doing without in South Korea.

She asked the sales clerk where she might buy some sexy lingerie, and got directions to a nearby store along with a knowing smile.

"You've got that right," Sara said as she picked up her bags and walked away. The woman's laugh followed her out the door.

At the lingerie shop, she took her time and came away with some tasty little items that were comfortable to wear yet decidedly provocative.

She made her beauty salon appointment just in time, and spent a wonderful hour letting Patrick somebody-or-other pamper, condition, and trim her hair.

Back at Kerney's apartment. Shoe met her at the door, sneaker firmly in his mouth, tall wagging, still looking mangy as hell. She gave him a scratch under the chin, and he followed her into the bedroom. She dumped the packages on the bed and checked the alarm dock on the nightstand. Kerney wouldn't be back for hours.

Sara looked at Shoe and decided the dog needed some TLC. She fanned through the Yellow Pages and found a pet grooming business that could take Shoe right away. She got directions to the shop, grabbed the new leash and collar Kerney had bought, and loaded the dog into her Jeep Cherokee.

"Come on. Shoe," she said, as she backed out of the driveway.

"Let's get you cleaned up. That way we can both knock Kerney's socks off."

After taking the tour of the crime scene, Kerney pitched in and gave Sergeant Gonzales a hand. He spent several hours helping Gabe systematically search the cabin, which yielded further information on Wanda Knox and her son. He now had a very good photograph of the woman, plus a small address book Wanda had left behind with the names and addresses of friends and relatives in Southern California.

Back at state police headquarters in Santa Fe, Kerney prepared a brief summary of the known facts pertaining to the Boaz murder case, typed up questions for Wanda Knox, and photocopied the address book.

According to the letters sent to Boaz, Wanda currently lived in Arcadia, California. Kerney checked her address against a map. Arcadia was close to Pasadena, and many of the entries in the address book showed friends and family living either in Arcadia, Pasadena, or surrounding communities.

He called the Arcadia PD, talked to the chief, told him what he needed, and got quick agreement to have a detective follow up as soon as Kerney faxed the information.

"If Ms. Knox can't positively identify a man named Rudy, ask your officer to do an Identi-Kit," Kerney said.

The kit was used to produce a facial likeness of a person based on verbal descriptions furnished by a witness.

"That's no problem," the chief said.

"Anything else?"

"A list of names of anyone else she knew or met in New Mexico would be helpful."

"You've got it. How's the weather out there?"

"High fifties, windy, and blue skies," Kerney answered.

"Jesus, what I'd give to see blue skies again. We've had solid smog for two months."

Kerney faxed the information to Arcadia, cleared some paperwork off his desk, and checked the wall dock.

If he hustled he could get to the real-estate appraisal company before closing time.

Capital City Land Survey and Appraisal was located on De Vargas Street in a building that faced the Santa Fe River Park. The window in Donald Preston's office gave a nice view of the park and the duster of buildings across the way that denned the downtown city core.

Preston sat behind a map-covered desk. On the floor were an assortment of surveying instruments and two metal field satchels.

Somewhere in his forties, Preston had a prominent nose, thick lips that he rubbed together before speakng, and a florid complexion.

"I just did the valuation assessment on your property," Preston said.

"We're working up the final report to send to the estate executor this week."

"I'm really here on a different matter," Kerney said.

He showed Preston his shield and sketched out the facts of the skeleton discovered on the mesa.

Preston's eyes widened.

"I walked right by that grove of trees."

"When did you do the appraisal?"

"The week before last. I went out with my land surveying team."

"Were you with them all the time?"

"No, only the last day. The team was on-site for a good three or four days before I got there."

"Who was on the team?"

"Bill Kemp, Johnny Nelson, and jude Mondragon."

"Did they mention seeing anyone during the survey?"

"If they did, I didn't hear about it."

"Did you see anybody while you were on the property?"

"Not a soul."

"Did you see a dog?"

"I didn't see a dog."

"Did you come across any old campsites, discarded clothing, or litter?"

Preston shook his head.

"I saw nothing like that."

"Did you see any woodcutters or loggers on the road?"

"No, but I sure saw the clear-cut area in the canyon on the west boundary. I'm including it in my report."

"Did you inform Mr. Lynch?"

"No. It's not unusual to find logging on private property, although whoever did the cutting sure chewed up the area."

"Have you done other appraisals in the valley recently?"

"Three, as a matter of fact. The Horse Canyon Ranch owner bought some parcels contiguous to her property. Each was about three hundred acres."

"Was there any woodcutting on those parcels?"

"Nope."

"Are Mondragon, Kemp, and Nelson here?"

"They should be in the back room."

"Do you mind if I speak with them?"

"Not at all."

Brief conversations with Preston's employees resulted in no additional information about the crimes. As a matter of personal interest, Kerney asked to see the surveys of the parcels bought by Alicia Bingham, the Horse Canyon Ranch owner. Except for the Boaz cabin property and the National Forest land on the west boundary, his ten sections were surrounded by Bingham's holdings.

Already late for this dinner date with Sara, Kerney thanked the men for their assistance and drove home in a hurry. He entered the house and stared at Shoe in disbelief.

The dog was almost unrecognizable. His hindquarters had been clipped, his belly shaved, his paws and legs trimmed, and his coat glistened.

Only the sneaker in his mouth identified him.

The door to the bedroom was closed and Sara was nowhere in sight.

"What did you do to my dog?" Kerney called out.

"He got a shampoo, a cut, and a pedicure," Sara said, stepping out of the bedroom.

"He's a handsome brute, isn't he?"

Kerney found it hard to answer. Sara wore a long brown dress that covered her from ankle to neck and revealed every curve of her body.

"Both of you look fantastic."

"I'm glad you noticed. Change your clothes, Kerney, and take me to dinner. I'm hungry."

The Canyon Road restaurant was in a low adobe building tucked behind some expensive condos. The maitre d' met them at the door in a finely tailored suit, greeted them in a Swiss German accent, and led them through the small antechamber into the dining area. The interior was painted an austere white, and a few understated weavings on the wall were accented by recessed lights. The tablecloths were linen, the glassware was crystal, and the place settings were silver. The customers were nicely dressed and the hum conversation in the room was muted and subdued.

The maitre d' took them through the front dining area to a smaller, more intimate room. He seated Sara and Kerney at a corner table near a fireplace while a waiter dressed in a crisp white server's jacket and black slacks stood nearby.

Kerney wore a raw silk oatmeal-colored sport coat, a charcoal linen shirt buttoned at the collar, dark gray wool dress slacks, and a pair of black alligator cowboy boots. He looked distinguished and handsome.

Two women dining at a nearby table gave Kerney the once over. Sara smiled sweetly at them until they turned away.

"Did you catch any bad guys today?" Sara asked, as the busboy poured water and the waiter stood by with the wine list.

"Not a one."

"When do I get to see your ranch?"

"It's hardly a ranch, at this point," Kerney said.

"And I can't see how I'm going to keep it."

"Taxes?"

Kerney nodded. The waiter discreetly interrupted with the wine list and asked for a drink order.

After the waiter left with the order, Kerney filled Sara in on the money he'd have to pay in taxes, and how Erma's instructions to give him the land free and dear hadn't been executed before her death.

"How sad," Sara said.

"But I'm sure Erma had no intention of dying."

"No, she was enjoying life too much. I guess I just have to accept the fact that it's the thought that counts."

"Does it?" Sara asked.

"Somewhat."

"My parents have been selling sections of the ranch to my brother and me so we can avoid the heavy inheritance tax, plus giving us the maximum tax-free gift each year in land. We'll be half owners within the next five years."

Kerney had visited the Montana sheep ranch with Sara. It covered a hundred thousand acres that encompassed three lush valleys and some beautiful high country "Do you plan to return to the ranch after you retire from the army?"

"To visit, not to live. I'll let my brother and his wife buy me out as they can. They're the ones putting the blood, sweat, and tears into it."

"When will you retire?"

"I'm thinking in about ten more years. I like my career, but it's hell on any kind of personal life. I'll be forty-two if I retire with twenty years of service.

If I stayed in any longer I'd just hit the glass ceiling.

There's only a handful of women in the army who wear stars."

"You could be one of them."

"That would be nice."

"You're only two ranks away from brigadier general."

"Those are two very long steps. After lieutenant colonel, very few officers make the cut."

Their waiter brought the wine and menus, explained the house specials in great detail, and motioned for the busboy to bring a basket of fresh breads and rolls.

After they moved away from the table, Kerney lifted his wineglass to Sara.

"Perhaps you'll be the first woman to command a combat division."

Sara raised her glass in reply.

"Now, that might be worth staying in for."

"Seriously?"

"What a coup that would be. It would be hard to pass it up."

The waiter returned, took their orders, complimented them on their selections, and departed.

"This is turning into a lovely evening, Kerney. I think I'm going to have to put a star after your name in my stud book."

"Along with appropriate remarks on my performance?"

Sara smiled coyly.

"Of course. Do you know what I'd like to do after dinner?"

"What's that?"

"Show you my new lingerie."

"More research for the stud book?"

"Exactly"

In the late evening darkness, Gabe Gonzales stood at the open gate watching the district narcotics agent, Ben Morfin, load the last of the marijuana plants into a truck. The crime scene techs had left, the medical examiner had come and gone, Boaz's body had been removed, and Russell Thorpe was on his way to the district office with all the evidence that had been collected during the search.

It had been a bitch of a day. The discovery of the marijuana necessitated expanding the crime scene investigation to encompass the entire meadow and all the buildings. Gabe and the team had gone over, under, and through everything. They had even moved the firewood stacked in a room of the cabin, stick by stick, to make sure nothing had been missed.

At the greenhouse, the truck headlights flashed on and the engine kicked over.

Morfin drove to the gate, stopped, and spoke through the open window.

"That's it."

"You've got it all?"

"Exactly two thousand six hundred and seventy-eight plants," Morfin said.

"Boazjust missed a big score.

He was four weeks shy of a seven-figure harvest."

"I'll see you in the morning," Gabe said.

As Morfin drove off, Gabe closed and locked the gate and walked down the hill. The moon rose above Hermit's Peak, spreading a pale velvet light over the mountain and the valley. It made everything look deceptively peaceful.

A patrol unit at the bottom of the dirt track blocked access to the cabin. The officer inside the cruiser would spend a mind-numbing night on-site, guarding the crime scene.

He stopped, told the officer he would be at home if needed, got in the Ram Charger, called in his destination and ETA, and drove away.

It was too late to think about fixing dinner. He would get a pizza on the way home, spend a few minutes with Orlando, and then start in on the paperwork.

"Mom called," Orlando said, licking his fingers and reaching for another slice of pizza.

"She wants me to spend spring break with her in Albuquerque."

"I thought you'd be working over spring break," Gabe said.

"Yeah, most of the time. I told her I'd come down for a couple of days."

"She'll like that." The pizza tasted bland. Gabe pushed the box in Orlando's direction.

"I'm probably not going to be home much for a while anyway."

Gabe watched as Orlando nodded and chewed at the same time. He was a good-looking boy, two inches taller than Gabe, who'd inherited his mother's dark eyes and even features.

"What's up?" Orlando finally asked.

"I'm working two murder cases in San Geronimo. A drug grower and an unidentified female."

"No shit? Were they killed at the same time?"

"No. All we've got on the woman are some bones that were scattered on a mesa."

"No identification?"

"Not yet."

"Where did you find the bones?"

"Near Nestor Barela's old ranch."

Orlando wiped his hands on a paper towel.

"Think you'll be able to find the killers?"

"It's too early to say."

Orlando stood up.

"How come you keep doing this kind of work? Don't you get sick of it?

Murder and all."

"You sound like your mother," Gabe said.

"Retire, Dad. You've earned it."

"Too many bills."

"Sell the house," Orlando said, picking up his day-pack.

"I'm not going to stay in Las Vegas after I graduate from college anyway."

"You've been saying that for the last year. Why is living in your hometown so bad? You never used to feel this way before."

"I just want to get out and see the world, okay?"

"Okay, but the house stays in the family. You can have it when you get sick of seeing the world and move back home."

"I'm not coming back."

"That's what you say now," Gabe said.

"You may feel differently later on."

"I don't think so." Orlando dropped his crumbled paper towel in the empty pizza box.

"I've got to go study."

"You feeling all right, champ?"

"Just dred."

Gabe nodded toward the kitchen door.

"Go hit the books. I've got my own homework to do."

Orlando left and Gabe worked until his eyes gave out and his mind was fuzzy. He left his paperwork on the kitchen table and climbed the stairs with the ornate carved banister. At the end of the long hallway he could see light shining under the door to Orlando's room.

Except for Orlando's possessions, Theresa had taken most of the furniture when she'd moved out. Gabe had been replacing it a piece at a time, as he could afford to. He had a television and a couch in the downstairs front room. But the dining room was empty, as was the library, except for the collection of his grandfather's old books. His bedroom contained one double bed, a reading lamp clipped to the headboard, and a dresser he'd picked up at a garage sale.

He needed to buy a rug or a picture to hang on the wall.

In the bathroom he brushed his teeth, stripped down to his underwear, and dumped his clothes in the laundry hamper. The alarm dock was on the floor near his bed, next to the telephone. He set it, got under the covers, and was asleep within minutes.

After dinner, Kerney and Sara went back to his apartment. Kerney got the fireplace going, exiled Shoe to the patio, lit some candles, put a Brahms piano concerto on the stereo, and poured some brandy.

They never made it to the bedroom.

"Chilly?" Kerney asked later.

"Just a bit."

He padded into the bedroom. Lean with a small butt, a slim waist, square shoulders, and a nice chest, Kerney looked very sexy naked.

Their clothes were scattered on the furniture and the floor. They'd certainly been in a hurry; the brandy hadn't been touched.

He came out of the bedroom holding a robe and a heavy flannel shirt.

"Your choice."

Sara took the shirt, slipped it on, picked up her brandy glass, and stretched out on the carpet in front of the fireplace. She felt delightfully ravished and a little weak in the knees.

Kerney joined her on the carpet.

"Take me camping, Kerney," she said, reaching for Kerney's hand. He had perfectly proportioned fingers.

"Are you burned out on Santa Fe already?"

"I need to wake up to the smell of pine needles and the sight of a New Mexico sunrise."

"Did you bring your gear?"

"It'sintheCherokee."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Take a guess."

Kerney nodded.

"Give me the morning to get a few things done."

"That's fine with me. Plan on being late for work."

"Again?" Kerney asked with a grin.

"Oh, yes."

Kerney arrived at his office to find a phone message from a detective at the Arcadia PD waiting for him. He called back and spoke to Det.

Sgt. George Broom.

"I wish all my assignments were this easy," Broom said.

"The address you gave us for Wanda Knox turned out to be a residential treatment center for addicted mothers. They call it a therapeutic community. It specializes in working with women and their children.

It's one of those places that's run sort of like a commune.

Kids, pets, and toys everywhere; everybody does chores and goes to group therapy. That sort of stuff."

"What kind of drugs does Wanda Knox use?" Kerney asked.

"Cocaine. She says Boaz got her started. She's twenty-eight and still a looker, Chief. She used to be a cheerleader in high school. She worked as a secretary in the philosophy department at the university where Boaz was a teaching assistant. That's where she met him. She and the kid started living with Boaz about a year before they pulled up stakes and moved to New Mexico. She didn't act upset when I told her Boaz had been murdered. I guess the romance soured."

"Did she ID Rudy?"

"She doesn't know his last name. She said Rudy paid Boaz to give him access to the land where he cut the wood. Does that kind of shit really go on out there?

Poaching and stuff like that?"

"All the time. Did you get a description of Rudy?"

"That, and a composite drawing. Rudy is Hispanic, in his mid-to-late thirties, clean shaven, about five foot ten.

He's stocky-weighs in at between two-twenty and two-forty pounds-and has brown eyes and brown hair cut long below the ears."

"That's helpful."

"Do you want something even better?"

"Are you holding out on me. Sergeant?"

Bloom laughed.

"I couldn't resist. Chief. Wanda's kid is a miniature toy car nut.

You know, those Hot Wheels you can buy just about anywhere.

Lane-that's the kid's name-is eight years old. He told me Rudy drove a dark blue, three-quarter-ton, long-bed Chevy pickup truck, with a winch on the front bumper, and a hydraulic lift mounted in the bed. The kid really knows his vehicles."

"That narrows the field."

"You want the license number?"

"Does your sense of humor get you in trouble, Sergeant?" Kerney asked.

"All the time." Broom read off the numbers and letters for the license plate.

"According to the kid, the truck has permanently installed wrought-iron side railings that extend above the cab. He even drew me a picture of the truck."

"Fax everything you've got to me."

"It's on the way. That question you had about those cactus plants you found in the greenhouse?"

"What about them?"

"Wanda said she found them in the canyon where Rudy was woodcutting and transplanted them to the greenhouse. She was going to give them as presents.

I don't think you've stumbled on a new hallucinogenic."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

"What do you want to do with Wanda? From what she told me, you can have her arrested for conspiracy to commit a felony."

"I take it she was cooperative?"

"You bet."

"Let's cut her a break, unless something more develops."

"Good deal."

Melody Jordan stood in the doorway of Kerney's office. He waved her inside as he hung up the telephone.

"Here's your copy of my follow-up report. Chief," she said, placing the file folder on his desk.

"Do you want a summary?"

"Please," Kerney replied.

"We found no trace evidence or foreign matter. Soil samples revealed nothing to suggest the body had been moved, but that doesn't mean anything. X rays of the bones showed nothing other than the old fracture to the upper arm. It was impossible to match the saw marks to a specific cutting instrument. We don't have a complete catalogue of hand or power saws. Nobody does; there are just too many of them. The comparisons we could make came up negative."

"Fiber samples?" Kerney asked.

"The denim we were able to identify. It's either one of two labels marketed by the same maker. The fibers embedded in the bone turned out to be a wool and cashmere blend, light brown in color. There's no way to tell what type of upper garment it was."

"Do you still think the victim's domes were expensive?"

Melody nodded her head.

"It's the kind of doming I'd like to wear if I could afford it. I've got a question about the old fracture to the left humerus. The way the bone was set looks odd to me."

"How so?"

"Either the doctor who did the job wasn't very good or there was a considerable period of time before the victim received medical attention. I'd like to consult an outside expert."

"Whom do you have in mind?"

"There's a physical anthropologist from Indiana University in residence at the School of American Research, on a sabbatical. He's also a medical doctor.

I attended one of his seminars on human remains identification.

He's top-notch in the field. I'd like to get his opinion."

"How soon can you set it up?"

Melody's cheeks colored slightly.

"I've already spoken with him. He can see me this morning. He'll do the examination gratis."

Kerney wondered what the blush on Melody's cheek was all about.

"Keep me informed."

Melody hurried out and Kerney went to the fax machine, where the last pages of Sergeant Broom's report were spilling onto the tray. As he waited, he asked the office secretary to run a motor vehicle check on the license plate Broom had provided. He picked up the loose sheets, returned to his office, and started reading through the material. The last page was a handwritten letter from Wanda's son. It read:

Dear Chief Kerney, Sgt. Broom said that I could rite to you. If you find my dog Buster please send him back to me. He's mostly black with some brown and white on his legs and tummy. He has realy long hair. He ran away the day my Mom and I left New Mexico.

I love Buster very much. He is the best dog in the hok world.

I hope you find him. Thank you.

LANE KNOX

He looked up to find Charlotte Plores standing in front of his desk.

"Here's the motor vehicle report you wanted. Chief," Charlotte said.

Kerney took the papers from the secretary's outstretched hand. He scanned it, put Lane Knox's letter to one side, and gave Charlotte the rest of Broom's report, along with the file he'd received from Melody Jordan.

"Fax everything to Sergeant Gonzales at the Las Vegas office. Give it top priority."

Charlotte studied Kerney's face. Usually the chief was cordial and polite. Today he sounded abrupt and distracted.

"Are you feeling all right, Chief?"

Kerney forced a smile.

"I'm fine."

Charlotte gave him a quizzical look and left.

Kerney went to the window and watched traffic on the Old Albuquerque Highway. Across the road, the huge American flag at the entrance to the new car dealership flapped and billowed in a gusty wind. Spring winds in New Mexico often rose up without warning, drove dust along at gale force, and threw a brown haze into the sky. He could barely see the foothills below the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and all the shiny new vehicles lined up in rows were dulled by a coat of sand. A truck passing down the road had a huge tumbleweed pinned against its grille.

The tumbleweed broke free, bounced against the truck windshield, and rolled across the highway, where it landed against a chain-link fence.

Lane Knox certainly deserved to have his dog back. But sending Shoe, or rather Buster, off to California wasn't a happy thought. Kerney really liked that mutt.

In the small conference room at the Las Vegas district state police office, Gabe Gonzales thumbed through and rearranged the multiple copies of his case files, dunking he must have been really hammered with fatigue the night before. He'd gone to bed sure that everything had been sorted the way he wanted it for the presentation to his team.

He'd made copies for each officer before discovering that Melody Jordan's preliminary forensic report was out of order in the packet.

He corrected the error in each packet, held one copy back for Ben Morfin, and passed the rest out to his team.

"Look this over and then we'll talk," Gabe said.

Gabe's team consisted of Russell Thorpe, Ben Morfin-who was off meeting with a botanist at the university-and two agents sent up from Santa Fe, Robert Duran and Frank Houge.

Gabe didn't speak until the men finished reading the material.

"Let's get started," he said.

"Technically, we have four different crimes. A homicide of an unknown female, the murder of Carl Boaz, the illegal production of a controlled substance, and wood poaching. Ben Morfin will handle the narcotics case."

"Where is Ben?" Prank Houge asked. Houge was a thick-bodied man with a bit of a gut, and a high nasal voice.

"He went to Boaz's greenhouse to get the cactus plants we found. Then he's meeting with a botanist at New Mexico Highlands University to have them identified."

"What's Ben going to be doing after that?" Robert Duran asked. The opposite of Houge, Duran was small in stature. He stayed lean by running in long-distance and cross-country races.

"He'll spend today back at the Boaz crime scene with the lab techs, and then start probing Boaz's drug contacts on the West Coast, through the Drug Enforcement Agency"

"Where do you want us?" Duran asked.

"I need a man on the mesa looking for more bones.

We've got some good initial findings from forensics, but I'd be a whole lot happier if we could complete the skeleton."

"I'll take that," Duran said.

"Good. I've put together a grid sketch of the areas that have already been covered. Don't go over old ground. You can use the Dodge four-by-four to get up on the mesa. I've marked a county map that will take you to the site."

"What do you have for me?" Houge asked.

"I want you to work a short list of missing women.

Forensics reports that the upper left arm bone suffered an old fracture. That, along with the age estimate of the victim and the fiber analysis, may help us make an ID."

"I'll contact the victims' families, get medical records, and double-check what the women were wearing at the time of their disappearance," Houge said.

"Don't get the families' hopes up," Gabe said.

Houge nodded in agreement.

"Thorpe will help me develop a list of area woodcutters and firewood sellers," Gabe said, getting to his feet.

"We spend today-and today only-on information and evidence gathering.

We've got enough right now to suspect that the man who killed Boaz is the wood poacher.

Maybe Ben can turn up Rudy's last name with a second search, or the California authorities will come through with more information from Wanda Knox. But with or without it, tomorrow we go looking for Rudy."

Houge waved his paperwork at Gabe.

"Prom what you've got here, Rudy could be the key to all these felonies."

"Wouldn't that be a nice early Easter present?" Gabe replied.

Gabe held Thorpe back after Houge and Duran left.

"I want a complete search of newspapers, city directories, and telephone books. Get me names, addresses, and numbers of all the firewood sellers and woodcutters you can find from Santa Fe to Las Vegas."

Although it was not what he had hoped to do on his first criminal investigation assignment, Thorpe nodded.

Gabe read the young officer's disappointment, and was about to react to it when Captain Garduno walked in.

"You'll want to see this stuff right away, Gabe," Garduno said, dropping some pages in front of Gonzales.

"It just came in from Chief Kerney's office."

"Thanks, Cap," Gabe said as Garduno left the room.

He scanned the material in order, passing each page to Thorpe as he finished.

When Russell handed the last sheet back, Gabe asked, "What information would you act on first?"

"According to Motor Vehicles, the registered owner is Joaquin Sandstevan. His driver's license photo doesn't match with the composite drawing of Rudy, and Wanda Knox's physical description is way off in terms of height, weight, and age. She said Rudy is in his mid-to-late thirties.

Santistevan has a date of birth that makes him twenty-seven."

Gabe nodded.

"What else?"

"Well, the kid got the truck right. The make and model of Santistevan's vehicle corresponds with his description."

"What would you do with this information?"

"Find and talk to Sandstevan," Thorpe replied.

"Why?"

"Eyewitnesses aren't always reliable. Maybe Santistevan and Rudy are one and the same person, maybe not."

"And if they're not?"

Thorpe shrugged.

"It could mean anything. Maybe Santistevan is just a pal or a relative who lent Rudy his truck. Maybe he's Rudy's partner in the poaching.

Maybe Santistevan sold his truck to Rudy, who never bothered to register it in his name."

"Those are all good questions that need answers," Gabe said, holding up his hand to cut Thorpe off.

Thorpe smiled.

"Did I pass the test, Sergeant?"

"Don't get cocky on me, rookie," Gabe said.

"Every day you're on the street, you'll be tested. You start independent patrol next week, and I want you to survive it."

Thorpe coughed into his closed fist to hide his embarrassment.

"Sorry, Sergeant."

"No harm done," Gabe said, handing Thorpe the motor vehicle report on Santistevan.

"Get me a location for this guy. He's got a rural route address in the county.

Do you know how to do that?"

"Through the post office," Thorpe said as he got to his feet.

"What else should you do?"

Thorpe studied the report.

"Run Santistevan's Social Security number, date of birth, and vehicle registration through NCIC."

"That's right. If you get any hits, wants, or warrants, call the reporting department and get specifics." Gabe held out Melody Jordan's follow-up report.

"Have dispatch pass this along to Houge."

"Yes, Sergeant." Thorpe took the file and turned to leave.

"Hey, Thorpe," Gabe said.

"Sergeant?"

"I think you're going to work out okay."

Thorpe nodded his thanks for the compliment, but Gabe didn't see it.

His head was buried in the papers on the table.

After Thorpe closed the door, Gabe looked up and smiled. Coaching rookies was a lot like raising kids.

The analogy made Gabe think about little Lane Knox in California, who was nuts about toy cars and trucks.

At Lane's age, Orlando collected baseball cards. For years, Orlando had dragged him off every chance he got to buy more cards. He had been crazy about them.

There were shoe boxes full of the damn things that Orlando had spent hours poring over, memorizing players' statistics.

Those were good years.

He opened the phone book, turned to the listings for firewood sellers, and started compiling a contact list, which he would give to Thorpe to finish as soon as the rookie returned.

At twenty-six. Agent Ben Morfin looked a good five years younger than his age. When he'd graduated from the academy at twenty-one, his youthful appearance won him a special assignment as an undercover narcotics agent at an Albuquerque high school. During the year he spent back in public school, Morfin had busted a number of pushers and street dealers, which earned him a departmental citation.

After wrapping up his testimony in the court trials on the cases, Morfin put in almost four years as a patrol officer before returning to narcotics. Assigned full-time to the Las Vegas district, he'd been back in plainclothes for six months and loving it.

He parked behind the physical science building at New Mexico Highlands University and gave dispatch his location. Gabe Gonzales came on the horn and gave him a quick update on the information received from the Arcadia PD.

Ben signed off, scribbled some notes, got the flat of cactus plants out of the backseat of his unmarked unit, and walked across the parking lot.

In the heart of Las Vegas, the campus was situated on a small hill bisected by city streets containing row after row of Victorian houses and cottages. With brick facades, flat roofs, and low parapets, most of the campus buildings had a territorial appearance.

Morfin found Professor Ruth Pino's office, put the tray containing the cactus on a hallway chair, and knocked on the door.

Professor Pino opened the door and looked Ben up and down.

"I'm sorry, but I only see students during normal office hours," she said, "unless it's an emergency. I don't believe you're in any of my classes."

Tm not," Ben said, showing his shield and ID.

"I'm Agent Morfin with the state police. I called you earlier this morning."

"You don't look old enough to be a policeman," Pino said as she turned away and walked toward her desk.

"Come in."

"I get that all the time," Ben said as he picked up the container of cactus plants and followed Pino inside. A petite, middle-aged Hispanic woman no more than five-two, Professor Pino wore blue jeans, hiking boots, and a lightweight sweater that didn't detract from her still youthful figure.

"So, you have some plants you think might have hallucinogenic properties," Professor Pino said.

"I'm hoping that's what you can tell me." Ben put the plants on her desk.

Ruth Pino turned, looked at the plants, and gave Morfin a startled glance.

"Where did you get these?" she asked sharply.

"At a marijuana grower's greenhouse."

Pino made a closer inspection. The clustered stems were about an inch tall, the spines about a half-inch long, and the fruit was green. She reached for her handbook of rare endemic plants and paged through it.

"Do you know where these were harvested?"

Morfin caught the excitement in Pino's voice.

"In a canyon near San Geronimo."

"Who collected them?"

"A woman who lived with the marijuana grower."

Pino studied a page in the handbook and looked at the cactus plants one last time.

"I need exact information on the location. Agent Morfin."

"Wait a minute. Professor. Back up. What has you so exdted?"

"The common name of this plant is Knowlton's cactus. It's on the federal biologically endangered species list. There is only one known area in northwestern New Mexico where this cactus has ever been found."

"Ever?"

"In the world. The Nature Conservancy owns the land. It's on a secret preserve."

"A secret preserve for cactus?" Ben asked.

Professor Pino nodded.

"Probably no more than three thousand plants exist in the wild. It's a variety treasured by collectors. One cactus can bring up to hundreds of dollars, depending on its size. The Knowlton's cactus has been reduced to near extinction. It's illegal to harvest it. If these truly came from a second site, you've made a very significant discovery."

"Are you saying I don't have a plant that produces any mind-altering substances?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. How soon can you get me a specific site location?"

"It may take a while."

"That won't do. Who can I talk to about giving my request priority?"

"The sergeant in charge of the case and my captain."

"Give me their names," Professor Pino said, reaching for a pen.

"Sergeant Gonzales and Captain Garduno." Ben picked up the tray of cactus plants.

"Leave those with me please," Ruth said.

"They're evidence in a criminal investigation."

"I understand that. But I don't think you know how to care for those plants, and I won't have you negligently harming them." Ruth Pino smiled.

"Tell you what: I'll give you my husband and firstborn son as hostages in exchange for the Knowlton's cactus."

Morfin shook his head in mock disbelief.

"I guess I could transfer them to your custody for further analysis."

"I'll care for them lovingly."

"You'll have to sign some paperwork. Are you always so hard-nosed.

Professor?"

Ruth Pino laughed.

"I'm the toughest instructor in the department. Agent Morfin, and proud of it."

"I just got off the phone with my wife's first cousin," Captain Garduno said when Gabe walked into his office.

"She teaches at the university."

"Would that be Professor Ruth Pino?"

"Morfin called in the information to you, I take it."

"He left out the part about your family ties."

"He didn't know. Ruth is hot to visit the site where the cactus was found. She's even cancelled her classes for the day to do it. Didn't you send Thorpe over there to collect evidence?"

"I did."

"Can you spare him to show Ruth around?"

"Sure."

"Good. I'll let her know. What do you have on Santistevan?"

"He's got a clean record. No wants, warrants, or arrests. No military service. One speeding ticket in the last three years. He paid the fine. His mail is delivered to a neighborhood postal box in San Geronimo."

"Is there any evidence that Santistevan is tied to the crimes?"

"Not yet. All I've got is an eight-year-old kid's description of a truck, a license plate number, and a composite drawing along with a physical description of Rudy that doesn't correspond to Santistevan at all," Gabe said.

"That's a start."

"Maybe. But we're not lacking for evidence. Cap. The ballistics report came in a few minutes ago: a thirty-eight caliber bullet killed Boaz. Also, the lab lifted a clean fingerprint from the oil container found at the poaching site. The print isn't in the computer, but the lab can match it when we find the perp. We've got a good tool mark from the barbed wire samples we collected, and some good plaster-cast tire impressions. The tread marks left at the cabin gate and the dear-cut area are identical."

"So, go arrest somebody," Captain Garduno said jokingly, knowing full well that solid evidence without a suspect was always a frustrating dilemma.

Gabe cracked a small smile.

"I'll get right on it."

Melody Jordan timed her departure from work to allow for a quick change of clothes before her scheduled meeting with Dr. Campbell Lawrence at the School of American Research. She switched to a pair of dress slacks and a top that fit just tightly enough to give an understated suggestion of her breasts. She would change back again before returning to work.

Campbell Lawrence was a good-looking man in his late thirties who didn't wear a wedding ring. At the conclusion of his seminar last fall, Lawrence had joined Melody and some of the other students for drinks. She had found him witty, charming, and-she liked to think-more than passingly interested in her.

Now Lawrence was back on a year's sabbatical. She had seen him only once since his seminar, when he spoke at a noontime colloquium at the school. Time didn't permit more than a brief exchange after his presentation, but Lawrence had seemed genuinely pleased to see her again.

She checked her hair, flew out the door of her house, and drove hurriedly to the campus. She eased into a parking space, gathered up the X-ray envelope and the box of bones, and walked down the crushed gravel path toward the Indian Arts Research Center.

The school, located on the grounds of an old estate near the historic Canyon Road and Acequia Madre district, was a lovely collection of adobe buildings behind high walls, spread over beautifully landscaped grounds.

The compound contained a library, administrative offices, cottages for scholars in residence, an artist studio, and a priceless collection of Native-American arts and crafts housed in a high security building.

The school had been started early in the century as an archaeological field research facility, long before most colleges offered courses in the subject. It soon earned a prestigious reputation as a renowned anthropological and humanities research and study center, and nowadays drew visiting scholars to the campus on a year-round basis. It even had its own publishing house.

Melody found Campbell Lawrence in the small lab inside the Indian Arts Research Center.

"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice," she said.

"You caught me at a good time," Campbell said with a smile as he shook Melody's hand.

"Show me what you've got."

Melody handed Campbell the X-ray envelope and started placing the bones on an examination table. Finished, she turned to find him studying the X rays on a wall-mounted fluoroscope.

While Campbell concentrated on the X rays. Melody looked him over. He had a full head of curly brown hair cut short and a neatly trimmed mustache. His hair line, low on his forehead, drew attention to his gray eyes. He was, Melody thought, very attractive.

"This break is old," Campbell said.

"I'd say it happened in childhood and wasn't properly immobilized after the bone was set."

"That's highly unusual," Melody said.

"Only if you're applying Western standards of medidne.

I think the injury was treated as a break, not a fracture.

Whoever did it may not have had access to any equipment or facilities.

It may not have been treated by a physician. I would imagine the victim probably had some chronic pain as a consequence."

"With impaired mobility of the arm?" Melody asked.

"Possibly. But what interests me most is the slight deformity here."

He pointed to the joint end.

"That's not from getting hacked up. Let's take a look at the bones."

Campbell walked to the table and picked up the long bones.

"There's the deformity again. Just the slightest bit of bowing in the humerus and femur. Run a phosphorus and caldum test on the bones. If the results show deficiencies, I'd say your victim had rickets as a young child."

He picked up the pelvic bone.

"A female, certainly."

"Any guesses on race?" Melody asked, hoping Campbell would confirm her own assessment.

Campbell measured the humerus and the femur.

"I wish you had more of the skeleton for a comparison.

But if we estimate her height at five feet, four inches, which I think is a good guess, then I'd say her legs were a bit shorter than normal.

Not much, but a bit."

He put the tape measure down.

"It can't be anything more than speculation, but from what I've seen, I'd say this young woman was of mixed race, Hispano Indian probably from the southern part of Mexico or Central America. She suffered from poor nutrition, vitamin deficiency, and woefully inadequate medical care."

"That's very helpful, doctor," Melody said.

"Please, it's Campbell."

"Are you and your family enjoying your time in Santa Fe›" Melody asked as she repacked the bones.

"I'm divorced."

Melody tried to look sympathetic.

"Oh, I didn't know."

"I'm fully recovered from it."

She turned her attention to gathering up the evidence and repacking it.

"Have you gotten out to see the sights since you've been here?"

"Not as much as I'd hoped to. Do you have any suggestions?"

"I can give you a year's worth of ideas. If you're free, we could discuss it over dinner tonight. I'm a fairly decent cook."

"I'd like that very much," Campbell said.

Melody gave him her address, directions to her house, and a thousand-watt smile.

Post office records showed that a second individual, Isaac Medina, received mail at Santistevan's rural delivery address. Gabe stopped at the first occupied house in San Geronimo and asked the elderly woman who came to the door for directions. The woman pointed out a dwelling on a small hill behind her house. A pickup truck was parked in front of the house and smoke drifted from the chimney.

"Isaac lives there," she said.

"Butjoaquin Santistevan moved away some time ago. You have to go through the village to get to Isaac's driveway. Turn right at the old store. You'll see his gate halfway up the hill."

Gabe called in his location before he entered Medina's driveway and drove toward the house slowly, scanning it as he approached. No one was in sight.

He parked and waited a minute before getting out of his vehicle. The dwelling had a slanted tin roof that covered an enclosed porch with a row of waist-high windows.

Through the windows, Gabe could see a line of upright freezers and refrigerators, all different shapes and sizes. On the ground in front of the house were a dozen or more old washing machines, clothes dryers, and dishwashers, some scavenged for parts and some intact.

He knocked hard at the porch door and called out. A stocky, unshaven man with gray hair stepped out of the house and opened the porch door.

"What do you want?" the man said.

"Isaac Medina?" Gabe asked.

The man nodded.

Gabe showed his shield and ID.

"I'm looking for Joaquin."

"He doesn't live with me anymore."

"Can you tell me where to find him?"

"Is he in trouble?"

"No."

"What do you want to ask him?"

"I want to talk to him about his truck," Gabe said.

"You mean the accident?"

"That's right," Gabe said.

"Come," Medina said as he pointed to the side of the house.

"I'll show you. He told me he wasn't going to report it to the police because his insurance rates would go up."

Gabe followed Medina to the back of the house where a three-quarter-ton Chevy truck with a caved-in front end and smashed windshield was parked.

"What did Joaquin tell you about the accident?" Gabe asked as he walked around the vehicle. No winch, no hydraulic lift in the bed, no wrought-iron side rails, and the truck was gray in color, not dark blue.

"He didn't have to tell me nothing; I was with him.

We hit a deer. See for yourself. There's still blood, skin, and fur on the grille and bumper. It happened a mile from the house. We walked home, got my truck, towed the Chevy here, and then we butchered and dressed the deer. I still have some venison steaks in the freezer."

Gabe looked and saw blood splatter, flakes of hide, and small strands of fur embedded in the grille.

"When did the accident occur?"

"Late October, last year."

"Where's the license plate?"

"Joaquin took it on" the truck."

"How can I contact Joaquin?"

"You're not here about the accident," Medina said.

"His license plate was reported by a witness to a crime."

"Joaquin is no criminal. What kind of crime?"

"Wood poaching."

Medina laughed, showing a row of crooked lower teeth.

"He doesn't need to steal wood from anybody. His father owns the biggest wood lot in the county."

"You know that for a fact?"

"Sure I do. I'm his uncle. His mother is my sister."

"What's the name of his father's company?"

"Buena Vista Lumber and Supply."

"Why was Joaquin living with you?"

"He was separated from his wife for almost a year.

Now they're back together."

"What's his wife's name?"

"Debbie."

"Is she one of the Romero girls?"

"No, her maiden name was Espinoza."

"Where can I findjoaquin?"

"He works at the wood lot for his father, Philip Santistevan."

"Thanks, Mr. Medina."

"Does this have anything to do with the gringo who got murdered at the cabin?" Medina asked.

"That's a completely different case," Gabe said, quite sure that Medina would be on the phone to his nephew as soon as he drove away.

At midmorning, the US. Attorney called Kerney from Albuquerque. She wanted a face-to-face afternoon meeting on a joint task force bribery and conspiracy operation involving Sodal Security Administration employees and Motor Vehicle Division workers who were under investigation for selling driver's licenses and Sodal Security cards to illegal, undocumented aliens.

There was no way Kerney could refuse. He hung up, called Sara, explained the situation, and told her their camping trip would have to be delayed.

"There's no need to apologize," Sara said.

"We'll simply do it some other time."

"I should be home early in the evening." Silence greeted Kerney's comment. He waited for a response and none came.

"Sara?"

"This conversation is starting to sound much too domestic," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"Am I missing something here?"

"Everything's fine."

"It doesn't sound that way to me."

"Stop it, Kerney. I'll see you when you get off work."

Kerney hung up the receiver, wondering what in the hell was going on.

He waited a minute, dialed his home number again, and got a busy signal.

There wasn't time to brood over it. in five minutes he would be taking a phone call from a newspaper reporter about the early morning discovery of an elderly woman who had been raped and murdered at a remote farmhouse in southeastern New Mexico.

The department's public information officer had set up the call. Kerney buzzed him and asked for the fact sheet on the case.

The lieutenant came in, gave Kerney the sheet, and sat.

Kerney read it quickly, "m other words, we've got nothing so far."

"What we've got is heat. Chief. I just got off the phone with the county sheriff. The victim was the grandmother of the chairman of the county commission. The sheriff wants the department to offer all possible assistance."

"Has he talked to the newspapers about it?"

"Of course he has. He's a politician. He'll do his best with the limited resources available. But without the department's help-you know the rest of it."

Kerney nodded. Laying off responsibility to the state police for major case investigations was standard procedure for sheriffs who had limited budgets, few personnel, and no technical specialists.

"I've got a TV reporter and another print journalist standing by to speak to you after this interview is finished.

They're covering the same story."

"Don't schedule any more for me," Kerney said.

"I'll handle whatever else comes in." The lieutenant glanced at his wristwatch.

"Your first call should be happening right about now."

The phone rang and Kerney picked it up.

Buena Vista Lumber and Supply, ten miles south of Las Vegas on a state road, contained hundreds of cords of dry and green split firewood, stacks of peeled vi gas used for roof beams in Santa Fe-style homes, and virtually every type of fencing material imaginable. A chain-link fence enclosed the lot.

Gabe drove to the office trailer in front of a large metal storage building and parked. He found Joaquin Santistevan inside the trailer at a desk, giving a telephone quote to a customer. On the desk was a framed photograph of a young, pretty Hispanic woman.

Santistevan finished the call and turned to Gabe. He had the same lean build as Orlando and looked to be about the same height.

"What can I do for you?"

Gabe showed Santistevan his credentials.

"I'm looking for a woodcutter who drives a dark blue, three-quarter-ton Chevy with a winch on the front bumper, side rails, and a hydraulic lift in the bed."

"I see trucks like that in and out of here all the time.

Do you have a name?"

"Rudy" "That's it?"

"That's it," Gabe said, handing Santistevan the composite drawing.

"Does your father have an employee named Rudy?"

"No/"Joaquin looked at the drawing and gave it back.

"Maybe he does contract woodcutting for your father."

"I handle that end of the business. Nobody who looks like that cuts wood for us."

"What did you do with the license plate from the truck you left at your uncle's place?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It was reported to be on a vehicle used in a crime."

"Somebody needs glasses." Santistevan stood up.

"We've got a wall of old license plates in the storage building. I added it to the collection. It's been there for months. Want to see it?"

"I do," Gabe said, followingjoaquin out of the office.

The license plate collection ran the length and width of two frame walls of a corner office. It included plates from the 1930s right up to the present, in chronological order.

"It's right there," Santistevan said, pointing to his plate.

"The tag doesn't even expire until August. What kind of crime are you investigating?"

"Wood poaching. You wouldn't knowingly buy firewood that's been illegally harvested, would you?"

"I can account for every cord in the yard, either by Forest Service permit or a contract with a private landowner."

"Thanks for your time."

Gabe left, parked down the road where he could see traffic leaving the wood lot and tried to figure out what in the hell was bothering him. It was something about the photograph of Santistevan's wife and her maiden name. Isaac Medina had said it was Debbie Espinoza.

Shit, he knew the Espinoza family, he thought to himself.

He pulled out the composite drawing and studied it.

It was Debbie Espinoza's brother, Rudy.

He called dispatch.

"Go to Channel two," Gabe said.

Channel 2 was the secure broadcast frequency not picked up by police scanners.

"Ten-four," the dispatcher replied, switching over.

"Run a check on Rudy Espinoza. Keep it local. I busted him about four years ago for driving under the influence."

After a long wait, the dispatcher came back on the air.

"He's done six months' probation for a second DWI since then, and he was booked and released for lack of evidence on a breaking-and-entering charge."

"Where?"

"San Geronimo, last summer."

"When was the DWI bust?"

"June of last year."

"What was he driving?"

"Hold on."

Gabe could hear the dispatcher's keystrokes as she entered the search into the computer.

"A nineteen-ninety-four Chevy three-quarter-ton pickup, blue in color.

Tags are expired. Plate number Two-six-six CJR."

"Got an address?"

"Anytime you're ready."

Gabe took down the information, signed off, and made contact with Duran, Houge, and Morfin on Channel 2 as he pulled onto the highway and started rolling toward the interstate.

"I've got a possible suspect in the Boaz murder," he said as he hit the switch to the overhead lights and floored the unit.

"Go," Duran said.

"Rudy Espinoza. He matches the information supplied to us by Boaz's ex-girlfriend and son. So does his vehicle. I may have tipped my hand."

"Is he running?" Houge asked.

"Could be. Look for a dark blue Chevy three-quarter-ton with side rails, front-end winch, and hydraulic lift in the bed. Plate number Two-six-six CJR, tags expired."

"Where?" Morfin asked.

"Ojitos Prios. ID any other moving vehicle that looks suspicious."

"Armed and dangerous?" Duran asked.

"Roger that," Gabe said.

"Run Code three, lights only, and stay on the air. Give me locations and ETAs."

"I'm at Boaz's cabin," Morfin said.

"Five minutes to Ojitos Prios."

"Ten to fifteen minutes," Houge said.

"I'm on the interstate proceeding south past the cutoff to Villanueva State Park."

"I'll play catch up," Duran said.

"I've got to get off this stinking mesa first."

"I'm on Highway Eighty-four, five minutes from the Romeroville interstate ramp," Gabe said.

"Give me sixty-second microphone checks-two clicks each."

The dispatcher came on.

"This channel is cleared of all other traffic. Additional units are responding; SP 218, SP 376, and SP 101."

"SP 218 take state road 283."

"Ten-four."

"SP 376, ETA to Highway 84?"

"Three minutes."

"Patrol Eighty-four south of Buena Vista Lumber."

"Ten-four."

"SP 101."

"Go," said Captain Garduno.

"Are you assuming command?" Gabe asked.

"I'm along for the ride. Sergeant."

"ETA?" Gabe asked as he reached the overpass to the interstate.

"I see you crossing the bridge now," Garduno said.

"One minute."

"Ten-four. Join up."

"Give me your fucking car keys," Rudy Espinoza said as he hung up the phone.

"Use your own truck," Angle said.

"I've got to go to town later."

Rudy dumped the contents of Angle's purse on the kitchen counter, found the keys, and pulled all the cash out of her wallet.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Angie asked, grabbing for her purse.

"Nothing," Rudy said as he pushed her away and walked into the bedroom.

"If the cops come, you haven't seen me."

"I don't know why I ever took you back," Angle yelled at him.

"You're no fucking prize yourself," Rudy said, sticking the thirty-eight and a handful of folded bills in his jacket pocket.

"I'll call you later."

"Don't bother."

He got in the Mustang, fired it up, and peeled out of the driveway.

Angle stood on the front step giving him the finger as he swung onto the county road.

If the cops were looking for him like Joaquin said, it was time to go south.

Ben Morfin topped the hill into Ojitos Prios and saw a car throwing up a dust cloud on the county road at the far end of the valley.

"Someone is coming your way. Sergeant," he said into the microphone.

"I'm too far back to ID it, but he's moving fast."

"Location?" Gabe snapped.

"About a mile outside Ojitos Frios."

"Shut down your Code Three and close up."

"Ten-four."

Gabe keyed his hand microphone again, slowed his unit, and killed the overhead lights.

"SP 101."

"I'm on your tail," Garduno said.

"Block the road behind me."

"Roger."

"I'll join with SP 101," Houge said.

"ETA five minutes."

"Ten-four. All other units, stay on station," Gabe said.

"Let's see what we've got."

"We've got a tan Mustang," Ben Morfin said.

"Can't read the plate. He's spewing up so much dust he can't see me.

I've got him docked at seventy-five."

"Lights and siren, Ben. See if he stomps it."

"He just goosed it."

"Pall back and give him some slack," Gabe said. He swung his vehicle into the center of the road where the shoulders fell off sharply, un racked the shotgun, and called dispatch.

"Go ahead, SP 126."

"SP 126 will be attempting a traffic stop of an unknown vehicle speeding on County Road A-twenty."

"Traffic stop. CR A-twenty. Ten-four. Fourteen-twenty-three hours."

He put one round in the chamber, got out of the unit, and walked to a tree twenty feet off the shoulder of the road. He could see the dust spreading into the canopy of the trees, and could hear the harsh sound of Morfin's siren closing in.

The Mustang tore into view, suspension bucking over the washboard road.

Gabe watched as the driver stood on the brakes, over corrected his steering, went into a skid that spun the vehicle like a top, and put it nose first into the deep shoulder.

He could hear me hiss of radiator steam and the squeal of metal as the driver opened the car door. Through the dissipating dust, two hands emerged and grasped the roof of the car. Legs followed, feet found the ground, and Rudy Espinoza pulled himself out of the Mustang.

The lights from Ben Morfin's unit cut through the haze twenty feet down the road. Ben was crouched behind the open door of his unit with his weapon at the ready.

"Rudy," Gabe called, raising the shotgun to his shoulder.

"Walk toward me with your hands over your head.

Do it now!"

Hands raised, Espinoza moved sluggishly up the embankment and started walking across the road.

"Stop," Gabe called when Rudy reached the middle of the road.

"Lock your hands at the back of your head and drop slowly to your knees. Do it now."

Espinoza sank to his knees and started to lower his hands.

"Hands up," Gabe yelled.

"Now."

"I can't," Rudy said.

"Something is wrong with my head." He raised his left hand and fell facedown on the ground with his right arm concealed under his body.

"Bring your right hand out where I can see it," Gabe ordered.

Rudy didn't move.

"Don't!"

"Kiss my ass," Rudy said as he rose to his knees and pulled out a pistol.

"Gun!" Morfin hollered as Gabe pulled the trigger.

Gabe heard the crack of Ben's nine millimeter as the blast of his shotgun echoed in his ears. Rudy jerked under the impact, rocked back on his heels, and fell forward on his face.

Gabe racked another shell into the chamber while Morfin drded behind Rudy, kicked the pistol away, and checked the body.

"He's dead," Ben said as he bolstered his weapon.

"The stupid son of a bitch," Gabe said, lowering the shotgun. He held it tight to keep his hands from shaking.

After hanging up on Kerney, Sara tried without success to reach Susie Hayes at home. Susie, her best friend at West Point, was now a civilian living in Tucson. She thought about calling Susie at work, but took Shoe on a long walk instead, wandering for several hours through quiet neighborhood streets. Overhanging trees thick with buds about to blossom into leaves lined row after row of a charming mixture of older homes. Some were Victorian, some were flat-roof adobe casitas, and others were California mission style. Sprinkled throughout the neighborhood were red-brick cottages that had been turned into apartments, and midwest em farmhouses with pitched roofs that looked as though they had been magically transported to Santa Fe from Kansas wheat fields.

Very little else on the walk registered with Sara. She spent the time chiding herself for acting like such a brainless schoolgirl with Kerney. Where did all her silliness come from? She'd never intended to come to Santa Fe and talk about babies and keeping a stud book. Kerney seemed to take it all in jest, which was almost as troubling. He was the only man she'd ever mentioned the possibility of making babies with, and she wondered if he'd caught her serious undertone. But did she really want a baby? Did she really want Kerney to be the man in her life?

She returned to Kerney's house and let Shoe off the leash. He went directly to the kitchen, drank his water bowl dry, and curled up on the vinyl floor with his chin resting on the sneaker.

She refilled the water bowl, sat at the kitchen table, kicked off her shoes, and looked at Shoe. He was such a sweet dog. He eyed her shoes with interest. She decided to ease up on herself. She needed to decompress and get the last two years behind her. Her virtual isolation in South Korea, immersed in a male-dominated, combat-ready unit had taken its toll. The rewards had been satisfying. But sublimating almost every feminine feeling had been more emotionally expensive than she'd realized. Maybe being with a sexy man after so long without any healthy lovemaking had opened up her hormonal floodgates, and her confusion was nothing other than a readjustment to a more normal life.

Peeling less unsettled, she got to her feet, snagged her shoes before the dog could pounce on them, and walked into the living room, glad that her first attempt to reach Susie had been unsuccessful. All she would have done was blabber. Now, at least she had her head screwed on somewhat straight.

She found her address book, looked up Susie's work number, and dialed it. When Susie answered, she told her a fraction of what was going on inside her head, and asked if she could come for a visit.

"Get your butt down here, girl," Susie said.

"We've got some serious talking to do."

"I'll be there sometime tomorrow."

"Call me when you get into town."

Sara hung up. She would wait for Kerney to return before leaving. He deserved some sort of explanation, but she wasn't sure exactly what it would be.

Word of the Espinoza shooting cut short Kerney's meeting with the U.S.

Attorney in Albuquerque. He made the 120-mile drive to Las Vegas in good time, using his radio to stay updated on the situation. Three hours after the shooting, no evidence had been developed linking Espinoza to the Boaz murder-no Chevy truck, no murder weapon, and no matching fingerprints.

A large number of police vehicles were parked in front of the district office, including a crime scene van and the unmarked unit assigned to the headquarters shooting team supervisor, who was responsible for investigating all deadly force incidents.

Kerney killed the engine and gave himself a minute to push down his worry about Sara. She had been snappish on the telephone, and while he'd toyed with the idea that she was merely disappointed about the postponed camping trip, he didn't really believe it. Sara wasn't one to pout or get testy about trivial matters, and she knew firsthand that the demands of police work often screwed up a personal life.

He shrugged off his anxiety and walked into the building where a dozen or so officers, agents, and technicians filled the reception area. Some were busy writing reports while others waited to give statements to the shooting team. In a corner of the room. Officer Thorpe sat with a petite, attractive Hispanic woman dressed in jeans, a sweater, and hiking boots. There was a backpack at her feet and she was writing notes in a journal balanced on her knees. Kerney had no idea who the woman was. Captain Garduno, Sergeant Gonzales, and Agent Morfin were nowhere in sight.

As he crossed to the reception desk, Thorpe approached him.

"Chief, Professor Pino would like to speak with you." Thorpe nodded his head in the direction of the woman.

"Who?"

"Professor Pino. She's a plant specialist-a botanist-who teaches at the university."

"What does she want?"

"She found a rare plant on your property. It's called Knowlton's cactus. It has her really pumped."

"Can she wait?"

Thorpe nodded.

"I told her you might be busy for a while."

"Good enough."

Kerney smiled at the woman as he passed by, wondering what was going on. He filed the thought as a question for Captain Garduno and found him in his office.

"Chief," Garduno said, gesturing at the empty chair in front of his desk.

"How far along is the shooting team?" Kerney asked as he sat. Both Gonzales and Morfin would be treated as murder suspects until cleared of the charges by the DA and a grand jury. Only a finding of justified homicide in the death of Rudy Espinoza would allow the officers to remain with the department. If the shooting wasn't legal, both faced the possibility of felony convictions and prison time.

"They're finished with Gonzales and are interviewing Morfin now,"

Garduno said.

"It looks good. Both Gabe and Ben used voice-activated recorders to tape the traffic stop. They fired in self-defense; there was no other way to stop the action."

"When will the report go to the grand jury?"

"Three days. I've put both men on paid administrative leave, effective immediately."

"Has Espinoza been positively made as Boaz's killer?"

Garduno wrinkled his nose.

"Not yet. But Wanda Knox identified Espinoza from the mug shot we faxed to the Arcadia PD. The call just came in."

"So, for now, we've got a dead suspect whose only known crimes were trespassing on private property, illegal woodcutting, and speeding."

"It was a righteous use of deadly force. Chief.

Espinoza pulled a gun on Gonzales."

"I'm not questioning that, Captain. But the press could decide to hound us until we have clear proof that Espinoza was a murderer and not some petty crook who got gunned down by an overly aggressive state police officer during a routine traffic stop."

"Agents Duran and Houge will start the legwork on Bspinoza tomorrow,"

Garduno said.

"We'll find the evidence."

"Houge and Duran will be in southern New Mexico, working a rape-murder case of an elderly woman."

"That scuttles the investigation for the next three days."

"I'll find a way to keep it going. Officer Thorpe has a botanist waiting to see me. What's that about?"

"Ben Morfin took the cactus plants found in Boaz's greenhouse to Professor Pino for an identification. She got real excited and asked to conduct a field survey to determine where the plants had been collected. I sent Officer Thorpe along with her. According to the professor, you've got only the second known distribution of Knowlton's cactus growing on your property."

"In the state?"

"In the world. Chief. Ruth Pino can tell you all about it."

"Where is Gabe Gonzales?" Kerney asked, getting to his feet.

"Sequestered in the conference room."

"I'd like to see him."

"Go on in."

Kerney found Gabe Gonzales tapping his fingers on the conference table.

"How are you holding up. Sergeant?"

"I've seen a lot of dead people over the years, but this is the first time I ever had to put somebody down."

"It's not the same, is it?"

"Not even close."

"Are you all right with it?"

"I will be. I know it was a clean shooting."

"How far did you get before the shooting team pulled you in for a statement?"

"Not very. Angle Romero, Espinoza's girlfriend, swears the only vehicle Rudy normally drove was the Toyota pickup parked in her driveway."

"Is she playing it straight?"

Gabe shrugged his shoulders.

"Who knows? She drinks her breakfast straight out of a whiskey bottle.

She's half-blasted most of the time. Ben Morfin searched the crude and found nothing. I'm pretty sure Espinoza's brother-in-law, Joaquin Santistevan, tipped him that he was about to get busted. Otherwise, Espinoza had no reason to run. But the phone company has no record of a call made from me wood yard to Espinoza, or from Angle's house to Santistevan.

Frank Houge is chedcing with cellular providers now."

"We need to find that Chevy truck," Kerney said.

"And the murder weapon. Maybe Houge and Duran will score while I'm cooling my heels for the next three days."

"That's not going to happen. They're both reassigned to another case effective tomorrow."

"That sucks. Chief."

"I know it does. Can I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"You need a couple of days out in the fresh air. Meet some new people, take scenic drives, poke around and explore, visit new places. It's a pretty time of year."

"Am I hearing you right. Chief?"

"It depends on what you want to hear. Sergeant."

Gabe rubbed his chin and gave Kerney a long look.

"It's your call. Sergeant. I can't order you to violate department policy."

"Who would I report to?"

"Me alone. No one else."

Gabe grinned.

"I like the idea."

"I was hoping you would," Kerney said, handing Gonzales his business card.

"On the back you'll find my private office and home telephone numbers.

Use those numbers to reach me or leave messages."

Gabe took the card.

"You were pretty sure I'd go along with this, weren't you?"

"I pulled your personnel jacket. Sergeant. There was enough in it to convince me that you don't always go by the book."

"I've heard that said about you."

"I guess that make us members of the same dub.

Nail Espinoza to the Boaz murder."

Ruth Pino contemplated the man who limped into the interview cubicle and sat at the small table across from her. Since he looked intelligent, Ruth dedded he might be capable of understanding the important points that needed to be made.

Kerney listened as Ruth Pino explained the rarity of the Knowlton's cactus, its value to collectors, and the importance of the discovery of a new habitat on the alluvial apron at the bottom of the mesa. She spoke with intensity, in clipped sentences, and Kerney could imagine her in the classroom putting fear into the hearts of easily intimidated undergraduates.

"Whoever destroyed the trees along the watershed should be shot," Pino said, spreading out her field sketch on the small table in the interview cubical. She turned it so that Kerney could read the neat lettering and symbols.

Kerney held back from telling Pino her hopes had been realized.

"The tire tracks from the vehicle alone destroyed over a hundred plants." Pino's finger traced the line of destruction.

"I can't even begin to estimate how many more were eradicated during the woodcutting."

"But some remain," Kerney said.

"Yes, but heavily threatened. The habitat has been altered, and unless the erosion along the alluvial apron is stopped, the entire distribution could be wiped out by the end of the rainy season."

Pino's finger poked the sketch in two places.

"The cactus still thrives here and here, at the downstream points away from the dear-cutting. I estimate the total surviving population will exceed two thousand plants, with a very high ratio of mature specimens.

Had the site been left undisturbed, the total would have probably exceeded eight to ten thousand. What happened is a travesty."

"Can the cactus be protected?"

"With your cooperation and some very substantial financial resources,"

Pino said.

"Cooperation I can give, Professor, but my resources are fairly limited right now."

"It must be done."

"I don't disagree," Kerney said.

"Tell me how I can help."

"Give me unlimited access to the site. I'll bring in a team of graduate students from the university. We need to do a thorough mapping, a complete census, and some immediate, temporary erosion control."

"Of course."

"Once the distribution range has been dearly established, the tract must be fenced and possibly even guarded from poachers."

"Who would know about the site?" Kerney asked.

"Harvesting has already taken place, Mr. Kerney. It cannot be allowed to happen again."

"From what I've been told, the woman responsible for the harvesting had no idea the cactus was an endangered plant."

"That may well be," Pino said with a shake of her head.

"But Knowlton's cactus was persistently collected in northwestern New Mexico until the Nature Conservancy stepped in and bought the land.

European collectors have been known to pay over two hundred dollars for a mature plant, sometimes more. Any word of a new discovery will bring out the poachers. They're no different than pot hunters who violate the Federal Antiquities Act."

"How much fencing will be needed?"

"That's impossible to say at this point. I've had less than a day to conduct a spot field analysis. If other viable distributions are found, each will require protection."

"Let me know what you come up with. Professor."

"You will help us save this site, won't you?"

"I can't even promise you that I'll be able to retain ownership of the land. Professor. But I'll do what I can while I can."

With her eyes locked on to Kerney, Ruth Pino held up a hand.

"What exactly does that mean?"

"The land is still in probate, and the tax bite is rather large. I may have to sell off a part of it."

"I see. Would you mind if I brought a few outside experts into the loop?"

"Who might they be?"

"Representatives from organizations who can help me develop a restoration plan for the site. It won't cost you any money."

"By all means."

"Have you ever seen a Knowlton's cactus?"

"I doubt it."

"It isn't a very dramatic or exotic specimen, but it deserves to continue to exist on the planet."

"I agree. I'll help you build the fences and pay for what I can.

Professor. I don't like what was done to the land any more than you do."

Ruth Pino assembled her map and notes, tucked the papers inside her leather-bound journal, and gave Kerney an agreeable smile.

"I may have to revise my opinion of police officers."

"Why is that?"

"It seems that not all of them suffer from authoritarian personality disorders."

Kerney smiled as he stood.

"Can you say the same about university professors?"

"Occasionally."

Emotionally and physically drained from the events of the day, Gabe arrived home to find a car parked next to Orlando's subcompact in the driveway. He left his unit on the street, entered through the side door to the kitchen, dumped his briefcase on the table, and sank down on a chair. From upstairs he could hear music and the sound of male voices coming from Orlando's room. He wondered who was visiting his son.

He rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles felt like corded knots, twisted his torso to relieve the strain in his back, stared at the wall, and thought about his day. The image of Rudy Espinoza reeling under the impact of the shotgun blast kept spinning though his mind.

Gabe walked to the refrigerator. There wasn't much inside. Dinner would have to be canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. He got busy preparing the meal, his thoughts turning to his conversation with Chief Kerney. Having the chief's permission to continue to work the case might not mean squat in the final analysis. He could still get written up for violating departmental policies. That would surely torpedo his chances for promotion. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

But the important issue was getting Orlando through his degree program at the university, and successfully launched. If he had to remain a patrol sergeant and continue to pinch pennies to do it, so be it.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to find Orlando and Bernardo Barela, Nestor's grandson, standing in the doorway.

"Hey, guys," Gabe said.

"What's up?"

"Just hanging," Orlando said.

"How are you, Bernardo?" Gabe asked.

"Fine, Mr. Gonzales," Bernardo said, flashing a smile.

Bernardo's smile had always struck Gabe as smug and insolent. He had his thumbs hooked in the pockets of tight blue jeans that broke at the heel of his cowboy boots. He kept his eyes locked on Gabe.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Gabe said.

Bernardo shrugged.

"I've been busy working and stuff."

Smaller in stature than Orlando, Bernardo had a narrow face that ended in a pointed chin. He pushed his hair away from his forehead.

"Still working for your grandfather and uncle?"

"Yeah, I'm out at the new ranch."

"Are you two heading out?" Gabe asked Orlando.

"Yeah," Orlando said.

"We'll grab a burger and a beer somewhere. Want me to bring you back something?"

"No thanks." Gabe nodded at the stove.

"It's grilled cheese and soup for me." He nodded at Bernardo.

"Say hello to your family for me."

"Sure thing."

"Have a good time," Gabe said.

The boys left and Gabe settled in front of the television with his cup of soup and sandwich. With the lights off, the almost empty room seemed less uninviting.

The TV, a big screen model, had been Gabe's only expensive purchase since Theresa's departure. Since he wasn't dating, wasn't partying with the divorced and single officers in the district, and wasn't doing the bar scene, the television had become his single source of entertainment.

He stared at the screen as he channel surfed and ate his sandwich.

Orlando and Bernardo had been friends ever since they'd played varsity baseball in high school.

Gabe hadn't seen much of Bernardo over the last year, and Orlando hadn't said anything about a falling out. He hadn't asked any questions about Bernardo's absence in Orlando's social life. But he'd been glad when the relationship seemed to fade. Bernardo had always made Gabe a little uneasy with his macho attitude and tough guy posturing.

He took a sip of soup, locked the channel in on a basketball game, and reminded himself to talk to Nestor Barela in the morning. Maybe the old man knew something about Rudy Espinoza and Carl Boaz.

He finished eating, stretched out on the couch, and before the station broke away for a commercial, he was sound asleep.

Shoe met Kerney at the door, tail wagging, with the sneaker clamped in his teeth. He scratched the dog's ear and found Sara in the bedroom packing her suitcase.

She looked up and gave him a vague smile.

"I'm glad you got here before I left."

"Where are you going?"

"Tucson, to visit an old friend."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine. I know I sounded bitchy on the telephone. It had nothing to do with you."

"What was it about?"

"It's not something I want to get into right now."

"Did I say something, do something?"

Sara's smile tightened.

"It's not you, Kerney. I've got some thinking to do. Just call it bad timing on my part. I never should have barged in on you unannounced."

"I'm glad you did."

"Well, it's been fun." Sara picked up the suitcase and her coat.

"Wait a minute, Sara. Tell me what's up."

"It isn't your problem."

Kerney could sense her reserve. It felt like a huge gap between them.

"It will be if you leave this way."

"I'm not leaving because of you."

"This isn't about bad timing, is it?"

Sara bit her lower lip.

"No."

"Or stud books."

Sara hesitated.

"Not really."

"Give me a hint."

"I'm not ready to discuss it. Give it a rest for now, okay?"

"Okay" "I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"Leaving this way." She walked past Kerney into the living room.

"Maybe we should talk this out," Kerney said.

"I do need some talk, Kerney. Good, old-fashioned girl talk. That's why I'm going to Tucson. My best friend from West Point lives there."

"Are you coming back?"

Sara's eyes searched Kerney's face.

"Am I invited back?"

"You bet."

"I'll call you from Tucson," Sara said as she opened the front door.

She gave Kerney a quick kiss and a fleeting smile.

"You've done nothing to upset me."

"I hope that's true."

Sara dropped to one knee and scratched Shoe's chest. He dropped the sneaker and licked Sara's chin.

"Take care of your dog, Kerney," she said as she stood up.

"He's a sweetheart."

"I'll do that."

"See you soon."

"Yeah."

Kerney stood at the door and watched Sara load her bag in the Jeep and drive away. She waved once before she passed out of sight.

"What was that all about?" he asked the dog as he closed the front door.

Shoe gave the sneaker a vigorous shake and trotted off to the kitchen.

Kerney tagged along, wondering what nuances he'd missed, what mistakes he'd made, and whether he'd completely turned Sara off.

He hoped she was leveling with him and that her sudden departure wasn't prompted by something he'd done. The thought didn't relieve the hollow feeling in his gut.

The dog leash was on the kitchen table. Kerney picked it up. There was still time to get to one of the shopping mails and buy a travel cage for Shoe. In the morning he'd make arrangements to have the dog shipped to the Knox boy in California.

Shoe saw the leash in Kerney's hand, let go of the sneaker, and jumped up on Kerney in eager anticipation.

"So, you're ready to leave, too, are you?"

Shoe dropped down on all fours and headed straight for the front door.

Orlando Gonzales sat at a table by the window of the Rough Rider Bar.

Across the street stood the old Fred Harvey Hotel and the train station. A slow freight moving south along the tracks rumbled like a low bass note in harmony with the Tex-Mex CD playing on the stereo behind the bar.

He took a pull on the long neck beer and started at Bernardo.

"You wanted to talk. About what?"

"We need to catch up," Bernardo said, flashing a smile.

"I thought the plan was we weren't going to hang together anymore."

"Did you read the story in the newspaper about the bones the cops found on the mesa?"

Orlando's hand froze as he reached for his beer bottle.

"Jesus. Was that her?"

"Part of her. I spread the body around. Some parts here, some parts there. The cops will never be able to ID her."

"You cut her up?" Orlando asked in a choked whisper.

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because you couldn't handle it."

"We should have just let her go."

"Yeah, straight to the police. Listen, we both raped her."

"I know that. But you killed her."

"to the eyes of the law, both of us did. You should know that, being a cop's son and all. It's called murder during the commission of a felony."

"I know what it's called," Orlando hissed.

"You're still all fucked up about it, aren't you?"

"Keep your voice down."

Bernardo looked over his shoulder. A few viejos sat at the bar in front of an enlarged photograph of Teddy Roosevelt and members of his Rough Riders, many of them New Mexican cowboys, taken at the top of San Juan Hill. A middle-aged couple played a video game at the back of the room where pictures from the old Rough Rider reunions once held in Las Vegas were hung on the wall. Nobody was within earshot.

"Listen, the bitch was a Mexican who was never reported missing. I checked it out."

"You did what?" Orlando asked.

"I talked to the dude who manages my grandfather's old ranch. He told me Luiza went back to Mexico. End of story."

"You couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?"

"At least I'm not letting this shit eat me up."