Just for the hell of it, Kerney decided to query every state and federal park and conservation agency in the region and ask for information on kills where an ATV was used. He typed fax messages at Yolanda’s desk and sent out the inquiries, asking for responses to be sent to him at the Luna office. As he fed the messages through the fax machine, Kerney wondered how ticked off Charlie Perry was going to be when he discovered this most recent act of insubordination.
He got home to Reserve late. His trailer, painted a bright blue by his landlord in a desperate attempt to rent it, sat in an empty field across from the high school. Inside it was hot, stuffy, and smelled like mouse piss. He opened all the windows. Across the field the parking-lot lights at the high school burned pale yellow. He heard the deer mice under the floor—much more established tenants of the trailer than he was—scurrying around, upset by his arrival. He would put out some traps on his next day off.
The trailer was a dump, but Kerney didn’t mind. A single-wide furnished with a bed, kitchen table, couch, ragtag easy chair, and several lamps, it served his temporary needs. He was banking all his paychecks and living on much less than his retirement pension. Along with the money the Army had paid him for the recovery of the stolen artifacts from White Sands Missile Range, he just might finish the summer with enough cash for a down payment on some land. Not much, and certainly nothing as extensive as the Slash Z summer grazing acreage, but something that could get him started.
Kerney really didn’t give a damn what Charlie Perry might do. Four weeks on the job was long enough to convince him that he could never permanently return to patrol work. Not even the beautiful landscapes and startling sunsets in the Gila could ease the boredom of long hours in a vehicle. Maybe a wilderness assignment would be different, but that was a plum job reserved for forestry and wildlife specialists.
It had been years since he’d worn a uniform, and he had never liked them—not when he had served in the Army nor when he had started out as a street cop. He stripped off the garments, dressed in his sweats, and limbered up the knee for his nightly run, wondering how long it would take Phil Cox to figure out who the hell he was.
As he jogged away from the trailer he thought about the good-looking woman he had talked to at the ranch house. He didn’t even know her name. Even the rawest rookie cop on the street knew enough to ID all possible witnesses. It was a dumb blunder, and his appreciation of the lady’s splendid legs didn’t justify the mistake. He laughed out loud at himself as he picked up the pace.
2
Hector María Padilla had heard the story of his family’s history many times from his grandfather. He listened to it again as he drove through the mountains north of Silver City on a winding two-lane highway. The trip from the border through the desert had gone smoothly, but in the high country of southwestern New Mexico he felt less confident behind the wheel. He drove a new four-wheel-drive Ford truck Grandfather had bought specifically for the journey, and towed a travel trailer they had rented in El Paso.
Grandfather finished the story of how his ancestors had settled the Mangas Valley soon after the end of the American Civil War, and now embarked on the tale of his arrival in Mexico City as a young man.
“My father wanted all his children to be educated,” Dr. José Luis Padilla said, continuing his narrative in Spanish. “He decided the village needed a doctor. So, I first went to the university in Albuquerque and then to Mexico City to study medicine.”
“And that’s where you met Grandmother,” Hector said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.
“Yes.” José Luis Padilla sighed inwardly. He missed his dear Carlotta, dead these past three months. “She was the only woman enrolled in my class at medical school. All the men pursued her. I was amazed that she took notice of me. Her family opposed our marriage.”
“Because you were not from Mexico,” Hector noted, slowing the vehicle as a car approached them from around a curve.
José Luis Padilla chuckled. “Yes. I was unacceptable—a nobody from the United States.”
The road was clear. Hector glanced with a worried look at his grandfather, who sat with a road map on his lap. Since they’d entered the mountains, Grandfather’s breathing had become more labored. He looked for signs of oxygen deprivation. Grandfather’s skin had good color, and his lips were pink. Reassuring signs. He decided to inquire anyway. “How are you feeling, Grandfather?”
Dr. José Luis Padilla turned his head and smiled at the young man. His dark brown eyes were clear and lively. He was rail-thin, with wispy gray hair that curled up over the tip of his ears. His skin, heavily wrinkled, was tight against his skull. “I am fine, jito. You must remember that until your graduation next year, I am the only doctor on this journey.”
“Your breathing is rapid,” Hector observed.
“As well it should be at my age, with so much activity at this altitude. If I require rest, you can park the truck so that I can take a siesta in the trailer. Pay attention to your driving.”
Of all his grandchildren, Hector pleased José the most. He was a serious, hardworking young man who would one day be an excellent doctor. Hector reminded him of Carlotta. He had his grandmother’s beautiful olive-black eyes that always seemed lively and amused, a resolute spirit, and a sound intellect.
“You never came back to New Mexico after the death of your father,” Hector said. It was part of the story Grandfather always seemed to skirt.
“I brought your grandmother here for my father’s funeral, and she hated it. It was too isolated and alien to her nature.”
“But it was your father’s wish that you should return home to practice medicine,” Hector reminded him.
“There was nothing to come home to. Pull over to the side of the road.”
Grandfather’s answer surprised Hector. “Nothing?” he questioned. He stopped the truck on the shoulder of the road next to a cluster of cabins surrounding a tourist lodge. They were in Glenwood, a small mountain town strung out along both sides of the highway. The town—a few businesses, tourist cabins, and small houses fronting either side of the road—perched in a wandering valley cut by the course of a river.
“My father lost everything in the Great Depression,” José replied, as he unsnapped the seat belt. “My brothers had already left home to find work, and the village was dying. Gringos from the Dust Bowl moved into the valley and took most of the public works jobs. Building roads. Logging. Drilling wells. All my father had left was his land, his sheep, and a few herdsmen willing to work on the promise of future wages. All was lost after he was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes, murdered. Your grandmother and mother made me promise never to speak of it to the family. But I think I owe it to my father’s memory to uncover the truth.”
“Sixty years is a long time, Grandfather,” Hector replied. “Perhaps it is too late.”
José Padilla opened the passenger door. “I think not,” he said abruptly. “I have a letter we must deliver. I will ask for directions at the store. Wait here.”
“I’ll go,” Hector said hurriedly.
Dr. José Padilla waved a finger at his grandson as he stepped carefully out of the cab. “I am an old man, not an invalid.”
When José returned, he guided Hector to a dirt road off the highway that bisected a small valley, pierced a series of arroyos, and climbed into the foothills. Hector maneuvered the truck and travel trailer cautiously, especially where the sides of the road dropped off into the arroyos. Grandfather had him stop in front of a ranch house and gave him a sealed envelope.
“This is for Mr. Edgar Cox,” José said.
“Do you wish to see him if he is home?”
“Not yet.”
Mr. Cox was not home, but a very pretty Anglo woman, who said she was his daughter, took the letter and promised to deliver it. Grandfather simply nodded his thanks when Hector returned and gave him the message.
Back on the highway, Grandfather navigated with a road map on his la
p. Hector continued north, climbing steadily through mountain passes covered in dense pine forests.
Well past the town of Reserve, Grandfather spoke. “The turnoff to Mangas is not far ahead.”
“What kind of road is it?” Hector inquired.
“The map shows it to be an all-weather road. If that is so, it has been much improved over the years.”
“A dirt road,” Hector corrected. “Unpaved.”
José laughed. “You worry like an old woman who has left the barrio for the first time in her life. You are driving very well. I would be lost without your help.”
Hector slowed the truck and pulled to the shoulder of the highway. “I think we have traveled far enough for one day,” he said.
“But the day is still young, and I want you to see those beautiful mountains.” José nodded at the peaks that rose up before them. “If I can remember the way, perhaps I will be able to show you Mexican Hat.”
“It’s not on the map,” Hector reminded him.
José waved off the comment. “Not every place is named on a map.”
“And not every day has to be spent driving from morning until night,” Hector said, stifling a yawn. “Today, I would rather stop and stretch my legs for a while. Please look on your map for a campground.”
“Of course,” José said. “Will I be allowed to explore tomorrow?”
Hector saw the twinkle in Grandfather’s eyes, nodded his head, and laughed. He checked for oncoming traffic, saw none, turned the truck around, and started driving back toward the town of Reserve.
KERNEY LEFT THE FOREST SERVICE TRUCK in front of the old schoolhouse, now the Luna District Ranger Station, glad to be finished with the Glenwood assignment. In the high country, no matter what the season, early morning was chilly, and across the valley plumes of wood smoke drifted from the chimneys of the homes that were still occupied. Over the years many houses had been abandoned, and the village presented a neglected face to the world.
The former classroom that served as an office for the commissioned rangers was a snarl of desks, file cabinets, map cabinets, and office chairs. The walls were plastered with posters, maps, memorandums, and aerial photographs of the Apache National Forest, which was managed as part of the Gila east of the Arizona border. There were several responses to Kerney’s fax inquiry on the top of his desk. Clipped to them was a note for him to see the boss. He didn’t have a chance to read the replies. Carol Cassidy, the district supervisor, came into the room and stood in front of the blackboard that stretched along one wall. A quotation from Edward Abbey, written on the board with a warning not to remove it, read, “The idea of wilderness needs no defense. It only needs defenders.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, nodding at the fax papers on Kerney’s desk. Carol’s full lips accentuated her round cheekbones. She brushed her short blond hair back from her forehead. Her oval light brown eyes, usually impish and cheerful, were serious.
“Nothing, yet,” Kerney replied, waiting for more.
“Are you trying to give Charlie Perry a heart attack?” she asked, walking to him. She picked up the thin sheaf of fax papers and let them float down to the desktop one at a time.
“From what I’ve seen, he doesn’t need any help from me,” Kerney answered. “He’s wound up pretty tight.” He scanned the replies quickly. No hits on his inquiry so far.
“He’s hyper,” Carol agreed. “But Jesus, Kerney, it’s his investigation. I don’t need any grief from Charlie.”
“Why would he give you grief?” Kerney asked.
Carol leaned back, hand on her hip, and stared at him. She was short and blocky—the legacy of a Nordic grandmother—but carried herself with poise. In her late forties, she was delighted to be running the Luna office and planned to keep doing exactly that until she retired. “This will be a turf issue for Charlie,” Carol answered. “It’s his district and his case. You did your part. The rest is up to Charlie. Did he put a burr under your saddle?”
“No burr,” Kerney replied. “I’m just following up. I plan to pass along whatever comes in.”
Carol liked Kerney, which was a pleasant surprise. Often the temporary personnel hired out of the regional office in Albuquerque either lacked a strong work ethic or couldn’t adapt to the rural culture of the area. Self-contained yet easygoing, Kerney fit nicely into the team. “What’s the issue?” she finally asked.
Kerney hesitated.
“Come on. Give,” Carol prodded.
“From what I can tell, Charlie’s wearing blinders. He isn’t coordinating his investigations with other agencies or looking at trends. I thought it might be worth a shot to see what else is out there.”
Carol gave Kerney’s assessment some thought before responding. “You can make that same criticism about every district in the region,” she replied. “The whole system is understaffed, under-budgeted, and under siege. Top that off with the Sagebrush Rebellion and the People of the West movement, and what we’ve got here is a damn near explosive situation.”
“I understand,” Kerney replied.
“Perhaps you do in a general way,” Carol responded, “but you haven’t been here long enough to know the depth of the anger that’s out there. Logging has been curtailed because of the Endangered Species Act. Mines have shut down because of water pollution. Grazing fees have been raised. Everybody blames the environmental movement and the government. People feel that nobody outside the county gives a damn about their survival.
“In the last twelve months, four homemade bombs have been found on hiking trails in the wilderness. Bombs, for chrissake. Some people are more than angry.”
“Any ideas of who is responsible?”
“Nobody has a clue.”
“Not even rumors?”
“Some think it may be the county militia, but nobody is talking to me about it.”
“Who knows about the militia?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. Some time back, when the first bomb was found, I asked to have an investigator assigned from the Inspector General’s Office to look into the situation. Instead the acting regional forester referred the request to Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”
“And?”
“And nada.”
“Do you want me to drop the poaching research?” Kerney asked.
Carol took a minute to think it through. “No, you can follow up, as long as it doesn’t cut into your other duties. Charlie won’t like it. He’s been handling all the Luna District cases, as well as his own, for the past two years. But it’s my call to make, and I’d just as soon put your experience in law enforcement to good use. Remember, you’re a ranger, not a chief of detectives in a police department anymore.”
“I know that,” Kerney replied dutifully. He wished he could avoid the never-ending sermons that came with being a rookie newcomer.
Carol’s expression softened, and she laughed. “I’m lecturing, aren’t I? Sorry about that.”
“It was more informative than what I learned from Charlie,” Kerney allowed, grinning at her. “Tell me about him.”
Carol’s smile was half a grimace. “He’s a golden boy. Can’t seem to do anything wrong, as far as Sam Aldrich, our acting regional forester, is concerned. Charlie transferred here about two years ago. He’s single and not very social. Keeps pretty much to himself. There’s not much to tell.”
She wiped the piqued expression off her face. “Like him or not, he does a good job. He’s a Young Turk on a fast track. There’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. Are you ready to do something different for a while?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We’re finishing up a new campground at the foot of Mangas Mountain. It’s nothing fancy. Parking for vehicles. A well and water line. Some picnic tables. An outdoor toilet. New hiking trails. I can use you there for a couple of days.”
“No problem,” Kerney answered with a smile. “Any special instructions?”
“Amador Ortiz will put you to work. Keep the area c
losed until the job is finished. I don’t want anyone camping there until it’s ready to open.”
“You got it, boss,” Kerney said, getting to his feet.
“Take a horse and trailer with you,” Carol added. “When we open the campground it will be on your patrol route. Get to know the lay of the land.”
They parted in the foyer, at the counter where generations of children had presented notes from parents to the school secretary. Carol’s office, once the principal’s domain, sat at the far end of the building with a clear view of the hallway leading to the classrooms.
Kerney drove a mile down the road to the housing and district maintenance compound, where Carol and her husband and family lived, along with several other senior staff. Tucked away under some full-growth pine trees, the area contained living quarters, horse barns, tack rooms, repair shops, a heavy machinery lot, a garage, and storage buildings.
The Luna Valley dipped away to the south, a shallow, wide depression of grassland ringed by deeply forested mountains. The spire of the Mormon church, prominent in the little settlement, caught the morning sun like a beacon. The highway cut through the valley, past a small cluster of vacant commercial buildings that once served the settlement and occasional tourists driving the scenic route to and from Arizona.
Kerney walked to the corral and inspected the small herd of horses. He took his time before settling on a white-stockinged chestnut stallion with strong legs that stood sixteen hands high. It was a powerful-looking animal with a prominent chest and solid legs that promised good balance. Kerney smiled as he hitched the trailer to the truck and led the horse out of the corral. It was going to be a good couple of days. Anything was an improvement over patrolling campgrounds filled with temporary refugees from urban America.
Mexican Hat Page 3
