Nothing But Trouble

by Michael McGarrity

  Martinez lowered his head and smiled weakly.

  “I understand completely,” Kerney said. “That’s why I wanted to make sure you knew he wasn’t in any trouble.”

  “I appreciate that,” Shaw said with a tight smile. “What made you think the saddle was stolen?”

  “Remember the Oklahoma teamster working on the movie who was arrested at the ranch?”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.”

  “He had two outstanding burglary warrants, so the sheriff took a hard look at him as a possible suspect in recent unsolved property crimes. The saddle popped up on a list of stolen items circulated by Arizona authorities.”

  “So when you saw the saddle, you called the sheriff,” Shaw said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, no harm done.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way.”

  Kerney left the two men standing in front of the barn. Shaw’s aplomb had been almost convincing, but anger had flared in his eyes. At the very least Martinez was in for a tongue lashing and some hard questions from Shaw. Kerney wasn’t worried about what Martinez might say; it was Shaw who concerned him. Shaw had to know that he was under suspicion. What he might do about it remained unknown, but the next move was his to make.

  After Kerney passed out of sight, Shaw grabbed Martinez by the shirt and pulled him into the barn. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing.” Martinez yanked himself away from Shaw’s grip.

  Shaw slapped him. “Don’t lie to me, you stupid turd. Did you steal that saddle?”

  “I didn’t steal nothing, for Chrissake.”

  Shaw grabbed him by the throat. “Tell me exactly what happened.” Martinez coughed, his squinty eyes bulged. Shaw eased up. “Talk.”

  “It was just about the saddle. Where did I buy it. When. Who sold it to me—that kind of stuff. I told him what he wanted to know and they let me go.”

  Shaw released his grip and Martinez heaved for breath. “Did he ask you anything about me?”

  Buster shook his head.

  “Say anything about the landing strip?”

  “Nada.”

  “Did you steal that saddle?”

  Martinez rubbed his neck. “I didn’t, palabra de honor.”

  “Your word doesn’t mean shit,” Shaw said. “Get out of here and go back to work.”

  Eyes lowered, Buster left the barn and slogged his way through the mud to the corral where Pruitt had put up his horse. Shaw ran possible scenarios about Kerney’s actions through his head. Everything pointed to a probe that went far beyond the theft of a mere saddle. But so far Buster appeared to be Kerney’s only target. That might work to Shaw’s advantage.

  He stepped outside, closed the barn doors, and watched Buster hose the mud off his horse. As he walked to his truck, Shaw chewed over ways to ensure Kerney would come no closer to the truth.

  The storm had shut down film production for the day and the town of Playas was quiet. Kerney checked the call sheet on the bulletin board. He was listed as an extra for an exterior shot in the morning, to be filmed in front of the community center. Kerney read the script revision that had been posted for the scene. None of the changes applied to the extras.

  He stopped at the apartment and called Andy Baca at state police headquarters, who agreed to provide manpower and equipment for the stakeout. Then he powered up the laptop and found an e-mail from Sara. She was hard at work safely inside the Baghdad Green Zone, creating something called “actionable intelligence.” Although she couldn’t, for security reasons, go into detail, it had to do with collecting and analyzing real-time battlefield information on insurgent and terrorist activities.

  Kerney wasn’t reassured. He doubted such work could be accomplished solely in the air-conditioned comfort of a fortified, heavily guarded facility in a war-torn nation.

  He wrote back, keeping it lighthearted and chatty. He told her how well Patrick was doing and about his three-day stint in the saddle, chasing cattle on the Jordan ranch. He wrote about Barbara Jennings’s emergency appendectomy that had caused Dale to stay home. He mentioned the upcoming country-music benefit concert, scheduled to be shot at the Playas ball field in two nights. He left out the fact that he might be on a stakeout during that time.

  He signed off with love and kisses and drove to the nanny’s house, his thoughts still on Sara. Was she in some remote village, training combat ground troops on how to make uplink satellite intelligence reports from the field? Or with an infantry company, transmitting real-time intelligence on enemy activity during a firefight?

  From his tour in Vietnam, Kerney knew firsthand about insurgency and guerrilla warfare. There were no rear areas or safe havens, no clearly defined enemy, no easily identified threat thresholds. He wanted Sara home now, and his heart ached at the thought of some disaster befalling her.

  He sat in the truck for a moment and forced himself to clear away worrisome thoughts before he went to get his son. Back in the truck he put Patrick on his lap behind the steering wheel and told him he could drive. Grinning, Patrick clutched the wheel with his tiny hands while Kerney navigated through some of the empty residential streets. After a few slow go-rounds he put Patrick—who was very pleased with himself—in the car seat and headed for the copper smelter. There he found Kent Vogt at a portable cattle pen, feeding the stock.

  Over at the rail spur and loading dock of the smelter, Barry Hingle and his construction crew were busy building ramps to be used to send police cars careening through the air, and a special-effects crew was rigging a flatbed railroad car to receive one of the airborne vehicles.

  “This is going to be something else when they film it,” Vogt said as he joined Kerney and Patrick at the truck. He nodded at the penned up cattle. “Ten tons of beef on the hoof meets ten tons of cop cars. I can’t wait to see how they do it.”

  “You’re not part of it?” Kerney asked.

  “Nope, the stunt riders get to have all the fun. Something about liability and insurance. I get to help chase down the cattle after they been scattered to hell and gone.” Vogt lifted his head toward the mountains behind the smelter. “I figure it will take Buster, Pruitt, Ross, and me a full day to round them up. That’s if Buster ain’t sitting in a jail cell in Lordsburg.”

  Kerney laughed. “Word sure travels fast. Buster’s a free man.”

  “But without that fancy saddle, I bet,” Vogt said with a grin.

  “True enough.” Kerney let Vogt’s observation pass without further comment. In a land with so few people it was never wise to say too much about an individual’s friends, neighbors, or coworkers until you knew what bound them together or split them apart.

  Chuckling, Vogt put his gloves on and returned to his chore. After showing Patrick the cows Kerney took him to watch the movie people at work. Every few seconds the beacon on the tall smokestack pulsated, flashing its warning light into the sky. Come nightfall it would guide refugees, migrants, smugglers, and perhaps a fanatic or two across the border.

  If Kerney had guessed correctly, within days a plane would lock on to the beacon and land at the Sentinel Butte Ranch. He wondered what cargo it would bring.

  Back in Playas, Johnny and his rodeo cowboys were sitting in the ball field bleachers, drinking long-neck beers and listening to the country music star rehearse with his band. He was one of those vocalists who strummed a guitar for show and sang in husky, testosterone-laden tones that appealed to the buckle-bunny crowd.

  Kerney watched Johnny drain his beer, say something to his companions, and walk to the bandstand where Susan Berman stood with a stop-watch in her hand timing the music. He put his arm around Berman’s waist, grabbed her free hand, and tried to get her to two-step with him. Susan pushed him away, stopped the music, and gestured for him to leave. The rodeo cowboys hooted derisively and slapped their legs. Johnny returned to his pals laughing like a fifteen-year-old who’d just carried off a bold dare.

  At dinner under the tent a publicist passed out an announ
cement about the filming of the benefit concert sequence. Free tickets to the concert had been given to area residents, and in two nights over seven hundred locals would fill the bleachers and the ballpark infield. Filming would start at dusk.

  Kerney called Leo Valencia with the news.

  “There won’t be a soul at home in the Bootheel,” Leo said.

  “Exactly. It’s the perfect time to fly in contraband. What do you have in the works?”

  “I just got back from the Sentinel Butte Ranch. We’ll have a team of eight on the stakeout, including you, me, two of my deputies, and four state police officers. Two will be in a chopper, a pilot and a sniper.

  “We’ll use four-by-fours and ATVs on the ground. Two teams will be situated east and west, one at the windmill by the gate, the other in Chinaman Hills. You’ll be with me to the south in an arroyo. The chopper will be with us. All equipment and personnel will be under camouflage netting, and we’ll have a waning crescent moon that will add to our concealment.”

  “When do we go on-station?” Kerney asked.

  “Traveling by convoy could draw too much attention, so I’ll be moving people into position in stages, starting in the afternoon. We’ll be the first on-site, the chopper last. Everybody in place before sundown.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Be at my office at two o’clock the day after tomorrow.”

  “See you then.”

  In the morning Kerney pulled his stint as an extra in a crowd scene of angry citizens protesting the revocation of the rancher’s federal grazing permit. It took Usher three takes to get it right. Before Kerney could leave the set, Susan Berman asked to speak with him privately. She had dark circles under her eyes from too little sleep and seemed weighed down by the thick three-ring binder she clutched in her arms. Being overworked and tired made her no less attractive.

  “Normally, I can hold my own with the alley cats in this business,” she said, “and I really don’t want to impose on you, but is there some way you could convince Johnny Jordan to stop hounding me?”

  “Tell me what’s been happening.”

  Berman sighed. “The man simply won’t take no for an answer, and now it’s at the point where he’s interfering with my work.”

  “I saw the little prank he pulled yesterday at the ball field.”

  Berman winced and nodded. “It was so childish.”

  “Yes, it was. Can’t you bar him from the set?”

  “No, he’s an executive producer and has every right to be here.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  Berman touched Kerney’s arm and smiled. “Thank you.”

  Kerney went looking for Johnny and learned he was on his way to the Duncan fairgrounds with his cowboy clients for the filming of the rodeo scenes. He arrived back in Playas late that afternoon. Kerney was there to meet him when the vans and trucks carrying the cast and crew rolled in.

  With a pleased grin he slapped Kerney on the back and, in a rush of words, said, “You should have been with us, amigo. We got some really great shots in the can. Usher says that once it gets edited into a montage, it’s gonna be better than what Peckinpah did in Junior Bonner, and that was one great rodeo flick.”

  It was typical Johnny. His drunken attempt last night to seduce Susan Berman was a thing of the past, to be forgotten and forgiven.

  “We need to talk,” Kerney said as he led Johnny away from the cast to the rear of one of the equipment trucks.

  “Why so serious?” Johnny asked

  “You’re getting out of hand with Susan Berman, and you need to leave her alone.”

  Johnny grinned. “Why? Do you want her for yourself?”

  “I’ll forget you said that. Just ease off, Johnny. You’re making her very uncomfortable.”

  Johnny smirked. “Roll your own, amigo. Berman is number one on my hit list and I aim to nail her.”

  “What does it take to get you to listen? Stop coming on to Susan. She isn’t interested in you.”

  “Look,” Johnny said, “if you need to get some action from the ladies while your wife is overseas, that’s cool with me. Just find somebody else to shag. There’s some tasty talent here.”

  “Don’t get personal, Johnny.”

  Johnny glared and struck a cocky pose. “You want personal? I’ve got a DWI hanging over my head in Santa Fe because you wouldn’t do a damn thing to help me out. Now you come around all puffed up with an attitude because of a skirt you want to jump on. What a joke. You’ve always been a loser when it comes to women, Kerney. I bet you were the only guy in our high school crowd who didn’t get into my sister’s pants.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” It made no sense to explain to Johnny the concepts of family loyalty, respect for women, or true friendship. Without thinking he slugged Johnny hard under the left eye.

  Johnny hit the deck and bounced against the bumper of the truck. Slowly, he staggered to his feet and shook his head to clear away the cobwebs.

  Kerney rubbed his unclenched fist. “I wasn’t going to do that. Now do I have your full attention?”

  Johnny closed his eye and gingerly touched his face. “If you want Susan Berman that bad, she’s yours.”

  “Good. You might want to put an ice pack on that eye before it swells up.”

  That night, after Patrick had been tucked into bed, Kerney sat on the lawn outside the apartment. At the ballpark the stadium lights were on, and a crew was busy putting the finishing touches on the set for the concert sequence. Crickets chirped and a slight breeze slid through the trees, bringing the faint yelp of a distant coyote. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned just as Susan Berman sat down by his side.

  “Did you really punch Johnny in the face?” she asked with a smile.

  “Did he tell you that?”

  Susan nodded.

  “I refuse to admit any wrongdoing whatsoever.”

  Susan laughed. “Why did you do it?”

  “It was the only way I could get him to listen.”

  She leaned forward slightly and searched Kerney’s face in the dim light that cascaded up from the ballpark. “You’re a good man, Kevin Kerney, and if your marital circumstances were different, I wouldn’t mind at all having you as my champion.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, said good-night, and hurried toward the ball field.

  Warmed by Susan’s compliment and ladylike expression of interest, Kerney sat quietly for a moment before retreating to the apartment. At the kitchen table he opened the laptop and surfed the Web, looking for the latest news from Iraq. Five more soldiers had been killed in combat. It brought back memories of the dead and dying Kerney had seen in Vietnam. Sara’s face flashed through his mind with images of her killed or maimed. It made him shudder.

  Slowly, the images swam away. With his fingers poised over the keyboard Kerney considered what to write to his beautiful wife. He thought about the long, elegant line of her neck, her flashing green eyes, the freckles on the bridge of her nose, the graceful way she moved. Suddenly, with an unaccustomed ease, he found himself composing a love letter.

  The next day, after dropping Patrick off at the nanny’s, Kerney rendezvoused with Leo in Lordsburg. At five in the afternoon he was on-station at the Sentinel Butte Ranch with Leo, sitting in a brand-new four-wheel-drive sheriff’s unit bought and paid for with Homeland Security funds. With the engine off to avoid the possibility of detection the temperature inside the vehicle had to be a hundred degrees. The open windows and camouflage netting provided some relief, but with no breeze the heat was relentless.

  Behind the steering wheel Leo sucked down bottled water from a cooler and talked by radio to the teams. The Chinaman Hills duo had been in position for an hour and the team at the gate and windmill was setting up. The state police helicopter, last to arrive, was twenty minutes out.

  Kerney dismounted the vehicle and swept the landscape with binoculars. The spot Leo had picked was a good one, with line of sight to the hills, the ranch gate, and the landing s
trip. Kerney concentrated on Chinaman Hills. The team had set up low on the eastern slope at the mouth of a small box canyon. Virtually invisible in daylight, they would be impossible to see come nightfall.

  Kerney raised the glasses to the summit of the cinnamon-brown hills. Above it the Star of the North on the top of the smokestack winked weakly in the light of day. The wind-scoured hills, dotted with cactus, cleaved by the runoff of occasional torrential storms, showed no signs of trails leading down from the spine. At midslope a barbed-wire fence spanned the length of the hills. Where runoff had undercut the soil, several fence posts, no longer anchored in the ground, dangled, suspended in the air by the wire strands.

  He swung to the east and scanned the ranch gate. The second team’s vehicles were lined up behind the windmill. Once the netting was in place, they, too, would have excellent concealment.

  To the southeast the Big Hatchet Mountains topped out, gray in the harsh light of a hot sun well beyond its zenith. The limestone uplift pressed against the sky and tall, scattered pines crowded the summits of the highest peaks. Juniper and piñon clung to the lower drainages on steep cliffs, and at the base, on the valley floor, cattle browsed among the bunchgrass and desert shrub.

  He trained the binoculars on the high country, looking for the Continental Divide Trail that started at the border and ran all the way to Canada. Because of the distance he couldn’t make it out.

  Kerney returned his attention to the stakeouts. He figured it would take each team, including the chopper, which would need time to power up, three to five minutes to reach the landing strip. That was worrisome. A good pilot in a small plane could be airborne by then.

  “They are going to hear us coming,” Kerney said. “We might not get there quickly enough.”

  Leo grinned. “Didn’t I tell you? One of my deputies is an ex-jarhead sniper. He’ll be on the lead ATV. If the plane starts to taxi, he’ll stop at a thousand meters out and put rounds through the engine.”