“Watch me,” Curry promised.
KEVIN KERNEY’S INTERNAL CLOCK brought him out of a sound sleep at five. A touch of pink was in the clear eastern sky, but the mountains would hold dawn back long enough for him to run without making a spectacle of himself with his awkward gait. An unmarked surveillance car was parked across the street. The man behind the wheel smirked as he ran past. The hell with him, Kerney thought. He jogged one mile down the gravel road to the water tower and a mile back. He returned to the BOQ as the morning orderly was coming on duty.
By the time he showered and dressed, the post canteen was open for business. He ate a light meal and watched the customers drinking their morning coffee before heading off to work. He trailed behind a group of office workers, entered the headquarters building, and found his way to the public information office.
The public information officer, a plain-looking female first lieutenant with a pinched face and mousy brown hair, was cooperative. Kerney learned that the only visitors allowed uprange during the time of Sammy’s disappearance were a group of treasure hunters digging for lost gold at Victorio Peak and members of the Audubon Society conducting a semiannual bird survey west of Three Rivers. Neither place was anywhere close to Sammy’s duty station.
He asked about outsiders with uprange access and learned that state and federal game and conservation officers were allowed in. All carried law enforcement commissions and had security clearances. The lieutenant didn’t know who among them had been around when Sammy went AWOL, but she pulled out a file folder with names and phone numbers, explaining with great seriousness that conservation and the environment were of vital concern to the Army.
Kerney copied the list into his notebook—two dozen names, including a wildlife specialist who came down from Santa Fe to manage the bighorn sheep herd, a National Park Service ranger who supervised the wilderness area, and a Bureau of Land Management officer who looked after the wild mustang herd. He thanked the lieutenant for her time and left wondering how the Army kept track of two dozen men and women roaming around the five thousand square miles of the missile range.
Probably with satellite locators, he decided, as he parked outside the service club. The club was closed, but the office at the back of the building was open. The young woman inside gave him an annoyed look when he entered. She covered the open paperback book on her desk with a piece of typing paper. Kerney introduced himself and showed his credentials.
“Captain Brannon said you’d be coming by.” She had a flat midwestern voice, thin lips, and a pageboy hairdo.
“What can you tell me about the jeep excursion program?” he asked.
“It’s very popular,” the woman replied, her hand resting on the covered book. Her long fingers flowed down from a skinny arm and bony elbow. “Base personnel and their dependents may sign out to use service club vehicles for wilderness excursions and recreational trips. I’m usually booked solid a month in advance.”
“The paperwork must really pile up,” Kerney suggested.
She smiled briefly in agreement. “It does. I have to complete a monthly report that records vehicle mileage, trip destination, all drivers and passengers, times in and out, and gasoline consumption.”
Kerney asked to see the records.
“How far back did you want to go?” she asked.
“Ten months.”
“That’s a lot of paperwork,” she cautioned.
“I don’t mind.”
She scooted her chair to a bank of file cabinets behind the desk, searched through a drawer, extracted two thick accordion folders, held them out for Kerney to take, and tilted her head at an unoccupied desk. “You can use the sergeant’s desk. He doesn’t come in until noon.”
Kerney took the files and sat at the desk. He read the material carefully, jotting down each of Sammy’s excursions. His trip tickets showed that he went in all directions, but none listed Sheep Mesa or Big Mesa as a destination, where Alonzo Tony said he’d gone with Sammy. Finished, Kerney raised his eyes. The secretary was reading a romance novel. He coughed to get her attention, and the paperback book quickly disappeared from sight.
“What is it?”
“If I signed out for a jeep, how would I know where I could and couldn’t drive?”
“You get a map with everything clearly marked.”
“Can I see one?”
Wordlessly she held up a map for him to fetch. He took it from her and returned to the desk. Sheep Mesa was definitely off-limits, as was all “casual and recreational” travel from Big Mesa, once part of the old 7-Bar-K Ranch. Sammy definitely liked to go where the spirit moved him.
In one accordion file was a folder marked “Special Events.” Sammy had gone on only one such outing. The trip ticket and an attendance roster were stapled to a flyer. It read:
KNOWN SURVIVORS
A ONE-DAY TOUR OF NATIVE AMERICAN
SPANISH AND ANGLO HABITATION
IN THE TULAROSA BASIN
CONDUCTED BY
DR. FRED UTLEY
FEBRUARY 5
PARTICIPATION LIMITED
SIGN UP BY JANUARY 15
BROUGHT TO YOU BY YOUR SERVICE CLUB!
He decided to pay Dr. Utley a visit and found him loading provisions in a four-wheel-drive utility vehicle in front of a prefabricated metal building. Utley stopped and gave Kerney a friendly handshake.
“Lieutenant Kerney, isn’t it?” Utley asked.
“That’s right.”
Utley looked relieved. “I’m bad with names. What brings you out to my shop?”
Behind Utley an overhead door opened to a storeroom filled with rows of shelves filled with tools, climbing gear, water cans, camping equipment, and boxes.
“I’d like to know about the tour you put on through the service club,” Kerney said.
“You mean ‘Known Survivors’? I do that twice a year. It’s very well attended.” Utley adjusted his glasses. “Can I ask what this is about?”
“A missing soldier. Maybe Captain Brannon mentioned him.”
Utley smiled. “Sara doesn’t talk to me about her work.” He leaned against the door of the vehicle, resting his arm on the bracket of the side mirror. “How can I help?” he asked.
“I’d like to know where you went on the field trip.”
Utley pushed some hair away from his forehead. “Easy enough. Come inside and I’ll show you on the map.”
Utley and his team shared a chaotic work space, dominated by a large trough table with dividers in the middle of the room. It held pot shards, hand-forged nails, rusty shell casings, pieces of old machinery, fragments of rope and leather, and human bones, all sorted according to type and size. A woman at a work table labeled bits and pieces of rusty tools from a cart next to her. She looked up and smiled as Kerney and Utley walked by.
Utley guided Kerney through a clump of desks to a large map of the Tularosa Basin mounted on the far wall and started pointing. “It’s a one-day excursion. I don’t go too far out—otherwise the time would be eaten up by travel.”
He traced his finger up a primary-road course. “I take them to an old Spanish site called Black Bear Mine, back down to the 7-Bar-K Ranch site on the east slope of the San Andres—the wildlife and conservation people use it as a base camp—and the last place we visit is Indian Hills, where I’m doing an excavation.” Utley poked the map at Indian Hills. “I think I mentioned that when we first met.”
“Indian Wells?” Kerney asked. The background in Sammy’s painting of the Bobcat had to be Indian Wells.
“There is an Indian Wells, but it’s completely off-limits, and you can only get to it by foot or horseback. It’s an interesting site if you like geology or petroglyphs. Have you heard of it?” Utley asked.
Kerney shook his head. “I just thought you said Indian Wells. My mistake.”
Utley nodded. “The place-names can get confusing.” He made a circular motion with his finger over the map. “The Indian Hills excavation is east of Cottonwood Canyon. A
stand of trees gave me the first clue that I might find something. Cottonwoods need a lot of water, so I went looking for the source. I found gray quartz and white gypsum sand accumulations early in the dig. The winds move the sand toward the Sacramento Mountains, away from the San Andres, so it was a real anomaly. We hit a rock foundation and an underground spring that once fed into a pond. It’s definitely a semipermanent Apache campsite.” Utley’s voice rose in satisfaction. “A very important find. I’m heading back out there today.” Utley’s expression changed and became apologetic. “I’m boring the hell out of you.”
“Not at all,” Kerney assured him, rushing his question before Utley had a chance to continue talking. The man was a self-absorbed motormouth. “Do you remember Sammy Yazzi? Specialist Fourth Class. He went on your last field trip.”
Fred nodded and repositioned his eyeglasses on his nose. “I do. I was delighted to have him on the tour. He gave us a real interesting perspective of the Apache from a Pueblo Indian point of view.”
“Did you know him before the tour?”
“Never saw him before or after,” Utley responded. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“That’s okay.” Kerney replied.
“I don’t envy you your job.” Utley walked with Kerney to the open door. “If you’re still on the base when I get back, I’ll buy you a drink at the officers’ club.”
“Sounds good to me,” Kerney said, squinting at the whiteness of the day that greeted him outside.
He left Utley to finish his loading chore and drove away. It was time to meet Sara at her office.
“DID YOU NOTICE that the watercolors were numbered in sequence?” Sara inquired, one foot curled under her knee, her back resting against the passenger door of Kerney’s truck. A slight road breeze from the partially open window rippled through her hair. They were halfway to Elephant Butte Lake.
“No, I didn’t.”
“On the back of each sheet: two numbers separated by a slash. There should be thirty pictures. Only twenty-five were in the portfolio.”
Kerney drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in response as Sara watched him. He had long fingers, perfectly proportioned. Kerney had taken care to dress for the occasion, Sara thought, with a private smile. He wore a light gray cowboy shirt with pearl buttons, black jeans, and freshly polished boots.
“No comment?” Sara nudged.
“I feel like we’re chasing our tails,” Kerney answered. “Lots of leads going nowhere.”
“Frustrated?”
“So far.” He smiled in her direction. “It’s a big chunk of land out there. Lots of places where a person can get lost and disoriented.”
“Or have an accident,” Sara added.
“That too,” Kerney agreed glumly, “but I still cling to the hope that Sammy’s alive and kicking up his heels somewhere off the base.”
“You do think that’s realistic?”
“Not really. Sammy isn’t the type. But without hope there can be no endeavor,” Kerney quoted. “Some dead English writer said that. I can’t remember which one; Samuel Johnson, Walter Scott.”
Sara laughed. “Tell me something. Why did you drop out of graduate school to become a cop?”
Kerney shot her a sideways look. “You have done your homework.”
“Of course.”
“After Nam, I thought I needed peace and quiet. Graduate school seemed like a safe place to be.”
“Was it?”
“Sure, if you believe that intellectual sharpshooting and belligerent superior attitudes are part of a quiet life. To me, it was just a mind game, so I decided to do something more real.”
“I take it your wife didn’t approve.”
“Hell, no. When I told her what my intentions were, she decided I wasn’t committed to maintaining a parallel career path with an equitable income that would match her anticipated earnings. She granted me an uncontested divorce.”
“Was it that simple?”
“Nothing is that simple. She didn’t want a husband with a second-class profession, and I didn’t want a marriage that felt like a business arrangement. Otherwise, we were completely incompatible.”
“Are you a romantic, Kerney?”
“I was. Now I’m a hermit. What about you?”
“There’s very little time for romance in the military.”
They drove in silence through Truth or Consequences, a town with no definition that spread out along a bypass looping the interstate. Main street, lined with dreary cafés, dress shops posing as boutiques, shoddy secondhand stores, and run-down tourist cabins bunched around empty parking lots, took on the stunted, meager personality of the sand hills above the town. Only the touch of green from the thick bosque that concealed the Rio Grande gave relief to the eye, pulling attention to the mountains east of the river.
According to Sara, Bull McVay worked as a maintenance man at a vineyard in Engle. At the only stoplight in town, Kerney turned toward the mountains, and soon they were on a curving road cutting through the foothills. Elephant Butte, a startling blue-green manmade lake, spread out in front of them just before the highway dipped into a narrow, sheared-off granite pass, climbed again to meet the Jornada—the ancient route of the Spanish into North America—and ran straight toward the San Andres Mountains. Cactus savanna flowed across the desert interrupted by large thickets of creosote brush and mesquite. The long plumes of the sotol cactus rose on thick bases, protected by hundreds of spiny leaves, bearing the first signs of flowering growth. Clumps of green grama grass, pale rabbitbrush, and yellow wildflowers erupted wildly on the flat plain.
Sara remained quiet, gazing out the window and thinking how pleasant it was to rubberneck. The need for more of a personal life outside of her job had to be given greater attention, she decided.
A large billboard sign came into view, heralding the turnoff to the vineyard. “I’ll question McVay,” she said, regretting the curt tone.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kerney replied obsequiously. “Shall I wait for you in the truck, ma’am?” His blue eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile.
Sara punched him on the arm. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Let’s go.”
IN THE PROCESSING SHED, Bull McVay worked alone, cleaning up the debris left over from a newly installed vat storage system. He dumped some scrap metal in the cart behind a small tractor and noticed a man and woman standing in the wide bay doorway. Tourists, McVay thought, returning to his work. The winery attracted visitors intrigued by the idea of a champagne vineyard in the middle of the desert owned by real Frenchmen who pumped water thirty miles from the lake in order to grow grapes. He was sweeping up when the woman approached.
“Hello, Bull,” Sara said.
“Captain Brannon.” Bull resisted the impulse to snap to attention. The man wasn’t somebody Bull knew. He hung back a little from the captain, just within earshot range. “What brings you here?”
“One of your old ballplayers went AWOL.”
“Which one?” With huge shoulders, no neck, and a bulky frame, Bull had a nickname that was a perfect match for his body.
“Sammy Yazzi.”
“I heard about that. I thought everything had worked out for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sammy was hot to take some art classes at the university. All his sergeant had to do was change the duty roster. Steiner wouldn’t cooperate, and Sammy was really bummed out about it. I came up with an alternative—almost by accident.”
“What alternative?”
“A lady at church taught art at the university in Las Cruces before she retired. I mentioned Sammy’s problem to her in passing. She told me to have Sammy call her, so I did. Sammy started studying with her.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Absolutely,” Bull answered.
“When did this happen?”
“Just before I moved up here.”
“Did Sergeant Steiner know about it?”
“I don’t think so. Samm
y told me as a way to say thanks for the favor, but I doubt he made a big deal out of it with anyone else. That’s not his style.”
“What’s the woman’s name?”
“Erma Fergurson. Sweet lady. In her seventies but still a ball of fire.”
“Thanks, Bull,” Sara said.
“Sure thing, Captain.” The man with Sara, a rugged-looking guy, turned and walked away without saying a word. His right leg had been busted-up big-time. Probably the knee, Bull decided. He shook Sara’s hand with his beefy palm and watched her walk away. She stopped at the door, looked around, and stepped into the sunlight with almost a girlish skip.
Kerney stood at the end of the parking lot, oblivious to Sara’s presence, looking at the small cluster of houses and shade trees that marked the remains of Engle, now a town in name only. The pavement ended at the Southern Pacific railroad tracks, and a dirt road took over, thrusting east toward the San Andres Mountains. Gone were most of the private homes, the general store, the post office, and the abandoned hotel, which had still stood when he was a boy. The one-room schoolhouse endured, moored on a wide rock foundation. The long, narrow window casements started a good eight feet off the ground and ran nearly to the top of the building.
“What do you see out there?” Sara asked.
Kerney’s blue eyes smiled again. “An eighty-pound boy full of piss and vinegar who thought he would be a runt forever.”
“What happened to him?”
“He grew up and found out nothing is forever. I think you’re going to enjoy meeting Erma Fergurson,” he said with a delighted laugh.
“You know her?”
“Damn straight I do. Let’s go find out if she remembers me.”
ERMA FERGURSON opened her front door holding a writing tablet in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other. Dressed in a paint-splattered man’s shirt and a pair of black slacks, she carried her age beautifully, slender and erect. Her delicately lined face took them in with clear eyes. She wore her gray hair pinned in a bun at the nape of her neck.
She glanced nonchalantly at the badge in Kerney’s hand. “You’re here about the burglary,” Erma said.
Tularosa Page 9
