Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  The traffic light turned green, and Kerney deliberately stalled the truck. The street was completely empty. He restarted the engine and let it idle. “Think about it, Carlos. DeLeon doesn’t need Meehan anymore. You can give him the whole package, free and clear.”

  “And all you want is the woman?”

  “That’s all I want.”

  “She must be some piece of ass,” Carlos suggested.

  “Call DeLeon,” Kerney replied, nodding at the pay phone next to a bus stop shelter. He coasted to the curb and stopped. “Let him decide.”

  “Keep driving,” Carlos said.

  “Don’t be bullheaded. Meehan is just using you.”

  “I don’t know,” Carlos said, unsure.

  “Let DeLeon decide,” Kerney repeated.

  He should call Don Enrique and get further orders, Carlos thought, looking at the pay phone. Things were getting confusing. Probably the patrón will want all of them killed, he speculated. That was okay with Carlos. “Get out of the truck.”

  Kerney opened his door.

  “My side,” Carlos told him, his pistol pointed at Kerney’s right ear.

  Kerney gave him an apologetic smile. “I can’t. My leg. Sorry.”

  Carlos hesitated. “Benton fucked you up a little, no? Okay. I’ll follow you out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “No problem.” He turned toward the door, hands above the steering wheel, and watched Carlos’s reflection in the windshield. As Carlos jockeyed around the gearshift, he shifted his concentration for an instant. Kerney spun back and slammed his elbow into Carlos’s nose. Carlos’s head bounced off the back of the seat, and Kerney hit him again with his elbow, this time in the mouth. As his head rebounded a second time, Kerney pounded his face into the dashboard. Carlos’s false teeth flew out of his mouth and landed on the floorboard.

  Kerney took the pistol from Carlos’s hand, pushed him back against the seat, and raised an eyelid. Carlos was out cold, with a smashed nose and his bottom front teeth embedded in his lip. He removed the ignition key and went to the pay phone.

  The military police dispatcher at Fort Bliss didn’t want to believe a cockeyed story about lost treasure and a wounded Army corporal, so Kerney demanded the man talk to Major Curry while he stayed on the line. Within two minutes the dispatcher was back, asking for instructions. Kerney gave him directions, told him to send troops, medics, and an ambulance for Eddie on the double, and hung up.

  Carlos was still unconscious. Kerney needed a way to make him spill his guts quickly. There was no time for a drawn-out interrogation.

  SARA SHOOK HER HEAD furiously to dislodge the scorpion that fell into her hair. It crawled down her cheek and stung her before she could grind her face against the wall and mash it. The sting was painful. The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered as the fuel burned low, making it hard to see the insects. She had stopped counting how many she had killed. She could feel the remains of the squashed bug on her face. The blood in her mouth from Meehan’s blow felt like dried paste. Cold, she couldn’t stop shivering as she continued to lose body heat. She hovered over the lamp and crunched another scorpion into oblivion. Staying alert was the key to survival.

  She started pacing the length of the cell. It was an old wine cellar that had been used as a jail cell many years ago. There were Spanish names, dates, and inscriptions scratched into the walls. She kept searching for something to use as a weapon. She wanted Meehan to come back, but not until she could find a way to kill him.

  AT THE END of the Southern Pacific railroad yard where lines of old boxcars sat on spurs, Kerney rolled Carlos out of the truck and got busy. Down the line was an old brick engine barn built like a horseshoe with a series of huge bay doorways that yawned at the night.

  Carlos, stripped naked, hog-tied, and lying facedown on the railroad ties, looked ridiculous. A rope ran from around Carlos’s chest to the rear truck bumper. Kerney had a clear run of several hundred feet before the spur dead-ended.

  He bent over Carlos and listened to his curses. The broken nose and missing false teeth made Carlos sound like Bullwinkle with a Mexican accent.

  “You son of a whore,” Carlos said. “Your mother eats sheep shit.” Carlos couldn’t breathe very well, so he stopped for air.

  “Finished?” Kerney asked.

  “You better kill me, gringo.”

  “I’m going to do that, Carlos. But you won’t have any nuts left before you die. That I promise you.” He gave Carlos a friendly pat on the head and walked toward the truck.

  “Wait a minute,” Carlos said, suddenly worried.

  “No time,” Kerney said.

  “Wait,” Carlos said, starting to feel panicked.

  Kerney got in the truck and slammed the door. He cranked the engine and drove fifty feet down the tracks. Even at a snail’s pace, the undercarriage pitched and rolled over the railroad ties. Through the rearview mirror he could see Carlos bouncing along. He stopped before any serious amount of skin could be stripped off and went to check the damage. Carlos had his head pulled up to keep his face from smashing into the ties.

  “Anything broken yet?” Kerney asked.

  Carlos grunted. His chest hurt. There were cinders embedded in his flesh from his knees to his shoulders. His testicles were burning. It felt as if a grinder were scouring off his skin.

  “I’ll pick up the pace a bit.” Again, Kerney patted Carlos on the head.

  Carlos decided Kerney would turn him into a deballed vegetable. “Wait,” he pleaded.

  “I’m waiting for the directions to the hacienda,” Kerney replied.

  “Okay,” Carlos said, and the directions tumbled out.

  When Carlos finished talking, Kerney cut him loose from the bumper, rolled him off the tracks into a pile of cinders, and told him to be patient, help was on the way.

  Lying in the cinders, Carlos renewed his insults. Kerney stuffed Carlos’s shorts into his mouth to shut him up.

  On the way to the border, Kerney called the military police again. This time, Kerney didn’t have to wait to be taken seriously. He told the duty officer where to find Carlos, asked about Eddie, learned Tapia was en route to the hospital, a squad of military policemen were at the storage unit, and Tom Curry had arrived from Las Cruces by helicopter.

  The major wanted to talk to him right away. Kerney hung up before Curry could get on the line.

  SARA’S SHAKING INTENSIFIED, and she kept moving, trying to stay warm. She felt woozy and disoriented—all the classic signs of shock and hypothermia. It had taken a long time to maneuver a board against the wall and break an end piece with the heel of her boot. A hand-forged iron nail protruded from the wood. The board kept slipping from her fingers as she tried to pick it up with her hands cuffed at her back. She crouched down again, got a firm grip, and stood up, clenching the board in a hand.

  She began pacing again to fight off the shivers, stopping to scrape the rotting wood against the wall to loosen the nail. Finally, it broke free and clattered to the floor. She searched blindly behind her back to retrieve it, her fingers stiff and cold. When she had it she could tell it was a good size, four or five inches long. If she could keep it out of sight and strike at the right time, it would do some damage. All she needed was the opportunity.

  She heard footsteps approaching. The latch squeaked and the door swung open.

  “It’s time, Sara,” Meehan said. He pulled her roughly out of the cell into the room.

  A kerosene lamp by the pile of tarps lit up the room. He walked her over and pushed her down on the pile. She got quickly to her feet and tried to rush him. He knocked her down with a swipe across the face.

  He walked up to her. “I always thought you liked your sex rough. Is that the way you want to play it?”

  She glared at him. “Is that the only way you can get it up, Jim?”

  He reached down and slapped her. “Don’t ever say that to me.”

  KERNEY CRAWLED AS silently as possible, unable to avoid dislodgin
g pebbles and loose earth as he moved up the hill. Each sound made him flinch in fear of discovery. He inched along and stopped behind a melted adobe wall. The terrain made it impossible for him to approach from any other direction. The ridge behind the hacienda, a steep embankment, would have been too difficult to climb down. He skirted the ridge on foot and started crawling when he reached the ruins of the settlement along the riverbank. With the moon up it was the only way to stay undetected.

  Fifty yards above him was the hacienda. Adjacent to it, hard against the ridge, were the remains of a small village chapel, and a granary tower that looked like a fortress turret. The site, an excellent defensive position, commanded a clear field of fire down the hillside. The rock corral and the thick walls of the hacienda hid any sign of movement.

  Sara’s Cherokee was in front of the hacienda.

  Kerney pulled himself away from the protection of a low wall and crawled on. He heard no sounds from above. He closed the distance cautiously, fighting the urge to get to his feet and run.

  SCRAMBLING TO HER FEET, Sara watched Meehan unzip his trousers and show her his erection. He moved between her and the stairs to keep her from bolting. Behind him she saw moonlight and stars in the night sky. He aimed the pistol at her belly.

  “Turn around, Sara,” he ordered. Her face was puffy, her lips and her eyes were red. Meehan liked what he saw.

  “No,” Sara said.

  He waved the barrel of the gun. “Turn around or I’ll pistol-whip you.”

  She turned and tightened her fingers around the nail, hoping that he wouldn’t see it. He was breathing rapidly as he came near. He kicked her legs apart and pulled her blouse out of her jeans.

  “Loosen the cuffs,” Sara pleaded, as Meehan undid the button of her jeans and opened the zipper with his free hand. The muzzle of the gun dug into her side.

  He laughed in reply, slipped his hand under her panties, and pulled her jeans and panties down to her knees. She waited until he put the gun away, grabbed her hips with both hands, and rubbed himself against her fanny. Twisting suddenly, she drove the nail into his groin and felt it penetrate.

  Meehan yelled and pulled away. She spun, kicked, and caught him on the thigh. It threw him off balance, but he didn’t fall. Sara smashed her forehead into his face. He went down, reaching for his pistol.

  “Bitch!” Meehan snarled. He held his crotch where the nail had gashed him.

  “Fuck you, Meehan,” she said. Her foot was next to the lantern. She kicked it, and liquid flames spread across the floor, lapping at his feet. Pulling her jeans up as much as she could, she stumbled toward the steps. Meehan would have to shoot her in the back to stop her now.

  “Stop!” Meehan shouted.

  She kept going, waiting for the impact of the bullets. She wanted to see the night sky one more time. Halfway up the steps, a figure appeared and a hand knocked her down.

  “Roll!” Kerney commanded as he dropped into a prone position.

  She heard the sound of Kerney’s weapon the instant she recognized his voice. He wasn’t dead! Meehan was on his feet, his pistol aimed at her chest. She pitched down the steps as Meehan staggered and returned fire. Two rounds ricocheted above her head.

  Kerney fired again and again, and Sara watched Meehan fall.

  The tarps were burning, and flames lit up the room. Sara stared into the fire without moving until Kerney’s hand brushed her cheek.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, pressing her face to the floor.

  “Okay. Okay,” he said gently, taking his hand away. Her face was cold to the touch, and her body was racked with shivering spasms.

  “Don’t look at me,” she demanded.

  “I won’t. Relax. It’ll be all right.” Meehan moaned, and Kerney went to check him out. He picked up Meehan’s handgun and looked at his wounds; he had taken two rounds in the belly and another in the hip.

  Sara rolled herself into a ball, knees pulled up to her chest, and stared at Meehan. She wanted him to burn in the fire that closed in on his body. She felt Kerney unlock the handcuffs. Painfully, she brought her arms from behind her back.

  “Did you kill him?” she asked.

  “He’s still alive,” Kerney answered. “Stay put.” He returned to Meehan and dragged him by the feet up the stone steps. He got a blanket from the Cherokee, covered Sara, walked her outside, and gave her Meehan’s pistol. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she answered flatly. The weapon felt good in her hand.

  “Did he…?”

  “No. Almost.”

  “Can you use the pistol?”

  Her laugh was lifeless. “You bet I can.”

  “I’ll get my truck and take you to the hospital.”

  She shook her head violently. “I don’t want anyone to see me this way:”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Meehan didn’t move while Kerney went for his truck. Sara gripped the pistol with both hands, hoping he would, so she could shoot him. The flames had spread to the lumber in the cellar, and waves of heat rose up from the underground room. The warmth felt wonderful.

  Meehan was dead when Kerney returned. He took Sara to the truck, where the heater was going full blast. She sat directly in front of the vent, her teeth chattering, thinking that she never wanted to be cold again.

  She said nothing until she noticed something strange on the floorboard. “What’s that?” she asked.

  Kerney turned on the interior light. Sara’s face was pale and drawn. Still clutching Meehan’s weapon, she looked at him intensely. There were bruises under her eye, on her cheek, and next to her mouth.

  “What?” Kerney asked back.

  She pointed the pistol at the floorboard. Carlos’s upper plate was on the mat. “That.”

  “False teeth. They belong to a guy called Carlos. He told me how to find you.”

  “So that’s how you did it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My name is Sara, not ma’am.”

  “Can I ask you a favor, Sara?”

  “What is it?”

  “Could you point the pistol somewhere else?”

  Sara looked at the gun in her hand, nodded, and put it on the seat between them. She bit her lip, and Kerney could see tears in the corners of her eyes. She turned her face away and said nothing more. She didn’t protest when he turned her over to the doctors at a hospital in El Paso. He watched the ER team wheel her into an examining room before he called Major Curry.

  Finished with Curry, he hung up and turned to find a place to sit down. The leg gave out and he fell to his knees in the corridor.

  When Kerney awoke, he was in a hospital bed. Andy Baca stood over him, a worried look on his face.

  “How’s Eddie?” Kerney asked.

  “Out of surgery and doing well,” Andy answered. “The doctors said he should have full use of his fingers.”

  “Good. And Sara?”

  “They’re discharging her today. She’s been asking about you.”

  “She’s okay?” Kerney demanded.

  “Fine. She’s a pistol,” Andy responded.

  “I know it.” He rolled over and went back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  TWO WEEKS PASSED before the Army sent Sammy’s body home. Terry called Kerney as soon as the casket arrived. The family had gathered by the time Kerney got to Maria’s home. Rows of shoes lined the front step and the path to the door. Kerney pulled off his boots and went inside. The living-room furniture had been removed, and a casket in the center of the room was surrounded by two circles of mourners sitting on the floor. Kerney squeezed in next to an old man, who gave him a somber nod and returned to his silent prayers. Terry caught his eye and smiled.

  A trio of women entered from the kitchen and placed trays of food at the foot of the casket. An elder, dressed in soft deerskin and velvet, rose and began offering food to the guests. After serving everyone, he put the remaining food in a woven basket.

  A second, identical basket was
circulated for the collection of mementos of Sammy’s life. Terry contributed his son’s Army service ribbons. Maria added Sammy’s paintbrushes. Hoping it was acceptable, Kerney put a snapshot of Soldier, the mustang named in honor of Sammy, in the container. The old man next to him grunted his approval. The casket was opened and both baskets were placed inside. Then the silence ended and the meal began.

  The family ate and told stories of Sammy’s life; anecdotes, filled with detail, that lifted the somber mood. The wake continued until dawn, when Kerney went home to change for the burial service at the Santa Fe National Cemetery.

  He got to the cemetery as the funeral procession was coming slowly down Tesuque Hill, led by tribal police cars. The honor guard assembled in front of the covered pallet as Sammy’s coffin was carried up the hill.

  Kerney hung back at the fringe of the crowd that surrounded the canopy and searched for a glimpse of Sara. Some military brass had arrived in a missile range staff car, a bird colonel and a young lieutenant. Sara, Eddie Tapia, and Major Curry were not with them.

  The ceremony was brief. With the coffin on the pallet, Maria, Terry, and Sammy’s grandparents stood at one side under the awning. Taps, played by two buglers spaced widely apart, created a mournful echo. The traditional rifle salute was fired by National Guardsmen in dress blues. The ritual finished with the slow, precise folding of the American flag from the coffin and the deliberate hand salutes as the flag passed to the colonel, who made the final presentation of the colors to Maria. The detail retired, and Sammy’s casket was placed on a wagon pulled by a tractor to an open grave.

  At the grave, Maria clutched the flag, tears flowing freely, with Terry close by her side. The tribal elder waited until the casket was in the ground, then, kneeling, placed a small pottery water jug in the grave and broke it with a stick. He sprinkled corn pollen on the coffin and nodded at the assembly.

  Sammy was now ready to start his journey. The services were over.