Dawson narrowed his gaze, catching his own reflection in Trini’s pricey sunglasses. It was Trini’s nephew who’d been killed in the border shootout that Madsen had refused to discuss just a few days earlier. Dawson impulsively brought it up. “Sorry about your nephew. We need to talk about that. Soon.”
The Sernas exchanged glances as Trini grimaced. “He was a good kid. Got mixed up with the wrong crowd. That’s about the size of it.”
Dawson’s gut tightened. There was more. A lot more. Serna and Serna, as he liked to call them, were trying to sweep this one under the rug. “There was half a million dollars in that car when he was killed. That’s not chump change.”
“We buried him yesterday,” Trini said.
Dawson nodded politely despite the twinge of anger that gripped him. Why hadn’t he known about the kid’s funeral? But of course. Publicizing that burial would only keep alive the unanswered questions as to what the senator’s staffer was doing in the middle of what looked like the delivery of drug money. Sam’s funeral, meanwhile, provided Madsen with a campaign event. “Your boss is working the funeral circuit, then.”
Trini and Jodie both scowled. “My condolences,” Trini said, then he and his wife turned toward the open temple doors.
Dawson looked back down the curved drive and saw what he’d been waiting for. His children, Brandon and Erica, were coming up the walkway, trailed by his ex-wife, Carolyn.
Carolyn hugged him. It was heartfelt, and she clung tightly for a long moment. With her body against his, she felt like the woman he had fallen in love with years ago. As he held her, he glanced at his children, who both stared.
“Thanks for making the trip and bringing the kids,” he said.
She let go and instinctively looped her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Brandon and Erica both paused, not knowing what to do. At ten years of age, Brandon looked taller than he remembered, and uncomfortable in an ill-fitting sport coat and tie. Erica, now thirteen, appeared girlish in a sleeveless, patterned dress and shiny black shoes.
“Give your father a hug!” Carolyn barked, seemingly embarrassed by their lack of good behavior. Brandon and Erica stepped forward and hugged Dawson mechanically. There was none of the warmth that he’d just gotten from Carolyn, but he understood their awkwardness.
How could they feel any differently, since he only saw them a couple of times a year? His years in Iraq and Afghanistan had made normal fatherhood impossible, with their visits timed when he took stateside vacations. He usually returned exhausted and badly distracted by the war, wanting only to be alone. But they were his kids and needed to know that he was still around and still their father. Their visits had been one-week mini-vacations to places like the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone National Park, or ski trips to Taos or Colorado resorts.
He regretted having fallen into the trap of trying to be a generous, albeit absent father. The extravagant vacations were an attempt to make up for lost time. He knew that his children saw through it, but they would never say no. Instead, they sulkily accepted his largesse. And at the end of each visit, they’d embrace and say teary goodbyes. It hurt, yet he felt helpless.
“You playing baseball next summer?” he asked Brandon, hoping to make a connection, however small.
Brandon shaded his eyes with a hand and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You should. It’s a great game.”
Brandon looked at him. “Maybe.”
Dawson knew that if he was around them more, if he only lived closer, Brandon certainly would be playing ball. It’s what fathers did with their sons. It’s what he would do, if he could. But….
“Erica’s captain of her soccer team,” Carolyn said, breaking the silence.
“That’s great, Erica! I should come see you play.” She was growing up quickly. She seemed to have a strong sense of herself and would go for what she wanted, with little or no prompting. That was clearly my influence, he mused.
“You should,” Carolyn said.
“Where’s Grandma Jacquelyn?” Erica asked.
Dawson waved to the open temple doors. “She’s in the front row. She’s anxious to see you both.” Brandon and Erica looked at Carolyn for approval. She nodded. They turned and disappeared through the temple entrance.
That they looked to Carolyn for permission before taking off gave Dawson the sinking feeling that had become all too familiar. To his children, he was virtually nonexistent. They took their cues from Carolyn, not him. It was not what he had wanted. He sucked in a deep breath. “We’re having a reception at the country club, you know. Jacquelyn is hoping to see them, and you, after the burial.”
Carolyn responded with a pained look. “Erica has a soccer game tomorrow. We really need to get back to Santa Fe.” The image of the adobe house they’d built outside of Santa Fe and where they’d lived filled his mind. It was a four- or five-hour drive back. “She’s the team captain, after all. I’m sorry.”
“I haven’t seen the kids for six months,” Dawson said, ineptly stifling his anger. “Jacquelyn hasn’t seen them for more than a year.”
“That’s not my fault, and you know it.”
“I’ve been covering a presidential campaign, Carolyn. There’s not a lot of down time.”
“You’re the one who spent the last ten years jumping from one war zone to the next, not me.”
He clenched his teeth and grimaced. “It got me a Pulitzer, Carolyn.”
“It almost got you killed.”
“People can die anywhere.”
“Most people don’t go looking for trouble. You were lucky.”
“Not lucky. Smart.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about this. If you want to see your kids, make time for them. That’s how it works. You’re their father.”
That stung. But she was right. He watched Carolyn stride into the temple.
Chapter 10
Rancho la Peña, New Mexico
Seeing the ushers were about close the temple doors, Dawson turned to look down the drive for his mother. No sign of her. His heart sank as he accepted the fact that Mercedes wasn’t coming. While he didn’t like it, he understood her reluctance. This was not her world. It was a world of money and power that was as discomfiting to him as it was to her. That’s why he had wanted her there. She was his tether to his former world. Disappointed, he turned to the spacious temple.
If his father had left a legacy, it was this church, which normally dwarfed the sparse congregation. But today it was packed. Sam’s polished and closed wooden casket was displayed on a pedestal at the front and was surrounded by a floral sea that made the temple smell more like a greenhouse than a church. It was a presentation befitting someone other than his father.
The balcony at the rear was crowded with a television cameras perched on tripods that scanned the ceremony. Behind them, reporters and photographers waited lethargically for the main attraction—Senator Micah Madsen’s delivery of the eulogy. Dawson felt strange not to being among the press corps, many of whom he knew, if only vaguely. For the moment, he had stepped away from the media frenzy, and he felt awkward knowing that the cameras now were focused on him and his family. If it had been someone else’s father who’d been killed, he would certainly be in the balcony. But he wasn’t. He sighed and headed to the pew in the front.
Across the aisle from Dawson’s pew were Madsen, his wife and two children, and Jodie and Trini Serna, along with several others he didn’t recognize. Dawson glanced at Madsen, who nodded somberly, then he slipped into the pew beside his stepmother.
After Dawson had grumbled that Sam’s funeral had become a media event, Jacquelyn admitted that Madsen’s campaign office had not only insisted that the senator attend, but also that he deliver the eulogy. She’d said no initially, also fearing that the news media would turn the funeral service into a circus-like campaign event. Jodie and Trini Serna promised that would not happen, Jacquelyn said, and that the eulogy
was a personal request by the candidate.
Jacquelyn had agreed, but said told Madsen to keep his remarks personal and not to wander off into some political rant. Dawson doubted that she had put up much resistance, and was convinced she would have agreed to anything to accommodate Madsen. She and Madsen had known each other for years, and it was because of Jacquelyn that Sam had been one of the senator’s biggest supporters. Now that Madsen was in the midst of a presidential campaign, the pinnacle of his political career, she’d of course let him deliver the eulogy. Dawson had no evidence, but suspected that their relationship was more than friendship.
As he waited for the memorial service to begin, the thought crossed Dawson’s mind that while the glare of the news media lights would be uncomfortable for a day, the national attention could be beneficial. The news media lights shining on his father’s murder would, eventually he hoped, help send the rats who’d done this scurrying from their dark corners.
Dawson drew in a deep breath of resignation, and glanced slightly to his side. Jacquelyn was dressed in black, her face hidden by a lacy veil. To her side sat Erica, Brandon, and Carolyn. To all public appearances, they looked like the family that they might have been.
After the usual remarks, the minister nodded to Madsen and announced, “We have a special guest here with us today who is going to provide us with some treasured remembrances of the deceased.”
Madsen strode to the small lectern. He cleared his throat and scanned the audience. “I count myself lucky to be among the few who really knew Sam Dawson. He was an example to us all. A man who found himself going down the wrong road, yet was able to turn his life around and accomplish great things.”
Madsen gestured widely. “Just look at this beautiful temple. Consider all the homes and schools near here. And all of the jobs Sam helped create in the community’s thriving industrial park.”
Dawson’s mind drifted. Just look at all of this indeed! He had never understood how Rancho la Peña had come to exist. Sam had only mentioned investors and deals in passing over the years. Dawson kicked himself for not paying more attention. The project had been launched with two golf courses, no less! That took money, and it took water, both of which were in short supply in this region.
The courses had been designed by celebrity golf pro Juan Castellano, once a big name in the Southwest and known on the pro tour for snatching several major tournament victories from the likes of Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. Castellano had not come cheap, but was a magnet for press coverage. Sam had accomplished a major coup by bringing him into the project. With championship golf courses as the draw, Sam had said frequently, the demand for luxury homes on fairways would quickly follow, as if it was a law of nature.
Madsen kept it mercifully short, and soon the temple doors swung open and Sam’s casket was wheeled out on a chrome gurney. Dawson, Madsen, and Trini Serna were among the pallbearers who hoisted the casket and slid it inside the open rear door of the long, black hearse. Dawson turned to the waiting limo and climbed in, joining Jacquelyn, Carolyn, Brandon, and Erica for the ride to the cemetery.
* * *
Thirty minutes after leaving the temple, Madsen settled into the beige leather seats aboard his Learjet, its engines whining quietly on the private airstrip at Rancho la Peña. Madsen twisted the top off of a bottle of water and gazed at Trini Serna. “That was sloppy, damned sloppy.”
“What are you talking about?” Trini said with a frown. “The eulogy was perfect. Good press.”
“Not that, goddammit. Sam Dawson. That entire thing.”
“Dead men don’t talk.”
“They left the damned body in the desert, Trini. It was found in less than twenty-four hours. That was sloppy, friggin’ sloppy.”
“It was quick and clean. It’s untraceable.”
“They should have taken the body, made it disappear. Hell, they could have buried it.”
“There was no time.”
“Now we have Sam’s asshole son Kyle to deal with.”
“Yeah, of course. But he’s manageable.”
“He’s a resourceful prick. I want him followed. This is the kind of thing that could derail this entire campaign.”
“Don’t worry. I have it covered.”
“Don’t worry? Yeah, right.” Madsen leaned back as the jet quickly ascended into the New Mexico sky.
Chapter 11
Rancho la Peña, New Mexico
Dawson parked at the brown stucco and red tile country club building, climbed out, and walked around the car to open the door for Jacquelyn. But she was already out, adjusting her hat and veil, preparing for her entrance to the reception. He was not looking forward to this. The event had been arranged mostly for her to maintain a strong front and her status as the now-bereaved grande dame of the country club.
Dawson turned to the sound of a car stopping behind his. Carolyn lowered her window. “We have to go,” she said, lifting a hand to shade her eyes.
Leaving Jacquelyn on the sidewalk, he stepped to her window. “I wish you could stay.”
Carolyn shrugged, then turned to Erica and Brandon. “Well, how about some hugs here?”
Erica and Brandon jumped out of the car and joined him in a quick, three-way hug. “Your Grandma Jacquelyn, too,” he said. They gave her a brief sideways embrace, then skipped back to the car, jumped in, and shut the doors. Carolyn gunned the car out of the parking lot and down the long country club drive to the main road.
Jacquelyn slipped her arm in Dawson’s as they made their way along the concrete walk, palm trees towering, a sprawl of blade cacti and gravel beds covering the ground. They paused just outside the club’s heavy wooden double doors.
“I so wanted to spend time with them. Such nice kids. You should be proud.”
Dawson sighed. “I am proud. Carolyn said Erica’s captain of her soccer team.”
Jacquelyn grunted. “Good for Erica. When will I get to see them again?”
“I’ll arrange something,” he said. But Carolyn never made it easy. They’d play telephone tag for days, sometimes weeks. There was always some scheduling problem. She had a showing or a closing. Erica or Brandon had school events. Soccer games. Always something.
He pushed the club door open and they were hit with a wave of noisy club chatter, of people milling about the lobby, and the aroma of buffet food tinged with whiffs of whiskey, beer, and wine. Dead ahead was the club lounge with its heavy wooden bar, large round tables, and leather and brass-tacked bar stools. He loved the bar with its Western motif, brass footrest, mirrored back wall, and six-sided poker tables.
To the left was a large dining room, similarly decorated and filled with people heaping their plates at a buffet with warming trays of enchiladas, tacos, varieties of potatoes, vegetables, chicken, barbecued pork, and bowls of fruit and salads. At the end was a thick, prime roast beef turning on a spit. Sam would have loved this, Dawson thought, as his stomach churned with hunger. It was late afternoon and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he couldn’t face a room full of strangers and meaningless talk.
A young Hispanic girl at the reception desk looked at him with big brown eyes. “I’m so sorry about your father,” she said, rising from behind the counter. “Everybody here is in shock.”
“Yes, Julia,” Dawson said, glancing at her nametag. “It’s been hard. I barely know where to begin.” He turned to Jacquelyn. “Go mingle. You know these people. I don’t.”
She squeezed his arm tightly. “Kyle, stay. It would do you good to meet some of these people.”
An elderly couple came up to them, the man extending a hand as his wife hugged Jacquelyn. Dawson shook the man’s hand, accepted his condolences, and surveyed the crowd. The woman slipped her arm around Jacquelyn’s shoulders and began to slowly walk her away, as if confiding something she didn’t want Dawson to hear.
Dawson seized the moment and blurted to the husband, “I’m sorry. I have to do something. Please excuse me.” He wheeled and waved at the recepti
onist. “I’ll be in the office if anybody calls.” He angled across the lobby, pushed open Sam’s office door, and closed it behind him.
He took a deep breath as he scanned the spacious office. He approached his father’s polished oak desk and gazed at the mounted horns of a Texas Longhorn steer that hung on the wall. A couple of padded leather chairs faced the desk, and nearby was a large leather sofa and a mesquite wood coffee table. Along the wall was a small but well-stocked bar. Beyond that, sliding glass doors opened onto a putting green where several people were bent, putters in hand, tapping golf balls.
Dawson pulled his father’s leather chair from the desk and swung it back and forth for a moment before settling into it, lost in thought. He flipped his laptop open, having left it there for the past few days provided him with some small measure of solitude. He pulled out a reporter’s notebook from the briefcase he’d stashed under the desk, and extracted his old baseball, which he tossed lightly as he tilted back in the chair. He put his feet up on the desk. Might as well make myself at home.
In the stillness, he remembered his mother’s fear that Sam’s spirit lingered. The office felt strange, as if he was not alone, and a chill swept over him. He dismissed it as overworked air conditioning. Yet, he felt unnerved. But of course he would feel strange. How does a person make up for all that time? As he surveyed all that had been Sam’s, he felt like he’d barged into another person’s life, a life that had suddenly gone silent.
Dawson went to the office mini bar, unscrewed the top to a bottle of tequila, and gurgled two fingers worth into a tumbler. At least my father kept a good supply of alcohol. He lifted the glass and gulped, then coughed slightly and let the tequila warm its way down to his stomach. He finished it off with another swallow and poured another. He gazed at the collection of photos that covered the wall opposite the desk.
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