Hermit's Peak (35 page)

When they reached the windmill and stock tank, Sara tugged on Kerney's shirtsleeve. “Want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Your silence. This forced-march pace we're on. The fact that you haven't said five words in the last hour.”

“Sorry.”

“What's bothering you?”

“I can't get Gabe Gonzales out of my mind.”

“You're worried about him,” Sara said.

“He's a damn good man, and his life has been ripped apart. He has to live with the fact that his murdered son was a rapist.”

“That can't be easy,” Sara said.

“It's a hundred times worse if you're a cop.”

“Can Gabe cope?”

“I hope so. I don't know.”

“What about you?” Sara asked.

“Me?”

“You don't seem very happy.”

Kerney looked at the high flanks of the mountains that dominated the skyline and the soft green spring grass that rippled across the mesa. “I've been trying to enjoy myself,” he said, “but it isn't working. I can't hold on to this land, Sara.”

“Sell it.”

Kerney smiled sadly. “That's what Dale said. I've got no choice in the matter, anyway.”

“Do it.”

“Erma wanted me to have it.”

“Erma wanted you to be happy. That was her gift to you.” Sara stroked Kerney's face. “Use it to make her wish come true.”

“Think she would understand?”

“Of course.” Sara pulled Kerney by the collar and kissed him on the lips.

“What's that for?” Kerney asked.

“Luck. Let's go hear what kind of deal the Nature Conservancy has to offer. Just don't give the place away.”

“I'm not that stupid.”

Sara's voice rippled with laughter. “You'd better not be.”

 • • • 

After arriving at the Knowlton cactus site, Kerney and Sara worked through the morning with Ruth Pino and her volunteers, setting fence posts and stringing wire. At the noon lunch break, they sat down with Reese Carson and listened to his proposal. The Nature Conservancy wanted to buy all ten sections, not only to protect the rare Knowlton cactus, but to stop any further subdivision of the land.

The open range on the mesa influenced the Nature Conservancy's decision. As one of the last grassland mesas in the area, the land was prime grazing for deer and elk migrating down from the mountains.

“It would be a wonderful plant and wildlife habitat, Mr. Kerney,” Carson noted. “I hope you'll consider selling it to us.”

“At full value?” Kerney asked.

“No. You sell the property to us for less than the appraisal. But it reduces your state and federal taxes. While it's not an even trade-off, you get the satisfaction of not paying the full tax burden, and insuring that the land remains intact and unspoiled.”

“How much of a per-acre reduction are you looking at?” Kerney asked.

“We can negotiate that,” Carson said. “If you agree in principle to the idea, we'll crunch some numbers for you at different per-acre costs. I promise you'll come out of the deal well compensated.”

“Give me a ballpark figure.”

“We've got to do the math first, Mr. Kerney. But you'll still be a very rich man.”

Kerney mulled it over. He'd always hoped to scratch together just enough cash to get a ranch started, never expecting more would ever be possible. Even if he gave up some of the proceeds, the mesa would be protected, and he would still be able to comfortably realize his dream.

“You can verify our financial analysis with your own CPA before deciding on our offer,” Reese added.

Kerney looked at Sara.

She nodded her head.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I think Erma would like to see the land stay just the way it is,” she said.

Kerney smiled and turned to Carson. “Go ahead and crunch the numbers. We'll take a look at your offer.”

“That's great,” Reese said.

“What are you going to call the preserve?” Sara asked.

“We usually retain the most commonly used place name,” Reese said.

“I think it should be called the Fergurson Mesa Ranch,” Sara said.

“Or the Erma Fergurson Ranch,” Kerney offered.

“Or the Erma Fergurson Mesa Ranch Preserve,” Sara countered.

Reese Carson smiled at Kerney and Sara. “If we strike a deal, and the two of you can agree, you can stipulate the name. I'll put it in the contract as a condition of the sale.”

 • • • 

Two weeks after Orlando's funeral, Gabe knew that everything had changed forever. The terrible burning sensation in his stomach never stopped and at night sleep came only after he took a sedative. But the pills didn't keep away the dreams that left him dazed in the morning, wondering if he'd been sleeping or hallucinating.

One dream recurred over and over. In it, he was standing at the edge of the trench looking down at Orlando's crushed body, watching it decay to an anonymous skeleton, all traces of identity dissolved away.

Each time he would awake from the dream with throbbing temples and a racing heart.

Gabe's shrink had him keep a daily journal of his thoughts and feelings. Gabe didn't write down anything about his dream, and not much about how he felt, for that matter. He just didn't have the words for it. He doubted there were any.

In his sessions, the shrink kept pushing him to talk about his grief, anger, and pain. Although he felt empty and drained, Gabe faked it well enough to get a green light to return to duty.

He sat on the living room couch, bit into the sandwich, chewed mechanically, and stared at the television. Tomorrow he was due back to work. Yesterday, Theresa and her boyfriend had come up from Albuquerque to cart away some of Orlando's things as keepsakes. After they left, Gabe had packed up everything else—Orlando's clothes, books, old toys, the stereo, the TV, the linens and pillows from the bed, even the baseball card collection—and had taken it all to the dump. Then he'd cleaned the room from top to bottom and locked the door.

He put his half-eaten sandwich on the plate and went to the kitchen. All his thank-you notes for the sympathy cards were ready to be mailed. Chief Kerney wouldn't get his note until he got back from his honeymoon in Ireland. He gathered them up, took them to the mailbox outside the public library, and dropped them down the chute.

This was the first night that he wasn't being watched like a hawk by some cop pretending to keep him company. It felt good not to bullshit people that he was doing all right.

On his way back to the house, Gabe looked at the moon and saw two bright stars nearby. He didn't know much about stars, constellations, or astronomy. Maybe they were satellites. But satellites weren't supposed to flicker.

Orlando would have known whether they were stars or not, Gabe thought as he stood in his front yard. But Orlando would never be around to tell him such things again.

He placed the muzzle of the pistol in his ear, but couldn't pull the trigger. His hand shook so hard the weapon banged against his cheekbone. He lowered the gun and stared at the house his grandfather had built, wondering why he'd put all his time, money, and effort into restoring it. His family was shattered and his pride in what the house once represented no longer mattered.

He leveled the gun at the living room window and pulled off a round. The lead glass shattered. He kept pointing and firing at every window in the front of the house until the handgun emptied. Lights went on inside the neighboring houses. As the growing sound of a siren pierced the night, Gabe walked to the porch step, sat, and stared at the ground. Glare from a spotlight washed over him, and Art Garcia's voice came out of the darkness.

“Toss the handgun, Gabe.”

The weapon felt heavy in Gabe's hand. “It's empty.”

“Please, Gabe, lose the gun,” Art said, almost pleading, as he came up the walkway.

Gabe flipped it onto the grass and started crying, unable to hold back the sobs.

Art sat on the porch step, put an arm around Gabe's shoulders, and waited for the crying to stop.

When Gabe opened his eyes, he saw Russell Thorpe, Ben Morfin, Captain Garduno, and several
state and city patrol officers standing in the front yard.

Embarrassed, he dropped his head, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “What am I gonna do, Art?” he asked softly.

Art patted Gabe's shoulder. “You'll get through it.”

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