Mexican hat (23 page)

"No way," the investigator replied.

"Does it fit any kind of profile?"

The investigator shrugged. "Sure. My bet is that we've got a

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male perpetrator. Women tend to use flammables and burn personal objects, like clothes or bedding. Men go for accelerants and explosives. The perp was organized about it. Knew what he wanted to do. This is a flat-out murder case."

"Anything else?"

The investigator nodded. "The landlord probably wasn't the target. I understand the tenant is a single man who worked for the Forest Service. I'd be looking for either an extremist or a jealous husband or boyfriend. Something along those lines."

Karen turned to Gatewood and gave him a searching look. "Where is Kerney?"

Omar looked sheepish. "He was here earlier."

"Find him," she ordered, thinking that maybe the democratic system of electing sheriffs was a stupid idea. "I want a full statement from him on my desk as soon as possible. Does he know anybody angry enough to want to kill him? Concentrate on his investigation. Find out if he has been threatened or harassed. If you come up empty, ask if he has a girlfriend. What was his relationship to Doyle Fletcher? Fletcher's wife?"

Stung by her crisp manner, Gatewood sent two deputies to look for Kerney.

Satisfied that the investigation was a little less scattered, Karen went to her office to call her boss in Socorro. Then she stood at the window for a very long time, looking at the sorry row of buildings across the road. Reserve had no charm other than the natural beauty of the valley and mountains. Most of the tourists stayed in Silver City or at resort ranches when they came to the region. There were no sidewalks or streetlights on the road. In front of an empty house across the way, once used as a real estate office, a pile of trash had collected against the sagging porch. Next door, she could see into

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the vacant modular building that had housed the weekly local paper before it went belly-up. Waist-high weeds covered the bottom half of the door.

The town felt like it was dying. Maybe they needed to keep track of the population: five hundred and counting—down.

She brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek and thought about the three dead men, Fletcher, Hector Padilla, and his grandfather. How were the deaths connected? What linked them to her family and a sixty-year-old secret? Would Kerney uncover the link before she could prepare her parents for the repercussions?

FAR PAST THE RANCHES along Dry Creek Canyon, at the point where the forest road separated, Kerney took the fork that led away from the Slash Z summer grazing land, where he had first met Phil Cox. The road dipped into a canyon before climbing the slope toward the hogback ridge.

Jim had discovered engine oil in the mine shaft before he was shot. That meant Padilla Canyon had been used as a staging area to scout out the hunter's prey. Maybe another look would turn up similar evidence on the black bear poaching.

At the ridgeline he shifted the truck into low gear and descended slowly into a second canyon. Bracketed by box elder and walnut trees that thrived in the moisture-rich ecosystem, the canyon was an oasis compared to Dry Springs. The road, or what was left of it, crossed several small springs that trickled over river rock. It seemed to give out as sheer canyon walls closed in and the stream widened. He sloshed the truck through a pool of water three feet deep, past downed trees rotting in the undergrowth, and picked up the bare outline of the route moving sharply upland. Crawling slowly

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to the summit, he topped out to find a cabin in a secluded hollow, sheltered by pine trees and protected by the mountains that filled the eastern skyline. Made of hand-hewn logs, it had a tin roof that sagged in the middle and a rock chimney that leaned precariously at an angle over the roof. The windows and doors had been boarded up with sheets of plywood.

Kemey made a quick outside inspection before approaching the cabin, and found no sign of human activity. A strong odor of skunk grew as Kerney approached the door carrying a tire iron. He tapped hard and listened for scurrying sounds. All was quiet inside. From the high country above, he heard an elk bugle its presence with a thin, clear whistle that echoed into the hollow. On the plywood covering the door a Forest Service No Trespassing sign was posted.

He wedged the tip of the tire iron under the edge of the plywood next to a nail, yanked hard, and almost fell on his ass as the board pulled easily away from the doorjamb. There were imprint marks in the wooden doorframe, probably from a pry bar. Someone else had been here before him. A padlocked steel grate in front of the closed door barred the way. He gave up on the door and went to work on a boarded-up window, jimmying the plywood free only to discover it was shuttered on the inside. He broke the pane of glass, cleaned out the fragments embedded in the sill, pushed open the shutters, and climbed inside. The structure was a single room with a stone fireplace and four built-in bunks.

Kerney smiled when he saw the four-wheel ATV in the middle of the cabin. He pulled a flashlight out of his hip pocket and took a closer look at the tires. The wear on the rear tires matched exactly with the tread pattern he'd seen on the mesa and at the bottom of the meadows. A carrying rack had been welded behind the rear seat, and some rope was wrapped around the support posts that attached

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it to the frame. There were animal hairs in the fibers, some from a cougar. He bent low and shined the light under the ATV. The oil pan, crusted with a film of dirty oil, had a small leak. Holding the flashlight between his teeth, he dug into the sticky substance with a finger and rubbed it on the palm of his hand. There were small particles of rock dust and tiny wood chips embedded in the liquid. He put his hand to his nose and sniffed. Mixed with the smell of oil was the fragrance of fresh-cut pine.

Outside the cabin he cleaned up the signs of his forced entry and replaced the plywood over the window and the door, trying to decide who to tell about his find. It wouldn't be Charlie Perry or Omar Gatewood, and after a few minutes of inner debate, he also rejected telling Karen Cox, for now. An anonymous call to the state police was the best bet. At least that way he could hope the information would get to someone who didn't have a personal agenda.

He called the state police from Glenwood. On the highway a few miles south of the village, a surveillance car picked him up again, staying with him all the way to Deming, dropping out of sight only when Kerney waved down a patrolling cop inside the city limits to ask him how he could find Mike Anderson. The officer located Anderson by radio, and Mike agreed to meet Kerney at the entrance to Rock Hound State Park.

The Floridas, a short but prominent range southeast of Deming, broke twenty-five hundred feet above the desert. The road to the state park ran straight toward the stark, arid range. At the tumoff to the park, Anderson was waiting in his Bureau of Land Management truck. The car following Kerney continued on, moving too fast for Kerney to read the plate.

He pulled up next to Anderson's truck and rolled down his window.

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"Heard your trailer got bombed," Anderson said, looking at him from inside his vehicle. "You're having trouble making friends up in Catron County, aren't you?"

"I'm not very popular," Kerney agreed.

"Sounds like you've got a war on your hands," Anderson replied. "Who did you piss off so royally?"

"I wish I knew," Kerney answered.

"I hear you. Could be any one of those radical groups that want the government to butt out so they can clear-cut the forests, overgraze the land, and reopen the mines. What do you need?"

"Answers. Tell me what you know about Leon Spence."

"Don't know anything about the man." Anderson shifted his weight and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "I already told you that."

"You never met him?" Kerney probed.

"Never."

This time Anderson was telling the truth, but he was also holding something back.

"Come on, Mike, level with me on this. You never met Spence. I believe you, but I've got a situation with three dead men, a wounded partner, and someone trying to kill me. I need help."

Anderson removed his hat, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked Kerney in the eye. "Okay, but I don't know what good it will do you. Spence set up his trailer at that old rock shop about two years ago. Nothing strange about it—people come and go with their trailers on those frontage lots along the highway all the time.

"A few months after he moved in, I started noticing unusual activity. Folks visiting at odd times driving vehicles with Arizona and Texas license plates, panel trucks towing rental trailers—that kind of stuff. I thought maybe it was a drug-smuggling operation, so I did

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a little snooping, found out what I could, and passed it along to my supervisor."

"And?"

"And nothing," Anderson retorted. "I was ordered to back off, make no more inquiries, and drop it completely."

"Why?"

"Don't know why."

"What did you learn about Spence?"

"Not much. He's in his mid-thirties, supposedly from Louisiana, speaks fluent Spanish, and worked as a salesman. Moved out, lock, stock, and barrel."

"Any theories about what's going on?" Kerney queried.

Anderson shook his head. "I've said enough already. Maybe too much." He put on his hat and gave Kerney a thin smile. "Be careful."

"Thanks, Mike."

Anderson drove away, and Kerney mulled over the new information. Maybe Juan had given him a bum steer about Leon Spence. Kerney dismissed the idea. Spence was smuggling, but it wasn't drugs, as Anderson thought, and Mike's reluctance to say more boiled down to one strong possibility: Spence was the target of an undercover investigation. It was the only possibility that made any sense.

Kerney's tail picked him up in Deming and stayed with him until he reached the trailer park on the outskirts of Reserve. The village had returned to a normal rhythm after the excitement of the morning; two people were talking outside of the bank, a few cars were parked in front of Cattleman's, and a cowboy was gassing up a truck at the service station. In the parking lot of the sheriff's office, all the squad cars were lined up in a neat row, joined by two state police units. Probably Gate wood had called a meeting.

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Across the street at the motel, done up as a mountain chalet with a frontier motif, he caught a glimpse of Alan Begay unloading canisters from the back of a Chevy Suburban. He went into a nearby grocery store and bought two pounds of sliced ham, before making the short drive to Steve Lujan's house.

The house, at the end of a lane, was somewhat isolated from the neighbors. Kerney saw no sign of activity in the homes he passed. The gate was locked, and the only vehicle inside the fence was the flatbed truck, parked between two mounds of unsplit wood.

The barking German shepherd was off the leash. He backed up as Kerney drew near the gate and growled.

"Come here. Loco," Kerney called.

The dog stopped barking, wagged his tail, and looked at Kerney expectantly. Kerney threw some slices of ham over the fence and watched. After wolfing down the treat, the shepherd approached, looking for more.

"Good boy. Loco." Kerney poked another slice through the gate slats, and the dog took it gently from his fingers. Then he followed along quietly as Kerney walked the outside fence perimeter to the back of the house.

The existence of the fence and gate had raised Kerney's interest. It made no sense to fence off firewood and landscape rock in a community where both were readily available. What else was Lujan protecting?

Behind the house stood a metal toolshed and a storage building. A few truck tires, discarded engine parts, and a rusty oil drum were stacked against a wall of the shed. A patio deck jutted from the back door of the house and stopped at an unfinished rock wall. At the rear of the lot, two clothesline poles and a swing set, rusty and unused, stood in a bed of tall weeds. Part of the fence was cov-

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ered by a massive thick vine, tangled and wild, that completely hid the river valley from view.

Kerney called Loco to him and tossed him some more meat. "Are you going to let me climb the fence and take a look around?"

Loco didn't respond. He was too busy devouring the ham.

As Kerney climbed the fence, Loco growled once, flopped down on the ground, and put his legs in the air for a tummy scratch. Kerney obliged and gave him the remaining ham.

"Heel, Loco," he ordered, hoping that Lujan had trained the shepherd to do more than bite on command.

Loco took his station at Kerney's side and meekly followed him to the toolshed. The building was locked, so he used his pocket knife to open the window latch. He climbed in and looked around. The shed contained several expensive chain saws, a set of stone chisels, and an excellent assortment of power tools, supplies, and hardware—all ordinary stuff.

The storage building had a thick pine door as the only point of entry. It was secured by a deadbolt lock. It would take an old burglar's trick to break in. While Loco stayed with him all the way, he got a truck jack from Lujan's flatbed, placed it between the joists that framed the door, and cranked until he couldn't ratchet it another notch. The joist sagged back enough to show a half inch of the bolt. He kicked the lock once and the door splintered free from the bolt, swinging on its hinges to reveal a room crammed with old Victorian furniture, including a four-poster bedstead, a carved chest of drawers with brass pulls and marble top, and an oak pedestal dining-room table with matching chairs. The rafters were covered in cobwebs, but the furniture had only a very thin coating of dust. It had been recently moved into storage, probably to make room for all the new stuff that filled Lujan's house.