Tularosa

  More praise for Tularosa

  “Michael McGarrity’s first entry in the field moves like lightning. An ex-cop, he knows what he’s writing about—and how to write it.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  “Tularosa has more deadly and seductive twists than a desert sidewinder. Let Michael McGarrity and his sexy, saavy hero, Kevin Kerney, guide you through murder and mayhem, Southwest-style.”

  —Sarah Lovett, author of Dangerous Attachments

  “One of the best novels of 1996…. Few first mysteries are as fresh and powerful as this rich Southwestern tale of tough, credible characters involved in a complex, danger-fraught plot…. McGarrity demonstrates firm control of his action-packed material, marking a trail with corpses (of the good and the very bad) to a tense, neatly orchestrated finale in the seamy border town of Juarez. Blending an air of the old West with some very modern characters, McGarrity delivers atmosphere, action, romance and prime satisfaction.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Well plotted with solid dialogue and complex, believable relationships among…flesh-and-blood characters.”

  —Booklist

  “A vivid and exciting debut. Tularosa’s Kevin Kerney is a modern cowboy—laconic and introspective, tough but soft-hearted—and he’s one hell of an investigator. Saddle up and join him for a nonstop ride.”

  —Sarah Shankman, author of

  I Still Miss My Man But My Aim Is Getting Better

  “McGarrity has a sharp ear for Southwestern talk, a clear eye for Southwestern country, and an alarming knowledge of the reaches of human wickedness. This sure-footed mystery may be his first book but—believe me—this guy’s been practicing.”

  —Richard Bradford, author of

  Red Sky at Morning and So Far from Heaven

  Also by Michael McGarrity

  Mexican Hat

  Serpent Gate

  Hermit’s Peak

  The Judas Judge

  Under the Color of Law

  The Big Gamble

  Everyone Dies

  Slow Kill

  Nothing But Trouble

  Death Song

  Dead or Alive

  TULAROSA

  Michael McGarrity

  Copyright © 1996 by Michael McGarrity

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  First published as a Norton paperback 2009

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact W. W. Norton Special Sales at specialsales@wwnorton.com or 800-233-4830

  Manufacturing by Courier Westford

  Book design by BTD/Beth Tondreau

  Production manager: Devon Zahn

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  McGarrity, Michael.

  Tularosa / by Michael McGarrity.

  p. cm.

  1. Private Investigators—New Mexico—Fiction. I. Title

  PS3563.C36359T85 1996 96-36128

  813'.54—dc20

  ISBN 978-0-393-33399-2

  W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10110

  www.wwnorton.com

  W. W. Norton & Company Ltd., Castle House, 75/76 Wells Street, London W1T 3QT

  In memory of Maggie, who taught me the meaning of perseverance,

  and for Mimi and Sean, who always believed,

  and HH, who helped me find the key.

  Author’s Note

  MANY of the historical events, people, and places described in this book are based on fact, while some are pure fiction or an elaboration of legend. Tularosa in Spanish means reddish reeds or willows.

  Tularosa

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 1

  EARLY - MORNING CLOUDS, shreds of a heavy late-night rainstorm, masked the Ortiz Mountains. Wispy tendrils drifted over the foothills, turned into translucent streamers, and vanished in the sky. The cabin roof had leaked during the night, soaking a stack of unopened junk mail and the borrowed copy of a Winston Churchill biography left on the cushion of an easy chair. The chair smelled like wet cat piss, and Kerney didn’t own a cat.

  Kerney mopped up the floor, dragged the chair outside into the sun, and tipped it over. The junk mail and catalogs dribbled into a brown puddle in the driveway, floated momentarily, and sank out of sight. The cover model on the Victoria’s Secret catalog pouted up at him as the brown stain seeped into her eyes.

  The saffron sun in the east, an extravagant eye, washed the mesa in soft light. Inside, Kerney popped the Tchaikovsky tape in the cassette desk and cranked up the volume. The music, pushed along by a slight breeze, followed him to the horse barn, where a gallon of roof asphalt sat next to the ladder, both conveniently at hand for the leaks that never failed to materialize after a soaking, windblown rain. He had patched the roof so many times it was now nothing more than a routine challenge. Given a few more storms, every seam, nail hole, and protrusion on the pitched roof would be coated with asphalt gook.

  The old cabin wanted to sink into oblivion. Listing on a stone foundation, it was pretty to the eye, with a fresh coat of white paint and dark green trim around the windows and doors, but sadly in need of major renovation.

  Kerney strapped on a tool belt, deciding he would pull up the whole strip of roofing paper and slop gook directly on the boards over the leak. He carried the ladder to the cabin, set it against the side of the house, and stripped off his shirt. With the asphalt can in one hand, Kerney hauled himself up the ladder, dragging his right leg slowly to each rung. The knee just didn’t bend the way it used to, in spite of the best efforts of modern medicine.

  He nailed a two-by-four to the roof to serve as a brace, crawled off the ladder, and planted his left foot against the brace to keep from sliding backward. In position, he stretched out on his stomach and got to work with the hammer pulling nails and stripping off the tar paper in the area of the leak. His reconstructed right knee, extended as far as it would go, protested.

  The planks under the tar paper had separated, leaving an inch gap between the boards. He smeared asphalt into the crevices and on the boards, thinking it was time to ask his landlord to spring for the cost of materials for a new roof. Quinn would oblige, and Kerney would have another project to occupy his time.

  The Tchaikovsky concerto recycled several times on the stereo before Kerney finished the patch job. He renailed the tar paper, coated the nail heads with gook, and looked out over the basin. There was a flash of reflected light on the dirt road that cut through the rock escarpment to the ranch. The road, still filled with runoff from the storm, glistened like a wire ribbon in the sharp morning light. He dropped the empty asphalt can to the ground and climbed down the ladder, using his left leg to hop from rung to rung. He walked to the gate and swung it open, leaving sticky black fingerprints on the railing, and watched the vehicle bounce in and out of the ruts of standing water, spewing mud as the tires dug through the puddles. There was no reason for a visitor. Quinn, his landlord, employer, and chief book lender, was presenting a paper at a medical convention in Seattle. After that, he was flying to Germany to attend another conference and take a long vacation. Kerney liked working for a wandering landlord. Most of the time he had the place to himself.

  The car spl
attered through the mud and swerved through the slimy dirt in the roadbed, the tires throwing up a heavy spray of brown paste. Windshield wipers, operating at high speed, smeared the ooze over the glass, making it impossible for Kerney to see into the vehicle.

  He walked to the porch, sat on the step, and started cleaning the asphalt gook from his hands with a rag drenched in paint thinner. The fumes of the solvent made him sneeze, and he covered his nose with sticky fingers. Before he could go in and clean his face, the car plowed through the last puddle by the gate and rolled to a stop on the packed gravel driveway. It was a new, slick-top police cruiser with emergency lights mounted on the front bumper. Even close up, with the wipers going full blast, the man behind the wheel was obscured by a grimy film of dirt. In Kerney’s time at the ranch—well over a year—this was the first visit by a cop.

  A stocky man in a white uniform shirt got out and stood behind the open door of the cruiser, with the engine still running. He wore a tribal police badge over the left pocket of the uniform shirt and a Sam Browne belt with a .357 pistol in a high-rise holster. From the waist down he wore blue jeans and cowboy boots.

  The two men stared at each other across the ten yards that separated them.

  “Goddamn mud,” Terry Yazzi muttered, reaching in to turn off the engine.

  Kerney stood up and said nothing as Terry left the car and walked toward him. In the cabin the tape deck recycled once again and the lyrical first movement of the concerto began anew.

  Terry stopped three feet from Kerney, his eyes avoiding contact. Instead, he looked at the foreman’s cabin, a white clapboard box with a small covered porch, then switched his gaze to the ranch house behind it, nestled at the base of a mesa. He took in the horse barn and corral off to one side across a small meadow, and the upended chair in front of the cabin porch.

  He compressed his lips and finally looked at Kerney. As he opened his mouth to speak, Kerney hit him flush on the jaw, knocking him flat on his ass.

  The blow made Terry’s teeth ache. He got to his feet and brushed himself off. “Feel better?” he asked.

  “No. I hurt my hand,” Kerney replied. “What are you doing here, Terry?”

  Terry’s face had a healthy glow. His brown eyes were clear and serious. He had shed some weight and looked fit. Three years could bring changes.

  “I asked you a question,” Kerney said. God, he wanted to hit him again.

  “I heard you,” Terry answered.

  He glanced at Kerney’s naked stomach, turned away, and looked out at the expanse of the Galisteo Basin, trying hard to regain his composure. The land rolled down from the ranch through thickly studded stands of piñon and juniper trees. It gave way to rangeland that butted against an escarpment that looked almost like an enormous, ancient man-made fortification.

  He took it in indifferently, and swallowed hard to keep down the bile that welled up in his mouth from the sight of the scar on Kerney’s stomach. The ugly entry wound and the long surgical incision brought the memory smashing into his head like a freight train. In spite of himself, he remembered the day three years ago at the stakeout. The image of Kerney curled into a ball clutching his gut as the blood came gushing out made Terry wince.

  He turned around and glanced at the scar again. “You’ve got some tar on your face,” he said finally, raising his eyes.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Around your nose and mouth.”

  “No shit?” Kerney rubbed his nose and inspected his fingertip. “You’re right. Thanks for pointing it out. Now go away, Terry.”

  Terry stared back at him. His long, black hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, accentuated his Navajo features: a high forehead above dark brown eyes and round cheeks. His tense lips were pressed thin. Kerney wondered how long it would be before Terry stared at the scar again. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.

  “Did you get my letter?” Terry finally asked, shifting his gaze back to the scar.

  “Letter? Let me check.” Kerney walked to the puddle, retrieved the soggy envelopes, and pulled apart the coagulated mess until he found Terry’s unopened letter. He held it up by the corner. “This must be it,” he said, dropping it back in the puddle. “What did it say?”

  “You’re still really pissed, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. I just don’t give a damn.”

  Terry rubbed his jaw. “You punch pretty hard for somebody who doesn’t care.”

  “I appreciated the opportunity to deck you. Why are you here?”

  “It’s Sammy. He’s missing. He’s AWOL from the Army.”

  Kerney took in the information, his anger at Terry dissipating as concern about Sammy rose to replace it. Terry’s son was a person he cared about. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “He’s been stationed at White Sands for the past eight months. He disappeared six weeks ago. I’ve used up all my annual leave looking for him, por nada. Nothing. And the Army hasn’t a clue why he’s missing.”

  “Maria must be worried sick.”

  “Both of us are,” Terry said. “We want you to find him for us.”

  Kerney’s laugh was bitter. “I don’t do that kind of work anymore.”

  “Listen, as far as the Army is concerned, Sammy is just another enlisted fuckup. All I got was a lot of bullshit about how I should go home and let them do their job. I was stonewalled at every turn.”

  “What makes you think I’d be treated any differently?”

  “You won’t be, but you’re the best investigator I know. It’s in your blood. You’ve got the right instincts.”

  “Is that so?”

  Terry shook his head at the sarcasm in Kerney’s voice. “I’m not trying to butter you up. I’m a street cop, not a detective. Sammy deserves better than what I can give.”

  Kerney said nothing for a minute. “I’ve never heard you sound so modest. Have you stopped drinking?”

  “I’ve been sober for two years.” Terry tried to force himself to keep his attention off Kerney’s stomach. It didn’t work. He looked one more time.

  “Like it?” Kerney asked. “Wallace Stegner once wrote that the lessons of life amount to scar tissue.”

  Terry shifted his weight uneasily. “It makes me want to puke. You should have fired my ass.”

  “I would have,” Kerney agreed, “if you had told me the truth.”

  Terry nodded in agreement. “That too.”

  “Don’t start apologizing,” Kerney retorted, “or I’ll start to puke.” He pointed at the badge on Terry’s shirt and changed the subject. “I see you found another job after the department canned your ass.”

  “Maria pulled strings with the tribal council. I had to go through treatment before I could start the job. I’m on like a permanent probation. One drink or major fuckup and I’m fired.”

  Kerney weighed Terry’s words. He sounded solid and straight. And it took some courage for him to show his face, Kerney thought. “I hope it works out for you,” he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  “I’ll make it work. Find Sammy for me,” he insisted.

  “I can’t help you.” Kerney turned and walked into the cabin, letting the screen door slam behind him.

  “Can’t or won’t?” Terry called out over the concerto’s cadenza.

  In the bathroom Kerney scrubbed ferociously with a washcloth to get the asphalt off his face, cursing to himself under his breath. He heard the screen door slam shut again over the strains of the final coda, threw the cloth into the basin of the sink, and went back into the living room to kick Terry out of his house. One look at Terry, legs rooted to the floor, told him he’d have to drag him out inch by inch.

  He walked to the tape deck and turned it off. Silence flooded the room. “You’re a persistent son of a bitch,” he said.

  “Sammy’s my only child. You’re his godfather, for chrissake. Don’t hold my fuckups against him.” Terry squinted, looked away, and ground his teeth together to keep himself from begging. If
it came to that, he’d do it. He took a breath and surveyed the room. It was sparsely furnished. Two old Navajo rugs, the sum total of Kerney’s inheritance from his family, hung on the walls. A single bookshelf under a casement window held a television, radio, stereo, and some hardback books. A wrought-iron café table with a glass top and a matching chair stood to one side of the kitchen door positioned for the view out a front window. It was as bleak as Terry’s trailer; a far cry from the comfortable Santa Fe apartment Kerney had once shared with his girlfriend, now long gone.

  “Get out of here, Terry,” Kerney ordered.

  Terry unbuttoned his uniform shirt, extracted an envelope, and held it out. “I’ll pay for your time. Five thousand dollars.”

  Kerney didn’t touch the envelope. “You don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Banks do,” Terry responded, thrusting the envelope closer. “I borrowed it.”

  Kerney plucked the envelope out of Terry’s hand and opened the unsealed flap. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He felt the weight of the currency in his palm. Kerney waved the envelope at him. “Guilt money, Terry?”

  Terry glared at him. “No way.”

  “I could spend it all and find nothing.”

  “I’ll get more if you use it up.”

  Kerney stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his jeans. “Tell me everything you learned at the missile range.”

  Terry gestured at the door. “I’ve got a file in the squad car. It’s slim pickings.”

  “Let’s see it,” Kerney said, following Terry outside. The New Mexico sky was piercing blue and the air felt humid with the promise of more rain. The volcanic escarpment that blocked the highway from view sat under a cloud, the jagged points of the rift vague in the distance. Terry moved quickly to his squad car, reached in through the open door, and retrieved a folder.