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  CHARLIE PERRY drove past as Kerney turned onto the road to the compound where Carol and her family lived. Kerney waved at Charlie to be polite and got a quick nod in exchange.

  Carol’s husband answered Kerney’s knock, invited him inside, and had him wait in the front room. With a piano against one wall, a loom with an unfinished weaving next to a window, and the remaining space filled with homey overstuffed chairs and oak furniture, the room felt both cluttered and comfortable. Carol came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

  “I’ve been listening to the scanner,” she said, before Kerney could greet her. “Is Jim going to be all right?”

  “I think he’ll make it.”

  “Thank goodness.” She draped the dish towel on the arm of a chair and sat down. “Please,” she said, motioning to another chair across from her.

  Kerney joined her. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just barge ahead. I’ve been ordered to fire you.”

  Kerney took it in. “Is that why Charlie Perry was here?”

  “Peripherally. He’s been given the mountain lion case.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “Because the acting regional forester, who’s something of a barracuda, decided my decision to use you on the investigation was ill-advised. Charlie kissed up to him and got the assignment.”

  “Are you in trouble?” Kerney asked.

  “No way. Charlie hasn’t got that kind of juice. Neither does the regional forester.”

  “So what’s this really about?” Kerney inquired.

  Carol shrugged. “Public relations. Bad press. Inability to take the heat. You name it. Aldrich got bitched at by the state police chief and grilled by some reporters. Seems that Omar Gatewood’s press release raised the attention of the media.”

  “That man is a real work of art.”

  Carol shook her head. “Tell me about it. I chewed him out for not including me in on the plan.”

  “I assumed you knew.”

  “Not until I read it in the newspaper.”

  Kerney gave Carol an apologetic look. “I should have told you what was happening. Are you sure you’re not in hot water?”

  “Not to worry. I already told you I wasn’t.” Carol stopped talking for a minute. “You seem more concerned about me than yourself.”

  Kerney laughed. “It hasn’t sunk in yet. I’ve never been fired before.”

  “I haven’t told anyone about your termination, although I’m sure Charlie Perry will get the word out, if he hasn’t already. So, I’m giving you two weeks’ notice, and placing you on administrative leave with pay. Technically, your commission will remain valid till then.”

  “Do you want me to work undercover?”

  Carol’s eyes flashed. “You bet I do. Especially after what happened to Jim Stiles. Now it’s personal. I like that young man a hell of a lot. This shooting wasn’t a random act of violence. It couldn’t be. It has to be tied in with the murder at Elderman Meadows. Are you game?”

  “More than game,” Kerney replied.

  “Catch the bastard, Kevin.”

  “It would give me great pleasure.”

  “Two weeks,” Carol reminded him. “That’s all the time I can squeeze out for you without being insubordinate.”

  “A lot can happen in two weeks,” he replied.

  HENRY LUJAN, the seasonal employee who manned the lookout tower on Mangas Mountain, gave Kerney a tour. The building, an elevated room on steel pillars with an outside deck that ran around the perimeter of the structure, was glassed on all sides. The amenities consisted of an outdoor privy situated under a tree at the base of the structure and a holding tank for drinking water, replenished by truck as needed.

  Kerney walked the deck with Henry, a college student in his third year as a summer worker. The views in every direction were incredible, especially to the west, where a blood-red sunset slashed across the horizon. Lujan pointed out some landmarks before taking Kerney inside: a mountain top in Arizona, the solitary Allegros Peak on the Continental Divide, and the barely visible plateau that marked the sacred Zuni Salt Lake.

  “I can’t believe what’s been going on around here,” Henry said. He hitched himself into a sitting position on a counter that held communication equipment, his feet dangling off the floor. He was about five feet five with a well-developed upper body. He had an easygoing style. “First the thing at Elderman Meadows, and now Jim Stiles getting shot.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Too much, man.”

  “Jim talked to you about Elderman Meadows.”

  “Yeah. The same day it happened. There wasn’t much I could tell him. I don’t pay any attention to the meadows. Nobody goes in there except our people and Game and Fish.”

  “What were you doing at the time?”

  Lujan nodded at the cot in the corner of the room. He had a young face for his age, bony and not yet fleshed-out. Under the cot was a set of barbells. A color television on a metal stand stood at the foot of the cot. “I was crashed. The radio traffic woke me up. Weekends, I work split shifts because we’ve got more people camping in the forest. Mornings and nights, that’s when I work. When the man-made fire danger is the greatest. Campfires. Cigarettes. That kind of stuff.”

  “So you were asleep?”

  “Yeah. I heard Stiles call in that you’d found that old man. I listened for a minute and went back to sleep.”

  “You didn’t get up to take a look?”

  Lujan laughed. “Look at what? I can’t see anything through the forest canopy. I didn’t start scanning the meadows until you reported finding a dead body. By then I was awake.”

  “Did you see anyone today in the vicinity of Padilla Canyon?”

  Lujan pushed himself off the counter, got a pair of field glasses, gave them to Kerney, and pointed in the direction of Padilla Canyon. “That’s almost impossible for me to do. Take a look for yourself. The canyon is hidden by timberland. You can’t even tell it’s there, except for a few small breaks in the cover. I can’t see anything.”

  Kerney trained the glasses where Henry had pointed. The kid was right. All he could see in the fading light was a faint gash of the deep ravine obscured by forest. “Did you have any visitors?”

  “Today? Just you.”

  “How often do you report in by radio?”

  “Every hour I log onto the fire watch system. That’s during working shifts. I keep the scanner going and the radio on all the time.”

  Kerney handed Lujan the field glasses. It should be easy to verify Henry’s schedule. “Do you know a fast way to get from Mangas Campground to Padilla Canyon?”

  “Maybe fly?” Lujan suggested with a grin and a shrug. “I haven’t the foggiest. Hiking isn’t something I’m into. Besides, some of the trails are new. Not even on the map yet.”

  “But you can see some trails from here,” Kerney proposed.

  “Sure. I’ll do a visual sweep if someone’s reported lost or overdue. Otherwise, I concentrate on general surveillance.”

  Next to the cot was a workbench with some tools and a partially disassembled portable shortwave radio—one of the old vacuum-tube models. “I hear you’re going to college,” Kerney said.

  “Yeah. I just finished my second year at Western New Mexico in Silver City.”

  Kerney looked at the workbench. “What’s your major? Electronics?”

  “No, it’s forestry. I bought the radio at a garage sale for ten bucks. It doesn’t work. I’m just tinkering with it to see if I can fix it. It passes the time when there’s nothing good on the tube.”

  “Sounds like fun. Play any sports?”

  “What? Oh, you mean my weights. I wrestled in high school. Don’t have the time for it now, so I work out just to stay in shape.”

  “Good idea.” It was dark outside. The blackness of the forest was vast, interrupted by the dim lights of the few small hamlets that shimmered like frail earthbound stars in the valleys.
It was time to get going. “How well do you know Amador Ortiz?” Kerney asked.

  “He’s my uncle,” Henry replied. “He helped to get me this job when I graduated from high school.”

  “Did he talk to you about seeing tire tracks in Padilla Canyon?”

  “If he did, I don’t remember it.”

  “Do you keep any guns up here?”

  “I don’t, but there’s a twenty-two rifle behind the door. It belongs to the Forest Service. You can look at it if you like.”

  Kerney knew it hadn’t been a twenty-two that put the hole in Jim’s arm. “That’s not necessary. Thanks, Henry.”

  “Come back and visit anytime. And tell Jim I’m sorry about what happened. Tell him to hang in there.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Henry walked Kerney to the deck, watched him climb stiffly down the ladder and get in his truck. He waved as Kerney drove out of sight. Inside, he wrote down the time of Kerney’s visit in his daily log, made a quick visual sweep with the field glasses, and started working on the shortwave radio.

  DR. HARRISON WALKER, ophthalmologist, surgeon, and former Army medic with two Vietnam tours to his credit, walked into the lobby of the Gila Regional Medical Center. Visiting hours were over, and the lobby was empty except for one man, sprawled in a chair, fast asleep. A pile of papers had spilled from his chest onto the cushion. From personal experience, Harrison Walker knew what it meant to keep a vigil for a buddy. If he was hurt, you had to be there for him, period. End of story. It was a code Walker believed in and liked to see practiced by others. He picked up the papers and glanced at them. Some were official documents and others were handwritten letters, all in Spanish.

  The fatigue etched on Kerney’s face made Walker reluctant to wake him up. From what Walker knew about the incident in Padilla Canyon, Kerney had found Stiles, treated his wounds, and carried him out most of the way on a badly damaged leg.

  Walker shook the man gently awake. “Mr. Kerney.”

  Kerney’s eyes snapped open. “Doctor,” he replied, sitting up.

  “Mr. Stiles is in his room, and his parents have gone home. You can have a couple of minutes with him. Then I’m going to kick your ass out and order you to get some rest.”

  Kerney smiled in agreement. “How are his eyes?”

  “The fragment cut a ligament and damaged the cornea in his left eye. It missed the optic nerve but partially detached the retina. I’ve repaired the damage. The right eye was a breeze—mostly fine grains of rock dust with one small perforation. He can use it, although things may be fuzzy for a day or two. He’ll keep his vision.”

  “That’s good news. Thanks, Doctor.”

  “Thank you for patching him up and helping to get him here quickly. It reduced the chances of further damage.” Harrison stopped, studied Kerney’s face, and shook his finger. “I’m serious about you needing some sleep. You look like shit.”

  “Is that a medical opinion?”

  “It’s an expert medical opinion,” Harrison retorted. “You’d do well to act on it.”

  “I believe it.”

  Harrison held out the documents. “You may need these.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Kerney said, taking the papers.

  Kerney found Stiles awake in his bed, his left eye covered with a dressing wrapped around his head. The surgical team had repaired the muscle damage in his arm. There were bouquets of flowers from the Fraternal Order of Police and the Game and Fish Department on the bedside table.

  “You look like shit,” Jim said, holding out his hand.

  Kerney grabbed it and squeezed. “I thought you couldn’t see anything.”

  Jim grinned. “I can see your ugly face. Dr. Walker said maybe all I’ll need is physical therapy to strengthen the eye muscles.”

  “That’s great.” Kerney searched Jim’s face. It was still a mess. At least two dozen shrapnel wounds had been repaired, some requiring stitches to close the lacerations. “And the arm?”

  “The bullet missed the bone. It’s my face I’m worried about. I look like I have permanent chicken pox.”

  “You’re not going to be pretty for a while,” Kerney agreed. “But then you never were.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Kerney sank into the chair next to the bed, grateful to be off his feet.

  “You missed my parents. I wanted you to meet them.”

  “I just got here,” he fibbed. “Some other time.”

  “Count on it. My dad said my department wants to give me a commendation. Omar Gatewood called and told him. Can you believe it? An award for getting ambushed.”

  “Let them do it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You take a risk every time you put on a badge and gun. That counts.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Jim’s mouth was dry from the anesthesia. He took a sip of water. “Did you bring my day pack?”

  “It’s in my truck. Do you need it?”

  “No, you do. I picked up an empty beer can on the road to the mine. It’s in a plastic bag along with a pull tab. See if you can get any prints off them.”

  “That’s a long shot.”

  “I know it. One more thing—when you pop open a cold one, do you pull off the tab before you take a drink?”

  Kerney looked at him quizzically. “No. What’s your point?”

  Jim smiled. “I do. Sometimes my mustache gets caught on the tab. It hurts like hell when it happens. The beer can I found didn’t have a tab.”

  “So I should look for a guy with a mustache who drinks beer?” Kerney ventured.

  “Unless you know a woman with a really hairy upper lip,” Stiles countered.

  “You’ve narrowed the field down to one gender. Good thinking,” Kerney replied in mock seriousness.

  “It’s a clue,” Jim shot back. “I can’t be expected to do everything for you.”

  “You can do something for me.” Kerney dropped José Padilla’s papers on the bed. He had read through the documents before falling asleep in the waiting room. “Use your contacts and find somebody to research the history of the Padilla ranch. I want to know everything about the American Valley Company. Incorporators. Stockholders. How it was organized. What happened to that part of it Don Luis Padilla owned. And I need a search of newspaper archives on the Padillas, especially anything having to do with the death of José’s father.”

  “I know just the person to recruit,” Stiles said with a grin.

  “As long as he’s trustworthy and can keep a tight lip,” Kerney cautioned.

  “She’s absolutely trustworthy,” Jim replied, with a smile.

  “Good enough.”

  “Sorry I fucked up today. Thanks again for bailing me out.”

  “Learn from it,” Kerney replied. “You don’t have a job that allows for poor judgment.”

  Jim took the criticism like a slap in the face, and Kerney wished he could erase his words. He patted Jim’s hand. “Forget I said that. I’m dead on my feet and you’re all shot up. You don’t need me ragging on you. I’m just glad you didn’t get yourself killed.”

  Jim’s smile came back. “Well, that’s some consolation.”

  He left Stiles and stopped by the ICU. The state police had pulled security off the door. He rang the buzzer. The duty nurse, a man with an amiable expression, opened up. Kerney asked to see José Padilla.

  The nurse sadly shook his head. “He died two hours ago.”

  “Thanks.” Kerney turned on his heel and left, stewing over the information. It was the perfect end to a shitty day, he thought. He had been counting on the old man for some answers. He swallowed hard against the memory of his ill-timed scolding of Jim Stiles. It had been poor form and bad manners, coming as it had on the heels of Jim’s expression of gratitude.

  He drove to a motel, got a room, soaked his knee with a hot compress, and collapsed in a stupor on the bed.

  7

  It was early morning when Kerney turned the corner of the hospital corridor on his
way to see Jim before leaving Silver City. He almost ran over Karen Cox. She wore black linen trousers and a vanilla-colored jacket over a silk shirt. It made her seem even more willowy.

  “How’s Jim doing?” he asked, glancing down the hallway to the hospital room where Stiles temporarily resided.

  “He seems okay, thankfully. I expect a full briefing from you.”

  “Whenever you say.”

  “Not now. I’m running late. I understand you had a talk with my father,” she said. “What was that about?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “I’d like to hear your version.”

  “According to your father, he came to the hospital on Sunday to find out if José Padilla was someone he once knew.”

  Karen blinked. Kerney waited for more of a reaction.

  “And?” she demanded.

  “He’s not sure,” Kerney replied. “But if it turns out that Padilla is an old acquaintance, your father may be a source of information.”

  Faced with confirmation that her father had lied to her about his meeting with Kerney, Karen struggled to keep her composure. “What did you learn about José Padilla?” she asked.

  Kerney read the distress in Karen’s eyes. “He was born here. He was attending medical school in Mexico City when his father died. He came back because he believed his father, Don Luis, was murdered sixty years ago.”

  Karen’s tone became guarded. “I thought the working hypothesis was that Hector Padilla was shot to protect the poacher’s identity.”

  “That’s one motive,” Kerney said. “Another is that the killer simply panicked when Hector came on the scene. A third motive is that the killing might be tied to José and Hector Padilla’s arrival in Catron County to look into the death of Don Luis.”

  “When can I talk to José Padilla?”

  “You can’t. He died last night. What I’ve learned was supplied by his daughter, who came up from Mexico City.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  Kerney told Karen where Cornelia Marquez was staying.

  She nodded, broke eye contact, looked at her wristwatch, and glanced at him impatiently. “Anything else?”