Tularosa kk-1 Page 2

  Kerney closed the file and looked through the front window. The clouds were gathering for another afternoon shower. A shaft of light cut through a small thunderhead, spotlighting the deep slash of a narrow canyon in the mountains. The view dissolved as the cloud covered the sun and shadows blunted the outline of the mountains.

  He decided to leave the Salvation Army easy chair outside and take it to the dump when he had the time. He would treat himself to something better when he got back. Kerney walked up the driveway to the ranch house, wondering what in the hell had happened to Sammy. The border of privet bushes he had planted in the fall was thriving. The old mountain ash trees, slow to bud in spring, were finally putting out new growth.

  Shrubs and trees framed the driveway and drew the eye to the house, where the wide veranda offered shade and comfort. Usually the walk to the main house pleased him. Today it seemed much too artificial, like a movie set piece. Quinn had been urging him to take a vacation. By choice, Kerney had worked for over a year with rarely a day off. He had rebuilt the horse barn and the corral and repaired fence lines. Once again water ran in the stock tanks as the windmills pumped them full, attracting deer, antelope, and coyotes. All done, Quinn pointed out, as he willingly paid for the improvements, for one domestic animal, a half trained nameless mustang Kerney had bought at a Bureau of Land Management auction.

  The double-walled adobe house was a survivor of the days when the ranch ran two thousand head of cattle over thirty thousand acres. The veranda, with comfortable wicker chairs scattered about, provided tremendous views of the Galisteo Basin. Quinn's part-time housekeeper kept the terra-cotta pots filled with fresh petunias and geraniums. The porch, supported by hand-peeled logs dark with age, gave deep shade and welcomed the slightest breeze. Above the veranda the angle of the pitched roof was interrupted by a series of gabled windows.

  Kerney crossed the polished plank floor, entered the front door, and went directly to the library, his favorite room. Originally the living room, it was a long, rectangular space with a stone fireplace against the far wall, set off by two wide south-facing windows. The remaining walls, lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, contained Quinn's extensive library.

  A large Early Colonial desk in the center of the room was bracketed by soft leather reading chairs. Quinn's library, Kerney's primary source of recreation, contained an excellent collection of biographies and histories. He would have to remember to replace the ruined Churchill book. Fortunately, it wasn't a prized first edition, and he knew a used book dealer in Santa Fe who probably had it in stock.

  He walked across the flagstone floor to the desk, wrote out a salary check for himself on one of the signed bank drafts left behind for his use. He scribbled a note that he was taking some time off, just in case Quinn decided to stop over before flying to Germany, and taped it to the monitor of the computer so it wouldn't be overlooked. He left another note on the refrigerator in the kitchen for the housekeeper, locked all the windows and doors, and returned to the foyer, where he switched on the security system. The house was, as usual, too quiet. Not used enough, Kerney thought.

  The mustang ignored him when Kerney approached the corral. A bit too long in the back with a thick muzzle and withers set too far forward, the horse was no show animal, but his muscling was good and he would be a sturdy ranch horse once he was fully conditioned and trained. Kerney cleaned out the stall, opened the barn doors for ventilation, set out a new salt lick, and put out feed. Fresh water was no problem; the stock tank in the corral filled automatically.

  At the cabin he packed a bag with enough clothes to last several days, dug out his emergency cash, and checked the time. If he got his tail in gear he could bank the five thousand in Santa Fe, cash his paycheck, pay a visit to Terry's ex-wife, and be on the road to Las Cruces before much more of the day was gone. He slung the bag over his arm, grabbed a handful of cassette tapes, and started for his truck.

  Ten steps away from the porch, Kerney realized he was walking as fast as his bum leg would carry him. It felt damn good to have an adrenaline rush again, he thought.

  ***

  Maria Littlebird Tafoya sat in the small studio where she created jewelry sold exclusively under her name at one of the best Santa Fe galleries. The room, both a studio and porch, had been added to the house by her mother, who had taught her the silversmith's craft. Now that the demand for Maria's jewelry stretched far beyond the boundaries of the pueblo, she could afford a more expensive home, but she had no intention of moving. One day she might build a place for herself when Sammy came back from the Army, finished school, married, and started a family, but that was a long way off. The house, on the edge of the pueblo's plaza, had views of the Jemez Mountains beyond the Rio Grande.

  Ordinarily, the vista was comforting; she could look up from the workbench and rest her eyes on the scene that rolled earth and sky into a passionate steel-blue tapestry of constantly changing patterns. Her home had been too quiet since Sammy went into the Army. During the last six weeks it had seemed more so. The pattern on the bracelet before her, a turquoise-and-coral inlay mosaic wrapped in silver, required a harmony and balance that were missing. Unhappy with the design, Maria debated removing the stones, putting the silver setting aside to salvage later, and starting another piece. Lately she simply couldn't seem to concentrate.

  A muddy pickup truck with a dented fender halted in front of the porch. Maria sighed. She was constantly pestered by bargain hunters who wanted to buy directly from her at cut-rate prices. She would have none of it. A man stepped out of the truck, walked with a limp to the porch door, and smiled at her through the screen. She got quickly to her feet, pulled Kerney inside by the hand, and hugged him tightly.

  "It's you," Maria exclaimed, smiling up at him.

  "And it's you," he replied, letting her go.

  She stepped back and looked at his face. He smiled down at her, but his blue eyes didn't sparkle. His brown hair, slightly longer, covered the tips of his ears and showed a wisp of gray near the temples. His handsome uneven face, deeply tanned and older-looking, with the same square chin, broad forehead, and Celtic nose, was less expressive than Maria remembered it to be.

  "It's been too long," Maria said.

  "Much too long," Kerney agreed.

  "Terry called and said you might stop by."

  "Was it your idea to bring me in on this?"

  "Terry suggested it, and I encouraged him to ask you."

  "That's good to know." Kerney's smile brightened slightly.

  "So the two of you are talking to each other again, I take it."

  "More than we did before the divorce. Isn't that strange?"

  "Not necessarily."

  "Come inside." Maria took his arm and led him into the living room. She wanted to ask Kerney a million questions about what he would do to find Sammy. She wanted him to assure her that he would bring Sammy home safe and sound. She held back, busying herself with getting Kerney settled, offering him food and something to drink. He accepted her offer. She got him seated and went quickly to the kitchen. He waited patiently as she clattered about, asking chatty questions, her nervousness betrayed by quick appearances in the doorway as he responded. He sat in the missionstyle rocking chair next to the kiva fireplace and wondered when she would simply fall apart and start sobbing.

  "How is Mary Beth?" Maria queried.

  "Long gone," Kerney said. All sounds from the kitchen stopped. The original house, built by Maria's great-grandfather, was a hundred years old. The puddled adobe walls bulged at the bottom and flowed unevenly to the ceiling. The floor, packed dirt mixed with ox blood, had a deep red patina. Maria stood in the kitchen door looking sadly at him.

  "What happened?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Yes, it does."

  "She said I wasn't fun anymore. She was probably right." Maria's expression was sympathetic.

  "Is that it?"

  "Not really. I don't think she liked the idea of living with an invalid
. It was taking me much too long to recover." Maria made a face.

  "That stinks."

  "I thought so."

  Maria started to speak, changed her mind, shook her head disparagingly, and disappeared from sight. She brought a small tray of cheese and grapes along with a large glass of lemonade and placed it on the end table next to the rocking chair. Kerney's gut didn't react well to cheese, but he selected a small slice anyway and washed it down with the lemonade. The grapes were sweet and chilled, just the way he liked them.

  She sat across from him on a love seat covered with an antique Navajo rug. She was perfectly still, her hands folded stiffly in her lap. He could see the tension in her back and neck. Her long flowing skirt draped to the floor. Only the toes of her beaded moccasins showed under the fabric. Kerney got up, moved to the love seat, and sat next to her.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Oh, Kerney, I'm so sorry about Mary Beth."

  "Don't worry. I'm over it."

  "How can you be?"

  "You're right. I'm almost over it. But in a strange way she helped me get over being so damn mad at Terry. She gave me someone else to be angry at besides him." He patted her hand.

  "How are you holding up?" Maria gave him a brave smile.

  "I'm scared, Kerney."

  "I know you are."

  "It isn't like Sammy to vanish. He's such a responsible person." She shook her head vigorously to keep away the tears and looked at a framed picture of her son on the fireplace mantel. He wore his Army uniform and was photographed at an angle to display the insignia on his sleeve and a single row of ribbons on his jacket.

  "I bet you talked him into sitting for that picture," Kerney ventured. He needed her to stay coherent. Maria's smile returned.

  "I did. I admit it. I'm a proud mother."

  "He's a handsome man. Why was he so determined to join the Army?"

  "Oh, all the usual reasons. Said he wasn't ready to go to college and wanted to do something different." Exasperation crept into her voice. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he has a stubborn streak just like his father. That's why I sent him to see you. I thought maybe another man could talk some sense to him. Terry was no help whatsoever."

  "I figured you had a hand in his visit." Maria shrugged.

  "I'm your typical meddling mother. What's done is done. He plans to use the GI Bill after his discharge to attend the Art Institute in Chicago. He's already been accepted." Pride crept into her voice.

  "He's still drawing and painting," Kerney ventured, trying to keep Maria upbeat and positive.

  "Oh, yes. I think soon he'll be the best artist the pueblo ever produced. He has remarkable talent."

  "You must be proud of him."

  "Very." Maria fell silent. She was a striking woman, slender and fine-boned, with a symmetrical face and small nose. Her dark almond eyes, usually filled with vitality, were restless and tight. Her long black hair was thick and straight and spilled over her shoulders. There was a slight tic in the corner of one eye.

  "When will you start looking for him?" she asked.

  "I already have," Kerney answered. "You're my first stop." Some of Maria's stiffness dissipated. She turned and faced Kerney squarely.

  "How can I help? I want to do something. Anything."

  "Answer some questions. Can you think of any reason why Sammy would go A.W.O.L.?"

  "No. The Army investigator asked me the same question. It made me angry. He implied that Sammy had personal problems that made him go A.W.O.L.. He was looking for character flaws. I told him Sammy wasn't the kind of person to abandon his responsibilities."

  "Sometimes people change," Kerney proposed.

  "Not Sammy," Maria replied sharply, her eyes snapping. "I know him." She got up, walked to a small, standing cabinet, opened the door, removed a packet of letters, and thrust them at Kerney.

  "Read his letters. Go ahead. They're filled with his plans for the future. These are not the words of a young man in trouble." Her outstretched hand was shaking.

  "I believe you, Maria," he said gently, taking the letters from her. "But sometimes hard questions have to be asked." She sagged almost imperceptibly, and the anger drained from her voice.

  "I know. Forgive me. I feel so frustrated. He's been gone for so long."

  "I understand. Did the investigator talk to anyone else?"

  "Yes. Just about everybody. Former classmates, old friends, and most of the family. He wanted to know if Sammy had a girl in trouble or if he used drugs, or drank a lot when he was home on leave. He even checked with Terry to see if Sammy had an arrest record."

  "I'm sure Terry liked that."

  "It made him furious."

  "Can I keep Sammy's letters for a while?" Kerney asked. "I'll return them when I'm done."

  "Of course you can. Those are just the ones he wrote from the missile range," she explained.

  "I have more in my bedroom."

  "These will do for now."

  "Are you sure?" Kerney nodded.

  Maria smiled regretfully. "I'm sorry for snapping at you."

  "Don't apologize. This is hard stuff. You're holding up beautifully."

  "Am I?" She searched Kerney's face for any sign of false reassurance. "I feel powerless and ready to explode." Her voice broke with a little quiver.

  "That's normal. Keep your chin up." She's about to lose it, Kerney thought.

  "When was the last time you spoke with Sammy?"

  "About two weeks before he disappeared. I called him to ask if he was planning to come home to dance at a feast day. He said he wouldn't be able to get away."

  "Did he talk about anything else?"

  "No. It was a short conversation."

  "How did he sound?"

  "If you mean was Sammy upset, he wasn't." Kerney stood up and put Sammy's letters in his shirt pocket.

  "Can I take a look at Sammy's bedroom?" Maria hesitated.

  "Go ahead. I'll wait here, if you don't mind." He could see the tears welling in Maria's eyes. She blinked them back. He walked through the narrow hallway that denned the end of the old part of the house into the addition Terry had built while the marriage was still intact. It was a suite of two bedrooms and baths that fanned out behind the original structure. He opened the door to Sammy's bedroom. The room had changed since Kerney's last visit. Gone were the high school treasures. The walls held a variety of Sammy's framed pen and pencil landscapes. They showed sensitivity, substance, and a keen eye for detail. On a writing table were a small electronic keyboard, some sheet music, and a desktop computer. Tacked to the bulletin board above the desk were a collage of snapshots and some unfinished watercolors. Kerney was surprised to see a picture of himself and Sammy in the collage. Both of them stood grinning at the camera while Sammy gripped the handlebars of the new bicycle Kerney had presented to him on his seventh birthday. He closed the bedroom door and searched quietly, not wanting Maria to hear him rummaging through Sammy's possessions. She was feeling enough strain already. He opened every drawer, searched the closet, looked under and behind the furniture, and scanned the papers, books, and stacks of drawings. He turned out the pockets of Sammy's clothes and probed through the packing boxes on the floor of the closet that were filled with Sammy's childhood toys. When he finished, he put everything back in order. He had found nothing of interest.

  Maria was standing in the living room when he returned.

  "That was hard for me to let you do," she said.

  "I know," Kerney said.

  "Sometimes I think I hear him in his room. I catch myself walking back there to talk to him."

  "That happens."

  "The mind plays such mean tricks." This time Maria could not stop the tears.

  "I thought I was finished crying for the day." He took her gently by the shoulders, pulled her close, and let her cry herself out. Finished, she dried her eyes and wiped her nose.

  "Find Sammy for me."

  "I'll do my best," Kerney replied.

  Chapter 2r />
  South of the Albuquerque corridor, Kerney began to enjoy the drive. Santa Fe's unrelenting growth spurts were bad enough, but Albuquerque was pure, ugly clutter along the interstate highway. After the city, open desert country undulated in waves, broken by the Rio Grande valley and an endless parade of mountain ranges to the west and east. The small villages bordering the river were enclaves anchored against the expanse of open space, surrounded by green fields that dappled the stark landscape with color. The high country of northern New Mexico was beautiful, but it couldn't hold him the way the desert could. He had been away from it for far too long. He gassed up on the main drag in Socorro, a somewhat shoddy town that paralleled the interstate, found a self-service car wash, sprayed the crusted mud off the truck, and continued south toward Las Cruces with the music of Mozart filling the cab.