Mexican Hat Page 20

“I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?” Lujan asked.

  The man braced his arm on the top of the door and shot Lujan twice in the chest with a semiautomatic. He picked up the spent shell casings, walked to Lujan’s body, and, satisfied with his solution, got in the Chevy and drove off.

  Kerney checked out Steve Lujan’s body. There were two rounds, center mass, in his chest. He turned on his heel and left the monument. When the killer walked into the light to make sure Lujan was dead, Kerney had gotten a good look. He was thirty-something, six feet tall with short blond hair, and he had spoken with a thick southern accent.

  10

  The sound of hard pounding at the motel door brought Kerney out of a deep sleep. He fumbled for the light, got up, peered out the window, and saw Jim Stiles. He unlocked the door and Stiles slipped inside, a worried look plastered on his face.

  “I’ve been looking for you since midnight,” Stiles said snappishly.

  Kerney wore only boxer shorts, and the scar on his stomach, a long surgical incision with a puckered entry hole from a bullet, caught Jim’s attention. It was a nasty-looking wound.

  “What time is it?” Kerney asked groggily.

  “Four in the morning,” Jim answered. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You tell me.” Kerney struggled into his jeans, sank down on the end of the bed, and pulled on his boots. “What’s up?”

  “Steve Lujan’s been shot dead, and Gatewood’s got an APB out on you. A city cop came by Molly’s house looking for you.”

  Kerney tugged his arms though the shirt sleeves and buttoned up. “What the hell for?”

  “I called Omar and asked him the same question. He’s prepared an arrest warrant on you for Steve’s murder.”

  Kerney rubbed the sleep from his eyes, snorted, and stood up. “Based on what?”

  “He said you were seen at Lujan’s house earlier in the day, and Alan Begay told him about the phone call you had him make to Steve.”

  “That’s it?” Kerney replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “Gatewood doesn’t have a clue, does he? I think the man has just redefined the meaning of probable cause. Will Karen sign off on the warrant?”

  “I don’t know,” Jim replied. “I called her after I spoke with Gatewood. She didn’t know a damn thing about it.” Jim paused and made a frustrated face. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or not?”

  “Oh. Sure. I saw Steve get whacked.”

  “By who?”

  “I’m not absolutely certain, but he matches the description I got from two different sources. He goes by the name of Leon Spence.”

  “Who told you about him?”

  “Alan Begay and a BLM officer in Deming.”

  “I know Alan. He’s solid. Do you know how to find Spence?”

  “Not really. But I know where he’s been. Begay saw him at a private ranch on the Negrito Creek. It’s owned by some millionaire from back east who flies in. According to Alan, the ranch has a landing strip. Does that ring any bells?”

  Jim nodded. “The old Double Zero.”

  “Can you get me there without any fanfare?”

  “I think you should talk to Karen first,” Jim countered.

  “That can wait,” Kerney replied. “First, we pay a quiet visit to the Double Zero. What’s the most unobtrusive way in?”

  “Horseback.”

  Kerney eyed the sling holding Jim’s left arm. “Are you game?”

  Jim flapped the sling against his side. “Give me a break. This itty-bitty scratch won’t slow me down. Saddle me up and I’ll take you there.”

  “What a guy,” Kerney responded with a grin.

  Jim smiled back. “Stuff it, Kerney. How did you get into this pile of shit?”

  “It was easy: a little breaking and entering, a little criminal damage to property.”

  “Before or after your trailer got bombed?”

  “After. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  As they left the motel in Jim’s truck, a police cruiser turned into the parking lot and started spotlighting vehicles.

  THE STILES FAMILY ranch was directly across the river from Jim’s house, where the Negrito Creek drained into the San Francisco. Stiles and Kerney arrived before dawn with the moon still full above the mountains. Jim drove to the horse barn, parked the truck out of sight, and told Kerney to saddle two horses while he paid a visit to his father.

  In the paddock were two fine stallions, both about ten years old and built along the same lines, with well-sloped shoulders that would generate a fluid stride. He got the gear out of the tack room, saddled the horses, and sat on the top rail of the paddock waiting for Jim’s return. The first light of dawn revealed the ranch house. It was a territorial-style L-shaped adobe with thick wood lintels above the first-floor windows. The sloping roof had a series of dormer windows over a covered porch.

  The porch light came on, and Jim hurried out with pistol belts looped over his shoulder, clutching two rifles.

  “What did you tell your dad?” Kerney asked. He put the rifles in the gun boots and fastened a pistol belt around Jim’s waist.

  “I told him we were going after a predator,” Jim answered.

  “Did you tell him it was the two-legged kind?” Kerney asked, smiling. He buckled on his own pistol belt and swung into the saddle.

  “I left that part out,” Jim answered.

  They followed a sinuous creek bed through a moist, sandy wash into the mountains, cutting back and forth in hairpin turns through the shallow, fast-running stream of a slot canyon. It was slow going as the horses picked their way over smooth, slippery cobblestones. Above them the early-morning sky turned blue, but the gloom of night still hung in the canyon, and rising mist from the stream created the feeling of a dreary winter’s day.

  At a fast-rushing pool they walked the horses up a steep bank past walnut trees stained dark by water, the limbs weighed down by moisture-laden leaves. Kerney remounted at the top of the bank and stopped to watch a Gila woodpecker light on an exposed rock in the pool. It dipped down for a drink, and the red crown patch flashed at Kerney. Then it dropped into the pool for a morning bath and flapped its striped wings.

  Kerney rubbed the stubble on his chin and looked down at the wrinkled, sweat-stained, stinky shirt that badly needed washing. Reality hit: he was unemployed, under suspicion, and wearing all that he possessed. What little he owned had been blown up. Clothes could be replaced, but his grandfather’s two Navajo saddle blankets and the pictures of his parents—the only mementos he had of his family—were gone forever. Even the championship rodeo buckle was probably nothing more than a lump of melted metal.

  He looked ahead. Stiles had his eyes glued on Kerney’s face. He forced a smile.

  “Are you all right?” Jim asked.

  “Fine and dandy.”

  “You look ready to pound the shit out of someone.”

  “That’s a damn good idea,” Kerney allowed. “I just need to find the right someone.”

  ALAN BEGAY stood in the ankle-deep Negrito Creek wearing waders and holding a portable pH meter with a probe. The high acidity reading wasn’t a surprise, given the closeness of the tailings pile to the streambed. The return visit to the creek had been demanded by the landowner’s lawyers as a delaying tactic. Alan already pretty much knew that the readings wouldn’t change. He grunted and noted the result in his field book.

  Begay’s thoughts jumped ahead to the report he would write and the additional shit he would have to face from Sanderson’s lawyers. The three mine sites along the creek on the Double Zero property were spewing contaminants into the water and threatening the fish downstream. You’d think that a big-time Detroit millionaire who used the Double Zero as a retreat and hunting lodge wouldn’t mind spending some spare change to clean up the pollution. No way. Sanderson was fighting the proposed sanction tooth and nail.

  Alan heard a clattering of hooves and turned to find Jim Stiles and Kevin Kerney riding toward him. They reined
in and looked down at him.

  “Hello, Alan,” Jim said.

  “Jim,” Begay replied. He shifted his attention to Kerney. Kerney was a big man, and on horseback he looked even bigger. The expression on Kerney’s face was grim. Alan braced himself for a chewing-out. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” he said.

  “You didn’t,” Kerney replied gently, reading Alan’s dismay, as he slipped out of the saddle. “Tell me what happened between you and Gatewood.”

  “He came to see me at my room,” Alan answered. “He said Steve Lujan had been murdered, and that he knew I had talked to you. He wanted to know about our conversation, and I told him. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did the right thing,” Kerney said.

  “It didn’t feel like the right thing,” Alan countered.

  Stiles nodded in the direction of the switchback trail that led to the Double Zero headquarters. The ranch sat on a flattop mesa overlooking a confusion of deep gorges and sheer cliffs that slashed north and south. “Any activity up above?”

  “A plane flew in a little while ago,” Begay answered. “It’s still there.”

  “Did you recognize it?” Kerney asked.

  Begay shook his head. “I just heard it. What are you guys doing up here?”

  Kerney remounted. “Stay put, Alan,” he ordered.

  “More cop stuff?”

  “Just stay put,” Kerney replied genially.

  Begay grinned and snapped off an exaggerated salute. “Whatever you say.”

  THE EDGE OF THE MESA, thick with piñon and juniper trees, gradually opened onto a meadow that stopped at a dirt landing strip. A silver twin-engine Beechcraft was parked next to a pickup truck. Behind the plane, built on a rock outcropping that served as the foundation to the building, was a long stone house. A split-log staircase curved over the rocks and up to the porch. Old-growth pine trees kept the house in deep shade. The place had a rustic, turn-of-the-century feel to it.

  They stayed in the trees out of sight watching two men unload crates from the plane and carry them to the truck.

  “What do you think?” Jim asked. “Is either one of them your man?”

  “Can’t tell from this distance. Let’s go see. We’ll stay in the trees and work our way around back.”

  They were halfway to the ranch house when the distant sound of choppers cut the silence. Kerney and Stiles looked up at an empty sky and back at the Beechcraft. The two men unloading cargo started scrambling—one to the truck, the other to the plane. A third man came running out of the house and swung himself into the bed of the truck as it started to roll. The Beechcraft’s engine caught and the plane turned to taxi down the runway.

  Out of the sun, three assault helicopters, all in a line, popped over the east ridge of the mesa, moving at over a hundred miles an hour. The choppers swung in an orbit over the field, one dropping to block the pickup that was running for the cover of the trees. As the chopper touched down, a door gunner fired a burst in front of the truck. Eight men, four from each side, all in black SWAT uniforms, hit the ground running. It was no contest. The team swarmed the vehicle without firing a shot.

  A second chopper landed almost simultaneously, cutting off the Beechcraft. Eight more men piled out. Four surrounded the plane, pulled the pilot from the cockpit, and put him in a spread-eagle position on the ground. The remainder of the squad moved in on the house.

  The last chopper circled and made a complete pass over the mesa. The pilot spotted Kerney and Stiles, veered away, and landed out of rifle range. Eight more men spilled out and scampered into the trees.

  “Nicely done,” Kerney said with admiration in his voice.

  “Think we should surrender?” Stiles asked.

  “That’s a good idea. Let’s make it easy for them.”

  Kerney moved his horse into the open, raised his hands, and clasped them behind his head. Jim followed suit, but couldn’t get his left arm above the shoulder, so he surrendered with one hand raised.

  A short burst of automatic-weapon fire cut into the treetops at the edge of the mesa. Pine cones and needles rained down on Alan Begay, who stepped into view with both arms in the air as high as he could get them.

  “I guess Alan wanted to surrender too,” Jim said. “No sense letting us have all the fun.”

  “I like a man who can follow orders,” Kerney noted.

  A man got out of the third chopper and scanned Kerney, Jim, and Alan with binoculars before talking into a hand-held radio.

  The two guys who came out of the woods behind Kerney and Stiles wore Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms shield patches on their SWAT uniforms. They got Kerney and Stiles dismounted, disarmed, and handcuffed before walking them across the meadow to the man with the binoculars. Another team followed behind with Alan.

  The slightly stoop-shouldered man had an FBI shield patch on his SWAT jacket and an angry expression on his face which Kerney had seen before.

  “You’re a meddlesome son of a bitch,” Charlie Perry said to Kerney.

  “Let me guess, you’re really not Ranger Rick,” Jim remarked.

  Perry ignored Stiles. “What the hell are you doing here, Kerney?”

  “Looking for Leon Spence,” Kerney answered.

  Spence was stretched out facedown, hands cuffed at the small of his back, with an M-16 muzzle pointed at the nape of his neck.

  “I see you found him for me,” Kerney added.

  “What’s Spence to you?” Charlie demanded.

  “A murderer,” Kerney replied.

  “Don’t play games with me, Kerney. I haven’t got the time.”

  “I’m serious. Spence whacked Steve Lujan.”

  Perry laughed. “If you can prove that, I’ll personally kiss your ass.”

  “That won’t be necessary. An explanation of what’s going on here will do nicely,” Kerney countered. “Do we have a deal?”

  Perry nodded curtly.

  Kerney turned his back to Perry and waited for him to remove the handcuffs. Hands free, Kerney took the small tape recorder from his shirt pocket and played it for Perry. Voices carry in the thin night air, and even the noise of the car engine didn’t mask the conversation between Spence and Lujan, and the sound of the two gunshots. Kerney popped out the tape and tossed it to Charlie.

  Spence stared at Kerney with one eye, his cheek ground in the gravel of the landing strip. He tried to lift up his head and spit at Kerney. The man with the M-16 poked Spence with the rifle to keep him still.

  “I’m sure your technical people can do a voice-print analysis and match it to Spence,” Kerney said. “Plus, I’ll testify as your star witness. I saw the whole thing go down.”

  “That sure sounds like Leon,” Charlie said as he pocketed the tape. “You stay here,” he ordered Alan Begay. “Kerney and Stiles, come with me.” He uncuffed Stiles, turned away, and walked toward the lodge.

  As they moved toward the lodge, two large trucks lumbered into view and turned in the direction of a wooden barn a hundred yards from the house. Some of Perry’s team were hauling crates outside and stacking them in front of the open barn door.

  THE LIVING ROOM of the ranch house, a wide, deep room with exposed rock walls and an oak floor, was richly furnished. Two tan matching Italian leather couches sat on either side of a fireplace which could easily take an eight-foot log. Scattered over the floor were expensive Navajo rugs. The mantel above the fireplace, a good six feet off the ground, displayed a collection of Zuni pots. An antique side table held a Remington bronze that looked authentic.

  Kerney and Jim Stiles sat together on the couch that faced the front windows of the room. High up on the wall were mounted heads of elk, deer, and antelope overlooking the room. Charlie Perry sat on the other couch. Behind him was a floor lamp made of deer horns. A bear pelt, complete with head and paws, hung on the wall next to the fireplace.

  “Let’s have it,” Kerney said to Perry.

  Charlie pushed his sandy hair up from his forehead and stre
tched out his legs. “About three years ago the bureau infiltrated the Michigan Militia. Sanderson, the guy who owns the Double Zero, a rich right-wing zealot from Detroit who made his money in insurance, stepped in and helped bankroll the organization. There was nothing illegal about it, but it made Sanderson worth watching.

  “He put a hundred thousand dollars on the table and we kept waiting to see how the money would be used. Finally, the money was filtered to a national committee charged with reorganizing state and local militia groups into regional military districts. We have a mole serving on the committee. There are six regional districts already operating. The committee decided to use Sanderson’s funds to finance a special project.

  “Leon Spence ran a smuggling organization that specialized in bringing exotic birds and animals into the States. The committee approached Spence with a scheme to harvest wild game to supply the Asian market with ingredients for folk remedies. He had an organization in place that could move the product to the right buyers and get top dollar for the goods.

  “It was a damn good idea. Hardly anybody knows you can kill a cougar, boil its testicles, and sell the concoction as an aphrodisiac in a third-world country at a big profit. It’s been a quiet crime spree that hasn’t drawn any media attention.

  “Spence targeted two areas for harvesting—Alaska and southern New Mexico. Both fit the criteria: small populations, the right kind of wildlife, and not enough cops to cover the wide open spaces. He’s been running the operation for the past two years.”

  “What were the proceeds to be used for?” Kerney asked.

  “What every army needs,” Perry replied. “Weapons and guns. Nice little toys for the self-proclaimed patriots.”

  “The crates,” Stiles exclaimed.

  “Exactly,” Charlie confirmed. “All of them filled with illegal armaments.”

  “Tell me about Spence,” Kerney asked.

  Charlie laughed. “He’s a blue-eyed, blond-haired, Spanish-speaking Mexican, with a green card. His father is the son of a German who immigrated to Mexico after World War II. His mother is the daughter of the former governor of the state of Nuevo León. He went to a military prep school in Georgia and took a degree at Tulane in New Orleans. He does a great southern accent.”