Hermit_s Peak kk-4 Read online

  He put the reports away, turned to the keyboard, and began typing.

  Tomorrow started his two days off, but he'd be back on the mesa at first light. They hadn't found the dead woman's skull yet, and Gabe wasn't about to stop searching until every inch of ground had been covered.

  Before heading home, Kerney made a quick stop at a supermarket where he bought everything he needed to care for a dog. In the apartment he found Shoe on his feet, wagging his tail, with one of Kerney's sneakers clasped in his mouth. Three more shoes had been brought from the bedroom and scattered around the living room floor.

  "Quite a collection you got there," Kerney said, as he extracted the sneaker from the dog's mouth. Wet with slobber, it had chew marks on the heel and tongue and some of the padding had been gnawed away.

  "I guess it's yours now, boy."

  He dropped it on the floor in front of the dog. Shoe snatched it up and gave it a shake.

  The other shoes the dog had fetched were only slightly damaged. Except for the mate of the shoe he'd given to the dog, Kerney put the rest away with a reminder to himself to keep the bedroom closet door closed in the future. He spent an hour brushing tangles out of Shoe's matted coat, sprayed him again, cleaned up the dog hair on the carpet, and fed the mutt.

  As Shoe ate, Kerney eyed the result of his efforts to groom the dog.

  Salt-and-pepper hair dangled from his hindquarters and belly, and his tail was a twisted knot that needed dipping. The mutt still looked pretty ratty.

  Kerney picked up and fanned through Saturday's mail, looking for a letter from Sara Brannon. He'd written to her last week. Given the distance his letters had to travel, he didn't expect a rapid reply, but occasionally their correspondence crossed in the mail. This time there was nothing. He hoped Sara hadn't changed her mind about coming to Santa Fe when her tour of duty ended.

  All of the mail was junk, except for an envelope from Erma Fergurson's personal representative and executor of her estate. He opened the envelope and read Milton Lynch's letter. The appraisal had come in at two thousand dollars an acre. The land was worth almost thirteen million dollars. The final appraisal report would be mailed to Kerney within the week.

  He stared at the amount in stunned silence before calling Lynch's home phone number. Lynch answered on the third ring.

  "I thought I might be hearing from you," Lynch said.

  "How in the hell can that land be worth thirteen million dollars?"

  Kerney asked.

  "I haven't seen the complete report, but it seems that some of the ranchers in the area have sold out to high bidders, or are subdividing their land. Five years ago, ten sections might have gone for eight or nine hundred dollars an acre, but not any more."

  "Doesn't the land qualify under the farm-use value reduction provision of the tax code?"

  "The two-thousand-dollar-per-acre figure is the reduction.

  Subdivided five- to twenty-acre tracts are selling at four to six thousand dollars per acre."

  "What will the taxes be?"

  "You'll be taken to the cleaners, I'm afraid. The Taxpayer Relief Act defines a qualified heir as either a family member materially involved in the operation of the ranch for five of the last eight years, or an employee with ten or more years of employment prior to the decedent's death. You don't qualify for the one-pointdireemillion-dollar taxable estate exclusion. You'll pay taxes on the full value, less seven hundred thousand dollars."

  "How much will I owe?"

  "Federal taxes will exceed six million dollars. I haven't factored in th e state tax bite."

  "How soon do I have to pay?"

  "Nine months after Erma's death."

  "Is that a firm date?"

  "The tax forms are due then, but I could file a six-month extension for payment on your behalf."

  "Is there anything I can do to avoid selling the land?"

  "Installment payments to the IRS are possible. The estate can spread the cost out over fourteen years. But the IRS will charge interest-four to six percent."

  Kerney did some quick mental calculations.

  "That amounts to over four hundred thousand dollars a year, plus interest."

  "That's right."

  "Who did the appraisal?"

  "I believe I've secured the lowest possible appraisal on the property."

  "I'm sure you have. I need the appraiser's name for police business."

  Lynch paused.

  "Hold on."

  After a minute, he came back on the line and read off the information.

  A Santa Fe firm had done the appraisal.

  Kerney scribbled down the name and address.

  "Do you know who sold Erma the land?"

  "She bought it from Nestor Barela in nineteen-sixty.

  Don't ask what she paid for it. It would only depress you.

  May I say something, Mr. Kerney?"

  "Please do."

  "Erma's estate is quite considerable. Not only did she inherit a sizable amount from her parents many years ago, she invested it wisely, and added to her net worth as the demand for her art drove up the price of her paintings.

  Except for the land she willed to you, the remainder of her estate will become an endowment to the university art department."

  "I understand that."

  "Erma wanted you to be able to keep all of the land.

  She knew how much it would mean to you. I advised her to establish a trust in your name, and she directed me to do so, with the proviso that I encumber sufficient resources in the trust to pay the inheritance taxes on the property. Her death occurred a week before the trust was to be established."

  "I see."

  "If you want to keep at least part of Erma's gift, let the estate sell some of the property for taxes. You'll still own a sizable chunk of land. I'm no rancher, but it seems to me you would have enough acreage left to start a small cattle operation."

  "I'll think about it."

  "You'll need to make a decision fairly soon," Lynch said.

  "I know it."

  "Let me know what you decide, Mr. Kerney. Remember, you stand to come out of this very well-off."

  "I'm aware of that."

  Kerney hung up in a foul mood, realizing he had no call to be so abrupt with Milton Lynch; he was a good man doing a good job. Erma had picked her executor wisely.

  What grated Kerney had nothing to do with the windfall inheritance, although the amount of his net worth on paper staggered him. The thought of giving up thirty-two hundred acres felt like fate slapping him down again. As a child, he'd watched his parents lose the ranch on the Tularosa to the army when White Sands expanded. Now, he faced losing half of the best, and perhaps only, opportunity he would ever have to return to ranching. It felt like a bad dream or a sick joke coming back to haunt him.

  He was glad he'd resisted Dale's offer to come in as a partner. With a tax bite in the high seven figures, it was totally out of the question.

  For now, he didn't know what the hell to do, other than mull it over and think about options.

  Shoe was at his feet, head resting on the sneaker, his eyes locked on Kerney. He reached down, picked up the sneaker, and tossed it through the archway into the living room. Shoe got up and fetched it back, his tail wagging.

  "Let's see what else you can do." Kerney tried some common commands, and Shoe promptly obeyed each of them.

  "Smart dog." He fed the dog a treat. Shoe dropped down on the floor and ate his biscuit.

  Seconds before the doorbell rang, Shoe raised his head and let out a long howl.

  "So you're a watchdog, are you?" Kerney said as he pulled himself upright.

  Shoe followed him to the front door, the sneaker firmly clasped in his jaws, and sat. Kerney opened it to find Sara Brannon smiling at him from the front step.

  "Good God, what are you doing here?"

  "The army took pity on me and sent me home early.

  You have a dog, Kerney," she said.

  "Does it have a name?"


  "His name is Shoe," Kerney said, grinning in delight.

  "I can see why. He's pretty mangy looking."

  "He's had a rough time of it. But he's smart; he can come, sit, fetch, roll over, and stay. He just moved in."

  Sara knelt and scratched Shoe under the chin. The dog dropped the sneaker and gave her a kiss.

  "Do you have any other roommates I need to know about?"

  Kerney shook his head.

  "None."

  She held out a bottle of wine as she stepped inside.

  "Can I buy you a drink?"

  Kerney took the bottle from Sara's hand.

  "I think I need one."

  "Don't you like surprises?"

  "This one I do."

  She slipped out of her coat and dropped it on-the arm of a sofa that faced a corner fireplace and a patio door.

  On one side, an archway opened onto a kitchen that contained a small cafe table and two chairs. Opposite the kitchen, on the wall next to an open bedroom door, hung a small watercolor of a herd of horses moving through a snowstorm. It was the only personal touch in the room.

  Sara inspected the watercolor.

  "That's very nice."

  "Pletcher Hartley did it. I wrote you about him. I think you'll enjoy meeting him."

  "Prom what you've told me about him in your letters, he sounds like quite a character." She turned back and gestured at the bottle in Kerney's hand.

  "Are you going to open the wine, or not?"

  "You bet."

  "Well, let's get started celebrating this reunion."

  Sara sat at the kitchen table while Kerney searched for wineglasses and a corkscrew. He took his time doing it, glancing at Sara out of the corner of his eye. He had a snapshot of her, but it didn't convey the full impact of her physical presence. Her strawberry blond hair was a bit shorter now, further accenting the sensual line of her neck. Her green eyes sparkled with a hint of something Kerney couldn't quite decipher. Even in blue jeans and a mock turtleneck pullover, Sara look stunning.

  He brought the glasses to the table, sat across from her, uncorked the bottle, and poured the wine.

  "Cheers."

  Sara touched her wineglass to Kerney's and took a sip.

  "So tell me, Kerney, have you slept with many women since I've been gone?"

  "How would you define 'many women'?"

  "More than one," Sara answered.

  "Then I have not slept with many women."

  "Only one?"

  "One."

  "Tell me about her."

  "Her name is Karen Cox. She's a lawyer, an ADA.

  Divorced. Two children. She lives in Catron County."

  "Attractive?"

  "Very."

  "Are you still seeing her?"

  "No. I got a note from her recently. She's hooked up with a ranch foreman."

  "She likes cowboys."

  "So it would seem."

  "That shows good taste. Any regrets?"

  "No. And you?"

  "I've been a very good girl, which hasn't been easy.

  Will Andy let you take some time off?"

  "He's out of town for the week at a convention in Florida. He left me in charge."

  "That simplifies matters. I've really never spent much time in Santa Fe. Will you tour me around?"

  "Of course."

  "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Start the tour," Sara said, putting down her wineglass.

  "I'd love to see your bedroom."

  With her head on his shoulder and her leg draped over his thigh, Sara gently scratched Kerney's chest with her fingernails. The heat from her body felt like a long warm ember against Kerney's skin.

  "That was a lot of fun," she said.

  "It was my pleasure. Major Brannon."

  "It's Lieutenant Colonel Brannon."

  Sara's statement surprised Kerney. He had spent one tour in Vietnam late in the war as an infantry lieutenant and knew that only a remarkable circumstance would accelerate a very junior major to light colonel.

  "Congratulations.

  How did that happen?"

  "I'll tell you about it later."

  "Why so secretive?"

  "I'm not accustomed to telling war stories. Have you ever wanted to be a father, Kerney?"

  "I always thought I would, some day."

  "Still interested?"

  "I'm too long in the tooth."

  "Not at all."

  Kerney pulled back his head.

  "Are you staring at me in the dark?" Sara asked. Her fingers traveled down to the gunshot scar on Kerney's stomach. She rubbed it lightly and felt the rough texture of the skin and the hard abdominal muscle underneath.

  "I have excellent night vision."

  Outside the closed bedroom door. Shoe whined quietly in dismay.

  "Your dog wants to come in," Sara said, moving her fingers down to Kerney's hip.

  "Don't change the subject. Are you thinking of having a baby?"

  "I'm putting a stud book together, just as a possibility.

  Your name is on the list."

  "I'm honored to be considered. But you'd be taking a chance. I've never sired any offspring."

  "You seem to have the necessary enthusiasm for the task."

  Kerney laughed.

  "Is this something you're serious about?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "How many names are in your stud book?"

  "I'm not telling." Sara's hand traveled below Kerney's hip to his crotch.

  "Now, that's very interesting."

  She rolled on top of Kerney, and for a very long time conversation ceased.

  Carl Boaz saw hoofprints in the snow at the gate when he got back to the meadow late Sunday night. He unlocked the gate, moved the truck through, relocked the gate, and drove to his cabin, wondering who in the hell had been snooping around. He made a quick tour outside with a flashlight, looking for any sign of trespassing.

  Everything appeared okay.

  Inside, Boaz kept his coat on while he lit a kerosene lamp and fired up the wood stove. Off the power grid, the cabin had no electricity other than what a gasoline generator supplied. Boaz rarely used electricity in the cabin; it was much more important to reserve the power for the greenhouse and the well pump.

  He left the cabin and walked to the greenhouse.

  Prom the gate at the top of the meadow, the greenhouse looked like a cheap, thrown-together structure. But hidden from view on the south side, a row of solar panels fed power to a bank of batteries that ran fans and heating coils. The system was so efficient Boaz only needed to use the backup generator after three or four consecutive cloudy days.

  He circled the greenhouse, checked the door locks, looked for fresh tracks, found nothing, and walked back to the cabin. Boaz smiled as he passed the child's bicycle propped against the porch rail. Wanda the bitch had left it behind when she moved out with her bratty eight-year-old son to return to L.A. He had found the bicycle in the toolshed and decided to use it to give the place a homey, family kind of look.

  The cabin had warmed up nicely. Heavily insulated, it consisted of a large room with two sleeping lofts, a small bathroom off the downstairs kitchen area, and an attached room at the back of the cabin Boaz had built for Wanda to use as a pottery studio. With Wanda gone, Boaz had converted the room into a woodshed. It easily held three cords of dry firewood.

  He shucked his coat, put a tea kettle on the propane stove to heat up cofiee water, and turned on the battery-powered shortwave receiver. He liked listening to the BBC Sunday night broadcasts.

  At the table, Boaz studied his sketch of a cornfield that he would plant after the last spring frost. He would move new nursery stock to the cornfield, use the corn to shield the marijuana, and start another greenhouse crop of grass right away. That would more than double his yield in one season.

  In the morning he would dig up the cactus plants in the greenhouse that Wanda had transplanted from the mesa, and start some
more marijuana seedlings. There were only twenty cactus plants, but they took up valuable space. He couldn't believe he'd let the bitch talk him into starting a little cactus garden.

  The teapot whistled and Boaz got up and made his coffee. A BBC news reader was reporting on a New Zealand woman who grew rare nineteenth-century roses in her garden. He turned up the volume, listened to the batty old lady ramble on about her roses in a down-under accent, and started working on his finances.

  Money was tight, and he wouldn't see a profit until he could market his product. Every dime he'd made from dealing at colleges in Southern California had gone into his enterprise. The land, the cabin, the greenhouse, the move last year to New Mexico, had cost a lot of money.

  But if he could make it through the next six months, and get half a dozen more crops in, he would be a rich man.

  Then he would finish his novel.

  He stared at his piece-of-shit Ph.D. diploma from UC Santa Barbara that was nailed to a joist supporting the sleeping lofts. All those years in school, for what? A shitty teaching assistant position in some backwater philosophy department with no hope for a tenure-track appointment. Worthless.

  A truck horn blared from the locked gate-two short beeps. Boaz grabbed his coat and went outside. A full moon and a clear sky made it easy for him to see Rudy's truck. The headlights were off and the motor was running.

  It was about time Rudy showed up to pay him some money. He was weeks overdue.

  "Where have you been, man?" Boaz asked as he climbed over the gate and approached the driver's door.

  "Working," Rudy replied through the open truck window.

  "You want to come in?"

  "Can't stay."

  "Did you bring my money?"

  "Yeah," Rudy said, as he raised the pistol from his lap and blew a third eye through Boaz's forehead.

  Up early, Gabe Gonzales made coffee, and sat at the kitchen table reviewing his completed reports. It was much too soon for Orlando to be awake, and the house was quiet.

  Theresa, his ex-wife, had forced Gabe to buy out her equity in the house, a Victorian built by his grandfather on a street behind the Las Vegas Public Library. It took Gabe a second mortgage to do it, and he was still paying on an earlier loan used to renovate the house after his grandfather had sold it to him.

  He had his eye on a lieutenant's vacancy that would ease some of the monthly pressure to pay bills. Orlando was on a full scholarship at the university and worked a part-time job to cover his personal expenses, so having him living at home wasn't much of a burden. But Gabe still walked around most of the time with a nearly empty wallet.