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  Kerney hesitated. The lady is pissed, he thought, without a clue as to why. He smiled at Utley. “Your job must be very interesting.”

  Utley nodded with satisfaction. “It is. White Sands is an anthropologist’s dream. There are over five thousand square miles on the base that were hardly touched by modern civilization before the Army took it over. The Apaches traversed the area, mostly to hunt or camp, and Hispanic settlers farmed on the fringes of the basin, but that was about it until cattlemen moved in from Texas, looking for free range. It was really one of the last western frontiers.

  “It’s a vast area that’s been protected for almost half a century. That means no destruction of historical sites, no pot hunters digging for artifacts, no massive public use of the land. Some of the old ranches are still standing, with everything in them that the previous owners didn’t carry away.”

  Utley paused while the bartender served Kerney his wine. “You may not be interested in all this,” he said, with an apologetic wave of his hand.

  “But I am,” Kerney replied.

  Utley gave him an appreciative smile. Kerney leaned back, glanced at Sara, and decided she was really pissed off. The smile on her face didn’t hide the antagonistic gleam in her eyes.

  Utley continued talking, unaware. “I’ve been here seven years and we’ve barely begun to touch all the historical sites on the range. I’m excavating right now at a place called Indian Hills, north of here in the San Andres. It was part of the old Pat Garrett ranch. He was the sheriff that killed Billy the Kid. In fact, Garrett himself was murdered at the San Andrews Pass. His killer was never caught.”

  “Interesting,” Kerney said, taking a sip of wine. He put the glass down, pushed it to one side, looked at Sara in the mirror behind the bar, and inclined his head toward the exit.

  She caught the cue, interceded by touching Utley lightly on the shoulder, and gave Kerney a charming smile. “I should have warned you not to get Fred started.”

  “I enjoyed it,” Kerney announced as he stood up. “Thanks for the drink and the conversation.”

  “Let me walk you out, Lieutenant,” Sara said, touching Utley again to keep him in place. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Fred.”

  “Shoptalk?” he asked her with a grin. “Or should I say cop talk?”

  “A bit of both.”

  After another staunch handshake from Utley, Kerney walked outside with Sara. In silence they waited as the birthday party celebrants trailing behind them passed by, loaded themselves into cars, and drove away.

  “You wanted to speak to me, Captain?”

  “Your little deception didn’t work,” Sara snapped. “I know that Sammy’s father once worked for you, and he’s hired you to find his son. For some weird reason, Andy Baca decided to give you a badge and make you legitimate.”

  “You work fast,” Kerney replied.

  “Don’t try to butter me up, Lieutenant. I don’t like being lied to. I want an explanation and I want it now.”

  The irritation in Sara’s eyes made Kerney break contact. The full moon was high, projecting a glow that created hushed charcoal shadows in the basin. The distant Sacramento Mountains, blurred shapes, glistened with a satin polish.

  He turned back to her, looked her square in the eyes, and spoke carefully, admitting the truth to himself for the first time. “For a long time, Sammy and his parents were like family to me. I guess I can’t shake that off as easily as I thought.”

  “So, you’re saying this is strictly a matter of an old family friendship.” Sara’s lips were two thin lines of reproach. “I find that hard to believe, if you’re being paid.”

  “It’s not just the money. Sammy is one of the few people I really care about.”

  Sara waited for more, and nothing came. “Is that it?”

  “Pretty much. I assume you’ve learned enough to fill in some of the blanks.”

  Sara sighed in exasperation. She knew Terry Yazzi had been with Kerney the day he got shot, and that the friendship between the two men had ended soon after, but there were blank pages that needed filling in. “I’d like to hear more,” she prompted.

  Kerney shook his head. “It’s not relevant. Regardless of what you decide, I’m going to keep working on the case.”

  Sara bit her lip. Confronted by the facts, Kerney, to his credit, didn’t sulk or cave in. And Andy Baca, after getting an earful from her on the telephone, had stood his ground about Kerney’s skills as an investigator. “You don’t make it easy on yourself,” she said.

  “I know. It’s your call, Captain. I’d like our agreement to stand.”

  “All right,” she finally said, “but the clock is ticking, and when the twenty-four hours are up, you leave.”

  Kerney smiled in relief. “Thanks.”

  Sara nodded, her green eyes searching his face for the slightest sign of gloating. Satisfied there was none, she switched gears. “What have you learned so far?”

  “Nothing. Does Sammy’s disappearance fit a victim pattern? Are there any similarities to other AWOL cases?”

  Sara shook her head. “We looked at that. There are two open AWOL cases involving young single males. Neither of them has surfaced, but we can find absolutely no connection between them and Specialist Yazzi.”

  “How old are the cases?”

  “Recent. One involves a civilian employee and the other is a Navy seaman.”

  “Can you arrange for me to speak to Sammy’s supervisor?” Kerney asked.

  “I’ll set it up and call you at the BOQ in the morning. His name is Sergeant Steiner.” She turned to leave.

  “Captain Brannon.”

  Sara looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Bobby Jaeger. Sammy’s roommate.”

  “What about him?”

  “When is he due back on base?”

  “Check with his first sergeant. Good night, Lieutenant.”

  “Good night.” He watched her walk through the door to the club, thinking that Sara Brannon was one sharp lady.

  A VISIT TO THE NCO CLUB, a more crowded, louder, and livelier establishment than the officers’ club, with a honky-tonk atmosphere, yielded no information on Bull McVay. Kerney hung around asking questions until he ran out of people to quiz. He spent the next hour in the empty dayroom at the enlisted barracks waiting for PFC Alonzo Tony to get off duty. It was after midnight when, half asleep, he heard the barracks door open and footsteps on the tile floor. He called out PFC Tony’s name, and a young man detached himself from a small group of soldiers who were quietly scattering down the hallway to their rooms. Kerney introduced himself and asked Tony to talk to him in the dayroom. Tony eyed Kerney uneasily and only agreed to join him after Kerney explained his purpose.

  “I don’t believe Sammy went AWOL,” Tony said, fishing out a cigarette. “No way, man.” Tony had a full upper lip, prominent cheekbones, and a symmetrical nose. He was about five feet eight with a long trunk and no waist; just a straight line from chest to hips.

  “Not his style?”

  “You got that right,” Tony agreed, lighting his smoke.

  “Do you think something bad happened to Sammy?” Kerney inquired.

  “That’s the only thing that makes any sense. Sammy is just about my best friend. I know him pretty well. He’s not the kind to go off half-cocked.”

  “Do you have any ideas about what happened to him?”

  Tony shook his head. “Nope.”

  “I understand he was spending some time in town after he stopped dating Carla.”

  “He was, but I don’t know if he was seeing anybody. We didn’t talk about girls all that much. He’d bail out of here for Las Cruces, just like the rest of us, but I didn’t get the feeling he was chasing some skirt.”

  “Did you go with him?”

  “Sometimes. We’d hang together now and then, like if we had the same day off. He has wheels and I don’t.”

  “Did you hang at any particular place?”

  “Not really. We�
��d take in a movie or cruise—things like that.”

  “Did he buy a new car?”

  “He was going to. The Chevy died on him. He’s been saving money for a down payment. He doesn’t like riding the shuttle bus to town. Can’t say that I blame him; it’s embarrassing.”

  “Did he keep anything personal in his car?”

  “His art stuff. He likes to draw.”

  “Did Sammy say anything about buying a Toyota?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Uprange. He’s got a wacky schedule: pulls four days on and three off. He was trying to work a deal to change his duty so he could take some art courses at the university.”

  Kerney cut off his questioning. “Thanks. I may want to talk to you again.”

  “That’s cool.”

  Back in his room at the BOQ, Kerney checked the zipper on his carryall bag. He’d left it open a fraction of an inch and now it was completely closed. He undressed and got into bed, exhausted from the twenty-hour day. He reread Sammy’s letters to Maria. She was absolutely right about his attitude. The letters were upbeat and filled with plans for the future. Kerney mulled over the information he’d gathered since his arrival. It was both inconclusive and unpromising. He was almost asleep when he started thinking about Sara Brannon and the muddle he’d made with her. He groaned at the memory, stuffed a pillow over his head, and went to sleep.

  PFC BOBBY JAEGER drove his Camaro up the back road from Fort Bliss toward the missile range. He was a little drunk from all the beers that guy had bought him in a Juárez nightclub. What was his name? Greg, or something like that. Jesus, what a build! He looked like he could bench-press three hundred pounds easy, maybe more. A real nice guy.

  The Camaro started to weave. Bobby brought it to the center line and concentrated on the white stripe. He could ride the middle of the two-lane road straight to Orogrande. There weren’t any other cars on the road. He gave the Camaro a nudge up to eighty-five and listened to the sound of the pipes. Sweet.

  Greg—that was his name. He knew Sammy. Couldn’t believe Sammy went AWOL. Shit! Who could believe it? Asked a lot of questions about Sammy.

  Bobby’s eyes started to close. He snapped his head up and shook off the cobwebs. No problem, he thought, blinking rapidly to get things in focus. He was still in the middle of the road. Pick up the pace a little bit, he counseled himself. Need to get home and get some rack time.

  PFC Bobby Jaeger was fast asleep as the Camaro sped toward the ninety-degree turn at the Orogrande curve. When the right tires left the pavement, Bobby woke up. He turned the wheel and stood on the brakes, and the Camaro slowed to a hundred miles an hour before crashing through the barrier. It flipped on the hood and ground a deep furrow through the desert.

  THE PHONE RANG AT two-thirty in the morning, waking Kerney from a deep sleep.

  “Get dressed and meet me outside,” Sara Brannon ordered when Kerney answered.

  Kerney grunted, got up, and dressed. Outside Captain Brannon waited in a marked patrol car.

  “What’s up?” Kerney asked, as he climbed into the front seat.

  Sara hit the overhead emergency lights and pulled away from the curb before Kerney had the door closed. “PFC Jaeger is dead.”

  Kerney was wide awake. “What happened?”

  “He rolled his car and put his face through the windshield.”

  They drove through the main post to the Orogrande turnoff, where Sara floored the unit. In the distance Kerney could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.

  There were four military police and a medical team at the scene when Sara and Kerney arrived. Two units blocked the road and two more were positioned to spotlight a length of the highway. The sergeant in charge approached at a run as Sara jumped out of the unit and slammed the door.

  “What have you got, Sergeant?” she demanded.

  “Skid marks and yaw marks, ma’am,” the sergeant replied. He was an Asian-American about thirty, with the frame of a distance runner. “He went off the pavement with the right tires, tried to adjust, and hit the brakes. Looks like he fell asleep at the wheel. Probably alcohol-induced.”

  “Walk me through it.”

  Kerney watched Sara put the sergeant through his paces as he reviewed the skid marks and physical evidence on the roadway. She asked all the right questions. Then, with Kerney in tow, they walked to the Camaro, which was upside down a good hundred feet from the pavement. A portable generator and light illuminated the overturned vehicle. Bobby Jaeger’s face, his expression frozen in surprise, features mangled and bloody, protruded halfway through the shattered glass.

  “No seat belt,” the sergeant noted.

  Sara nodded. “I want a forensic team out here on the double. Nobody touches the body or the car until they’re finished. I want to know the mechanical condition of that car before Jaeger rolled it. Arrange for an immediate autopsy when forensics releases the body. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant answered.

  “Also get me full background information on Jaeger before you go off duty. Everything you can dig up about him—drug-screening results, rap sheet, his personnel jacket. You know the drill.”

  The sergeant nodded glumly. That meant a good three hours of extra work. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Carry on,” Sara said, turning to Kerney. “Are you ready, Lieutenant?”

  “Sure.”

  Sara Brannon said little on the drive back to the base.

  “Mind telling me why you brought me along for the ride?” Kerney finally asked.

  “Two men room together. Within weeks one goes AWOL and the second dies in an auto accident.” She glanced over at Kerney. “Are you good at math? What’s the statistical probability?”

  “I understand that. What else?”

  “You wanted to meet Bobby Jaeger.”

  “Paybacks are a bitch,” Kerney commented.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Sara replied, with a charming smile.

  CAPTAIN BRANNON called again at six in the morning, rousing Kerney out of a stupor. She gave him instructions on when and where to meet Sergeant Steiner, Sammy’s NCOIC, and granted permission for Kerney to search Sammy’s gear stored with the quartermaster. Groggy, he shaved in the bathroom mirror, trying not to look too closely at his haggard face. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  Finished, he strapped on the ankle weight, sat on the end of the bed, and exercised the knee, working the few remaining ligaments that held the leg together until the pain forced him to quit. He stretched and soaked the leg before getting dressed.

  The beefy sergeant in the supply room watched him carefully as he pawed through Sammy’s belongings. There were some framed family snapshots, letters from Maria—but none from Terry—civilian clothing, uniforms, and standard-issue military equipment. Sammy had a small desktop stereo system, a fairly eclectic collection of cassette tapes and compact disks, and a small library of paperback novels and art books. There were several unused sketchbooks still wrapped in protective cellophane and an assortment of pens, acrylic paints, and watercolors, but not a single example of Sammy’s art work.

  Kerney dumped all the clothing on the floor and went through each piece systematically, turning everything inside out. He took the case off the stereo, the covers off the speakers, and the pictures out of the frames. He shook each book by the binding and inspected each cassette tape. Each time he added something to the pile, the sergeant snorted with displeasure. Satisfied that there was nothing, Kerney thanked the sergeant, who grumbled openly about the mess on the floor and damn civilians. Kerney smiled benignly and left.

  Staff Sergeant Steiner was waiting for Kerney outside the headquarters building, looking preoccupied. Steiner had a long, angular frame topped off by an owl-like, bookish face. He stiffened as Kerney approached, hands clasped behind his back in an at-ease position. Kerney introduced himself.

  “How can I help you, Lieutenant?” Steiner’s formal tone indicated he was n
ot a happy volunteer.

  “I understand Specialist Yazzi worked for you.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What test facility do you work at?” Kerney added.

  “It’s an uprange site,” Steiner replied brusquely.

  “Can you tell me about Sammy’s work?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “Can you give me a thumbnail sketch without revealing any secrets?”

  “In general terms, I can. We work with a new ordnance designed for armored units. We study the products under laboratory and simulated field conditions. I can’t say any more than that.”

  “That’s good enough,” Kerney said. “How large is your contingent at the test site?”

  “Thirty-two, including civilians. We operate twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Gulf War bumped the project to the top of the priority list.”

  “I was told that Yazzi wanted to change his schedule so he could take some art courses. Did he talk to you about it?”

  “He certainly did,” Steiner replied emphatically. “I had no problem with the request if it added to his technical skills. I didn’t think art courses qualified. I turned him down.”

  “Was he disappointed?”

  “Maybe a little bit,” Steiner responded, “but he knew that the job came first. Is that all, Lieutenant?”

  “Did you ever have any reason to informally discipline Sammy?”

  “Sammy never gave me any problems.”

  “When did you notice him absent from duty?”

  “He failed to report back to work after his rest period.”

  “He wasn’t missed until then?”

  “The facility covers a lot of territory. Think of it like an outpost. We have full dining, sleeping, and recreational accommodations, supply and support buildings, plus a number of secure structures.”

  “What did Sammy like to do on his downtime?”

  Steiner ran his finger over the brim of his fatigue cap and hesitated before answering. “He liked to draw.”

  “And that was okay for him to do?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and didn’t answer.