Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  “It depends on what you want to hear, Sergeant.”

  Gabe rubbed his chin and gave Kerney a long look.

  “It’s your call, Sergeant. I can’t order you to violate department policy.”

  “Who would I report to?”

  “Me alone. No one else.”

  Gabe grinned. “I like the idea.”

  “I was hoping you would,” Kerney said, handing Gonzales his business card. “On the back you’ll find my private office and home telephone numbers. Use those numbers to reach me or leave messages.”

  Gabe took the card. “You were pretty sure I’d go along with this, weren’t you?”

  “I pulled your personnel jacket, Sergeant. There was enough in it to convince me that you don’t always go by the book.”

  “I’ve heard that said about you.”

  “I guess that make us members of the same club. Nail Espinoza to the Boaz murder.”

  • • •

  Ruth Pino contemplated the man who limped into the interview cubicle and sat at the small table across from her. Since he looked intelligent, Ruth decided he might be capable of understanding the important points that needed to be made.

  Kerney listened as Ruth Pino explained the rarity of the Knowlton’s cactus, its value to collectors, and the importance of the discovery of a new habitat on the alluvial apron at the bottom of the mesa. She spoke with intensity, in clipped sentences, and Kerney could imagine her in the classroom putting fear into the hearts of easily intimidated undergraduates.

  “Whoever destroyed the trees along the watershed should be shot,” Pino said, spreading out her field sketch on the small table in the interview cubical. She turned it so that Kerney could read the neat lettering and symbols.

  Kerney held back from telling Pino her hopes had been realized.

  “The tire tracks from the vehicle alone destroyed over a hundred plants.” Pino’s finger traced the line of destruction. “I can’t even begin to estimate how many more were eradicated during the woodcutting.”

  “But some remain,” Kerney said.

  “Yes, but heavily threatened. The habitat has been altered, and unless the erosion along the alluvial apron is stopped, the entire distribution could be wiped out by the end of the rainy season.”

  Pino’s finger poked the sketch in two places. “The cactus still thrives here and here, at the downstream points away from the clear-cutting. I estimate the total surviving population will exceed two thousand plants, with a very high ratio of mature specimens. Had the site been left undisturbed, the total would have probably exceeded eight to ten thousand. What happened is a travesty.”

  “Can the cactus be protected?”

  “With your cooperation and some very substantial financial resources,” Pino said.

  “Cooperation I can give, Professor, but my resources are fairly limited right now.”

  “It must be done.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Kerney said. “Tell me how I can help.”

  “Give me unlimited access to the site. I’ll bring in a team of graduate students from the university. We need to do a thorough mapping, a complete census, and some immediate, temporary erosion control.”

  “Of course.”

  “Once the distribution range has been clearly established, the tract must be fenced and possibly even guarded from poachers.”

  “Who would know about the site?” Kerney asked.

  “Harvesting has already taken place, Mr. Kerney. It cannot be allowed to happen again.”

  “From what I’ve been told, the woman responsible for the harvesting had no idea the cactus was an endangered plant.”

  “That may well be,” Pino said with a shake of her head. “But Knowlton’s cactus was persistently collected in northwestern New Mexico until the Nature Conservancy stepped in and bought the land. European collectors have been known to pay over two hundred dollars for a mature plant, sometimes more. Any word of a new discovery will bring out the poachers. They’re no different than pot hunters who violate the Federal Antiquities Act.”

  “How much fencing will be needed?”

  “That’s impossible to say at this point. I’ve had less than a day to conduct a spot field analysis. If other viable distributions are found, each will require protection.”

  “Let me know what you come up with, Professor.”

  “You will help us save this site, won’t you?”

  “I can’t even promise you that I’ll be able to retain ownership of the land, Professor. But I’ll do what I can while I can.”

  With her eyes locked on to Kerney, Ruth Pino held up a hand. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “The land is still in probate, and the tax bite is rather large. I may have to sell off a part of it.”

  “I see. Would you mind if I brought a few outside experts into the loop?”

  “Who might they be?”

  “Representatives from organizations who can help me develop a restoration plan for the site. It won’t cost you any money.”

  “By all means.”

  “Have you ever seen a Knowlton’s cactus?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It isn’t a very dramatic or exotic specimen, but it deserves to continue to exist on the planet.”

  “I agree. I’ll help you build the fences and pay for what I can, Professor. I don’t like what was done to the land any more than you do.”

  Ruth Pino assembled her map and notes, tucked the papers inside her leather-bound journal, and gave Kerney an agreeable smile. “I may have to revise my opinion of police officers.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It seems that not all of them suffer from authoritarian personality disorders.”

  Kerney smiled as he stood. “Can you say the same about university professors?”

  “Occasionally.”

  • • •

  Emotionally and physically drained from the events of the day, Gabe arrived home to find a car parked next to Orlando’s subcompact in the driveway. He left his unit on the street, entered through the side door to the kitchen, dumped his briefcase on the table, and sank down on a chair. From upstairs he could hear music and the sound of male voices coming from Orlando’s room. He wondered who was visiting his son.

  He rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles felt like corded knots, twisted his torso to relieve the strain in his back, stared at the wall, and thought about his day. The image of Rudy Espinoza reeling under the impact of the shotgun blast kept spinning though his mind.

  Gabe walked to the refrigerator. There wasn’t much inside. Dinner would have to be canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. He got busy preparing the meal, his thoughts turning to his conversation with Chief Kerney. Having the chief’s permission to continue to work the case might not mean squat in the final analysis. He could still get written up for violating departmental policies. That would surely torpedo his chances for promotion. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. But the important issue was getting Orlando through his degree program at the university, and successfully launched. If he had to remain a patrol sergeant and continue to pinch pennies to do it, so be it.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to find Orlando and Bernardo Barela, Nestor’s grandson, standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, guys,” Gabe said. “What’s up?”

  “Just hanging,” Orlando said.

  “How are you, Bernardo?” Gabe asked.

  “Fine, Mr. Gonzales,” Bernardo said, flashing a smile.

  Bernardo’s smile had always struck Gabe as smug and insolent. He had his thumbs hooked in the pockets of tight blue jeans that broke at the heel of his cowboy boots. He kept his eyes locked on Gabe.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” Gabe said.

  Bernardo shrugged. “I’ve been busy working and stuff.”

  Smaller in stature than Orlando, Bernardo had a narrow face that ended in a pointed chin. He pushed his hair away from his forehead.

  “Still working for yo
ur grandfather and uncle?”

  “Yeah, I’m out at the new ranch.”

  “Are you two heading out?” Gabe asked Orlando.

  “Yeah,” Orlando said. “We’ll grab a burger and a beer somewhere. Want me to bring you back something?”

  “No thanks.” Gabe nodded at the stove. “It’s grilled cheese and soup for me.” He nodded at Bernardo. “Say hello to your family for me.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Have a good time,” Gabe said.

  The boys left and Gabe settled in front of the television with his cup of soup and sandwich. With the lights off, the almost empty room seemed less uninviting. The TV, a big screen model, had been Gabe’s only expensive purchase since Theresa’s departure. Since he wasn’t dating, wasn’t partying with the divorced and single officers in the district, and wasn’t doing the bar scene, the television had become his single source of entertainment.

  He stared at the screen as he channel surfed and ate his sandwich. Orlando and Bernardo had been friends ever since they’d played varsity baseball in high school. Gabe hadn’t seen much of Bernardo over the last year, and Orlando hadn’t said anything about a falling out. He hadn’t asked any questions about Bernardo’s absence in Orlando’s social life. But he’d been glad when the relationship seemed to fade. Bernardo had always made Gabe a little uneasy with his macho attitude and tough guy posturing.

  He took a sip of soup, locked the channel in on a basketball game, and reminded himself to talk to Nestor Barela in the morning. Maybe the old man knew something about Rudy Espinoza and Carl Boaz.

  He finished eating, stretched out on the couch, and before the station broke away for a commercial, he was sound asleep.

  • • •

  Shoe met Kerney at the door, tail wagging, with the sneaker clamped in his teeth. He scratched the dog’s ear and found Sara in the bedroom packing her suitcase.

  She looked up and gave him a vague smile. “I’m glad you got here before I left.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Tucson, to visit an old friend.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. I know I sounded bitchy on the telephone. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “What was it about?”

  “It’s not something I want to get into right now.”

  “Did I say something, do something?”

  Sara’s smile tightened. “It’s not you, Kerney. I’ve got some thinking to do. Just call it bad timing on my part. I never should have barged in on you unannounced.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Well, it’s been fun.” Sara picked up the suitcase and her coat.

  “Wait a minute, Sara. Tell me what’s up.”

  “It isn’t your problem.”

  Kerney could sense her reserve. It felt like a huge gap between them. “It will be if you leave this way.”

  “I’m not leaving because of you.”

  “This isn’t about bad timing, is it?”

  Sara bit her lower lip. “No.”

  “Or stud books.”

  Sara hesitated. “Not really.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “I’m not ready to discuss it. Give it a rest for now, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “Leaving this way.” She walked past Kerney into the living room.

  “Maybe we should talk this out,” Kerney said.

  “I do need some talk, Kerney. Good, old-fashioned girl talk. That’s why I’m going to Tucson. My best friend from West Point lives there.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  Sara’s eyes searched Kerney’s face. “Am I invited back?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll call you from Tucson,” Sara said as she opened the front door. She gave Kerney a quick kiss and a fleeting smile. “You’ve done nothing to upset me.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  Sara dropped to one knee and scratched Shoe’s chest. He dropped the sneaker and licked Sara’s chin.

  “Take care of your dog, Kerney,” she said as she stood up. “He’s a sweetheart.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kerney stood at the door and watched Sara load her bag in the Jeep and drive away. She waved once before she passed out of sight.

  “What was that all about?” he asked the dog as he closed the front door.

  Shoe gave the sneaker a vigorous shake and trotted off to the kitchen. Kerney tagged along, wondering what nuances he’d missed, what mistakes he’d made, and whether he’d completely turned Sara off.

  He hoped she was leveling with him and that her sudden departure wasn’t prompted by something he’d done. The thought didn’t relieve the hollow feeling in his gut.

  The dog leash was on the kitchen table. Kerney picked it up. There was still time to get to one of the shopping malls and buy a travel cage for Shoe. In the morning he’d make arrangements to have the dog shipped to the Knox boy in California.

  Shoe saw the leash in Kerney’s hand, let go of the sneaker, and jumped up on Kerney in eager anticipation.

  “So, you’re ready to leave, too, are you?”

  Shoe dropped down on all fours and headed straight for the front door.

  • • •

  Orlando Gonzales sat at a table by the window of the Rough Rider Bar. Across the street stood the old Fred Harvey Hotel and the train station. A slow freight moving south along the tracks rumbled like a low bass note in harmony with the Tex-Mex CD playing on the stereo behind the bar.

  He took a pull on the long neck beer and started at Bernardo. “You wanted to talk. About what?”

  “We need to catch up,” Bernardo said, flashing a smile.

  “I thought the plan was we weren’t going to hang together anymore.”

  “Did you read the story in the newspaper about the bones the cops found on the mesa?”

  Orlando’s hand froze as he reached for his beer bottle. “Jesus. Was that her?”

  “Part of her. I spread the body around. Some parts here, some parts there. The cops will never be able to ID her.”

  “You cut her up?” Orlando asked in a choked whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because you couldn’t handle it.”

  “We should have just let her go.”

  “Yeah, straight to the police. Listen, we both raped her.”

  “I know that. But you killed her.”

  “In the eyes of the law, both of us did. You should know that, being a cop’s son and all. It’s called murder during the commission of a felony.”

  “I know what it’s called,” Orlando hissed.

  “You’re still all fucked up about it, aren’t you?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Bernardo looked over his shoulder. A few viejos sat at the bar in front of an enlarged photograph of Teddy Roosevelt and members of his Rough Riders, many of them New Mexican cowboys, taken at the top of San Juan Hill. A middle-aged couple played a video game at the back of the room where pictures from the old Rough Rider reunions once held in Las Vegas were hung on the wall. Nobody was within earshot.

  “Listen, the bitch was a Mexican who was never reported missing. I checked it out.”

  “You did what?” Orlando asked.

  “I talked to the dude who manages my grandfather’s old ranch. He told me Luiza went back to Mexico. End of story.”

  “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

  “At least I’m not letting this shit eat me up.”

  “We did something wrong.”

  Bernardo shrugged. “Just keep me posted on what your old man and the other cops are doing with the case.”

  “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” Orlando shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. We’re in this toge
ther.”

  “What good would it do?”

  “Maybe keep our asses out of prison. We don’t need any surprises.”

  Orlando studied Bernardo suspiciously. “Can you be connected to the girl in any way?”

  “Chill, boto. I met her one time, that’s all. I already told you that.”

  Orlando thought back to the night they’d picked her up. He’d been too drunk to remember anything clearly, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Bernardo’s version of how he talked Luiza into the truck was a little screwy.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Why would I lie about that?” Bernardo replied.

  Orlando picked up his beer, clenched the bottle until his first turned white, and took a swallow.

  “Well?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “That’s better,” Bernardo said, reaching for his brew. “Relax, dude. Drink up.”

  “Relax, shit. I feel like puking. I never wanted her dead.”

  “Shit happens,” Bernardo said.

  “It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  “Not really. I can’t make it go away. Neither can you. Besides, lots of murders never get solved.”

  “You’re cold, Bernardo.”

  “I just want to keep everything cool.”

  “Including me?”

  “I worry about you.”

  Orlando made a face and stood up. “I can live with it.”

  Bernardo chuckled.

  “What?” Orlando snapped.

  “Can you?”

  “I have for a year. Give me a ride home.”

  “It’s early. Drink another beer.”

  “I’ll walk.”

  Bernardo slapped his empty bottle on the table and got to his feet. “I’ll take you home, mano. You’re no fun to drink with anymore, anyway.”

  7

  Bernardo pulled into Orlando’s driveway. The living room curtains were open and a flickering television glowed through the window. Orlando had kept his head turned away on the drive home, gazing out the passenger window of the car, saying nothing.

  Bernardo killed the engine. “You got something on your mind, bro?” he asked.

  “Everything’s cool,” Orlando replied as he opened the door.

  Bernardo placed his hand on Orlando’s arm. “You sure?”

  Orlando peeled Bernardo’s fingers off his arm. “What’s with you?”