Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  “Nothing. We just have to be straight with each other, that’s all.”

  Orlando got out of the car. “You want straight? I’ll give you straight. I don’t want to see you or talk about this shit again.”

  “Mano.” Bernardo leaned across the passenger seat to look at Orlando.

  “What?”

  “You call me if you learn anything.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean it.”

  Orlando nodded sharply and walked toward the house.

  Bernardo drove away, thinking he’d made a mistake asking Orlando to check out what the cops were doing with the investigation. It had just shaken him up and bummed him out. He wondered if Orlando might crack under the strain.

  He thought back to the night of the murder. They’d been cruising together in his grandfather’s truck, drinking beers, and shooting the shit, both with a major buzz going, when Bernardo had spotted Luiza walking along the road from Ojitos Frios.

  It had been Bernardo’s idea to pick her up and screw her. Orlando was too drunk to argue, too drunk to care. He passed out just before Bernardo turned the truck around and went back to get her. He pulled up alongside her with his pistol in hand, and told her if she didn’t get in he’d kill her. She didn’t resist or argue.

  After finding a secluded spot away from the road, Bernardo waited until Orlando came to and gave him first crack at Luiza. Still drunk, it didn’t take him long to finish, and when he crawled away to puke his guts out, Bernardo took his turn.

  Luiza held herself rigid while he fucked her, eyes filled with hate, and Bernardo knew he was going to kill her. When it was over, he pinned her to the ground and smashed her skull with a rock.

  He wrapped her body in a tarp and went to Orlando, who was sitting under a tree, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  “You killed her,” Orlando said.

  “She was going to turn us in for rape.”

  “You said she wanted to get it on with us.”

  “She changed her mind.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Bernardo said.

  And he did. After taking Orlando home, he returned, cut up the corpse like he was butchering a steer, and hid part of the body on the mesa and the rest in an arroyo twenty miles away. Then he washed out the bed of the truck and got home before anyone was up.

  Bernardo coasted to a stop in front of his parents’ house. He stayed in the car and lit a cigarette. His parents wouldn’t let him smoke inside.

  He’d lied to Orlando about not knowing Luiza. He’d met her when she came up from Mexico to work as a housekeeper at the Box Z Ranch that bordered his grandfather’s new spread.

  Luiza had been a complete turn-on: a great looking piece of ass, with a tight body, full tits, a small waist, long black hair, and shy dark eyes. He put some moves on her that Luiza had brushed off, treating him like some little kid.

  When she changed jobs and started working at the Horse Canyon Ranch, Bernardo couldn’t stop thinking about her. He would see her occasionally, but she’d have nothing to do with him. Once he’d offered her a ride when she was walking along the county road. But she just blew him off and kept walking, making him feel like a fool. After that, Bernardo started to think of ways to teach the dick-teasing bitch a lesson.

  Raping and killing Luiza had been a spur of the moment thing, but it opened up a whole new world for Bernardo. If his luck held and the cops couldn’t identify Luiza’s remains, the next time he would plan things more carefully. He had just the girl picked out. The image of Jessica Varela, the gringo chick with the Spanish name who worked at the hardware store, popped into his mind, and a pleasant feeling of anticipation ran through him.

  He pushed the image aside and thought about Orlando. He could ruin everything, and Bernardo wasn’t about to let that happen. He would have to keep an eye on him.

  He crushed out the cigarette in the ashtray, got out of the car, and went into the house.

  • • •

  In his room, Orlando undressed and got into bed, trying to convince himself that Bernardo was right and there was nothing to worry about. But ever since the rape and murder, Orlando knew he would be caught and sent to prison—maybe even executed.

  For a year he’d kept trying to pretend it never happened. But talking with Bernardo had brought it all back, like a hammer inside his head.

  It had been Bernardo’s idea to see if Luiza wanted to get it on. If Orlando hadn’t been drunk, he never would have done it. But a lame excuse didn’t count for shit. What could he say? That he didn’t mean for it to happen? That he never wanted to see her hurt or killed? Lame.

  He’d thought a lot about suicide, but he didn’t have the balls for it. Time and again, he’d thought about telling his father, and he didn’t have the balls for that, either. If he could hold on for just a little more than a year, he would have his degree and then he could split. Get away from it all and go somewhere new. Put this shit behind him.

  Downstairs in the living room, his father was asleep on the couch with the television on. His briefcase sat on the floor next to the kitchen table. Orlando thought about sneaking down to look through it. Instead, he started to cry softly into his pillow.

  • • •

  After an uneasy night with little sleep, Kerney kicked off the bed covers, pulled on his jeans, stood up, and stumbled over Shoe in the dark. The dog yelped and scurried out of the bedroom. Kerney found him hiding under the kitchen table.

  He glanced at the pet cage he’d bought the night before. With Sara gone he didn’t like the idea of sending Shoe away; it would just make the place feel all the more empty. He squelched the thought before it turned into a gloomy feeling and made himself a bowl of instant oatmeal.

  By the time he was out of the shower and dressed, Kerney had decided to handle the mesa murder case himself, at least for a few days. It would keep the investigation from stalling, and give him something to think about besides Sara’s abrupt departure.

  He made some phone calls and found an air freight company that could ship Shoe from Santa Fe and deliver him to the treatment center where Wanda Knox and her son resided. Then he called the treatment center in California and confirmed with a staff member that Shoe would be welcomed at the facility.

  He asked the woman to tell Lane Knox his dog would be there sometime during the day, packed Shoe’s sneaker and all the pet necessities he’d bought in the cage, leashed the dog, put him in his unit, and drove to the air freight office, where Kerney paid the charges and the freight agent put Shoe in the cage. Shoe immediately started scratching to get out. He gave Kerney a sad look as the freight agent carried him away.

  Kerney hesitated, almost called the man back, then turned and walked out of the building, knowing he would miss that dog.

  At his office, he pulled the mesa murder file and read it through in detail. Melody Jordan had updated her report with the findings from her meeting with Dr. Lawrence. Lawrence’s assessment wasn’t hard evidence, but narrowing the possibility that the murder victim might be either a Central American or Mexican national could prove helpful.

  The work Frank Houge had done before being pulled off the case was inconclusive. None of the three missing women who matched the victim’s age had suffered an old fracture to the left arm, nor had any of the others from the remaining open cases.

  Kerney skimmed the missing persons printout from the National Crime Information Center, came up empty on any matches, and decided it was time to get out and do some old-fashioned legwork. It would also give him a chance to meet some of his new neighbors.

  His ride across the mesa with Dale replayed through his mind as he drove out of Santa Fe. It was a beautiful piece of land Erma Fergurson had left to him. He tried to visualize it through Erma’s artistic eye. He could see the crowns of the tall ponderosas in the heavy timber at the rim of the mesa with the stark face of Elk Mountain splitting the horizon, and the rich rangeland, thick with grasses bent by th
e weight of heavy seeds sparkling like pale white jewels in the breeze.

  He wondered where Erma had gone with her brushes and her canvas to paint, and how many landscapes she’d produced during her summer retreats on the mesa. She’d left one of her paintings to him, but he hadn’t seen it, and wouldn’t until he had a chance to get down to Las Cruces. He knew he would love it. Maybe it would be a landscape of the mesa.

  The pessimistic thought that he wasn’t going to be able to keep all the land washed over him. He slapped his hand hard against the steering wheel to drive the thought away.

  • • •

  Gabe reviewed the background checks on Nestor Barela and his family that had been requested by Chief Kerney. On paper Nestor, his three sons, their wives, and the grandchildren were all law-abiding citizens with no criminal records. Nestor had served in World War II as a tank commander and his oldest son, Roque, had been in Vietnam with the Ordnance Corps.

  Nestor’s three sons, Roque, Lalo, and Elias, all had clean slates. Roque, the oldest, had retired from the state highway department and now ran the family ranch. Lalo, the middle son, was a medical technologist at the local hospital, and Elias worked as an independent plumbing contractor.

  Lalo’s boy, Fermin, was a career marine assigned to embassy duty in the Philippines. The other grandchildren consisted of two boys—Bernardo and Gerald—offspring of Nestor’s youngest son Elias, and Roque’s three girls, who were still in high school. Both Gerald and Bernardo lived at home.

  Gerald worked in the business office at a regional vocational school and was engaged to be married in June. Bernardo worked with his Uncle Roque on the family ranch south of Las Vegas that Nestor had bought with part of the proceeds from the sale of Horse Canyon.

  Nestor had one great-grandchild, a two-year-old girl born out of wedlock to Bernardo and his former high school girlfriend, who lived in Denver. Under a court order, Bernardo paid child support of three hundred dollars a month, and his payments were up to date.

  Nestor’s wife had died several years before he’d sold Horse Canyon. He’d built the family compound on the Gallinas River to have his sons, their wives, and the grandchildren close to him, deeding a house and five acres to each of his boys, and keeping one parcel and a home for himself.

  Gabe approved of Nestor’s old-fashioned yet modern scheme to keep his extended family together. Too many Hispanic families had scattered as land changed hands and children moved away.

  None of the information about the Barelas surprised Gabe. He’d grown up with Elias Barela and knew the family fairly well.

  Nestor’s truck was parked in front of his house, but there wasn’t an answer when Gabe knocked at the door. He turned the corner of the house, saw three men leading saddled horses from the barn to a stock trailer, and walked down to meet them. When he got close, he recognized Nestor, Roque, and Bernardo.

  He nodded a greeting to Bernardo. “Did you have a good time with Orlando last night?”

  “Yeah, we drank a few beers and hung out for a while.”

  Gabe shook Roque’s hand. “Working hard, Roque?”

  Roque smiled. “Always. My father treats us like peons.”

  Nestor laughed. “You tell such stories, Roque.” He eyed Gabe’s civilian attire. “What brings the state police to see us?”

  “To ask a few questions. Did you know Carl Boaz?”

  “I didn’t even know his name until I read it in the paper,” Nestor said.

  “How about you?” Gabe asked Roque.

  “I knew him by sight,” Roque replied. “But not to talk to.”

  “How about Rudy Espinoza?”

  “We all knew Rudy,” Roque said. “He was nothing but trouble.”

  “Do not speak unkindly of the dead,” Nestor said.

  “I heard a rumor that you shot him,” Roque said, “for cutting wood and speeding.”

  “Did Rudy have your permission to enter the Fergurson property?” Gabe asked, sidestepping the remark.

  “Never,” Nestor answered. “I give no one permission to go on that land.”

  Gabe turned to Bernardo. “Did you ever see him driving a three-quarter-ton dark blue Chevy long bed?”

  “If I did, I don’t remember it. We don’t spend much time at the mesa.”

  “That’s right,” Roque added.

  “You said Rudy was trouble. Did he cause you any?”

  Roque shook his head. “Not personally.”

  “A gringo came here on Sunday,” Nestor said. “A tall man with a limp. I don’t remember his name. He was with another man in a pickup truck. He wanted to buy out my lease on the Fergurson property. He asked about Boaz.”

  Gabe knew of the chief’s visit to Barela and decided to keep it to himself. “Did he ask for Boaz by name?”

  “No,” Nestor said.

  “Did either Boaz or Rudy ever give you cause to be suspicious?”

  “Rudy just drank a lot,” Bernardo said.

  “He couldn’t keep a job,” Roque added.

  “That’s it?”

  “Rumors,” Roque said.

  “Rumors?”

  “That he was maybe breaking into some of the summer homes in the valley,” Roque said.

  “Who told you this?”

  “I don’t know where I heard it.”

  “Do you think he killed the woman you found on the mesa?” Bernardo asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gabe replied. Bernardo’s eager tone of voice struck him as somewhat odd. “What do you think?”

  Bernardo shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if he was so bad, why not?”

  “That’s an interesting theory. Do you know who Rudy hung out with?”

  “Not me,” Bernardo said.

  Both Roque and Nestor echoed Bernardo’s comment.

  “But I heard he got fired from Horse Canyon Ranch,” Roque added.

  “When?”

  “About a year ago. He worked there a short time.”

  “Do you know why he got canned?”

  “I have no idea. Emmet Griffin, the ranch manager, can tell you.”

  “Thanks,” Gabe said. He shook hands with the men and walked up the gentle incline toward the compound.

  Nestor waited until Gabe was out of earshot before turning to Bernardo. “Unsaddle my horse, Jito, and put him in the pasture.”

  “You’re not going to the ranch with us?” Roque asked.

  “No, I’m going to the mesa.”

  “What for?” Bernardo asked.

  “To see for myself what damage has been done.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Roque said.

  Nestor looked sharply at his son. His reaction brought a quick, acquiescent nod from Roque. His gaze moved to Bernardo, and he raised his chin to point at the trailer containing the three mounts. “Jito, get my horse and put him back in the pasture.”

  Bernardo moved off.

  “Well, be home before dark,” Roque said, still unable to mask his concern over Nestor’s plan to go to the mesa by himself.

  “Stop always worrying about me, Roque. You make me feel old, and I am not ready to welcome such a judgment.” He patted his son on the arm. “I’ll be back before you get home.”

  • • •

  On the road through Ojitos Frios, Nestor Barela found himself behind a slow-moving white van with a state government license plate. There were few places safe to pass on the dirt road, but he did so when the driver of the van opened the window and waved him around. He waved back at the woman and the passengers as he drove by. Soon the vehicle was out of sight in his rearview mirror.

  He grunted in annoyance as he approached the old cabin. The gate to the property stood open and the scrap wood that had been nailed over the cabin door had been pulled off. He wondered if the police had entered the old building searching for clues.

  Before he could take a look the white van appeared on the road. It slowed, turned, rattled over the cattle guard, and stopped next to his truck. Nestor approached the woman behind the
wheel. Painted on the side of the vehicle was the logo of the state university.

  “This land is posted,” he said to the woman. The six passengers with her all looked very young. “No trespassing.”

  “I have the owner’s permission,” Ruth Pino said.

  “The owner is dead,” Nestor replied.

  “The new owner is very much alive,” Ruth replied, studying the man. He was about her father’s age, perhaps a few years older, and his voice conveyed the tone of a man who expected to be obeyed.

  “Who is the new owner?”

  “Kevin Kerney. He inherited the property from Erma Fergurson.”

  The name registered with Nestor. “Does he walk with a limp?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “And you are sure he is the owner?”

  “I doubt that Mr. Kerney would lie to me,” Ruth replied. “He is the deputy chief of the state police. Would you mind telling me who you are?”

  “I hold the lease on this property,” Nestor said, concealing his surprise about Kerney and his profession. Why had the man not told him who he was?

  “Then you must be Nestor Barela,” Ruth said.

  “I am.”

  “You can’t deny us entry,” Ruth noted.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Fieldwork, Mr. Barela. There is a very rare plant on this land, and it must be protected.”

  “What kind of plant?” Nestor asked.

  “A cactus,” Ruth said. She described it in detail.

  “I have seen it.”

  Ruth’s eyes widened in expectation. “You must show us where.”

  “I have no time to hunt for plants,” Nestor said. “Where did you find this cactus?”

  “At the wood poaching site,” Ruth answered, “on the west side of the mesa.”

  “How much timber was taken?”

  Ruth shook her head sadly. “Far too much.”

  “I will go with you,” Nestor said. “I wish to see what has been done.”

  Ruth smiled. “We’ll follow you.”

  • • •

  It was midmorning when Susie Hayes took Sara’s call in her Tucson office. After listening to Sara, Susie decided to take the rest of the day off and spend it with her friend. She had never heard Sara sound so pensive.