Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  On their way to Susie’s car, Sara paused at the window of an art gallery and studied a large oil of cottonwood trees in full fall color.

  She looked for the artist’s signature and found it. “That’s Erma Fergurson’s work.”

  “The woman who left Kerney the land?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a wonderful painting.”

  Sara stepped toward the gallery door.

  “Are you sure you want to go in?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve avoided any mention of Kerney for the last six hours,” Susie said. “I’d hate to see you break your code of silence.”

  “Don’t be so sarcastic.”

  “I bet you haven’t stopped thinking about him since you left Santa Fe,” Susie said as she opened the gallery door.

  Sara paused. “Would you like to see more of Erma’s work or not?”

  Susie smiled sweetly. “Of course I would.”

  The gallery had a large number of Erma’s paintings. The owner, an older man, explained that he had exclusively represented Erma in Tucson for a number of years.

  Sara lost herself in Erma’s landscapes. There were pine forests climbing sheer mountain walls, barrel cactus ablaze in color on rolling desert sand dunes, piñon woodlands stretching across tabletop mesas, and fields of hot yellow wildflowers coursing through a valley. Erma’s works celebrated the light, sky, and vastness of the land. The smallest image was priced above $10,000, and most commanded three times that amount.

  The gallery owner heard Sara sigh as she finished a second, thorough inspection of Erma’s paintings.

  “Her works are heavily collected,” he said. “I have clients who have built additions on their homes to accommodate her larger works.”

  “I can see why.”

  “These are the last, except for what is held by her estate. The prices can only go up. Are you a collector?”

  “Only in my dreams.”

  “I have some of Erma’s pencil drawings hanging in my office. Mostly studies for her earlier egg temperas and watercolors. They’re quite reasonably priced. Would you like to see them?”

  “I would love to,” Sara said.

  An hour later, Sara left the gallery with a signed, framed pencil sketch of Hermit’s Peak in hand. The reasonable price had gouged a hole in her vacation funds, but Sara didn’t care.

  “When are you going to give it to him?” Susie asked as they walked to the car. Her eyes were smiling.

  “When I get back to Santa Fe,” Sara answered.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tonight.”

  Susie unlocked the car and got behind the wheel. “I thought so. Do me a favor before you see him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t try to have everything figured out. Let Kerney tell you what he wants.”

  “He may not want anything.”

  “Do I detect a note of insecurity?”

  “Maybe. Until I met Kerney, I’ve always encouraged the men I’ve known to move on.”

  Susie cranked the engine and pulled out of the lot. “And now?”

  “I can’t seem to stay that tough-minded about him.”

  “Tell him that.”

  “Those aren’t words I’m comfortable saying.”

  “Practice. You’ve got all night.”

  “Love is scary.”

  “Yes!” Susie said, holding up her hand for a high five.

  Sara slapped Susie’s open palm. “What?”

  “You used the L word.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “First time, about a man?”

  “First time ever, about a man.”

  “Use it with Kerney.”

  “You think?”

  “You’d better. Otherwise, he’s fair game for the likes of me.”

  “No cuts. Get at the back of the line.”

  “Thatta girl.”

  • • •

  Kerney studied Orlando Gonzales while he waited for the young man to finish his stint at the drive-up window of the burger joint. Orlando had his fast-food drill down to a well-oiled routine. He began filling orders as they came in over the drive-up speaker, moving quickly between drink dispenser, french fry cooker, and burger-warming trays.

  Kerney saw a hint of Gabe in the boy’s features, particularly the shape of his head and his chin. But his face was thinner and his eyes a bit less deeply set than his father’s.

  When the drive-up traffic slowed, the night manager relieved Orlando at the window and pointed in Kerney’s direction.

  Orlando pulled off his red company logo cap as he hurried around the counter. “Is my dad all right?”

  “He’s fine, although you may not see much of him until tomorrow. He’s fairly busy right now.”

  Orlando’s shoulders relaxed as he sat down. “Man, you scared me for a minute. All my boss said was that a cop wanted to see me.”

  “Not to worry. Gabe hasn’t been hurt.”

  “So, who are you?”

  “Kevin Kerney.” Kerney displayed his shield.

  Orlando read the engraved rank on the badge. “Is my dad in trouble?”

  Kerney smiled reassuringly. “Not at all. He suggested that I talk to you.”

  Orlando shook his head in confusion. “About what?”

  “Bernardo Barela.”

  Orlando half-closed his eyes. “He’s in trouble?”

  “Not necessarily,” Kerney replied. “You’ve known Bernardo for a long time.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t hang together very much anymore.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “We had a couple of beers a few nights ago. Before that, it’s been maybe a year since we’ve seen each other.”

  “Did he ever mention a girl by the name of Luiza San Miguel?”

  Orlando’s voice changed to a thin treble. “Who?”

  “Luiza San Miguel.”

  “I don’t know that name. I don’t know who he’s dating.”

  “You’re not tight with Bernardo anymore?”

  Orlando forced a smile. “Nah. We sort of went different ways. He’s really into the ranching thing and I’m pretty much preoccupied with school.”

  “That’s understandable. Is he popular with the girls?”

  “He gets his share of attention.”

  “Does he brag about it?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Has he dated anyone you know?”

  Orlando mentioned some names, which Kerney wrote down.

  “What about his pals?”

  He gave Kerney a few more names.

  After finding out how to locate Bernardo’s friends, Kerney closed his notebook and put it away.

  “Is Bernardo in bad trouble?” Orlando asked.

  “You’re worried about him.”

  “Well, sure. I mean, he’s still a friend, sort of.”

  “When was your last contact with him?”

  “Before this week?”

  “Yes.”

  Orlando closed his eyes. “It was at a party. Yeah, a party.” His eyes fluttered open. “I saw him there and we shot the shit for a while.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last spring. April, maybe May.”

  “Did he seem upset? Agitated? In any way different?”

  “No.”

  “Who had the party?”

  “It was at some girl’s apartment. I didn’t know her. A bunch of us got invited on the spur of the moment.”

  “Was Bernardo with anyone at the party?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you do any cruising with Bernardo early last year, around Ojitos Frios?”

  “I haven’t cruised with Bernardo since we were in high school.”

  “Has Bernardo ever done anything strange or weird?”

  “You mean like crazy shit? Not that I know about.”

  “Thanks, Orlando.”

  Orlando opened his mouth, closed it, and swa
llowed hard.

  “Did you want to say something?”

  “I gotta get back to work.”

  “Thanks, again.”

  Numbly, Orlando watched Kerney leave before he pulled himself out of the chair and walked woodenly to the counter. The assistant manager stepped away from the drive-up station and said something.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got three specials with cheese coming up, and three large fries. The super drinks are ready to go.”

  “Okay.”

  He stuck the drinks on the foam tray, packed the fries and ketchup packets in a bag, wrapped the burgers as they came up, bagged them, and turned toward the pass-through window. The reflection of his pale face and pinched lips in the glass startled him.

  • • •

  Officers Garcia and Thorpe arrived in Santa Rosa and quickly discovered that there were no warehouses or storage units in the town. But they did find a number of boarded-up, vacant filling stations, motels, and other structures on the main drag that had closed down as new commercial development spread along the frontage road by the interstate on the east side of the city.

  Garcia decided to check out the vacant buildings on the off chance that Alarid was using one for storage. He assigned Thorpe to one side of the strip and took the other. After two hours of close patrols, he contacted Thorpe by radio, called off the building checks, and met with him outside the Santa Rosa State Police substation.

  “I’m shutting it down,” Garcia said. “Go home.”

  “I still think Sarge is right,” Thorpe said. “Alarid has got to be warehousing the stolen merchandise somewhere.”

  “Not in this town.”

  “Maybe he’s storing it in the countryside somewhere, where he won’t draw attention to himself.”

  “Possibly. But that covers a lot of territory.”

  “I’d like to come back tomorrow morning and take another look around.”

  “We’re out of our district. Let the Santa Rosa substation handle it.”

  “Then they’d get the bust.”

  “If they find anything.”

  “Just give me the morning.”

  “Don’t be so gung-ho, Thorpe.”

  “Come on, Art.”

  Garcia decided there was no reason to squash Thorpe’s enthusiasm. “Okay. But I want you to work with Abe Melendez. He’s the sergeant in charge of the Santa Rosa substation. If you strike out, I want you back in Las Vegas by thirteen hundred. Now, go home.”

  Garcia watched Thorpe turn his unit around and drive down the empty street. He flicked on the dome light, made an entry in his daily log, and informed dispatch he was off duty and proceeding home.

  • • •

  Her name was Jessica Varela, and over the past six months Bernardo had learned a lot about her. She was thirty, divorced, had no children, and lived alone on the second floor of an old house that had been converted into two apartments. She worked as a cashier at a hardware store and took night courses at the university.

  When Bernardo first saw her at the hardware store he got really turned on. She hid her face behind long blonde hair, kept her head lowered when she spoke, and only looked up to give quick, shy glances. She had a smile that seemed like she was keeping secrets, a small, skinny body, slightly rounded shoulders, and a nice set of tits.

  He went into the store a lot to get stuff for the ranch, and he used each visit to talk to her at the register, asking one or two calculated questions. He’d been surprised to learn how old she was; he’d figured her to be a lot younger. He found out she was a gringa who’d kept her married name, that she’d grown up in the Midwest, and had moved to Las Vegas from Albuquerque after getting divorced.

  Bernardo sat in his car across from the hardware store and watched the lights inside the building go out. The store stayed open late three nights a week, and Jessica worked on those nights when she didn’t have an evening class.

  He watched the employees leave and waited until Jessica reached the traffic light at the corner before pulling onto the street to follow.

  She always took the same route home, so Bernardo didn’t have to worry about losing her. He passed by as she pulled into her driveway, made a U-turn at the end of the block, turned off his headlights, and coasted to a stop in time to see her unlock the front door and step inside. He waited until the upstairs lights came on before getting out of his car.

  Usually he just drove away after she got home, but tonight something about the house was different; the downstairs apartment was dark. Always before the lights had been on at night.

  Bernardo walked down the opposite side of the street before crossing, then strolled past Jessica’s house. There was a FOR RENT sign in the downstairs window. That made him smile. The house only had one front and back entrance, and the rear door opened directly to the first floor apartment. He’d been looking for a way to get inside without being seen or heard. Trying to break in on a morning when she went to work late had always been a risky idea because of the downstairs tenants. Now that problem was solved.

  He wondered what the inside of her apartment looked like. He couldn’t wait to see it.

  Bernardo got back in his car and drove away, thinking he’d have to move fast before the landlord found new renters. He arrived home to find his grandfather leaving his parents’ house.

  “Jito,” Nestor said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “What is it?”

  Nestor held out a business card. “That policeman, Kerney, wants to speak to you.”

  “Me?” Bernardo took the card.

  “Yes, you. Your uncle Roque said that you’ve already spoken to him once, about some girl. What is this all about?”

  “I don’t know, Abuelo. What did he ask you about me?”

  “Nothing really. He wanted to know if I let you use my truck.”

  “I already talked to him about that,” Bernardo said. “I have nothing more to tell him.”

  “Be polite and respectful, Bernardo. Speak with Señor Kerney, answer his questions, and be done with it.”

  Bernardo nodded abruptly, got back in his car, and slammed the door.

  “Where are you going?” Nestor asked. “It is late and you have work to do in the morning.”

  “I forgot something.”

  Bernardo peeled rubber out of the driveway, tailpipes rumbling as he shifted into a higher gear. He cruised past the burger joint, saw Orlando’s car, and made a quick decision not to bother him at work. In the morning, he would call and find out if Orlando had talked to the gringo cop Kerney and what, if anything, Orlando had said.

  His plans for Jessica would have to wait for a day or two.

  • • •

  Orlando woke up from a dream where he was lost in some strange city that was impossible to leave. No matter which way he went, every route took him back to a block of windowless, silent buildings on an empty street with no cars or people.

  He got out of bed thinking that if he waited until the end of the semester to move to Albuquerque, it might be too late.

  He showered, shaved, returned to his room, sat at his desk, and figured out how much money he could pull together if he split. If he used his car insurance payment, the two hundred bucks he had in savings, and his last paycheck, he could come up with about seven hundred dollars.

  His stomach sank as the realization hit him that running away wouldn’t change anything. His life would still be fucked. He threw the scrap of paper in the waste-basket, got to his feet, and slung his daypack over his shoulder. If he left now, maybe Dad would still be in the shower when he hit the front door. The phone rang as he reached for his jacket.

  “Did a state cop named Kerney talk to you?” Bernardo asked when Orlando answered.

  “Yeah, last night”

  “What about?”

  “You.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “We need to meet.”

  “Why?”

  “To get o
ur stories straight, before the cop gets all suspicious.”

  “How did he get on to you?”

  “The bitch used to work at a place out near my abuelo’s ranch. He’s just talking to people who might have known her.”

  “I thought you didn’t know her.”

  “I already told you I didn’t.”

  “So why is the cop interested in you?”

  “He’s interested in both of us, bro. He asked me about driving around Ojitos Frios in my grandfather’s truck with somebody last April. Does he know that was you?”

  “We’re screwed,” Orlando said.

  “Does he know that was you?” Bernardo demanded.

  “No. What are we going to do?”

  “Come up with something simple about where we were and what we did. Get our stories straight. Back each other up. He already talked to my grandfather. He wants to talk to me again.”

  “Shit!”

  “We gotta meet.”

  “Okay.”

  “Some place where no one will see us. How about down by the Gallinas River where we used to party in high school?”

  “That’s miles from here.”

  “It’s halfway to town from my grandfather’s ranch.”

  “When?”

  “Can you make it by ten?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just don’t say anything to your old man.”

  “I’m not stupid, Bernardo,” Orlando said as he hung up the phone.

  He hurried down the stairs, saw his father sitting at the kitchen table, and stopped in the doorway.

  “Hey, champ, who was on the phone?” Gabe asked.

  “A guy from school. He wants to borrow my class notes. Gotta go.”

  “Give me a minute before you take off.”

  Orlando stepped into the kitchen. “Sure.”

  “My deputy chief wants to talk to you about Bernardo.”

  “He already did, last night.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “Just who Bernardo’s friends were.”

  “What else did he ask?”

  “He asked me if Bernardo was popular with the girls, and if I ever went cruising with him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much. Oh yeah, he wanted to know about somebody named Luiza.”

  “Luiza who?”

  “San Miguel. I don’t know who she is.”

  “That’s not a common name. More Mexican than Hispanic. You gave him the straight scoop?”