Hermit's Peak
Page 27
“Let him sleep. Tell him it’s very important not to talk to the ADA until he speak with me.”
“Will do.”
“Have the funeral services for Orlando been set?”
“Not yet.” Art eyed Kerney warily. “Gabe told me he put a big hurt on Bernardo to get a confession.”
“I didn’t see it that way. I told the ADA we used reasonable force to stop the action, and Bernardo’s confession was voluntary.”
Art looked relieved. “I’ll tell him that when he wakes up.”
“Do that, and have him call me.”
• • •
Bernardo looked up from his concrete bunk and stared at Kerney through the bars of his cell. His broken nose, which had been set by the jail doctor, was covered with a bandage, and two of his upper front teeth were missing.
“I’m not talking to you,” Bernardo said. “My lawyer said not to.”
“You don’t have to talk, just listen. You’re going to prison on a life sentence without parole, if they don’t fry your ass. Either way, I’m going to make the time you have in the slammer very interesting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The boys in the joint are going to smack their lips when they hear that you’re going to join them. You’ll be somebody’s girlfriend within a week. Maybe everybody’s.”
Bernardo flinched. “You can’t do that.”
Kerney smiled. “Watch me. Take my advice, Bernardo. Go with the flow. You’re not going to survive in prison any other way.”
“I’m walking out of here. My lawyer said he’s going to get my confession suppressed because you and Gonzales beat it out of me.”
“I don’t think so. It will be your word against ours. But if by chance you ever live to see the light of day outside of a prison cell, let me tell you a secret, Bernardo.”
“What?”
Kerney gestured with his finger. “Come here.”
Cautiously, Bernardo approached the cell bars.
Kerney dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
Kerney’s bluff made Bernardo’s face turn white.
“Have a good day,” Kerney said.
• • •
Kerney called Dale Jennings at five-thirty Saturday morning just as Sara came out of the bedroom wearing nothing but panties. She kissed him on the cheek, ruffled his hair, and moved to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee.
Dale answered on the first ring.
“Have you had your coffee yet?” Kerney asked, knowing full well Dale had been up for at least an hour.
“Yep. I don’t have a cushy eight-to-five job like you. Gotta work for a living.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Should I be?”
“Maybe. Sara and I are getting married.”
Dale whooped. “Well, I’ll be damned. What a lucky son of a bitch you are.”
“I know it. I want you to be my best man.”
“Tell me when and tell me where.”
“Montana in a week, at the Brannon ranch. Can you, Barbara, and the girls make it?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Damn, Kerney, I’m happy for you. It’s about time.”
“I’m pretty happy myself.”
Sara came back from the kitchen, sat next to Kerney on the couch, and sipped her coffee.
“You got yourself a prize, old friend.”
“My prize is nibbling on my ear as we speak.”
“Barbara hasn’t nibbled on my ear in a week.”
“I hear that happens to old married folks.”
“Stop wisecracking and put the bride-to-be on the phone. Maybe I can talk her out of making a big mistake.”
“Who’s wisecracking now?” Kerney held the phone out to Sara. “He’s all yours.”
Sara put the coffee cup down, covered the receiver with her hand, and glanced at Kerney’s crotch. “You look very sexy in boxer shorts. What’s that thing that’s poking out?”
“A surprise.”
“I like surprises.” She took her hand off the receiver and sat on Kerney’s lap, facing him. “Dale, can I call you right back, in about twenty minutes?”
“Sure thing,” Dale said.
“Talk to you then.” Sara dropped the phone on the floor.
• • •
Kerney and Sara arrived at the old stone cabin at the foot of the mesa to find the gate open and a dozen or so vehicles neatly parked in front of a cardboard sign stapled to a wooden stake that read VOLUNTEERS PARK HERE ONLY. Another similar sign at the ranch road read SHUTTLE VAN AND DELIVERY TRUCKS ONLY.
Kerney had filled Sara in on the weekend project underway at the Knowlton cactus site, and the demand Ruth Pino had made that he meet with a Nature Conservancy staffer.
“It seems she has everything well organized,” she said.
“I don’t think Professor Pino leaves much to chance. I’ll bet she’s working her volunteers like an infantry squad on bivouac.”
“She’s not your favorite person.”
“Maybe you can relate to her.”
“Are we hiking in on our own, or taking the Ruth Pino–guided nature tour?” Sara asked as she reached for her backpack and slipped her arms into the shoulder straps.
“We’ll hike,” Kerney said.
He slung on his backpack and made a beeline up the side of the mesa. At the top, Sara tried to slow Kerney down. She stopped to take in the view, examine wildflowers, and adjust the harness on her pack. Each time, Kerney waited impatiently, looking preoccupied and withdrawn, before striding off again.
When they reached the windmill and stock tank, Sara tugged on Kerney’s shirtsleeve. “Want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Your silence. This forced-march pace we’re on. The fact that you haven’t said five words in the last hour.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s bothering you?”
“I can’t get Gabe Gonzales out of my mind.”
“You’re worried about him,” Sara said.
“He’s a damn good man, and his life has been ripped apart. He has to live with the fact that his murdered son was a rapist.”
“That can’t be easy,” Sara said.
“It’s a hundred times worse if you’re a cop.”
“Can Gabe cope?”
“I hope so. I don’t know.”
“What about you?” Sara asked.
“Me?”
“You don’t seem very happy.”
Kerney looked at the high flanks of the mountains that dominated the skyline and the soft green spring grass that rippled across the mesa. “I’ve been trying to enjoy myself,” he said, “but it isn’t working. I can’t hold on to this land, Sara.”
“Sell it.”
Kerney smiled sadly. “That’s what Dale said. I’ve got no choice in the matter, anyway.”
“Do it.”
“Erma wanted me to have it.”
“Erma wanted you to be happy. That was her gift to you.” Sara stroked Kerney’s face. “Use it to make her wish come true.”
“Think she would understand?”
“Of course.” Sara pulled Kerney by the collar and kissed him on the lips.
“What’s that for?” Kerney asked.
“Luck. Let’s go hear what kind of deal the Nature Conservancy has to offer. Just don’t give the place away.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
Sara’s voice rippled with laughter. “You’d better not be.”
• • •
After arriving at the Knowlton cactus site, Kerney and Sara worked through the morning with Ruth Pino and her volunteers, setting fence posts and stringing wire. At the noon lunch break, they sat down with Reese Carson and listened to his proposal. The Nature Conservancy wanted to buy all ten sections, not only to protect the rare Knowlton cactus, but to stop any further subdivision of the land.
The open range on the mesa influenced the Nature Conservancy’s deci
sion. As one of the last grassland mesas in the area, the land was prime grazing for deer and elk migrating down from the mountains.
“It would be a wonderful plant and wildlife habitat, Mr. Kerney,” Carson noted. “I hope you’ll consider selling it to us.”
“At full value?” Kerney asked.
“No. You sell the property to us for less than the appraisal. But it reduces your state and federal taxes. While it’s not an even trade-off, you get the satisfaction of not paying the full tax burden, and insuring that the land remains intact and unspoiled.”
“How much of a per-acre reduction are you looking at?” Kerney asked.
“We can negotiate that,” Carson said. “If you agree in principle to the idea, we’ll crunch some numbers for you at different per-acre costs. I promise you’ll come out of the deal well compensated.”
“Give me a ballpark figure.”
“We’ve got to do the math first, Mr. Kerney. But you’ll still be a very rich man.”
Kerney mulled it over. He’d always hoped to scratch together just enough cash to get a ranch started, never expecting more would ever be possible. Even if he gave up some of the proceeds, the mesa would be protected, and he would still be able to comfortably realize his dream.
“You can verify our financial analysis with your own CPA before deciding on our offer,” Reese added.
Kerney looked at Sara.
She nodded her head.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I think Erma would like to see the land stay just the way it is,” she said.
Kerney smiled and turned to Carson. “Go ahead and crunch the numbers. We’ll take a look at your offer.”
“That’s great,” Reese said.
“What are you going to call the preserve?” Sara asked.
“We usually retain the most commonly used place name,” Reese said.
“I think it should be called the Fergurson Mesa Ranch,” Sara said.
“Or the Erma Fergurson Ranch,” Kerney offered.
“Or the Erma Fergurson Mesa Ranch Preserve,” Sara countered.
Reese Carson smiled at Kerney and Sara. “If we strike a deal, and the two of you can agree, you can stipulate the name. I’ll put it in the contract as a condition of the sale.”
• • •
Two weeks after Orlando’s funeral, Gabe knew that everything had changed forever. The terrible burning sensation in his stomach never stopped and at night sleep came only after he took a sedative. But the pills didn’t keep away the dreams that left him dazed in the morning, wondering if he’d been sleeping or hallucinating.
One dream recurred over and over. In it, he was standing at the edge of the trench looking down at Orlando’s crushed body, watching it decay to an anonymous skeleton, all traces of identity dissolved away.
Each time he would awake from the dream with throbbing temples and a racing heart.
Gabe’s shrink had him keep a daily journal of his thoughts and feelings. Gabe didn’t write down anything about his dream, and not much about how he felt, for that matter. He just didn’t have the words for it. He doubted there were any.
In his sessions, the shrink kept pushing him to talk about his grief, anger, and pain. Although he felt empty and drained, Gabe faked it well enough to get a green light to return to duty.
He sat on the living room couch, bit into the sandwich, chewed mechanically, and stared at the television. Tomorrow he was due back to work. Yesterday, Theresa and her boyfriend had come up from Albuquerque to cart away some of Orlando’s things as keepsakes. After they left, Gabe had packed up everything else—Orlando’s clothes, books, old toys, the stereo, the TV, the linens and pillows from the bed, even the baseball card collection—and had taken it all to the dump. Then he’d cleaned the room from top to bottom and locked the door.
He put his half-eaten sandwich on the plate and went to the kitchen. All his thank-you notes for the sympathy cards were ready to be mailed. Chief Kerney wouldn’t get his note until he got back from his honeymoon in Ireland. He gathered them up, took them to the mailbox outside the public library, and dropped them down the chute.
This was the first night that he wasn’t being watched like a hawk by some cop pretending to keep him company. It felt good not to bullshit people that he was doing all right.
On his way back to the house, Gabe looked at the moon and saw two bright stars nearby. He didn’t know much about stars, constellations, or astronomy. Maybe they were satellites. But satellites weren’t supposed to flicker.
Orlando would have known whether they were stars or not, Gabe thought as he stood in his front yard. But Orlando would never be around to tell him such things again.
He placed the muzzle of the pistol in his ear, but couldn’t pull the trigger. His hand shook so hard the weapon banged against his cheekbone. He lowered the gun and stared at the house his grandfather had built, wondering why he’d put all his time, money, and effort into restoring it. His family was shattered and his pride in what the house once represented no longer mattered.
He leveled the gun at the living room window and pulled off a round. The lead glass shattered. He kept pointing and firing at every window in the front of the house until the handgun emptied. Lights went on inside the neighboring houses. As the growing sound of a siren pierced the night, Gabe walked to the porch step, sat, and stared at the ground. Glare from a spotlight washed over him, and Art Garcia’s voice came out of the darkness.
“Toss the handgun, Gabe.”
The weapon felt heavy in Gabe’s hand. “It’s empty.”
“Please, Gabe, lose the gun,” Art said, almost pleading, as he came up the walkway.
Gabe flipped it onto the grass and started crying, unable to hold back the sobs.
Art sat on the porch step, put an arm around Gabe’s shoulders, and waited for the crying to stop.
When Gabe opened his eyes, he saw Russell Thorpe, Ben Morfin, Captain Garduno, and several state and city patrol officers standing in the front yard.
Embarrassed, he dropped his head, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “What am I gonna do, Art?” he asked softly.
Art patted Gabe’s shoulder. “You’ll get through it.”
© SEAN McGARRITY
MICHAEL McGARRITY is the national bestselling author of twelve Kevin Kerney novels, including the Anthony Award nominee Tularosa. His newest novel, Hard Country, is the first book in a prequel trilogy to his series. Visit www.michaelmcgarrity.com.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
THE SOURCE FOR READING GROUPS
Facebook.com/ScribnerBooks
Twitter.com/ScribnerBooks
COVER DESIGN BY JOHN VAIRO JR.
ALSO BY MICHAEL McGARRITY
Tularosa
Mexican Hat
Serpent Gate
The Judas Judge
Under the Color of Law
Slow Kill
The Big Gamble
Nothing But Trouble
Death Song
Everyone Dies
Dead or Alive
Hard Country
We hope you enjoyed reading this Scribner eBook.
* * *
Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Scribner and Simon & Schuster.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com
SCRIBNER
A Division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by Michael McGarrity
All rights reserved, including the rig
ht to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Star Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This Scribner trade paperback edition April 2012
SCRIBNER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-6848-5078-8
ISBN 978-1-4516-6680-9 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-4391-4092-5 (ebook)