Tularosa Michael McGarrity
In memory of Maggie, who taught me the meaning of perseverance,
and for Mimi and Sean, who always believed,
and HH, who helped me find the key.
Author's Note
Many of the historical events, people, and places described in this book are based on fact, while some are pure fiction or an elaboration of legend. Tularosa in Spanish means reddish reeds or willows.
Chapter 1.
Early-morning clouds, shreds of a heavy late-night rainstorm, masked the Ortiz Mountains. Wispy tendrils drifted over the foothills, turned into translucent streamers, and vanished in the sky. The cabin roof had leaked during the night, soaking a stack of unopened junk mail and the borrowed copy of a Winston Churchill biography left on the cushion of an easy chair. The chair smelled like wet cat piss, and Kerney didn't own a cat. Kerney mopped up the floor, dragged the chair outside into the sun, and tipped it over. The junk mail and catalogs dribbled into a brown puddle in the driveway, floated momentarily, and sank out of sight. The cover model on the Victoria's Secret catalog pouted up at him as the brown stain seeped into her eyes.
The saffron sun in the east, an extravagant eye, washed the mesa in soft light. Inside, Kerney popped the Tchaikovsky tape in the cassette desk and cranked up the volume. The music, pushed along by a slight breeze, followed him to the horse barn, where a gallon of roof asphalt sat next to the ladder, both conveniently at hand for the leaks that never failed to materialize after a soaking, windblown rain. He had patched the roof so many times it was now nothing more than a routine challenge. Given a few more storms, every seam, nail hole, and protrusion on the pitched roof would be coated with asphalt gook. The old cabin wanted to sink into oblivion. Listing on a stone foundation, it was pretty to the eye, with a fresh coat of white paint and dark green trim around the windows and doors, but sadly in need of major renovation. Kerney strapped on a tool belt, deciding he would pull up the whole strip of roofing paper and slop gook directly on the boards over the leak. He carried the ladder to the cabin, set it against the side of the house, and stripped off his shirt. With the asphalt can in one hand, Kerney hauled himself up the ladder, dragging his right leg slowly to each rung. The knee just didn't bend the way it used to, in spite of the best efforts of modern medicine. He nailed a two-by-four to the roof to serve as a brace, crawled off the ladder, and planted his left foot against the brace to keep from sliding backward. In position, he stretched out on his stomach and got to work with the hammer pulling nails and stripping off the tar paper in the area of the leak. His reconstructed right knee, extended as far as it would go, protested. The planks under the tar paper had separated, leaving an inch gap between the boards. He smeared asphalt into the crevices and on the boards, thinking it was time to ask his landlord to spring for the cost of materials for a new roof. Quinn would oblige, and Kerney would have another project to occupy his time. The Tchaikovsky concerto recycled several times on the stereo before Kerney finished the patch job. He're nailed the tar paper, coated the nail heads with gook, and looked out over the basin. There was a flash of reflected light on the dirt road that cut through the rock escarpment to the ranch. The road, still filled with runoff from the storm, glistened like a wire ribbon in the sharp morning light. He dropped the empty asphalt can to the ground and climbed down the ladder, using his left leg to hop from rung to rung. He walked to the gate and swung it open, leaving sticky black fingerprints on the railing, and watched the vehicle bounce in and out of the ruts of standing water, spewing mud as the tires dug through the puddles. There was no reason for a visitor. Quinn, his landlord, employer, and chief book lender, was presenting a paper at a medical convention in Seattle. After that, he was flying to Germany to attend another conference and take a long vacation. Kerney liked working for a wandering landlord. Most of the time he had the place to himself.
The car splattered through the mud and swerved through the slimy dirt in the roadbed, the tires throwing up a heavy spray of brown paste. Windshield wipers, operating at high speed, smeared the ooze over the glass, making it impossible for Kerney to see into the vehicle. He walked to the porch, sat on the step, and started cleaning the asphalt gook from his hands with a rag drenched in paint thinner. The fumes of the solvent made him sneeze, and he covered his nose with sticky fingers. Before he could go in and clean his face, the car plowed through the last puddle by the gate and rolled to a stop on the packed gravel driveway. It was a new, slick-top police cruiser with emergency lights mounted on the front bumper. Even close up, with the wipers going full blast, the man behind the wheel was obscured by a grimy film of dirt. In Kerney's time at the ranch--well over a year--this was the first visit by a cop.
A stocky man in a white uniform shirt got out and stood behind the open door of the cruiser, with the engine still running. He wore a tribal police badge over the left pocket of the uniform shirt and a Sam Browne belt with a.357 pistol in a high-rise holster.
From the waist down he wore blue jeans and cowboy boots. The two men stared at each other cross the ten yards that separated them.
"Goddamn mud," Terry Yazzi muttered, reaching in to turn off the engine. Kerney stood up and said nothing as Terry left the car and walked toward him. In the cabin the tape deck recycled once again and the lyrical first movement of the concerto began anew. Terry stopped three feet from Kerney, his eyes avoiding contact. Instead, he looked at the foreman's cabin, a white clapboard box with a small covered porch, then switched his gaze to the ranch house behind it, nestled at the base of a mesa. He took in the horse barn and corral off to one side across a small meadow, and the upended chair in front of the cabin porch. He compressed his lips and finally looked at Kerney. As he opened his mouth to speak, Kerney hit him flush on the jaw, knocking him flat on his ass. The blow made Terry's teeth ache. He got to his feet and brushed himself off.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"No. I hurt my hand," Kerney replied. "What are you doing here, Terry?" Terry's face had a healthy glow. His brown eyes were clear and serious. He had shed some weight and looked fit. Three years could bring changes.
"I asked you a question," Kerney said. God, he wanted to hit him again.
"I heard you," Terry answered. He glanced at Kerney's naked stomach, turned away, and looked out at the expanse of the Galisteo Basin, trying hard to regain his composure. The land rolled down from the ranch through thickly studded stands of pinon and juniper trees. It gave way to rangeland that butted against an escarpment that looked almost like an enormous, ancient man-made fortification. He took it in indifferently, and swallowed hard to keep down the bile that welled up in his mouth from the sight of the scar on Kerney's stomach. The ugly entry wound and the long surgical incision brought the memory smashing into his head like a freight train. In spite of himself, he remembered the day three years ago at the stakeout. The image of Kerney curled into a ball clutching his gut as the blood came gushing out made Terry wince. He turned around and glanced at the scar again.
"You've got some tar on your face," he said finally, raising his eyes.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Around your nose and mouth."
"No shit?" Kerney rubbed his nose and inspected his fingertip.
"You're right. Thanks for pointing it out. Now go away, Terry." Terry stared back at him. His long, black hair, tied back at the nape of his neck, accentuated his Navajo features: a high forehead above dark brown eyes and round cheeks. His tense lips were pressed thin.
Kerney wondered how long it would be before Terry stared at the scar again. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.
"Did you get my letter?" Terry finally asked, shifting his gaze back to the scar.
"Letter? Let me check." Kerney walked to the puddle, retrieved the soggy envelopes, and pulled apart the coagulated mess until he found Terry's unopened letter. He held it up by the corner.
"This must be it," he said, dropping it back in the puddle.
"What did it say?"
"You're still really pissed, aren't you?"
"Not at all. I just don't give a damn." Terry rubbed his jaw.
"You punch pretty hard for somebody who doesn't care."
"I appreciated the opportunity to deck you. Why are you here?"
"It's Sammy. He's missing. He's A.W.O.L. from the Army." Kerney took in the information, his nger at Terry dissipating as concern about Sammy rose to replace it. Terry's son was a person he cared about.
"That's hard to believe."
"He's been stationed at White Sands for the past eight months. He disappeared six weeks ago. I've used up all my annual leave looking for him, por nada. Nothing. And the Army hasn't a clue why he's missing."
"Maria must be worried sick."
"Both of us are," Terry said.
"We want you to find him for us." Kerney's laugh was bitter. "I don't do that kind of work anymore."
"Listen, as far as the Army is concerned, Sammy is just another enlisted fuckup. All I got was a lot of bullshit about how I should go home and let them do their job. I was stonewalled at every turn."
"What makes you think I'd be treated any differently?"
"You won't be, but you're the best investigator I know. It's in your blood. You've got the right instincts."
"Is that so?" Terry shook his head at the sarcasm in Kerney's voice.
"I'm not trying to butter you up. I'm a street cop, not a detective. Sammy deserves better than what I can give."
Kerney said nothing for a minute.
"I've never heard you sound so modest. Have you stopped drinking?"
"I've been sober for two years." Terry tried to force himself to keep his attention off Kerney's stomach. It didn't work. He looked one more time.
"Like it?" Kerney asked.
"Wallace Stegner once wrote that the lessons of life amount to scar tissue." Terry shifted his weight uneasily. "It makes me want to puke. You should have fired my ass."
"I would have," Kerney agreed, "if you had told me the truth." Terry nodded in agreement.
"That too."
"Don't start apologizing," Kerney retorted, "or I'll start to puke." He pointed at the badge on Terry's shirt and changed the subject.
"I see you found another job after the department canned your ass."
"Maria pulled strings with the tribal council. I had to go through treatment before I could start the job. I'm on like a permanent probation. One drink or major fuckup and I'm fired."
Kerney weighed Terry's words. He sounded solid and straight. And it took some courage for him to show his face, Kerney thought.
"I hope it works out for you," he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
"I'll make it work. Find Sammy for me," he insisted.
"I can't help you." Kerney turned and walked into the cabin, letting the screen door slam behind him.
"Can't or won't?" Terry called out over the concerto's cadenza.
In the bathroom Kerney scrubbed ferociously with a washcloth to get the asphalt off his face, cursing to himself under his breath. He heard the screen door slam shut again over the strains of the final coda, threw the cloth into the basin of the sink, and went back into the living room to kick Terry out of his house. One look at Terry, legs rooted to the floor, told him he'd have to drag him out inch by inch. He walked to the tape deck and turned it off. Silence flooded the room.
"You're a persistent son of a bitch," he said.
"Sammy's my only child. You're his godfather, for chrissake. Don't hold my fuckups against him."
Terry squinted, looked away, and ground his teeth together to keep himself from begging. If it came to that, he'd do it. He took a breath and surveyed the room. It was sparsely furnished. Two old Navajo rugs, the sum total of Kerney's inheritance from his family, hung on the walls. A single bookshelf under a casement window held a television, radio, stereo, and some hardback books. A wrought-iron cafe table with a glass top and a matching chair stood to one side of the kitchen door, positioned for the view out a front window. It was as bleak as Terry's trailer; a far cry from the comfortable Santa Fe apartment Kerney had once shared with his girlfriend, now long gone.
"Get out of here, Terry," Kerney ordered. Terry unbuttoned his uniform shirt, extracted an envelope, and held it out.
"I'll pay for your time. Five thousand dollars." Kerney didn't touch the envelope.
"You don't have that kind of money."
"Banks do," Terry responded, thrusting the envelope closer. "I borrowed it."
Kerney plucked the envelope out of Terry's hand and opened the unsealed flap. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He felt the weight of the currency in his palm. Kerney waved the envelope at him.
"Guilt money, Terry?" Terry glared at him.
"No way."
"I could spend it all and find nothing."
"I'll get more if you use it up." Kerney stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his jeans.
"Tell me everything you learned at the missile range."
Terry gestured at the door. "I've got a file in the squad car. It's slim pickings."
"Let's see it," Kerney said, following Terry outside. The New Mexico sky was piercing blue and the air felt humid with the promise of more rain. The volcanic escarpment that blocked the highway from view sat under a cloud, the jagged points of the rift vague in the distance. Terry moved quickly to his squad car, reached in through the open door, and retrieved a folder. Kerney took it.
"I'll get started right away."
"You don't know how much I appreciate this." Kerney didn't respond. Head down, he leafed through the papers, scanning them quickly. "Kevin?"
Kerney turned away. "I'll be in touch."
"When Sammy came to see you.. . before he went into the Army... I mean, what was that about?"
"He wanted to ask my opinion about enlisting. I told him to blow it off and go to college."
"Did he tell you what I said?"
"As a matter of fact he did. It seems you preached the gospel of Duty, Honor, and Country."
"Stupid," Terry muttered. "If anything happened to him because of what I said.. ." He shook off
the thought.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Kerney cautioned. He closed the file and nestled it under his arm.
"Did you develop any leads off the base?"
"No. Sammy stayed pretty close to the post. He spent some time in Las Cruces, but as far as I can tell he wasn't into the bar scene or doing a lot of skirt chasing."
"Was he having any personal problems?" Kerney asked.
"None that he talked about with me or his mother. Maria would have known if he was bummed out, or in a bind. She has a kind of radar about Sammy that way. His buddies I talked to drew a blank when I asked if he was in any trouble."
"Are you and Maria back together?"
"Not a chance."
"Still living in the same place?" Terry nodded.
"Same phone number?" Terry nodded again.
"I'll be in touch."
Terry handed him a business card. "Leave a message at the office if I'm not at home."
Kerney studied the card. "Okay, Chief," he said, slipping it into the folder. The sarcasm stung.
"Why didn't you finish kicking the shit out of me?"
Kerney laughed. "You'd let me do that?"
"No way," Terry replied. He got in the police car, closed the door, rolled down the window, and started the engine. The two men looked at each other.
"Thanks," Terry said.
"I'm doing this for Sammy, not for you."
"I know it."
Kerney watched the man responsible for his early retirement bounce the police cruiser down the ruts of the road. Three y
ears ago he'd been chief of detectives for the Santa Fe Police Department. The first year after the shooting he'd been in and out of the hospital for reconstructive surgery on his knee and stomach, followed by a rehabilitation program that took every ounce of his willpower to complete, and put him in the best shape of his life, except for the patched-up gut and bum leg he had to live with. Terry had it easy as far as Kerney could tell.
Alcoholism was a reversible disease. Moreover, drunk or sober, Terry had managed to stay a cop; which was now something beyond Kerney's reach. He touched the throbbing scar on his stomach. Too much stretching in the wrong direction on the roof, he decided. As the cruiser pulled slowly through the mud at the end of the road, Kerney halfway hoped Terry would get stuck and have tocall for a tow. He wanted the pleasure of watching him sitting in mud over the hubcaps, just for the spite of it. No such luck. Terry passed around the escarpment where the dirt road met the highway and drove out of sight. Back in the cabin, Kerney sat at the table and tried to read the file, but his mind kept wandering to the money in the envelope. He put the file down and counted the bills. The five thousand dollars matched what Kerney had in a bank account. His dream since coming to the ranch had been to lease acreage from Quinn, buy some good cattle stock, and get into ranching in some small way. There were two thousand acres of prime rangeland, unused except as solitude for Quinn. To Kerney it was an unnatural waste. All the right ingredients for ranching existed on the property. Live streams cascaded down from Glorieta Mesa, native grass was abundant, and the water table was excellent. He considered how many yearlings he could buy at auction after putting up the lease money for the land. Not many if he went with prime stock. But it sure would feel good to get started. He stuffed the envelope into a pocket, shook off the daydream, retrieved the file, and read it again in greater detail. The information consisted of notes from interviews Terry had conducted with members of Sammy's unit and a meeting with Sammy's commanding officer, a Captain James Meehan. The only official information supplied was a summary of Sammy's military service up to the point of his disappearance. Specialist Fourth Class Samuel Yazzi had graduated at the top of his advanced training class, received an accelerated promotion, and been given the option of picking his permanent duty station. In his eight months at White Sands, his performance ratings had been excellent. With no blemishes on his record, Sammy was considered a prime candidate for continued advancement through the enlisted ranks. Captain Meehan, the commanding officer, knew of no incident which might have prompted Sammy to go A.W.O.L.. There was no rumor of a budding romance with any of the local girls that might have contributed to his disappearance, and no evidence of dissatisfaction with military life. In fact, Sammy apparently liked his job and had adapted well to the military. Terry's talks with the soldiers who knew Sammy confirmed that he wasn't using drugs, drinking heavily, or spending his money in the Juarez whorehouses or gambling dens. Nobody was riding his tail, and to the best of everybody's knowledge he had no enemies. Everyone liked him, although he was characterized as quiet and something of a loner. He played on the post baseball team as a reserve right fielder. Sammy's coach was a master sergeant by the name of Wiliam Titus McVay. Terry hadn't spoken to the man. McVay had retired two weeks after Sammy vanished. A clerk in the personnel office reported McVay had turned in his papers months before Sammy disappeared from the base. There was no follow-up by Terry to find and talk to the coach. Terry had made a few visits to some of the GI hangouts in Las Cruces, where Sammy was vaguely remembered, and had interviewed Sammy's closest buddy, Alonzo Tony, a full-blooded Navajo PFC who told him that for about a month Sammy had dated a girl who worked on the post. Tony hadn't been surprised when the girl lost interest in Sammy. She was a notorious husband-hunter who had moved on to greener pastures, and Sammy, according to his friend, hadn't been dating anyone else, as far as he knew. Sammy's roommate had confirmed Tony's observations about the girl but had no clue why Sammy would have gone A.W.O.L.. A meeting with the officer in charge of the investigation, Captain S. J. Brannon, had turned into a question-and-answer session, with Brannon asking most of the questions. Terry hadn't gotten anything at all helpful out of the interview.
Tularosa - Michael McGarrity Page 1