Mexican Hat

by Michael McGarrity

  “Steve Lujan worked for Spence,” Kerney prompted.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’d sure like to know how he got paid,” Jim broke in. “I couldn’t find a money trail.”

  Charlie chuckled and stood up. “The deposits were made to a bank in the Bahamas. We’ve got the account impounded along with about a dozen more.” He looked at his watch. “We have agents picking up the national committee members and Sanderson right about now. Plus we’re shutting down two illegal arms dealers and breaking the back of a whole network of illicit exotic animal traders. This is one for the good guys.”

  “It sounds like a major bust,” Kerney said, standing up so he could look Perry in the eye.

  “Big-time.”

  “Did Steve Lujan murder Hector Padilla?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “I’m real happy for your success Charlie, but it doesn’t get us any closer to finding out who shot Jim and blew up my trailer.”

  Perry chewed his lip for a minute before he answered. “Your assumption about Lujan killing Padilla is reasonable. Maybe we can get Spence to confirm it. But if you think Steve came after the two of you to cover his tracks, you’re betting on the wrong horse. I don’t think Spence would allow that.”

  “Would Spence do it himself?”

  “No way. He was under full surveillance when Jim was shot and your trailer was blown up. He wasn’t even in the neighborhood.”

  “So who is coming after us?” Kerney demanded.

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “What about the Catron County Militia? The People of the West? The Free Range Society?”

  Charlie smirked. “Take your pick. Look, Kerney, let me make it clear. This operation wasn’t designed to round up every pissed-off, angry white male in Catron County who wanted to join the revolution, rewrite the Constitution, or take a deer out of season. We’ve got a national militia organization developing that could make the Ku Klux Klan look like a bunch of boy scouts in bed sheets, once it really gets rolling. That’s our target, and we plan to cut its head off.”

  “One more question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Did you put a tail on me?”

  “You bet I did. You’re a loose cannon. I’ll let Gatewood know we’ve got a suspect in the Lujan murder and tell him to rescind the arrest warrant on you.”

  “Gatewood got the warrant approved?”

  “He sure did. You’re a fugitive.”

  “Don’t tell Gatewood anything.”

  Jim Stiles gave Kerney a quizzical look. “Why not?”

  “What kind of hand are you playing?” Charlie demanded.

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Have it your way,” Charlie said.

  KERNEY SAT down in the easy chair in Jim’s living room wearing a pair of blue jeans that were a tad too tight around the waist and a blue cowboy shirt that fit him pretty well. He was just out of the shower and felt a hell of a lot better after a shave and a fresh change of clothes, supplied by his host.

  Jim sprawled on the couch, sipped a beer, and waited for Kerney to settle himself. “Why didn’t you want Charlie to tell Gatewood to cancel the arrest warrant?” he asked.

  “I don’t trust Gatewood,” Kerney answered. “He’s too eager to make me his prime suspect. Besides, I need an edge.”

  Stiles rested his head on the arm of the couch. “An edge against who?”

  Kerney smiled. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Tell me about the local militia.”

  “I don’t know who runs it,” Jim replied. “They keep a pretty low profile. What I’ve heard is mostly rumors.”

  “Gatewood said he knew the leadership.”

  “Maybe he does.”

  “Is he connected with them in any way?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Does the name Ulibarri mean anything to you?”

  “Sure. Steve Lujan’s sister, Ramona Ulibarri. She lives in Southern California with her husband.”

  “Any kids?”

  “Two teenage boys, I think. Maybe a little younger. They visit every summer.”

  “Do you know the kids’ names?”

  “No. But the husband’s name is Ray. Why are you interested in them?”

  “A BLM officer checked with Gatewood after he stopped a kid on an ATV outside of Deming. The kid said he was from Reserve and gave his name as Ulibarri. Gatewood told the officer he didn’t know anybody in the county by that name.”

  “Gatewood knows the family,” Jim said. “They only moved to California a short while back.”

  “Was Gatewood informed of the mountain lion translocation?”

  Stiles adjusted his position. “I’m almost certain he was.”

  “How certain are you?”

  “If he reads his mail, he had to know. Santa Fe sends out bulletins to all local law enforcement agencies on every translocation of a cat, with an advisory to inform us if the animal is found dead or killed.”

  “Then he knew.”

  “Most likely. Do you think Gatewood’s dirty?”

  “Gatewood’s a politician. He could be anything.”

  Jim laughed. “That’s funny, but I don’t think Omar Gatewood would shoot me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just helped get you shot.”

  “That’s an interesting idea. How do we find out?”

  “Amador Ortiz. His phone call sent you to Padilla Canyon. Maybe somebody encouraged him to make that call.”

  “Let’s talk to him,” Jim said as he got off the couch. “I’ll go with you.”

  Before Kerney could answer, the front door opened and Molly Hamilton flew into the room. She glanced at Kerney, sparks flashing in her eyes, and gave Jim a very nasty look.

  “Goddamn you!”

  “What?”

  She walked to Stiles and poked her finger in his chest. “You were supposed to call me, remember?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She poked him again. “That’s not good enough.”

  “I think I’ll leave,” Kerney said, unraveling himself from the chair.

  “Stay put, Kerney. I’ll get to you in a minute.” She poked Jim again. “I’ve been all over the damn place looking for you, wondering if you’d been shot again, or kidnapped, or something.”

  “We haven’t been anywhere near a phone until just now,” Jim explained. “We just got back. We’re fine. Stop worrying.”

  “Shit!” Molly punched Jim in the chest with her fist and dropped her head. When she raised it, the anger on her face had been replaced with tears. “I wish it was that easy to do,” she said.

  Jim pulled her close in a one-arm hug. Molly didn’t resist.

  Kerney quietly slipped out of the room and went to the kitchen.

  MOLLY SNIFFLED and wiped her nose, still a little red from crying. She sat with Kerney and Jim at the kitchen table.

  “Sorry I sounded so bitchy,” Molly said.

  “You have every reason to bitch,” Kerney allowed.

  “You’re right. I do. I called Karen Cox this morning after I started worrying about Jim.” She shot him a dirty look, and he flinched. “She said Gatewood went over her head to the DA in Socorro to get the warrant signed. She wants you to stay out of Catron County and turn yourself in to the police in Silver City.”

  “I have no intention of going to jail on a murder-one charge,” Kerney retorted.

  “I’ll bail you out,” Jim countered.

  “I may not be allowed to make bail,” Kerney replied.

  Molly wrinkled her nose. “Fine. Jim can harbor you, and you can both be fugitives.” She took a slip of paper from her purse and passed it to Stiles. “A lady called for you. She got your message on her answering machine asking about Eugene Cox’s wife.”

  Jim read the name and address. “Emily Wheeler. Pie Town. What did she say?”

  “She wrote a book about the Great Depression and World War II in Pie Town. It�
�s a history of her family and friends who homesteaded in the area. It sounds like she did a lot of research. Tracking down former residents, searching public records, interviewing folks, and corresponding with old-timers who had moved away. She published it herself and sent copies to all her friends and relatives.”

  “Did she say anything about Louise Cox?” Jim asked.

  “She won’t talk about Louise unless you can prove you’re really a police officer. She was quite insistent about it.”

  Kerney raised an eyebrow. “Go and see her,” he said to Jim. “Take Molly with you.”

  “Right now? It’s too late.”

  “Get her out of bed if you have to.”

  “It can wait until morning,” Stiles argued. “I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re not. Take Molly and go to Pie Town.”

  Jim gave him a stormy look.

  “I don’t want you with me,” Kerney added.

  “I think we should do what the man asks,” Molly said.

  Jim’s expression softened when he looked at Molly. “Okay. Pie Town it is.”

  “Can I use your truck?” Kerney asked.

  Jim tossed him the keys. “Don’t get busted, for chrissake. At least not until we get back.”

  “If I’m caught, I’ll tell Gatewood I stole the truck,” Kerney replied.

  AMADOR’S HOUSE was dark, but a quarter mile up the road the Lujan house was filled with people, and a large number of vehicles were parked in front of the chain-link fence. Kerney debated delaying a confrontation with Ortiz and decided to wait and see how long the gathering of mourners would last. He parked Jim’s truck out of sight, walked back to the road, and settled under a tree halfway between the two houses. With moonrise several hours away, the night was dark. Above him the Milky Way cut a swath across the sky and sprinkled out into a vast, random pattern.

  He heard a car engine fire up, and soon it passed him, traveling to the blacktop highway and turning toward town. More cars began to leave, along with a few people on foot, walking down the dirt road to their houses. Finally all the cars were gone, except for the Lujans’, but Amador had yet to appear. Half an hour later, Amador and his three children came out, walked slowly down the road, and veered up the path to their house.

  Kerney waited, wondering if Amador’s wife was staying with Yolanda. He tried to think of a way to separate Amador from the children without announcing his presence, but no ideas came, short of breaking in and yanking him out.

  Amador supplied the solution. The bedroom lights were doused, and within minutes Amador was on the porch lighting a cigarette. Kerney waited until Amador walked into the yard before making a long, looping circle behind the house.

  Amador flicked his cigarette away, turned to go inside, and felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his ear.

  “Walk across the road,” Kerney whispered.

  “You motherfucker,” Amador said.

  Kerney slapped the barrel against Amador’s temple, just hard enough to get his attention. “No talking,” he hissed. “Move.”

  In the darkness under the trees, he ordered Amador to turn around. Ortiz spun quickly, and Kerney hit him hard across the bridge of the nose with the pistol. Amador’s hands flew to his face.

  “You broke my fucking nose,” he gasped.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Kerney replied, as he backed up a few steps, out of Amador’s range. “Now, very slowly, I want you to drop to your knees and lie facedown on the ground with your arms and legs spread out at your sides. You know the drill.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” Amador whined. His stomach heaved and his breath came in quick gasps.

  “Do it!” Kerney snapped.

  Ortiz sank down and assumed the position.

  Kerney walked behind him, cocked the pistol, and patted Amador down. He had no weapons.

  “I had a little chat with Steve last night before he died,” Kerney said. “He told me you knew about his freelance poaching job. In fact, he said you let him take time off from work to go hunting.”

  Amador grunted.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “I knew about it.”

  “That makes you an accessory to murder.”

  “You’re a fucking murderer yourself.”

  “I guess we’re both in a shitload of trouble. Who told you to call Jim Stiles and tell him about Padilla Canyon?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Amador.”

  “Let me get up,” Amador begged. “My nose hurts real bad.”

  “Come slowly to your knees and keep your arms outstretched.”

  Amador complied.

  “Who told you to call Jim Stiles?” Kerney repeated.

  “Gatewood has me by the balls, man. I did a burglary three years ago. I needed money, so I hit one of the vacation cabins. The owner had it wired with a silent alarm. Gatewood got a call from the alarm company and caught me on the road with all the goodies.”

  “So you’re Gatewood’s snitch,” Kerney said. “Did he tell you to call Jim Stiles?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, man.”

  “Thanks, Amador. You can go home now.”

  “You mean it?”

  “I sure do. Get that nose looked after.”

  As Amador started to rise, Kerney cold-cocked him.

  11

  Kerney left Amador where he fell. A bad feeling about beating up the man left a sour taste in his mouth. He cursed himself for giving in to the anger and drove away.

  From the number of the squad cars patrolling the streets of Reserve it looked as though Gatewood, all his deputies, and the state police were out searching for him. Fortunately they weren’t looking for him in Jim’s truck. On the highway to Silver City, Kerney considered his options. With a murder-one APB out on him, playing hide-and-seek with Gatewood and his cronies wasn’t an appealing idea. He could go to ground, stay in the open and risk the possibility of the danger inherent in a felony arrest, or turn himself in to the Silver City police and deal with Karen Cox. He had no place to hide and no desire to get conveniently shot for resisting arrest—which was a distinct possibility, given Gatewood’s culpability. That left jail as his only option. He would have to gamble that Karen Cox would play by the rules.

  In Silver City he called Charlie Perry from a pay phone, told him what he planned to do, and asked him to get in touch with Karen and fill her in on the facts about Steve Lujan’s murder. Perry was willing to oblige: Spence’s handgun had been recovered, ballistics had matched the weapon to the slugs in Steve Lujan’s body, and Spence’s fingerprints had been lifted from the gun.

  “I’ll tell Gatewood to cancel the APB and void the arrest warrant,” Perry added.

  “Leave Gatewood out of it,” Kerney snapped. “According to Amador Ortiz, it was Gatewood who told him to set up Jim Stiles for the ambush at Padilla Canyon.”

  “That’s serious shit,” Perry said.

  “You bet it is,” Kerney replied.

  “Where’s Ortiz now?” Perry asked.

  “I had to beat the truth out of him. He’s probably home with a broken nose.”

  Perry sighed. “You’re some kind of hot-dog cowboy, aren’t you?”

  “Whatever,” Kerney said. “One more thing: talk to Karen Cox in person, okay?”

  “Are you paranoid, Kerney?”

  “No, cautious,” Kerney answered. “Paranoia is an FBI trait.”

  “Not anymore. J. Edgar Hoover is dead,” Perry replied and hung up.

  It was well into the graveyard shift when Kerney turned himself in to the on-duty commander at the police department. He was photographed, fingerprinted, booked, and placed in a holding cell. After about an hour, the commander, a young lieutenant with a washed-out complexion, tired eyes, and a weight lifter’s body, returned and squinted at him through the bars of the cell.

  “Looks like you’ve had a busy night,” the lieutenant said. “There are additional charges pending on you out of Catron County. Seems
you forced some guy off his property at gunpoint and pistol-whipped him. Do you want to call a lawyer?”

  “No,” Kerney answered without hesitation. For now, he was in the safest room in town, and it wasn’t costing him a dime. “Call the ADA in Catron County for me and tell her what’s happening. Her name is Karen Cox.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “I’ll give her a call.” He passed a brown bag through the bars. “Sack lunch,” he explained. “Left over from the morning prisoner run to the courthouse.”

  Kerney took the bag and opened it. It contained a bologna sandwich on white bread, an orange, and a cookie. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  The lieutenant stayed put and watched Kerney eat his meal. When he’d finished, Kerney crumpled up the bag and gave it back to the officer.

  “I hear you were a good cop in your day,” the lieutenant said.

  “I like to think so,” Kerney allowed.

  “That guy you cold-cocked must have really pissed you off.”

  Kerney laughed and stretched out on the cot.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “Yeah, in a way, you did. It reminded me of the old saying ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch.’ Nice try, Lieutenant.”

  The lieutenant shrugged lazily. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

  “I don’t. But a stale sandwich, a cookie, and a piece of fruit won’t get you a confession.”

  “It might help if you talked about it. I’m a good listener.”

  “And I’m an innocent man,” Kerney said. He waited until the lieutenant gave up and walked away before closing his eyes. He was asleep within minutes.

  “I WANT TO MAKE SURE I’m doing the right thing,” Mrs. Wheeler said.

  Emily Wheeler, age eighty-five and the author of The People of Pie Town: The Last of the Frontier Homesteaders, smiled at Jim Stiles and Molly Hamilton as they sat close to each other on the sofa. A nice-looking young couple, she thought to herself, but the young man would look better without those nasty scratches on his face, the eye patch, and his arm in a sling.