Gutierrez counted off the seconds as Kerney passed the first marker. The pace of the animals was perfect. He forced himself to wait, timing Kerney's progress over the next thirty yards. Still perfect. He crawled backward and scrambled to the truck. It was going to work! He started the engine, jammed it into gear, and plowed it into the rockpile, only a second or two faster than planned. Kerney was past the nose of the truck and on Gutierrez's right side, but the rocks still splattered his horse. Kerney spurred the bay desperately and dropped the reins to the roan. The bay was flying, landing with forefeet on tumbling rocks, fighting for solid ground, hind feet flailing in the air. The packhorse dropped over the edge, making sounds Gutierrez had never heard from a horse before. Amazingly, the truck continued to roll.
He braked hard, fishtailed into the wall, bounced over the remains of the rockpile, and landed hard on the undercarriage, the front wheels dangling over empty space. On his left, Sara Brannon and the gelding were spinning counterclockwise in a tight circle away from the scatter, out of danger. Gutierrez wondered how she was able to do that. He cursed and looked for Kerney. A few feet from the truck the riderless bay, eyes wild, ears back in fear, pawed the ground. Hatless, facedown on the roadbed, Kerney pushed himself upright and started running toward Gutierrez with murder in his eyes. How could the lame bastard move so fast? Gutierrez panicked, reached for the door handle, and heard a sharp, splintering sound from above. He twisted around to look out the rear window. The cliff gave way, burying the truck with rock, crushing his skull, and pulverizing his chest against the steering wheel.
Kerney watched the last of the rubble trickle over the truck, the thick limestone dust rising in the air like a plume of smoke. The roar of the slide gave way to the sound of stones careening into the canyon below. He scrambled over the truck looking for Sara. She stood with her back pressed against the rock face, holding the skittish gelding by the bridle.
"Are you okay?" he asked. She took a breath, held it, and exhaled slowly.
"Let's not do this anymore."
"Not enough excitement?" Kerney inquired, holding her arm to keep her steady.
"Too much of a good thing can be dangerous," she said.
"That's almost funny." Sara coughed and rubbed the tip of her nose.
"It's the best I can do under the circumstances. Gutierrez?"
"Dead," Kerney answered.
"We lost the roan." She was covered in limestone dust from head to foot.
"I know." The landslide completely blocked the road.
"I can't get the gelding across," she said.
"Cut him loose. He'll find his way home." She removed the bridle and wrapped it around the pommel. Unrestrained, the gelding wheeled and trotted up the pass. Tentatively, she walked to the edge of the road and looked down. Seventy-five feet below, the dead roan was wedged between the base of two pine trees, surrounded by supplies from the shattered pack. She stepped away from the edge and looked at Kerney. He had lost his cowboy hat, and his hair, flattened by the hatband, curled up into wings above his ears. He was covered from head to foot with fine limestone dust.
"You look like shit," Sara commented, the fluttery feeling in her stomach subsiding.
"I suspect you're right," he answered, brushing off the front of his shirt. Puffs of limestone dust floated into the air.
"Seems like we upset Gutierrez. Let's see if we can find out why." They cleared away enough rubble from the truck to uncover and pry open the passenger door. The seat, thrown off its tracks by the impact, pinned Gutierrez to the steering column. His shattered skull dripped blood and brains, soaking his clothes and the floorboard. Behind the seat were ten packages, wrapped and taped shut. Kerney reached in and handed them to Sara one at a time. He was searching the glove compartment when, with an incredulous whistle, Sara made him stop.
"Look at this," she said, holding out an open package filled with gold coins.
"The mint dates are all from the eighteen hundreds. Do you know what these are worth?"
"I don't want to think about it," Kerney said sourly. He opened a flat, rectangular box that had slid under the seat. It contained a military dispatch case, the leather desiccated and veined with cracks, filled with faded documents. Sara moved next to him.
"What is that?" Kerney shrugged and closed the flap.
"Just some old letters."
"Don't tease," she chided, pulling the case out of his hands. She sat on the ground and skimmed through the documents. Gingerly, she detached a letter and read it with growing amazement. She studied two more papers before speaking.
"Incredible. These are letters written by General William Tecumseh Sherman and President Ulysses S. Grant." She patted the case. "This has to be General Howard's official document file."
"Who?" Kerney inquired. Sara replaced the letters, closed the pouch, stood up, and brushed off the seat of her pants with a hand.
"The letters are addressed to 0. 0. Howard. He was a Civil War general. Grant sent him west during the Indian Wars. He negotiated a treaty with Cochise. These letters are historical treasures."
"It looks like Gutierrez found the mother lode. Isn't that the luck of the Irish?"
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Do you think Gutierrez killed Sammy?"
"It's possible," Kerney allowed, "but not likely. I don't think murder was Gutierrez's strong suit."
"Sammy found the coins and documents and recruited Gutierrez to help him," Sara proposed.
"Instead, Gutierrez decided he wanted it all for himself." The theory didn't sit well with Kerney.
"Why would Gutierrez wait almost two months after he killed Sammy to move the merchandise?"
"Caution?" Sara suggested.
"He wanted things to cool down."
"This case cooled down a month ago. If you had a clear shot at making tens of thousands-maybe hundreds of thousands-of dollars, would you wait any longer than absolutely necessary? Especially if you had a dead body concealed with the goodies? Wouldn't that make you anxious?" Sara nibbled her lower lip.
"Maybe Gutierrez was forced to wait until he found someone to handle the transaction. It can't be easy to convert this stuff into cash without raising a lot of eyebrows."
"Which means somebody may be expecting a delivery and might get worried if it's late."
"Exactly." Sara grinned. "Do you want to play it out?"
"Why not?"
She flicked a glance at the truck.
"What we have here is a tragic accident. Not quite what Gutierrez had in mind. Let's put it back the way we found it and see what happens."
"Including the coins and letters?" Kerney inquired. Sara paused to think about it.
"We'll give those to Andy for safekeeping."
"Let's do it and get the hell out of here." Together they restacked rocks around the truck. Kerney wrapped the treasure in his rain jacket and tied it to the saddle on the bay. They walked down the road, the bay favoring a bruised hind leg, until the grade dipped enough to let them cut back in the direction of the dead roan. They dug a shallow trench in the soft earth under a stand of trees that blocked any view to the road above, gathered up the debris, and dumped it in. Sammy's portfolio was intact and the watercolors undamaged. Kerney hitched a rope to the bay, tied it off on the dead animal, and had to quirt the bay to drag the carcass to the trench. They covered the roan with dirt and rocks to keep the coyotes away and retraced their route to the road.
"I'm taking the portfolio to Sammy's parents," he announced, looking at Sara for a reaction. She sensed his decision was not negotiable.
"When?"
"Today."
"What do you plan to tell them?"
"I'll think of something."
"When will you be back?"
"Tomorrow."
"Good."
"I'll ask Andy to get a search warrant for Gutierrez's house." Sara nodded her approval. They lapsed into silence. The bay snorted in discomfort, and Kerney stopped to give him a rest, stroking him gently on the forehead
.
"Dale isn't going to like the way we've treated his horses."
"The Army will pay full damages," Sara promised.
"That'll be a first," he said, as he got the animal moving again.
"I expect you're right." They walked down one last sharp series of turns before entering the rolling hills of the western slope. The Jomada fanned out in front of them. Kerney hobbled and Sara limped along. The bay favored his bruised leg, snorting in annoyance. Still crusted and streaked with rock dust, they looked like pale apparitions. Dale's ranch came into view. He was at the fence line with Andy, both scanning the pass with binoculars. Dale saw them first and waved.
"What a sight we must be." Sara began to laugh, and before he knew it, Kerney was laughing with her.
Chapter 8
The only sound on the deserted plaza was the idling engine of Kerney's truck. The tourists were gone for the day and the pueblo was quiet. Kerney stopped at the end of the dirt lane that bisected the plaza. Across the empty square was the tribal administration building where Terry had his office. A long, squat structure with a series of narrow doors and small windows, it looked like an unfriendly sanctuary built to keep out intruders. At one end of the building, three squad cars were parked in front of the police station door. Kerney turned his head and looked over the line of adobe houses that bordered a section of the plaza. Against the western mountains, the setting sun seemed cold in the pink light. He tried not to think about the pain that faced Terry and Maria. His own sadness felt like a sharp wound cutting through him. How much worse it would be for Terry and Maria he could only imagine. He touched the portfolio on the seat next to him.
The five thousand dollars was safely tucked inside. He put the truck in gear and coasted to a stop in front of the building. From the moment Kerney stepped through the door of the one-room office carrying the portfolio, Terry knew his son was dead. A phone call would tell him Sammy was alive, but only his death would bring Kerney to his door with that grim look. His heart sank and he stood up slowly, testing the steadiness of his legs.
The two young officers in the room were suddenly quiet, shoptalk frozen in the air like hot breath on a cold winter's day. Terry tilted his chin in a wordless greeting, afraid to speak, his unblinking dark eyes locked on Kerney's face.
"I came here first," Kerney explained. Terry nodded his appreciation and cleared his throat. No words came. He unbuckled the Sam Browne belt that held his bolstered pistol and stowed it in a desk drawer.
"Will you walk with me to Maria's?"
"Of course."
"I will be with my son's mother," he told the officers, not seeing them at all.
"Ask her family to join us there." The two officers nodded wordlessly as Terry walked out the door with Kerney. Crossing the plaza, Terry felt detached from his surroundings. The familiar buildings looked strange, and his heart pounded in his chest like a powerful drumbeat. Oddly, he thought of corn meal and pollen. He needed to gather both for the burial ritual. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he reached Maria's front door. She looked at him, glanced at Kerney, and her hand flew to her mouth. Terry opened his arms and she exploded against him, small and vulnerable. She buried her head in his chest and sobbed. He looked for Kerney, and found him at his side, fretfully shifting his weight, staring at the ground.
When Maria stopped crying and relaxed her grip, he spoke to Kerney.
"Come inside and tell us what happened." His voice sounded gruff as the words tumbled out. Supporting Maria, he led the way. In the small living room, Kerney listened to the sounds of the house while Terry and Maria waited, dull-eyed and stunned, for him to speak.
A breeze sighed through an open window, the old wood ceiling creaked, and the hum of the refrigerator drifted in from the kitchen. Kerney wanted to melt away with the sounds. Maria and Terry sat close together on the small love seat. Terry's hand clutched Maria's. Maria spoke first.
"What happened to my son?" The truth would only send Terry on a rampage.
"It was a hiking accident," Kerney lied.
"In the mountains. On the missile range."
"When did you find him?" Terry asked.
"Yesterday."
"Did he suffer?" Maria asked.
"No, I don't think so."
"And his body?" Terry asked.
"Is it…"
"Intact," Kerney replied quickly. Terry looked relieved. Maria smiled bravely, her gaze riveted on empty space. She touched her hair, pinned casually into a loose bun, and quickly forced her hand back into her lap.
"He was saving his money for a new car," she said in a faraway voice.
"He wanted to pay for it himself. He was so proud about doing things on his own. I kept asking him to come home for a visit, but he wouldn't.
Not until he could take me for a ride in the car." Kerney picked up the portfolio from beside the chair and handed it to her.
"For you." Maria took the case, put it on her lap, stroked it gently, and with a shaking hand unzipped it. Terry leaned close as Maria unfolded the portfolio. For a very long time, they examined Sammy's work without speaking. It seemed so personal, Kerney wanted to vanish.
When they finished, Maria closed the case and smiled in Kerney's direction, her mouth a razor thing line of grief. Terry held the envelope with the five thousand dollars in his hand.
"This is your money," he said hoarsely.
"No," Kerney replied.
"Take it, please," Terry countered. His face looked ready to shatter into pieces. He was barely in control. Kerney shook his head.
"I can't do that." Sounds from outside the house intruded; cars arriving, subdued voices, footsteps on the gravel path. The family was gathering. Kerney stood up.
"I have to go." Maria held him from leaving with a gesture.
"Do you know when they will send Sammy home to us?" she asked.
"Soon," he promised. Maria stood and hugged him, patting his back as though it would ease her pain.
"I'm sorry," Kerney said. Maria looked up and released him.
"I know." She walked away to greet her guests. Old and young began to fill the front room, children hushed, adults somber. Condolences expressed in several languages floated on the air. Terry was at Kerney's side.
"Thank you," he said.
"I did nothing." Terry grunted in disagreement, searching for more to say.
"I'll call you about the services."
"I'll be there." He smiled dismally.
"Sammy would like that."
"Will you be all right?"
He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before answering.
"I need a drink. A dozen drinks."
"Will you take them?" Kerney asked.
"I won't."
"Good. Call me if you need to talk."
"You mean that?"
"Yes, I do." Terry held out his hand. Whatever rancor Kerney felt about Terry was gone, part of a dim, unimportant past. He pulled Terry to him in a hug, and held him tight while his old friend finally cried.
Kerney slipped through a group of people waiting outside and walked up the dirt lane. On the plaza, filled with people moving in small groups toward Maria's home, he felt even more like an intruder. Some of the older women were veiled, and several elders were wrapped in ceremonial blankets. All looked at him with sidelong, passive glances. At the front of the police station, the two young tribal officers were in their squad cars, emergency lights flashing. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror. The officers had blocked the plaza with their cars. The pueblo was now closed to outsiders. *** Andy came through with a search warrant, signed by a local judge and delivered to Kerney by a bored city patrol officer who was parked in front of the apartment complex where Eppi Gutierrez lived. Kerney thanked the patrolman, turned down his offer for backup, and went to find the apartment manager. He showed the warrant to the man and learned that Eppi lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. He got the key and directions to the unit.
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The complex, on a main throughway of Santa Fe, had been built by an out-of-state developer. Gutierrez's apartment was a string of three boxy rooms on the second floor, the layout dictated by the developer's computer program and slapped up with a few touches to create a cut-rate Santa Fe style. Gutierrez liked his toys: the living room had a big-screen television and a costly rack sound system, the kitchen counter held a variety of expensive gourmet appliances, and the bedroom contained a king-size water bed and a top-of-the-line mountain bike. The bike was against the wall, used as a dirty clothes rack. Kerney tore the place apart systematically. There was nothing taped under the dresser drawers, no incriminating notes in the pockets of clothing, and no coins and letters like those found in Gutierrez's truck. He dug through clothing, shoes, boxes, and papers. The living room, bathroom, and kitchen yielded the same dismal results. Packages in the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets held nothing but food. A high-powered hunting rifle and a set of golf clubs were in the hall closet, just where a burglar would expect them to be. The bathroom, including the toilet tank, held no surprises. What jewelry Gutierrez owned was scattered on the top of the sink counter, in plain view. Either Gutierrez had nothing to hide or he was an expert at concealment. He started over again, reversing the search. He upended the living-room furniture and pulled apart all of the cushions. He dug through the dead ashes of the fireplace, turned over the pictures on the walls, and looked through every book on the bookshelf.
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