Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity

by Michael McGarrity

  They were my parents," the woman replied. A child yelled and the woman turned her head toward the sound.

  "Come in. I'll be with you in a minute." She pointed at an overstuffed easy chair in the front room and left hurriedly through a side doorway, latching a childproof accordion gate behind her. Kerney sat, listened to the children's chatter, and looked around. The room was meagerly furnished with a well-worn couch, the easy chair Kerney sat in with a floor lamp next to it, two side tables, each holding a glass vase filled with plastic flowers, and a hand-hooked oval throw rug in the center of the pine floor. Framed family photographs hung on one wall above a largescreen television set, and plain white cotton curtains covered the front windows.

  The largest photograph was a color portrait of a smiling elderly couple dressed in their Sunday best. The man, wearing a cowboy hat, sat behind the woman, his arms wrapped around her waist, both turned at an angle to face the camera. Kerney guessed the couple to be Burl and Thelma. On either side of the portrait were high school graduation pictures of two girls. One was obviously of the woman who had greeted Kerney at the door. He could see the tendency toward heaviness in her torso and upper arms, and a hint of petulance in the smile. The other girl, a slender, pretty brunette with a faraway gaze in her eyes, had a tough little smile and a birthmark on her chin.

  The noise subsided and the woman returned, closing the gate behind her. She sat on the sofa and looked quizzically at Kerney.

  "Why are you asking about my parents?"

  "I didn't get your name," Kerney replied with a smile.

  "Lurline Toler."

  "I'm really interested in learning about Robert Cordova, Mrs. Toler," Kerney explained.

  "He was your parents' foster child."

  "I know Robert. I was still living at home when he came to stay with us." A child's delighted screech followed by another child's laugh interrupted Lurline.

  "I do child care for some working mothers," she explained with a weary smile. She waited several beats before speaking again. All was quiet at the back of the house.

  "What do you want to know about Robert?"

  "What other foster children were placed here while Robert lived with the family?"

  Lurline shook her head.

  "I couldn't even begin to remember, there were so many of them. Robert was one of those who stayed the longest. Most of the others were here and gone in a matter of a few months."

  "Were they all teenagers?"

  "Yes. My parents only took in older children."

  "Do you remember a girl named Addie that Robert was friendly with?"

  Lurline blinked and hesitated. "There were no foster children staying here by that name, as I

  recall."

  "Perhaps it was a school friend."

  Lurline nodded her head. "That's possible, but Robert was pretty much a loner. I don't think he

  had any friends."

  "Who would know?"

  Lurline thought for a moment before answering.

  "I really can't tell you. Robert is quite a bit younger than me--about six years, I think. We didn't run with the same crowd. Is he in trouble?"

  "No, he's not."

  "Poor thing," Lurline said.

  "He's had a hard time of it."

  "Haven't we all?"

  "Is that your high school graduation picture?" Kerney asked. "Yes. I should take it down. I'll never look like that again."

  "Is the other girl your sister?"

  "Yes. My younger sister, Nita. Dad always wanted a boy, but he got two girls instead."

  "Could she tell me more about Robert?"

  "She was never close to him."

  "How can I contact her?"

  A child's angry shriek kept Luriine from answering. She got to her feet.

  "I can't talk now. Call me this evening."

  ***

  Kerney sat in his car by the Mountainair High School and watched a group of students dressed in sweats running around a track that bordered the football field. Growing up in the Tularosa Basin, Kerney had gone to a small-town high school where the school nurse knew every student, and was the unofficial counselor, confidante, and friend to any kid with a bloody nose, scraped knee, or troubles at home. In the years that had passed, he doubted much had changed in small-town schools. He got out of the car and found his way to the health office. Henrietta Swope, the school nurse, looked like a grandmother who brooked no silliness and expected everybody to tell the truth. She wore her gray hair pulled straight back, and her blue-gray eyes were inquisitive and lively. She had the lyrical voice of a much younger woman.

  Kerney sat in her office, a small room furnished with a cot, a first aid locker, a desk with a chair, and a row of locked file cabinets. The walls were plastered with public health posters announcing the pitfalls of unsafe sex, teenage pregnancy, poor nutrition, and drug abuse. He showed his identification, told her what case he was working on, and asked about Robert Cordova.

  "Of course I know him," Henrietta replied. "He haunts my memory."

  "Why do you say that?"

  Henrietta sighed. "Whenever I see him around town, I remember what a lonely, miserable boy he was. He acted like a whipped puppy. He would snarl when he got angry and run away when he got upset. He was such a sad child."

  "Did he have any friends?"

  "At best, he was always on the fringes of the social cliques. He was barely tolerated and always teased a great deal."

  "Did he hang around with any of the other foster children when he lived with the Jacksons.

  Henrietta's expression brightened. "I wish Robert could have stayed with Thelma and Burl. It was the only time I saw him settle down and get comfortable with himself." Her eyes flickered and turned serious. "I think Robert has always been truly alone in the world. Isn't that enough to make a person go crazy?"

  "Sometimes," Kerney conceded. "He didn't connect with anybody? Another foster child? A classmate? A teacher?"

  "No. That says something about all of us, I suppose. We should have tried harder to reach him."

  "Did he have a schoolmate named Addie?"

  "Not that I remember."

  "Someone nicknamed Addie? Short for Adele or Adelaide?"

  "No, but we had a girl here until last year whose given name was Addie."

  "Who is that?"

  "Addie Randall."

  "Tell me about her."

  "Oh, I'm sure Robert doesn't know her. She would have been a senior now if she'd stayed with us."

  "She moved away?"

  "She's living in Socorro. I transferred her health records to the high school there during the middle of the spring semester."

  "When was that, exactly?" Kerney asked.

  "Sometime in March. Late March, I would say."

  "Did the family move?"

  "No. Her parents still live here with two younger children. Her mother works at the grocery store as a checker. I believe Addie's father is unemployed."

  "Do you have any idea why Addie left?"

  "Family troubles, I suspect. Addie was a popular girl at school--very pretty and outgoing--and the transfer happened quite unexpectedly."

  "What kind of family troubles?"

  Henrietta bit her lower lip before replying. "Confidentially, I think it's possible she may be pregnant.

  I've seen the pattern too many times not to have my suspicions."

  "Do you know who Addie is living with in Socorro?"

  "A relative, I believe." Henrietta consulted her card file. "I don't have a name. Addie's mother can tell you. I can't see how any of this has the least bearing on Paul Gillespie's murder," she added.

  "It probably doesn't."

  "If you see Addie, give her my best. She's a sweet girl."

  "I'll be glad to."

  ***

  Kerney pushed the car hard through Abo Pass at the north edge of the Los Pinos Mountains. It was a sixty mile drive to Socorro, and a large part of the trip bordered the Sevilleta National Wildlife Refuge, which s
traddled both sides of the Rio Grande. With the mountains behind him, the rangeland--so vast the river was a hazy promise in the distance--opened into miles of uninhabited space colored in sepia brown and dull gray against a creamy blue sky. The only interruptions to the emptiness were a few mobile homes and camper trailers parked on small fenced lots along the state highway, most of them abandoned. West, across the river, rose the remote Ladron Mountains, accessible only by horseback or on foot.

  He got to Socorro High School and checked in at the administrative offices, where he learned that Addie Randall was enrolled in a special program for teenage mothers. Through the window of the closed classroom door, he saw a group of expectant and new mothers standing around a changing table. All of them looked much too young to be having babies and rearing children.

  The teacher with the students looked suspiciously at Kerney when he entered the room. A tall woman with long arms and legs, she detached herself from the group and approached Kerney quickly.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  The chatter at the table stopped and the girls, some holding infants, withdrew to a circle of chairs at the back of the room.

  "I'd like to speak to Addie Randall," Kerney said quietly, displaying his credentials.

  The teacher's expression remained unfriendly. "That's not possible. We're in the middle of class."

  During his years as a detective, Kerney had found that teachers on their own turf were difficult to deal with. Most didn't like cops, and they jealously guarded their home ground and their students.

  "I won't take much of her time," he said. "And I do need to see her now." He emphasized the last word. "I have the principal's permission."

  Appealing to a higher authority, even if it was a lie, won the woman over. She nodded curtly and motioned for a girl to join her. Addie Randall moved slowly toward the teacher. She was a tall, slim girl made wide hipped and heavy by pregnancy. Her long-sleeved pullover top had baby emblazoned on it with an arrow pointing toward her belly. A pair of loose, floppy pants draped over the extra thirty pounds of her last trimester. No more than sixteen, she had wheat-colored hair, fair skin, brown eyes, and a worried look on her face.

  "What is it?" Addie asked uneasily.

  "This police officer needs to talk to you."

  "I don't want to talk to him," Addie said, avoiding Kerney's gaze.

  "You can talk to me unofficially now, or officially with your parents present," Kerney replied.

  "It's your decision to make."

  Addie shifted her weight. "I haven't done anything wrong."

  "No, you haven't," Kerney said. "I just need to ask you a few questions about somebody else."

  "Who?" she asked suspiciously, drawing back.

  "Can we talk outside? Or would you rather take a drive with me back to Mountainair?"

  Addie acquiesced quickly. "I'll talk to you."

  In the empty corridor, Addie stood with her hands resting on the top of her belly. Her eyes had a frosty, wary look.

  "When is the baby due?"

  "Soon."

  "Are you going to keep it?"

  "Maybe," Addie answered halfheartedly. She looked behind her to see if the hallway was still empty. It was. "What did you want to ask me?"

  Kerney brushed off her question and continued, "If you keep the baby, how will you support it?"

  Addie's expression tightened. "It's none of your business what I do with my baby."

  "The adoption agency will want to know about the baby's father."

  She gave Kerney a fretful look that quickly disappeared. "They can't make me do that if I don't know"

  "Were you raped?" Kerney asked.

  Addie didn't flinch at the question. "I'm going back to class now," she said, moving away.

  Kerney touched her lightly on the shoulder to hold her back.

  "Addie."

  "What is it?"

  "Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Let me help you."

  She grimaced, her eyes empty of emotion. "It's too late for that."

  "Were you in Mountainair the night Paul Gillespie was murdered?"

  "No. I've been living in Socorro since March and I haven't been back there since I left. I don't care if I never go back."

  "Do you know Robert Cordova?"

  "Sure. Everybody in Mountainair knows him. Why?"

  "He told me you made him promise to keep a secret."

  Addie shook her head. "Not me. I don't think I've ever said anything to him in my entire life. He's too weird. What secret?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me."

  She shook her head emphatically. "Sorry. Can I go back to class now?"

  "Sure. Thanks for talking to me."

  Kerney watched Addie return to her class. In spite of her unhappy predicament, the girl had spunk. He had reviewed every felony case handled by the Mountainair Police Department during the six months preceding Gillespie's death and no rapes had been reported. Had the girl been sexually assaulted by a stranger? Was it a date rape that didn't get reported? Perhaps she hadn't been raped at all but was simply covering up to protect the unborn child's father.

  Kerney didn't have a dear picture, but one thing was certain: Addie was holding something back.

  The bell announcing the end of the period rang and he waded through a tide of noisy teenagers who burst out of the classrooms and filled the hallway. He went back to the administration office to find out where Addie lived. She was staying with Verdie Mae McNutt, her great-aunt. He dedded to pay Verdie Mae a visit.

  ***

  There was no answer to Kerney's knock at Verdie Mae's door, but a four-door older Plymouth, without a dent or ding, sat under the carport. A thick band of fast moving clouds covered the sun, and the cold afternoon air cut through Kerney's windbreaker. He zipped it up and walked to the backyard. The back porch had been converted into a greenhouse, and inside an elderly woman dressed in faded coveralls dug with a trowel in a raised planting bed. Kerney knocked on a window and the woman glanced up with a startled look, got to her feet, stepped to the door, and opened it cautiously. She was thin, with slightly stooped shoulders and a heavily lined face that showed the wear of a good eight decades.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  "Are you Mrs. McNutt?" Kerney asked, showing his badge.

  "I am."

  Kerney introduced himself. "I'd like a few minutes of your time."

  Verdie Mae let Kerney in and closed the door quickly behind him. She gestured at two Srickley oak chairs in the center of the greenhouse, positioned to look out at a birdbath, some feeders hanging in the trees, and birdhouses on posts that stood in the middle of the backyard.

  "Have a seat," Verdie Mae said. "I was just about to stop puttering. Is there some problem in the

  neighborhood?"

  "I came to ask you about Addie," Kerney replied as he sat down. The greenhouse was uncomfortably warm. Verdie Mae didn't seem to mind it at all. He unzipped his jacket and looked around. The planting beds and pots on the brick floor were filled with herbs, flowers, and

  vegetables. Verdie Mae was a serious gardener.

  Verdie Mae put the trowel in a basket, removed her gloves, and joined him.

  "Is something wrong with Addie?" she asked.

  "She's fine. I just spoke with her. I'd like to know a little more about her."

  "For what purpose?" Verdie Mae asked, with the look of a woman not easily intimidated.

  Kerney decided to see if he could get a reaction out of Verdie Mae.

  "Was Addie raped?"

  Verdie Mae responded with an exasperated sigh.

  "That's why you're here. I don't know. She refuses to discuss it."

  "What do you think?"

  "I've known Addie all her life. She's a brainy girl with a lot of gumption and ambition. I don't think she would willingly put herself in this predicament."

  "Does Addie stay in contact with her family and friends in Mountainair?"

  "Not really. Her parents aren't coping very well
with the situation, and Addie won't talk to them about it."

  "Is she writing to anyone?"

  "No."

  "Has she had any visitors from back home?"

  Verdie Mae hesitated. "Just one. Nita Lassiter came to visit."

  "When was that?"

  "Two months ago."

  "Tell me about Nita Lassiter."

  Verdie Mac's expression turned guarded. "What are you trying to discover?"

  "The name of the man who raped Addie."

  Verdie Mae nodded her head in agreement. "I'd try to shake the name out of that girl if I thought it would do any good. Nita might know, if anyone does."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "During her visit, Nita stayed with Addie in her room for several hours. When she came out, she seemed upset. I asked if everything was all right. All she said was she had to leave right away."

  "What did you make of it?"

  "Something Addie said troubled Nita."

  "Have you spoken to Nita since then?"

  "No. Nor has Addie, as far as I know. I just pray she hasn't cut herself off from Addie. They've been as close as sisters."

  "Is Ms. Lassiter a family relative?"

  "She's not related by blood at all. She went to school with Addie's parents. Addie's mother was Nita's best friend."

  "How does Ms. Lassiter make her living?" Kerney asked.

  "She's a veterinarian. Her office is in Estancia."

  "Is she married?"

  "Divorced."

  "What was her maiden name?"

  "Jackson."

  "She's Thelma and Burl's daughter?" he asked.

  "That's right. Do you know the family?"

  "I'm beginning to. How did Addie come by her name?"

  "She was named for Nita. Anita Jackson was her maiden name."

  " Addie' was Nita's nickname?"

  "Only among the immediate family."

  "You seem to know the family well," Kerney noted.

  "Thelma and Buri were my dearest and oldest friends."

  "Is there anything else you can tell me?" Verdie Mae clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at a planting bed.

  "You seem to be a very smart man, Mr. Kerney. I may have said too much already."

  ***

  In Kerney's mind, there really wasn't much of a difference between the towns of Estanda and Mountainair. Both had faltering business districts along a main drag, hodgepodge residential areas of mixed housing in various states of repair, and the fast-fading feel of old-time ranching communities. But Estanda had the edge in terms of survival. It was the county seat and within commuting distance of Albuquerque. The town had gained population as old farms and ranches were carved into mobile home parks and ranchettes with prefabricated houses that served the spillover growth of city workers who wanted inexpensive land and country living.