Tularosa: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels) (9 page)

Kerney put his badge against the glass and pointed at the door. The surly look cleared, and Robinson nodded in agreement. He let them in and slammed the door shut fast to keep out the storm.

"Sorry about that," Robinson said, "but if I don't stick to my schedule, I'd have guys in here twenty four hours a day."

"That's okay," Kerney replied.

Robinson gave Sara a cautious look.

"Captain," he said politely, "is there a problem?"

"Relax, Specialist," Sara said easily. "We're here to talk about Sammy Yazzi. Do you know him?" Robinson pulled at the tail of his greasy fatigue shirt.

"I sure do," he answered.

"Me and him had an agreement. I was gonna buy his old Chevy. The fuel pump is busted and the carburetor needs to be rebuilt. I was gonna give him the money on payday, but then he went A.W.O.L.. It's still parked up by the barracks."

"Did you take anything out of the car?" Kerney asked. Robinson nodded.

"Right before Sammy split he said I could start working on it anytime and gave me the keys. There was a bunch of stuff inside that I cleaned out."

"What stuff?" Sara demanded.

"Just the usual junk people leave in cars, and a big leather case to keep art stuff in."

"A portfolio," Sara clarified.

"That's it."

"Do you still have it?"

Robinson inclined his head toward the small office next to the service bay.

"Yes, ma'am. I kept everything." They followed Robinson to the office and waited while he pulled the portfolio out from behind a filing cabinet and located a small box mixed in with some cartons on the floor.

"That's all of it," he said. Sara took the portfolio, Kerney grabbed the box, and Robinson walked them to the door.

"Is that all you need. Captain?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Don't you drive a Jeep Cherokee?" Robinson inquired.

"I do."

"Bring it down and I'll give it a tune-up. Cost you for the parts only."

"I may do that, Specialist." Outside she told Kerney to take her back to her house. Protocol called for them to log the items as evidence immediately, and Kerney had assumed they would do it at Sara's office. He said nothing, and they drove in silence, the box on the floorboard and the portfolio in Sara's lap.

The storm had blown itself out quickly, and the sky had cleared enough for a moonlight haze to pour over the basin. The top of the post water tower emerged on the side of a hill above the residential area, and streetlights illuminated the precise rows of military housing units with neat lawns and carefully trimmed shrubbery. A soft breeze pushed lines of sand across the pavement in lacy waves.

In the living room, Sara put away the map to make space on the carpet for the evidence. They sat opposite one another and went through the contents of the box first, like children saving the best present for last. It contained a pair of sunglasses, cassette tapes for the car stereo, a class catalog from the university, a small car repair kit in a plastic case, and several wrinkled road maps.

Sara unzipped the portfolio and spread it open on the carpet, revealing a series of watercolors and pencil drawings, each separated by a sheet of clear plastic. She laid them out in order, fingers touching only the tips of the paper. Kerney scooted next to her on the rug, his bad leg protesting the movement.

"Marvelous," she said, almost to herself, switching her attention from one painting to another.

"Sergeant Steiner said nothing about a portfolio of watercolors."

"Did you have Steiner picked up after I talked to him?" Sara smiled sweetly.

"Of course I did."

"I promised him he wouldn't get in trouble."

"He's not, although I did chew him out for not leveling with us."

"Did you find any other artwork?" Sara nodded.

"We have Sammy's sketchbooks that were in his quarters. All very harmless: anatomy studies of animals, pencil sketches of plant life, caricatures of some of his buddies. Until you talked to Steiner we had no knowledge that Sammy was sketching in restricted areas."

"What Steiner said amounts to nothing more than the reason Sammy went hiking on his free time," Kerney replied.

"I agree, but until now, we operated on the assumption that Specialist Yazzi left with the intent to go A.W.O.L.. That no longer seems to be the case."

She dropped her gaze to the watercolors, a series of wildlife studies. Each consisted of three separate panels: a landscape field sketch, a pencil drawing of a wildlife subject, and the final watercolor version, combining both elements. The landscape pencil drawings showed the locations of Sammy's field trips-the rickety windmill at Windy Well, the dilapidated corral at old John Prather's ranch, the mesa above the 7-Bar-K Ranch. Sammy had traversed a large chunk of real estate on the missile range.

"I wish we'd had these when we were looking for him," Sara reflected.

"He's been all over the damn base, at places we didn't even think to search."

"Maybe we should search again," Kerney suggested.

"Maybe we should."

"He's been to some remote back country, from the looks of it," Kerney added.

"Not places you can hike into in less than a day. Any ideas on how he got there?" Sara watched carefully to see what drawing Kerney looked at as he spoke. A bobcat seemed to command his attention. She had no idea what the locale for the painting might be.

"The service club operates a jeep excursion program for post personnel. They can sign out for a vehicle for day trips into the wilderness areas. Use is limited to specific roads and locations on the range."

"A jeep would do it," Kerney said, getting up stiffly from the carpet. "I'll check the service club records in the morning. It might give us a better idea of where to start looking."

"I think you already know where to look," Sara asserted. Kerney gave her a wry smile and shook his head.

"I don't know where to start." Sara stood up. "I'll let the service club NCO know you're coming."

"Thanks." He walked to the bookcase and picked up a framed photograph of four riders on horseback, a man, woman, young boy, and girl. The girl, with pigtails dangling down under the brim of a cowboy hat, had a broad, happy smile. From the looks of it, Sara must have been no more than thirteen years old when the picture was taken.

"Your family?"

"Yes."

"Where was the photograph taken?"

"Montana. North of Livingston on the Shields River. My parents are sheep ranchers. My brother and I are the fourth generation. Paul runs the ranch now. Mom and Dad work part-time, and head south in the winter. They call themselves snow birds Kerney looked at the photograph again before replacing it on the bookcase. If Sara's mother was an indication of how her daughter would age, it was clear Sara would be very lovely for many years to come.

"They look like good people," he said.

"They are."

"Do you think you can locate Bull McVay?" he asked. Sara smiled.

"Already done. Meet me at my office at noon and we'll drive up to see him."

"I'll be there. Is the BOQ available, or am I still out of time?"

"I think we can forget the clock, Lieutenant. I'll let them know you're staying over another night."

"Can you lose the tail on me?" he asked.

"Good night. Lieutenant," Sara said sweetly, brushing off the request. She watched Kerney limp to his truck with his half-rolling, busted-up gait and smiled in spite of herself. It probably hurt him like hell, but the walk reminded her of home and the men she had grown up with. She watched him drive away, called the BOQ, sat at the dining-room table, opened her briefcase, and took out the memorandum prepared by the post historian.

Patrick Kerney (born Live Oak County, Texas, 1872; died Albuquerque, New Mexico, 1964, age 92) came to the Tularosa Valley at the age of thirteen, as a horse wrangler for one of the original Texas cattlemen. He was a contemporary of Eugene Manlove Rhodes (see W. H. Hutchinson, A Bar Cross Man. University of Oklahoma Press, 1956), a cowboy who became one of the best-known western novelists of the early twentieth century. Both Rhodes and Kerney worked at the Bar Cross Ranch as wranglers and hands. Kerney took a patent on six thousand acres in the foothills of the San Andres Mountains about the same time that Rhodes laid claim to his land in what is now known as Rhodes Canyon. Both ran longhorn cattle, hired out to other spreads and broke mustangs to make ends meet. Patrick Kerney hauled freight from the railroad in Engle to the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation on a contract with the Army for several winters. Kerney and his son, Matthew, played a significant role in the resistance by the local ranchers to the military takeover of the valley. The Kerney family was one of the last to move off the range and one of the few to continue operations on a co use arrangement with the Army into the early 1960s. Court action mounted by Kerney and his neighbor Albert Jennings, who ranched on the west slope of the San Andres, was dismissed after several years of litigation. The last confrontation between ranchers and the government occurred at the Prather ranch in 1959. In spite of a court order, John Prather had refused to accept a writ of eviction served by military police and United States marshals. Word of the standoff spread to friends, relatives, and neighbors, who flocked to assist old John Prather. For hours the group kept a large Army contingent at bay. The writ was reversed and Prather was allowed to remain at his ranch until he died. It was the last property seized on the original installation under the eminent domain condemnation proceedings.

Patrick Kerney, age 87, his son, Matthew, and his grandson, Kevin, took part in the Prather showdown, armed with repeating rifles. (Attached are archive photographs.) The incident made national news and was covered by the wire services, newspapers, and broadcast media. The Kerney family moved to the Jennings ranch, where Matthew was employed as foreman. Patrick Kerney resided with the family until 1963, when deteriorating health forced his son to place him in an Albuquerque nursing home, where he died the following spring. She skimmed through the eight-by-ten black-and white photographs once more, stopping at the picture of a young Kevin Kerney sitting against the rock exterior of the Prather ranch house, with his arms wrapped around his knees and his hands clutching the barrel of a rifle. He was dressed in faded jeans stuffed into scruffy boots and a wide-brim cowboy hat pulled low. His eyes were wide open and filled with innocent determination. It was both charming and touching.

Despite the lateness of the hour, more work needed to be done. Kerney's breakthrough was progress, and it started Sara's wheels turning. It was time to do something equally innovative about the missing Navy enlisted man. She opened the case file on Petty Officer Third Class Alan Yardman and started to read it, looking for anything that might give her a new strategy. *** Strong upper-level winds cleared the last of the haze from the sky and chilled the night air. A crust of fresh sand crunched under Kerney's feet as he walked to the steps of the barracks. According to his watch, PFC Tony should be about to get off work. As tired as he was, Kerney didn't dare sit down. The knee felt as if it would lock up. It would take a lot of painful stretching to get it to work in the morning without killing him. He was grateful when Tony rounded the corner of the building.

"More questions, Lieutenant?"

"Just a few. Did you go with Sammy on any of his excursions into the desert?"

"I don't know nothing about that." He nervously took out a cigarette and lit it.

"I'll be checking the records at the service club in the morning," Kerney countered.

"Why not make my job easier?" Tony exhaled and stayed silent.

"Look, Alonzo, protecting Sammy because he may have broken a few stupid rules doesn't help him. We both know Sammy's a good guy. I'm not here to get anybody in trouble."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I'm Sammy's godfather." Kerney took out his wallet, found the high school graduation picture Sammy had sent him, and handed it to Tony. Tony cocked his head and looked at it.

"You expect me to believe a Navajo has a white guy for a godfather?" Tony questioned.

"Sammy isn't a Navajo; his father is. Sammy's Tewa and belongs to his mother's clan."

"That's right," Tony replied.

"I've known Sammy since the day he was born. Turn the picture over."

Tony flipped over the photograph, read the inscription, gave it back to Kerney, and smiled.

"A Tewa with an Irish-American godfather. Damn. Sammy didn't tell me about that.

"Okay. I went with him a few times. We would check out a jeep from the service club and take off. You're supposed to stay on certain roads, but Sammy drove wherever the hell he wanted to. I kept warning him the MP patrols would catch us, but he said he would just tell them we got lost."

"What did Sammy do when you were with him?"

"He had this real nice thirty-five-millimeter camera he bought at the PX. It had a telephoto lens. He took a lot of pictures. Scenery. Birds. Whatever he liked."

"Do you remember where you went?" Tony lifted his head in the direction of the San Andres Mountains. "Up on some mesas. A good thirty miles out."

"Do you remember any place-names?"

"Just one. Sheep Mesa, Big Sheep Mesa, or Big Mesa. Something like that. It's north of an old ranch."

"Where did Sammy keep his camera?"

"I don't know, but he almost always had it with him when he was off duty." Tony stubbed out the cigarette on the heel of his boot and field-stripped it.

"Did he develop his own pictures?"

"Yeah, but he didn't use the darkroom on the post. Once in a while he'd come back from Las Cruces with developed prints." He looked over Kerney's shoulder, came to attention, and snapped off a salute.