Mexican hat (22 page)

His wife kissed him quickly on her way out the door. He sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and studying the county health office pamphlet on hantavirus. Cleaning up mice shit was no longer a simple chore; not since the hantavirus outbreak began killing people several years back. Television reporters had yapped endlessly about the mystery killer illness, until the scientists figured out what the hell caused it. According to the pamphlet the disease was caused

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by airborne particles from deer mice droppings that attacked the pulmonary system in humans.

There were protocols to follow to remove the danger and avoid exposure, and Doyle read them over again carefully. He'd already picked up the rubber gloves, flea powder, traps, bait, paper towels, disinfectant, trash bags, and mask. It looked pretty straightforward.

He put everything in a box and carried it to his truck. In the darkness, he could see a single light on in the trailer window, and he wondered where in the hell Kerney was going so early in the morning. It wasn't like he had a job. Join the club, he thought sarcastically.

He got the kids up, dressed, fed, and ready to go. Both were enrolled in church camp for the summer on scholarships, but that didn't bother Doyle; half the children in the congregation attended for free, and he had tithed every year when he was still working.

He let the kids watch a little television until it was time to drive them to church. Kerney's truck was gone as he passed the trailer. That was fine with Doyle. Maybe he had moved out and forgotten about the deposit.

He dropped the kids off, spent a few minutes chatting with the youth minister, and went to the trailer. It had to be aired out for an hour before he could go after the mice. He unlocked the door, called out to make sure no one was home, waited a minute, and flipped on the light switch. The explosion that followed blew the roof off the trailer and slammed Fletcher across the hood of his truck into the windshield. He shattered the glass headfirst, and the impact broke his neck.

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Wind-driven plumes of black smoke forced the onlookers back from the ropes that cordoned off the still-smoldering trailer. Kerney watched unnoticed at the back of the crowd. The trailer lay tipped precariously on its side with most of the roof missing. Scorched metal fragments, strewn in random patterns across the field, showed that the blast had been considerable.

On the hood of a truck next to the trailer, a blanket covered a lifeless body. Near a fire engine, Omar Gatewood talked to a woman who wore a yellow firefighter's slicker. Directly behind them police, emergency, and rescue vehicles were haphazardly parked in the open field. A paramedic, bent over next to the open door of an am-

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bulance, consoled an agitated, sobbing woman who huddled on the ground.

The wind died off and the smoke rose vertically, allowing people to move forward against the ropes. Kemey scanned the crowd. He recognized a lot of faces, most of them people he knew only by sight. The gathering had almost a carnival air to it as folks shouted comments at the firefighters, who were smothering patches of smoldering grass with dirt. There were lots of smiles and head-shaking going back and forth. Based on the size of the gathering, Kemey reckoned the event had brought out the entire village.

A voice on his right side spoke. "Bomb."

Kemey glanced at the man. He wasn't familiar at all. "Excuse me.*^

The man was in his mid to late twenties, with a long ponytail tied back at the nape of his neck, eyes that were filled with amusement, and broad Navajo features. He took a deep drag on a cigarette before answering, "I said it was a bomb."

"What makes you so sure?" Kemey asked, although he tended to agree with the analysis.

"I spent three years in an Army demolition unit. No exploding water heater can do that kind of damage unless it's been rigged with a charge."

"You think the water heater was rigged?" Kemey asked.

The young man nodded. Dressed in jeans, a plaid work shirt, and a lightweight black denim jacket, he wore a very old coral-and-turquoise Navajo bracelet made of coin silver. "I sure do." He dropped the cigarette and ground it under the heel of a work boot. "See how the roof is torn up? It takes more than exploding propane gas to do that kind of damage."

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"What kind of bomb do you think it was?"

"From the blast pattern, dynamite would be my guess."

"Triggered by what?"

"Probably by a spark. It's easy enough to do. You plant your material, short out an electrical switch, and start a gas leak. Whoever turns on the juice becomes a crispy critter."

"Did you do it?" Kerney asked, half seriously.

The young man chuckled and his dark eyes flashed in amusement. With high cheekbones, slightly curved eyebrows, and an oval face that tapered to a round chin, he looked quietly fun-loving. "I wouldn't be talking about it if I did it, Mr. Kerney. You've got a rookie on your hands—probably a virgin—and not a very talented one at that."

"You know me?"

The man laughed. "Hell, man, you're headline news at Cattleman's Cafe."

"You have me at a disadvantage," Kerney said.

"I'm Alan Begay," he replied, raising his chin in a quick greeting. "From the Navajo Pine Hill Chapter at Ramah."

"What brings you to this party?"

"I'm a surface-water specialist with the state. I work in the Gallup field office. I've been down here for the last three weeks. I heard the explosion and tagged along with the crowd."

"Do you have time to stick around and take a look at the trailer after things calm down?"

"Yeah, I can do that," Begay replied, his smile widening. "It would be fun."

Kerney chatted with Begay for a few minutes to reassure himself that the man was who he seemed before skirting the fringe of the crowd. He found Sheriff Gatewood by the fire engine, occupy-

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ing his time watching firefighters roll up hoses and shovel debris from inside the trailer,

Gatewood didn't notice Kemey until he was at his side. He cast a glance at Kemey and stifled a reaction of surprise by clamping his mouth shut. It made his chubby cheeks puff out even more. "Damn, Kerney," he said, "we figured you were burned up inside."

"No such luck. Who got killed?"

"Your landlord, Doyle Fletcher, the poor son of a bitch."

"What happened?"

"Fire chief thinks someone planted a device. She put a call into the state fire marshal to send an arson investigator up from Las Cruces."

Gatewood kept talking, and Kemey's attention wandered. The medical examiner and a paramedic were moving Fletcher's body from the truck hood onto a gurney. He stepped over and pulled the blanket down. Fletcher's face, seared and unrecognizable, made Kerney choke down bile. He flipped the cover back over the face and spent a minute considering whether it had been the blast or the fire that had killed Fletcher. He decided it didn't really matter.

The crowd began to thin out. Slowly people walked away in tight, chatty little groups. Gatewood moved off to speak to a deputy. Soon only a few hangers-on and official personnel remained, most with nothing to do. Kemey found himself wondering what had happened to the mice, and decided his sense of humor had gone stale.

At the rear of Fletcher's truck a deputy sheriff was using his bulk to block Alan Begay from getting closer to the trailer.

Kemey intervened. "Sorry for wasting your time," he apologized, as they stepped out of the deputy's earshot. "But the sheriff has sealed the crime scene. I can't get you in."

"Doesn't matter," Begay said. "Let me show you something." He walked Kerney thirty feet behind Fletcher's truck, stooped down, and used a stick to turn over the partially melted remains of a light socket. "Here's your trigger," he said with satisfaction.

Kerney bent over, peered at it, not quite sure what he was looking at, and waited for Begay to explain.

"You take the bulb out and solder filament wire to the hot post. When you turn on the juice it sparks, ignites the gas, and detonates the dynamite," Begay said. "You can see where its been soldered."

"What about fingerprints?" Kerney asked.

"Don't hold your breath." Begay tossed the stick away, brushed his hands, looked at Kerney, and shook his head. "So now you're unemployed and homeless."

"I didn't even think about that," Kerney said, as reality sank in.

"I've got a spare bed in my motel room, if you need a place to crash for the night."

Reserve boasted only one motel, so Kerney didn't have to ask where Begay was staying. "I may take you up on the offer."

Begay nodded. "I'll tell the desk clerk to give you a key."

"Thanks."

"No problem, man," Alan said as he walked away.

The television crew arrived. A cameraman unloaded equipment while the reporter—one of those bright-eyed, perky women who smiled at the camera no matter what the subject matter might be— hustled off to find Gatewood. It brought the few remaining onlookers who were leaving scurrying back for more entertainment.

As soon as everyone clustered around Gatewood and the reporter to watch the interview, Kerney took off.

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MOM'S SURGERY had gone well—better than expected, according to the doctor—and Karen sat in the waiting room with her father. Even with the good news, his face was filled with worry, and he was fidgety, running his fingers through his gray hair and pacing back and forth across the waiting room, taking big strides with his long legs.

Karen wanted to pass it off as nothing more than Edgar's desire to see Mom as soon as the doctor would let him. She wondered if the love that her parents had—a sweet, absolute devotion—had melted away with their generation and was now nothing more than a cultural icon. The idea of being joined at the hip to a man had always felt stifling to Karen.

Elizabeth and Cody were much calmer than their grandfather. They were playing with a puzzle in the corner of the room with the pieces spread out on the floor between them. Elizabeth was lying on her stomach, knees bent and legs in the air, fitting pieces together, while Cody, stretched out on his side, played tiddledywinks with his pile of the puzzle, trying to vex his sister by skipping shots at her.

The only other person in the room, a woman waiting to take her husband home from outpatient surgery, sat in front of a television at the far end of the room, watching a mindless talk show. The station broke away from the network for a news bulletin.

Karen got to her feet as soon as the anchorman in Albuquerque started talking about more violence in Catron County. A trailer had been bombed and a man was dead. There would be a full report on the evening news.

"Daddy," she called.

Already at her side, Edgar scowled at the television.

"I've got to go," she said.

"Go ahead. I'll take care of the children," Edgar replied.

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Karen grabbed her purse, kissed Cody and Elizabeth, and flew out the door.

THWARTED BY MOLLY'S REFUSAL to drive him around becausc she had to work for a hving, and because his face would cause a massive traffic accident if she took him out in public, Jim Stiles was forced to do detective work by telephone. The mining company confirmed Steve Lujan's story about his settlement, and the Catron County Bank reported no large amounts of money going in or out of Lujan's accounts. The disappointment continued. No record of a divorce for Eugene or Louise Cox was on file in any of the district courts throughout the state.

Molly came home for lunch, bringing the telephone directories he'd asked for from the library, and questioning his sanity. When he told her what he planned to do, she told him he'd damn well better have the money to pay her phone bill. After sharing a quick, thrown-together sandwich and giving him a smooch on the lips, Molly said he kissed very well for a man with an ugly face and went back to work.

Jim's plan was simple. He would call every damn person who lived in or between Pie Town, Quemado, Magdalena, Reserve, and Luna until he found somebody who knew something about Louise Blanton Cox.

KAREN ARRIVED AT the trailer and quickly grilled Gatcwood. She was relieved to learn that Kemey wasn't dead. The devastated trailer had been braced up with scrap lumber so that the crime scene specialists, flown in from Santa Fe by the state police, could work inside

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the structure. They were laboring cautiously, bagging evidence, dusting for prints, and taking photographs. Karen logged in with the officer in charge and toured the outside area with Gatewood, an arson investigator, and the state police agent assigned to the Padilla homicide. The wall studs of the trailer had been fractured into giant toothpicks, and melted ceiling tiles, warped by heat into bizarre shapes, dangled from the gaping hole in the metal roof. A couch, consumed down to the metal frame, sat next to a badly charred and smoldering mattress.

The arson investigator, in from Las Graces, took Karen and Omar up a plank board to the hole where the front door had been. His rumpled jacket caught on the sharp edge of a piece of metal, and as he turned to free it, the trailer settled a bit. The movement froze Karen in her tracks.

The man coughed, shook his head, and stepped back down the plank, forcing Gatewood and Karen to retreat. "Maybe I should just tell you what I found," he said.

"That's a good idea," Karen replied.

On solid ground he inspected the tear in his jacket and tried to pull out a loose thread without success before pointing at the trailer. "We've got a dynamite explosion triggered by propane gas." He wheezed, took out a tissue, and blew his nose. "Enough material was used to guarantee nobody inside would survive the blast. Whoever did this wanted to send a message that it was no accident. I'd say the tenant was the target, and revenge or retaliation was the motive."

"Was it a professional job?" Karen asked.