Mexican hat (3 page)

She watched him walk down the flagstone path with a limp that threw him slightly off-center. She switched her attention to her children, who had chased Bubba back into the yard and were trying to tackle the puppy as he barked and ran between their legs. She smiled as the chase turned into a game. She tapped the business card against the back of her hand and looked at it once more. Kevin Ker-ney. She liked the name.

She stuck the card in the frame of the screen door where she wouldn't forget it and went inside. There was an incredible amount of unpacking still left to do.

STOPS AT THE LAST RANCH in the canyon and at the bar, store, and two restaurants in Glenwood yielded no information on possible suspects. Kerney drove the short distance down the highway to the district ranger station, checked in with Yolanda, the secretary, found an empty desk in a back office, and started writing his report. He was almost finished when Charlie Perry came in and stood over the desk, looking down at him. Kerney glanced up, said nothing, and returned to his writing. The expression on Perry's face was enough to tell him that Charlie was steamed.

"I don't recall giving you permission to continue the investigation," Charlie said sharply.

"You didn't," Kerney allowed.

"That's right. I understand you have some law enforcement experience. I relieved you on the mesa and sent you back on patrol. You should know what that means."

"I do."

"Are you always so fucking insubordinate?"

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"Not always."

Charlie scowled. Kemey locked his gaze on Perry's face and settled back in his chair to wait the man out. Charlie blinked first.

"Okay," Charlie finally said, "you're new and you're seasonal, but this isn't the Luna office. I handle all the investigations in the district."

"I understand from Phil Cox that you're good at it," Kerney replied.

"That's nice to hear, but it's not the point," Charlie shot back. "Poaching and illegal trophy hunting are a way of life for most of the people in this district. It's part of their culture. They do it to feed themselves, to make money, or just for sport. There are twenty-five hundred people spread out over almost seven thousand square miles in Catron County. A hell of a lot of them are poor as church mice, and they know the forest better than any ranger. Catching them isn't easy.

"You're wasting your time canvassing. You got two kinds of people who live here—the minority who want poaching stopped, but who aren't going to snitch on their neighbors, and all the rest, who see it as a birthright. Folks poach depending on how hungry they get, how broke they are, or how bullheaded they feel. You can't approach it like a criminal investigation. It doesn't work that way. And the locals aren't going to talk to some newcomer they don't know or trust."

Charlie was still scolding. Kerney didn't want to make it worse. "I understand," he said.

"Good. I'll be at the Blue Range burn for the rest of the day. Finish your patrol shift and report back to the Luna office in the morning. Leave your report with Yolanda. I'll read it later."

Kemey tapped his paperwork with the tip of the ballpoint pen.

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"Do you have any poaching files I can look at?" he asked. "I'd like to learn more about it."

"You don't have the time."

"I'll do it after work," Kerney countered.

Charlie considered Kerney. He hoped to God he was never in the man's predicament. He knew Kerney was a medically retired cop from Santa Fe hired on an emergency basis by Samuel Aldrich in the Albuquerque Office to fill in for a permanent employee on extended sick leave. The rest Charlie could see for himself: a hobbled-up, middle-aged man in a temporary job that would end no matter how hard he worked or how much he tried to please—not that placating people seemed to be much of a concern to Kerney. There were simply no permanent staff vacancies, with all the budget cuts.

"Catching poachers isn't your job," Charlie said. "I thought I made that clear."

"You did." Kerney leaned back in the chair and smiled at Charlie. "Explain something else to me."

"What is it?"

"Why are you pulling my chain? I don't think asking a few questions has damaged the investigation."

"That's your point of view," Charlie replied bluntly.

"Is there more to this case than meets the eye?"

Charlie exhaled loudly through his nose and shook his head. "You don't get it, do you? It's not your case. It's not your business. End of discussion."

"Whatever you say."

Charlie left, and in a few minutes Kerney heard the helicopter lift off to take Perry back to his fire. As he paper-clipped the report together, Kerney wondered why Charlie had stonewalled him about the case. It made no sense, and dismissing Perry as an arrogant,

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hard-nosed son of a bitch wasn't a completely satisfying explanation.

Kerney walked down the hall and gave his report to Yolanda for typing. She promptly dumped it on the top of an overflowing tray. A heavyset, slow-moving woman with expressionless eyes, she held Kerney back from leaving.

"Charlie said for you to work a double shift," she informed him.

There was a bite to the announcement. Charlie had obviously made his feelings about Kerney known to Yolanda.

"Did he really? What does he want me to do?"

"Campground patrol." She pulled open the desk drawer and handed him two keys on a chain. "For gasoline and the office," she explained. "Just leave your paperwork on Charlie's desk."

"Anything else?"

Yolanda shook her head and turned back to the typewriter.

It looked like the dead black bear was going to be the high point of his day.

THE DISTRICT OFFICE WAS DARK and locked when Kerney returned from his double shift. He sat in Charlie's office reading closed poaching cases he'd found in the bottom desk drawer. It was meager stuff; mostly small-fry poachers who had been snitched off, caught taking game out of season, or found spotlighting prey at night. A few trophy hunters had been busted while transporting carcasses out of the forest.

Charlie's open cases were stuffed in a file cabinet and consisted of a mixture of poaching and trophy kills, with no solid leads, witnesses, or hard evidence. All of Charlie's attention seemed focused on game-taking within the Glenwood District. Kerney wondered

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about similar activity in other areas. He scanned through a stack of game-kill bulletins from other agencies. One bighorn sheep had recently been taken on state land by a poacher using an ATV, and several exotic ibex from the herd in the Florida Mountains east of Deming had been harvested earlier in the year. An all-terrain vehicle had been seen in the vicinity by a Bureau of Land Management officer.

With the bear kill on the mesa, that would make at least three cases where an ATV had been used to get to the killing ground. It was enough to raise Kemey's interest. He went to the map posted in the front lobby and studied it. Aside from Forest Service land, there were large parcels under the control of the Bureau of Land Management and smaller sections owned by the state. Maybe Charlie Perry had tunnel vision.

Just for the hell of it, Kemey decided to query every state and federal park and conservation agency in the region and ask for information on kills where an ATV was used. He typed fax messages at Yolanda's desk and sent out the inquiries, asking for responses to be sent to him at the Luna office. As he fed the messages through the fax machine, Kerney wondered how ticked off Charlie Perry was going to be when he discovered this most recent act of insubordination.

He got home to Reserve late. His trailer, painted a bright blue by his landlord in a desperate attempt to rent it, sat in an empty field across from the high school. Inside it was hot, stuffy, and smelled like mouse piss. He opened all the windows. Across the field the parking-lot lights at the high school burned pale yellow. He heard the deer mice under the floor—much more established tenants of the trailer than he was—scurrying around, upset by his arrival. He would put out some traps on his next day off.

e X i c a n Hal ■ 29

The trailer was a dump, but Kerney didn't mind. A single-wide furnished with a bed, kitchen table, couch, ragtag easy chair, and several lamps, it served his temporary needs. He was banking all his paychecks and living on much less than his retirement pension. Along with the money the Army had paid him for the recovery of the stolen artifacts from White Sands Missile Range, he just might finish the summer with enough cash for a down payment on some land. Not much, and certainly nothing as extensive as the Slash Z summer grazing acreage, but something that could get him started.

Kerney really didn't give a damn what Charlie Perry might do. Four weeks on the job was long enough to convince him that he could never permanently return to patrol work. Not even the beautiful landscapes and startling sunsets in the Gila could ease the boredom of long hours in a vehicle. Maybe a wilderness assignment would be different, but that was a plum job reserved for forestry and wildlife specialists.

It had been years since he'd worn a uniform, and he had never liked them—not when he had served in the Army nor when he had started out as a street cop. He stripped off the garments, dressed in his sweats, and limbered up the knee for his nightly run, wondering how long it would take Phil Cox to figure out who the hell he was.

As he jogged away from the trailer he thought about the good-looking woman he had talked to at the ranch house. He didn't even know her name. Even the rawest rookie cop on the street knew enough to ID all possible witnesses. It was a dumb blunder, and his appreciation of the lady's splendid legs didn't justify the mistake. He laughed out loud at himself as he picked up the pace.

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2

Hector Maria Padilla had heard the story of his family's history many times from his grandfather. He listened to it again as he drove through the mountains north of Silver City on a v^inding two-lane highway. The trip from the border through the desert had gone smoothly, but in the high country of southwestern New Mexico he felt less confident behind the wheel. He drove a new four-wheel-drive Ford truck Grandfather had bought specifically for the journey, and towed a travel trailer they had rented in El Paso.

Grandfather finished the story of how his ancestors had settled the Mangas Valley soon after the end of the American Civil War, and now embarked on the tale of his arrival in Mexico City as a young man.

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"My father wanted all his children to be educated," Dr. Jose Luis Padilla said, continuing his narrative in Spanish, "He decided the village needed a doctor. So, I first went to the university in Albuquerque and then to Mexico City to study medine."

"And that's where you met Grandmother," Hector said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

"Yes." Jose Luis Padilla signed inwardly. He missed his dear Carlotta, dead these past three months. "She was the only woman enrolled in my class at medical school. All the men pursued her. I was amazed that she took notice of me. Her family opposed our marriage."

"Because you were not from Mexico," Hector noted, slowing the vehicle as a car approached them from around a curve.

Jose Luis Padilla chuckled. "Yes. I was unacceptable—a nobody from the United States."

The road was clear. Hector glanced with a worried look at his grandfather, who sat with a road map on his lap. Since they'd entered the mountains. Grandfather's breathing had become more labored. He looked for signs of oxygen deprivation. Grandfather's skin had good color, and his lips were pink. Reassuring signs. He decided to inquire anyway. "How are you feeling. Grandfather?"

Dr. Jose Luis Padilla turned his head and smiled at the young man. His dark brown eyes were clear and lively. He was rail-thin, with wispy gray hair that curled up over the tip of his ears. His skin, heavily wrinkled, was tight against his skull. "I am iine,jito. You must remember that until your graduation next year, I am the only doctor on this journey."

"Your breathing is rapid," Hector observed.

"As well it should be at my age, with so much activity at this

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altitude. If I require rest, you can park the truck so that I can take a siesta in the trailer. Pay attention to your driving."

Of all his grandchildren, Hector pleased Jose the most. He was a serious, hardworking young man who would one day be an excellent doctor. Hector reminded him of Carlotta. He had his grandmother's beautiful olive-black eyes that always seemed lively and amused, a resolute spirit, and a sound intellect.

"You never came back to New Mexico after the death of your father," Hector said. It was part of the story Grandfather always seemed to skirt.

"I brought your grandmother here for my father's funeral, and she hated it. It was too isolated and alien to her nature."

"But it was your father's wish that you should return home to practice medicine," Hector reminded him.

"There was nothing to come home to. Pull over to the side of the road."

Grandfather's answer surprised Hector. "Nothing?" he questioned. He stopped the truck on the shoulder of the road next to a cluster of cabins surrounding a tourist lodge. They were in Glen-wood, a small mountain town strung out along both sides of the highway. The town—a few businesses, tourist cabins, and small houses fronting either side of the road—perched in a wandering valley cut by the course of a river.

"My father lost everything in the Great Depression," Jose replied, as he unsnapped the seat belt. "My brothers had already left home to find work, and the village was dying. Gringos from the Dust Bowl moved into the valley and took most of the public works jobs. Building roads. Logging. Drilling wells. All my father had left was his land, his sheep, and a few herdsmen willing to

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work on the promise of future wages. All was lost after he was murdered."