Michael McGarrity - The Judas judge

"Is that true?" Pomeroy asked.

Hobeck hung his head. "Can't you do anything?" he pleaded to Pomeroy.

"After I arrest you for obstruction of justice, he can," Kerney said, turning back to Pomeroy. "What will it be?"

Pomeroy nodded curtly. "I suggest you tell Chief Kerney where Margie is, Daniel."

With haunted eyes, Hobeck gave Kerney the name of a chemical dependency treatment program outside of Tucson. "She's addicted to tranquilizers," he added. "Has been for most of her life. You can't count on her to tell the truth."

"Perhaps you'd like that to be so," Kerney countered. "What does Margie know about Vernon Langsford?"

"I can't talk about that."

"Nor do you have to at this point," Pomeroy advised.

"Don't let your client contact Margie until after I speak with her," Kerney said.

Hobeck switched his gaze to Kerney. "You can't keep me from doing that. This is America, not some dictatorship, for chrissake."

"I suggest we follow Chief Kerney's advice," Pomeroy replied.

Defeated, Hobeck dropped heavily to the couch as though his legs had been knocked out from under him.

Kerney handed Pomeroy his business card. "You may want to hold off on any court petition until after my visit."

"I'm way ahead of you on that one," Pomeroy replied, giving Hobeck an inquisitive look.

The cramped seat on the plane ride to Tucson made Kerney's bum knee lock up. He hobbled through the terminal like an old man, signed for his rental car, and, using the map supplied with the keys to the vehicle, found his way to the treatment center where Hobeck had stashed his sister.

A drying-out resort and spa for affluent addicts and drunks, the center had once been a dude ranch, and the Western theme was continued in newly built clusters of rustic-looking private guest cottages and low-slung buildings with wide verandas, where a range of treatment options, from aroma and massage therapy to group and individual counseling, was available to speed the recovery process.

If the patrons didn't leave cured of their addictions, they would at least check out feeling pampered.

On the green in front of the administration building, a group of matrons in mix-and-match sizes were exercising under the guidance of a tanned, fit-looking young man who wore a body-hugging tee shirt that accentuated his toned upper torso. The young woman in side at a reception desk was equally toned, tanned, and dressed in a tee shirt of her own that emphasized a pair of remarkably different features from those of her male counterpart on the lawn.

The receptionist was busy on the telephone, so Kerney stood in front of the desk and fanned through an advertising brochure for the center that listed the levels of services available, optional packages, and the weekly rates. Even if Hobeck had selected the least expensive course of treatment for his sister, the cost was exorbitant.

"May I help you?" the woman asked, as she hung up the phone and gave Kerney a well-practiced welcoming smile.

"Margie Hobeck, please," Kerney replied, showing his shield. The smile vanished and Kerney got directions to the Paloverde Cottages, which, according to the brochure, were the low-end accommodations. Before he left, he verified that Margie had voluntarily signed herself in for treatment.

She answered his knock at her cabin door immediately. Agitation showed on her face; perhaps withdrawal symptoms, Kerney speculated.

Hobeck had paid for a makeover; Margie's hair had been tinted and set, her nails were perfectly done, and her eyebrows and lashes had been dyed.

"I remember you," Margie said. "You're that policeman. Why did you ask my brother all those questions about me?" The question came out as a whine.

"I'm sorry if it caused you trouble."

"He took me away from my home and brought me here. I don't like it here. I need to be home with my cats."

"Would you like me to take you home?"

"Danny wouldn't like that. He wants me to stay. He said if I talked to you, he would sell my house. He said a judge would give him control of my affairs because I'm not responsible."

"I won't let that happen," Kerney said.

"You can stop him?"

"Yes, if you help me."

A hopeful look broke through Margie's uneasiness. "My cats liked you. They don't usually like men."

"They're lovely animals, and I'm sure they miss you."

"Take me home."

"Will you talk to me about Vernon Langsford?" Kerney asked. "Danny said he told you everything."

"I need to hear your side of the story," Kerney replied, "in order for it to be official."

Margie nodded.

"Tell me about Vernon."

"He was a bad boy."

"What did he do?"

Margie's eyes closed. "He made me play with his lollipop-that's what he called it. I had to let him put it everywhere."

"How old were you when this happened?"

"Very young. It went on for years." Margie's fingers touched her chest and she smiled ruefully. "Until I got breasts. They never did get very big."

"Did you tell anybody?"

"I told Danny what Vernon was doing to me the summer I turned ten and he turned fifteen. He said it was my fault."

"You told no one else?"

"I was scared to. But I think my daddy knew. He went to work for Vernon's father that same summer and stayed with the company until he retired."

Kerney thought about Margie's years of pain and shame. "Vernon can't hurt you anymore."

Margie smiled bitterly. "I always thought Vernon's death would be a remedy. But it's not."

"Why don't you get packed," Kerney said gently, resisting the impulse to reach out and comfort Margie. Based on what he'd just heard, he doubted that a man's touch would soothe away any of her hurts.

The flight back to Albuquerque and the drive to Roswell took up the remainder of the day. Kerney got Margie home at nightfall, his mind reeling from her descriptions of Vernon's sexual assaults. In a tiny little voice, she'd recalled the events as though they were fresh and recent. The fact that Danny Hobeck had freely made his kid sister available to Vernon turned Kerney's stomach.

He stayed with her while she checked on her cats, fed them, called the neighbor to report her return, and then disappeared into the bathroom. Ten minutes later she emerged with a dreamy look on her face, all traces of agitation and worry gone.

He said nothing about her drugged condition and left thinking that if anybody had a legitimate reason to get loaded on tranquilizers, it was Margie.

Penelope Gibben's house was dark when he drove by. By phone he contacted a staff member at Ranchers' Exploration and Development and learned that Gibben was on a business trip to Dallas and wouldn't be back until midweek.

Linda Langsford's house was lit up, but the cars in the driveway, including her minister's Chevy and her law partner's top-of-the-line Volvo station wagon, canceled the possibility of a private conversation.

It was just as well, Kerney thought, as he drove away. He was drained from hearing Margie's gut-wrenching accounts and wasn't sure he could maintain the focus of another interview with either woman on the heels of what he'd recently learned.

Besides, the weakest link in the chain other than Margie was Kay Murray. As an admitted drug user, he could lean on her, if necessary.

He'd see her in the morning when his mind was clear.

A bad dream forced Kerney into consciousness. He woke in his Ruidoso motel room with a jumble of ugly images in his mind. In it, Randy Shockley and Eric Langsford were stalking a prepubescent Kay Murray with shotguns, like hunters chasing a jackrabbit. Murray suddenly transmuted into Sara, and Kerney couldn't reach her in time to save her from the blasts that took her down.

He checked the time and stifled an urge to call Sara-she was long gone from her quarters to morning classes. In the shower he let the water beat on his head until the last remnant of the dream evaporated.