Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

Robert took several small sips and then pulled the straw from his lips.

"It hurts to use my mouth," he said.

"You don't have to talk now, if you don't want to."

"You understand Spanish, Kerney," Robert said.

"Who did this to you?"

"El Malo."

Kerney knew the term. It meant "the evil one," a colloquialism for the devil.

"How did he do this to you?"

Robert blinked and looked confused.

"My head feels better."

"I hope it stays that way."

"El Malo never stays with me. He's just non hatajo de mentiras."

"He lies to you?"

Robert smirked.

"He says I'm not crazy."

"That must be good to hear."

"It's a lie." Robert paused for a moment.

"Once I dreamed I was Jesus Christ. You know what I did in the dream?"

"What did you do?"

"I killed myself." Robert giggled.

"Isn't that funny?"

"That was some dream."

"El Malo makes me dream shit like that. It's bad luck to dream you're Jesus."

"Who beat you up, Robert?"

"I was naguitas, Kerney. A real sissy. I didn't even throw one punch.

Not one."

"Maybe you didn't have the chance."

"You're supposed to fight back. That's the rule."

"Even tofe bolos like you can get tricked," Kerney ventured.

Robert considered Kerney's statement.

"You got fucked up pretty bad, shot and everything. Isn't that right?"

"That's right."

"Were you scared when it happened?"

"Terrified. Who beat you up, Robert?"

"That fucker Ordway said you sent him some smokes to give to me."

"Ordway did this?"

"Yeah."

Kerney stayed with Robert until he closed his eyes and fell asleep. on the drive back to Santa Pc, Kerney made contact with the state cop who lived in Mountainair, and asked about Ordway's whereabouts. The officer reported Ordway had cleaned out his trailer, loaded up a small U-Haul, and left town.

Tired to the bone, Kerney turned down the squawk box volume and popped a Wynton Marsalis tape into the cassette deck. Some deep-down, throaty blues would carry him home. Or not exactly home, as Andy had so correctly pointed out.

He would love to put his cowboy boots on the coffee table at Harper Springer's ranch and call the place his own, but that was a pipe dream.

If he stayed in Santa Fe, reality would be a furnished box apartment with all the charm of a minimum-security federal prison. That just wouldn't do.

He was approaching the off-ramp to St. Francis Drive when the realization hit him that he wasn't thinking clearly. He switched his attention to the rearview mirror. The headlights of three cars behind him flickered in the mirror. He slowed to let them close, clicked on the turn signal, and continued past the exit. Two of the cars turned off while the third stayed behind him.

He didn't know if he was being followed or not, but it was time to start playing it safe. He moved into the left lane, swung the car off the pavement onto a dirt crossover that connected the divided highway, and merged with the southbound traffic. The northbound car continued on without slowing.

From now on, he would take alternate routes to and from work and vary his routine. With an eye on the rearview mirror, he got off the interstate, and took side streets to Fletcher's house.

At the house, he scanned the grounds for anything out of the ordinary before going inside. Everything looked perfectly peaceful.

Kerney turned on the table lamp in Fletcher's bedroom and found him curled up in a ball under an old hand stitched floral-wreath quilt. The bed, a massive nineteenth-century four-poster, was angled to provide a view of a walled garden at the rear of the house. Nichos carved in the adobe walls displayed an assortment of folk art animal figures that included Acoma Pueblo owls. Cochin storyteller bears, and mythical Mexican beasts. On the floor in the four corners of the room stood carefully grouped menageries of hand-carved, painted animals. Pigs, skunks, donkeys, lions, and chickens of various sizes were arranged facing the bed.

"Wake up, Fletcher," Kerney said.

Pletcher pulled a pillow over his head.

"It's much too early to wake up," he muttered.

"It's time for our run."

Kerney removed the pillow and Fletcher opened his eyes. Dressed to go running, Kerney wore a fanny pack around his waist.

"Why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?" Fletcher asked as he sat up.

The pouch, designed with a special sleeve for a quick draw, held Kerney's loaded semiautomatic and a spare dip, but Fletcher didn't need to know that.

"Dress," Kerney said, ignoring the question and tossing Fletcher's sweats on the foot of the bed.

"I'll wait for you outside."

When Pletcher joined him, Kerney took a different route for their morning run, half-expecting Fletcher to complain. But as Kerney led the way out of the neighborhood and up a narrow street mat gave them a view of the mountains, Fletcher said nothing.

The first full light of morning streaked speckled carmine on the flat underbelly of some stratus clouds, brushed the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and nickered against the peak of Sun Mountain. Sunlight tipped the mountaintops as though it were a hazy rivulet of gold spreading across the high summits.

"Why do you look so pleased with yourself?" Kerney asked as they jogged past an open field that gave mema better view of the mountains.

"No particular reason," Fletcher replied.

"Unless you might have some small interest in learning the identity of the mysterious man who was with Bucky Watson at the O'Keeffe benefit."

Kerney slowed to a trot.

"What have you been up to, Fletcher?"

"I happened to run into Bucky and his friend at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. The man's name is Vicente Puentes. He's Hispanic, with classic Castilian features-quite good-looking. A Mexican from his accent, I would say. Gilbert has a picture of him."

"What were you doing at Rancho Caballo?"

"Having dinner. The food was excellent."

"Did you learn anything more about Fuentes?"

"Only that he's an occasional visitor to Santa Pc. He looks to be quite wealthy."

"I want you to be careful, Pletcher."

"Careful about what?"

"The men we're looking for can be very dangerous."

"Have you identified the crooks?"

"We've got a line on them. Don't let any strangers into the house, and if you see anyone suspicious in the neighborhood, I want you to call me right away."

"Have you been sending patrol officers to check on my house?"

Kerney nodded.

"Andy has. It's just a precaution. Do you have to go anywhere during the next few days?"

"A trip to the grocery store. I need to fill my larder.

That's all."

"Do that, but otherwise stay home, and keep the doors and windows locked."

"You're scaring me a bit, Kerney. Whatever is the matter?"

"Just do as you're told," Kerney said.

"And no more playing Hercule Poirot. This isn't one of those cozy mystery novels you love to read."

The hurt look on Fletcher's face made Kerney stop. ^ don't want anything bad to happen to you."

Pletcher smiled wanly.

"I'll do as you've asked. But I must say you have a rather fierce way of showing your concern." buck? watson's art crating business was housed in a two-story Victorian, on a side street in the Guadalupe District of Santa Fe. A redbrick structure with a wide front porch and a gabled roof, it had a loading dock at the back of the building that led to an alley. Two other Victorians were on either side, one used as a dance studio, and the other rented by a high-end furniture maker.

Across the street stood an upscale nightclub and restaurant. It was one of the few buildings on the street Bucky's company. Matador Properties, didn't own.

The Guadalupe District, within walking distance of the plaza, had once been a blend of homes and family owned businesses. As the tourist industry expanded, and all the buildings on the plaza were fully leased to serve the growing market, the new galleries, boutiques, and specialty shops began spreading into the Guadalupe area. Using De Leon money, Bucky had started buying before other investors jumped on the bandwagon.