Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

"Officer needs assistance."

She gave her location and asked for backup.

The automatic-weapons fire continued to come from the direction of Pletcher Hartley's house. She cut across the property at an angle and stopped before she broke cover at the driveway. A man in tactical garb wearing a headset stood spraying the garage door with an AK-47.

She chambered a round into the shotgun and dropped to a kneeling position. The distance was too great to be effective, but maybe she could draw fire away from Sergeant Martinez. She pulled off a round, and the shooter wheeled and fired back. She felt something slam into her thigh, lost her balance, and fell. She looked down at her leg in stunned surprise. Her uniform trousers had a bloody hole in them. It was a brand-new pair. When she looked up, the man was gone.

"Get out, now," Carlos said into the headset as he ran to the back of the house.

"The police are here."

"Did we get them?" Ramon asked.

"It's done," Carlos replied.

"Meet me at the car."

Rasmussen limped across the driveway and down the path to the front door. She could feel blood dripping down her leg. The front door was smashed and almost off the hinges. She got on her belly, cradled the shotgun in her arms, and started crawling down the dark hallway.

The numbness in her leg was gone, replaced by a hot pain that made her clench her teeth to keep from groaning aloud.

A silhouette entered the hallway from a side room.

Rasmussen stopped crawling and aimed the shotgun.

"Don't move."

The figure turned toward her and the barrel of a weapon swung around.

She fired once and the blast caught the man full force in the chest., She keyed her handheld radio.

"Officer down," she mumbled. From outside she could hear sirens in the distance.

She crawled to the body and checked it. The man was dead. She moved over the body into a dining room and switched on her flashlight. The beam caught two more bodies under the kitchen archway. She checked them both before moving into the kitchen. An overturned table, thick legs peppered with bullet holes, blocked a short passageway. At the end of the hall, a door had been virtually blown apart by heavy fire.

Yvonne switched off the flashlight and pulled herself down the passageway.

"Police officer," she called out.

"In here," Hetcher said.

"Identify yourself."

"Fletcher Hartley."

"Are you alone?"

"No. Gilbert Martinez is with me. He's been shot."

"Are you all right?"

"I think so."

"Are you armed?"

"No."

"Stay where you are. I'm coming in."

She pulled her handgun, hobbled to the garage, and fumbled for the light switch. She searched low and saw Pletcher Hartley huddled at the front tire of a bullet riddled car. The arm of a man holding a nine-millimeter was draped over Hartley's back. She approached cautiously.

The man was lying on his side with his face blown away.

As shock from her wound kicked in. Officer Rasmussen realized the faceless dead man was Sergeant Martinez.

Carlos finished briefing De Leon just as the jefe's airplane reached cruising altitude. The takeoff, which he hated as much as landings, had distracted Carlos and sweat trickled down his armpits. He jiggled his false teeth with a thumb and tried to remember if he'd forgotten anything in his report.

De Leon sat at the desk in the private compartment of his airplane examining the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He seemed more interested in the statue than he did in the details of the firefight.

Carlos waited for a reaction from De Leon as he turned the bulto in his hands and carefully inspected it. All the other stolen items had been left locked in the wine cellar of the Santa Fe house.

Finally, De Leon spoke.

"I did not think Kerney would be so easy to kill."

"I could not determine if the old man is dead," Carlos said.

"The police arrived too quickly. Ramon may also be alive."

"Ramon is dead and Fletcher Hartley is alive," De Leon said as he concentrated on the intricate elements of the statue.

The statement came as no surprise to Carlos. The jefe frequently had important information at his disposal within a very short period of time.

"You are not dismayed?" Carlos asked.

De Leon placed the bulto on the desktop.

"The most important goal of killing Kerney was accomplished.

The loss of the team is of no consequence. None of them can be traced to me. They were men without identities. Did you enjoy your assignment?"

"It gave me great pleasure, patron."

"I am glad." De Leon waved a hand in the direction of the compartment door.

"You are sweating heavily, Carlos. This fear you have of flying makes your smell intolerable. Go have a drink, relax, and ask Our Lady of Guadalupe to carry you safely home."

Carlos nodded apologetically and left.

Enrique turned his attention back to the wooden statue. It was beautifully fashioned and wore an elaborate blue-colored robe. A gesso over the wood smoothed out the figure, and tempera paints created a creamy flesh tone to the face and hands. The woodcarver had added arched eyebrows and wide, staring eyes. The circular base contained a filigree of delicate flowers and stems.

The unknown New Mexico artist had followed the Spanish tradition of Grafting an esplendor-a rayed nimbus of gold prongs-around her head, which made the statue exceedingly rare.

De Leon estimated the piece to be three hundred years old. A treasure, he thought. It would add much to the chapel at his hacienda. flbtcher's studio was the only room in the house not overflowing with cops, medical examiners, and crime scene technicians. He sat in a paint-splattered armchair in front of an easel that held an unfinished painting of fluttering magpies alighting on a tree branch. He had a thousand-yard stare in his eyes and a drained, empty expression.

Kerney stood by quietly.

"Did you see Gilbert?" Pletcher finally said.

"Yes."

"His face is gone." Pletcher shuddered slightly at the thought.

"Yes."

"Who will tell his parents?"

"It will be taken care of."

"He has a wife. Do you know her?"

"No," Kerney answered.

"I don't."

"And children. Two girls."

"I know."

"I have his blood all over me. Why did this happen, Kevin?"

"Because of my stupidity."

A plainclothes officer holding a notebook knocked at the studio door and stepped inside.

"What is it?" Kerney asked.

"The police chaplain wants to know if Mr. Hartley would like to see him." He smiled sympathetically in Pletcher's direction.

Pletcher shook his head.

"Send him away," Kerney said.

"I need to take Mr. Hartley's statement," me officer added.

"Do it tomorrow," Kerney replied.

The officer nodded, turned on his heel, and retreated.

"I can't stay here tonight," Fletcher said.

"We'll find you a place."

"No need. I'll make arrangements with friends.

Someone will take me in. Why do you blame yourself for Gilbert's death?"

"Because the men who came here wanted to kill me, not Gilbert."

"I don't understand."

"I'll tell you about it later. Let's get you ready to go.

You need to clean up and change your clothes."

Pletcher nodded sluggishly, got to his feet, and tried to pull himself together. An expression of self-loathing crossed his face. He looked at Kerney and shook his head as color rose on his cheeks.

"What's wrong?"

"I started worrying about die mess that needed to be cleaned up. Isn't that crass of me?"

"Not at all."

"I think it is."

Kerney stayed with Fletcher until the body in the hallway had been removed, and Fletcher could get to his bedroom without distraction.

Fletcher made telephone arrangements to stay with a friend, picked out some fresh clothes from the closet, placed them under his arm, and walked toward the bathroom. He paused at the door.