Michael McGarity - Mexican Hat

"No. I'm not staying. I just stopped by to thank you for your offer."

"No sweat, man. Come in, if you can stand the mess."

The room had camping equipment strewn all over it. There were half a dozen large ice chests stacked in a corner along with boxes filled with bottles of nitric acid, filters, and unused plastic sample jars. A portable water pump and battery sat on the desk next to an assortment of meters and probes. The bed was strewn with maps, cameras, and lab report forms. At the foot of the bed were a pair of wading boots, a face shield, a lab coat, and lab gloves.

"Tools of the trade," Begay said, as Kerney looked around. He cleared some papers off a chair and perched on the end of the bed.

"Have a seat."

Kerney sat.

"You've got some questions you want to ask me?"

"Why do you think I have questions?"

"Because it was pretty dumb of me to be showing off this morning," Begay replied.

"Made me look suspicious. I figured you'd want to at least check me out."

"I already have checked you out. I called your boss in Gallup."

"And?"

"You're a choirboy, according to your boss."

Begay laughed, his eyes twinkling.

"Sure, he said that. If I'm such an upstanding citizen, what are you doing here?"

"You spend a lot of time in the backcountry.

Maybe you've seen something."

"A lot of beautiful country and a few pissed-off ranchers is about all I see."

"What about official personnel?"

"Who do you have in mind?"

"Steve Lujan."

Begay nodded.

"I know him. He works with Amador Ortiz. But I don't see him when I'm in the mountains."

"Anybody on an ATV?"

"Nope."

"Who have you seen on this trip?"

"Just one guy I never met before. I was working on the Negrito Creek last week, checking for mercury and zinc seepage from an old silver mine. He was at one of the private ranches in the Gila."

"Doing?"

"He didn't say. He flew in. The owner has a landing strip. I was half a mile downstream when the plane came over, so I hiked in to see what was up."

"It wasn't the owner?"

"No. This guy was much younger. In his thirties.

The owner is an insurance millionaire from Detroit.

Older man. Fifty-something, at least."

"You've met the owner?"

"Yeah, once, when he was out for an elk hunt."

"Tell me about the stranger."

"Like I said, midthirties, six feet, maybe a hundred and eighty. Blond hair with no sideburns. Pale complexion. The guy didn't look like he spent much time outdoors. Didn't say much. Talked with a real thick southern accent."

"Did you get a name?"

"No, I didn't. He was kinda hurry about me being there. I had to show him my ID."

"Thanks, Alan. You'd make a good police officer."

Begay grinned.

"Think so?"

"Yes, I do."

Alan shook his head.

"I'll stick to protecting natural resources. From what I saw of your trailer, it's a lot safer then being a cop."

Kerney laughed.

"How about helping a cop for a few minutes?"

"What do you need?"

"How well do you know Steve Lujan?"

"Not very well."

"Would he recognize your voice on the telephone?"

"I doubt it."

"Good. Thirty minutes after I leave I want you to call him and say that you saw someone breaking into the shed behind his house this afternoon.

Keep it simple. Give him the message and hang up. Will you do that for me?"

"You want me to tell him what?" Begay asked, giving Kerney a quizzical look that didn't completely mask a half-formed smile.

Kerney carefully repeated the message he wanted delivered.

"Did the break-in really happen?" Alan asked.

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll do it, but where will you be when I call him?"

"I'll be watching to see what Steve does."

"That's sneaky."

"That's police work," Kerney corrected.

Dusk came, and Kerney wondered if he had completely missed the boat about Steve Lujan. From a fire road in the hills behind the valley he watched Lujan's house through binoculars, waiting for Steve to make a move.

There were a few kids still riding bikes up and down the lane, popping wheelies in the dirt and practicing stunts, and Lujan's nearest neighbor had a barbecue grill going, but that was the extent of activity in the small collection of homes sprinkled in the valley west of the river.

At the Lujan residence, the Pontiac and Ford Bronco were parked inside the open gate. Lights burned inside the house. Loco was on his chain in the front yard, and there were occasional shadowy movements in the windows as people moved about.

Finally, the kitchen went dark, a sure sign dinner was over. Ten minutes later, Lujan hurried out the front door, got into the Bronco, and drove away.

Kerney followed, staying a quarter mile back.

Lujan traveled through Reserve to the state road that ran down to Glenwood and on to Silver City.

Kerney kept an eye out for a tail behind him, but the road was dark and empty.

Lujan passed through Glenwood and didn't slow down again until he reached the turnoff for the Leopold Vista Historical Monument, a wayside rest stop on the highway dedicated to the man who had established the Gila Wilderness.

Kerney watched the taillights of the Bronco make the turn and disappear behind the low hill that concealed the monument from the highway. With only one entrance, Kerney couldn't follow without being detected. He got a microcassette recorder from the glove box and left the truck far enough back from the entrance to avoid suspicion, parked in deep shadows under a cottonwood tree. He jumped the highway fence and walked around the hill to the back of the monument. The site faced a sweeping vista of mountains to the east, and was nothing more than a large parking lot with a sign that told about Aldo Leopold and the Gila. During the daytime, tourists could whip off the highway with camera in hand, snap a picture, and be on their way in fifteen minutes.

Three vehicles were in the lot: Lujan's Bronco, an expensive RV towing a compact car, and a light colored Chevy Caprice, with the parking lights on.

Hunkered down, Kerney memorized the license number of the Caprice and watched.

At the RV, a man packed up a folding card table and some chairs while his wife waited inside the vehicle. The Bronco and the Chevy, at opposite ends of the lot, showed no signs of movement. Almost nervously, the man at the RV lashed the table and chairs to the back of his vehicle, hopped inside, fired up the engine, and drove away.

Lujan got out of the Bronco and started walking toward the Chevy. The driver cranked the motor, turned the Chevy directly at Lujan, flipped on the high beams, and froze him in the glare. Lujan yanked a hand over his eyes so he could see against the light.

A man's figure emerged from the car and stood behind the open door.

Kerney turned on the recorder.

"What's so goddamn important?" the man said.

"I told you what happened," Lujan answered, moving closer.

"Yeah, you did. So what? Go home, call the sheriff, and report the break-in. That's all you have to do."

"No," Lujan countered.

"I've had it. This is too fucking much. People breaking into my house and everything."

The man laughed.

"You sorry son of a bitch, they broke into your storage shed, for chrissake, not your house."

"Same thing."

"I'll take care of it."

"How?" Lujan asked.

The man braced his arm on the top of the door and shot Lujan twice in the chest with a semiautomatic.

He picked up the spent shell casings, walked to Lujan's body, and, satisfied with his solution, got in the Chevy and drove off.

Kerney checked out Steve Lujan's body. There were two rounds, center mass, in his chest. He turned on his heel and left the monument. When the killer walked into the light to make sure Lujan was dead, Kerney had gotten a good look. He was thirty something six feet tall with short blond hair, and he had spoken with a thick southern accent.