Michael McGarrity - Tularosa

He heard Sara Brannon call out to him. He put his briefcase on the hood of his staff car and waited as she jogged toward him. Curry felt somewhat fatherly toward Sara. A reliable officer, she kept him fully informed, a characteristic he valued highly, and her criminal investigation unit produced the best rate of cleared cases among comparable commands, which was part of the reason he would wear the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel at his retirement ceremony.

Aside from all that, Sara bubbled with high spirits, boundless energy, and a well-founded confidence in her abilities that added to her attractiveness. He was delighted to see her in civvies.

"Day off?" he asked, in mock disbelief, when she reached him.

Curry wondered if Sara had finally hooked up with one of the many eligible bachelors who were constantly trying to corral her.

"Not really," Sara replied. "I'm taking over the Yazzi investigation. I'll be away from the base most of the day." Curry checked his wristwatch.

"Fill me in later."

"My report is on your desk."

"Good enough. Can you handle the extra load?" he asked.

"I think so," Sara responded.

"Has Jim Meehan talked to you about the case?" Curry laughed.

"Captain Charisma? No, he hasn't. Is he giving you trouble?" Sara hesitated.

"No, just acting like himself. I wanted you to know I'm sending an investigator undercover into Mexico to see what he can dig up on the Yardman case."

"I thought that case was stalled. Have you caught a lead?"

"More like a slim possibility." Curry raised his eyebrows.

"Is it worth the effort?"

"I'll shut it down if nothing materializes." He nodded in agreement and picked up his briefcase.

"I'm off to see our crime prevention czar."

"Have a good time, Major," Sara replied, her green eyes sparkling with humor, knowing how much Curry loathed the tedious meeting. Curry grimaced.

"Next month I'll send you in my place."

"You wouldn't," Sara protested.

"Watch me," Curry promised.

Michael McGarrity

Tularosa — Michael McGarrity *** Kevin Kerney's internal clock brought him out of a sound sleep at five. A touch of pink was in the clear eastern sky, but the mountains would hold dawn back long enough for him to run without making a spectacle of himself with his awkward gait. An unmarked surveillance car was parked across the street. The man behind the wheel smirked as he ran past. The hell with him, Kerney thought. He jogged one mile down the gravel road to the water tower and a mile back. He returned to the BOQ as the morning orderly was coming on duty. By the time he showered and dressed, the post canteen was open for business. He ate a light meal and watched the customers drinking their morning coffee before heading off to work.

He trailed behind a group of office workers, entered the headquarters building, and found his way to the public information office. The public information officer, a plain-looking female first lieutenant with a pinched face and mousy brown hair, was cooperative.

Kerney learned that the only visitors allowed up range during the time of Sammy's disappearance were a group of treasure hunters digging for lost gold at Victorio Peak and members of the Audubon Society conducting a semiannual bird survey west of Three Rivers. Neither place was anywhere close to Sammy's duty station. He asked about outsiders with up range access and learned that state and federal game and conservation officers were allowed in. All carried law enforcement commissions and had security clearances. The lieutenant didn't know who among them had been around when Sammy went A.W.O.L., but she pulled out a file folder with names and phone numbers, explaining with great seriousness that conservation and the environment were of vital concern to the Army.

Kerney copied the list into his notebook-two dozen names, including a wildlife specialist who came down from Santa Fe to manage the bighorn sheep herd, a National Park Service ranger who supervised the wilderness area, and a Bureau of Land Management officer who looked after the wild mustang herd. He thanked the lieutenant for her time and left wondering how the Army kept track of two dozen men and women roaming around the five thousand square miles of the missile range. Probably with satellite locators, he decided, as he parked outside the service club. The club was closed, but the office at the back of the building was open. The young woman inside gave him an annoyed look when he entered. She covered the open paperback book on her desk with a piece of typing paper. Kerney introduced himself and showed his credentials.

"Captain Brannon said you'd be coming by." She had a flat midwestern voice, thin lips, and a pageboy hairdo.

"What can you tell me about the jeep excursion program?" he asked. "It's very popular," the woman replied, her hand resting on the covered book. Her long fingers flowed down from a skinny arm and bony elbow.

"Base personnel and their dependents may sign out to use service club vehicles for wilderness excursions and recreational trips. I'm usually booked solid a month in advance."

"The paperwork must really pile up," Kerney suggested. She smiled briefly in agreement.

"It does. I have to complete a monthly report that records vehicle mileage, trip destination, all drivers and passengers, times in and out, and gasoline consumption." Kerney asked to see the records.

"How far back did you want to go?" she asked.

"Ten months."

"That's a lot of paperwork," she cautioned.

"I don't mind." She scooted her chair to a bank of file cabinets behind the desk, searched through a drawer, extracted two thick accordion folders, held them out for Kerney to take, and tilted her head at an unoccupied desk.

"You can use the sergeant's desk. He doesn't come in until noon."

Kerney took the files and sat at the desk. He read the material carefully, jotting down each of Sammy's excursions. His trip tickets showed that he went in all directions, but none listed Sheep Mesa or Big Mesa as a destination, where Alonzo Tony said he'd gone with Sammy.

Finished, Kerney raised his eyes. The secretary was reading a romance novel. He coughed to get her attention, and the paperback book quickly disappeared from sight.

"What is it?"

"If I signed out for a jeep, how would I know where I could and couldn't drive?"

"You get a map with everything clearly marked."

"Can I see one?" Wordlessly she held up a map for him to fetch. He took it from her and returned to the desk. Sheep Mesa was definitely off-limits, as was all "casual and recreational" travel from Big Mesa, once part of the old 7-Bar-K Ranch. Sammy definitely liked to go where the spirit moved him. In one accordion file was a folder marked "Special Events." Sammy had gone on only one such outing. The trip ticket and an attendance roster were stapled to a flyer. It read:

KNOWN SURVIVORS A ONE-DAY TOUR OF NATIVE AMERICAN SPANISH AND ANGLO HABITATION IN THE TULAROSA BASIN

CONDUCTED BY DR. FRED UTLEY

FEBRUARY 5 PATRICIPATION LIMITED SIGN BY JANUARY 15

BROUGHT TO YOU BY YOUR SERVICE CLUB

He decided to pay Dr. Utiey a visit and found him loading provisions in a four-wheel-drive utility vehicle in front of a prefabricated metal building. Utiey stopped and gave Kerney a friendly handshake.

"Lieutenant Kerney, isn't it?" Utiey asked.

"That's right." Utiey looked relieved.

"I'm bad with names. What brings you out to my shop?" Behind Utiey an overhead door opened to a storeroom filled with rows of shelves filled with tools, climbing gear, water cans, camping equipment, and boxes.

"I'd like to know about the tour you put on through the service club," Kerney said.

"You mean "Known Survivors'? I do that twice a year. It's very well attended." Utiey adjusted his glasses.