Michael McGarrity: Tularosa

"Letter? Let me check." Kerney walked to the puddle, retrieved the soggy envelopes, and pulled apart the coagulated mess until he found Terry's unopened letter. He held it up by the corner.

"This must be it," he said, dropping it back in the puddle.

"What did it say?"

"You're still really pissed, aren't you?"

"Not at all. I just don't give a damn." Terry rubbed his jaw.

"You punch pretty hard for somebody who doesn't care."

"I appreciated the opportunity to deck you. Why are you here?"

"It's Sammy. He's missing. He's A.W.O.L. from the Army." Kerney took in the information, his nger at Terry dissipating as concern about Sammy rose to replace it. Terry's son was a person he cared about.

"That's hard to believe."

"He's been stationed at White Sands for the past eight months. He disappeared six weeks ago. I've used up all my annual leave looking for him, por nada. Nothing. And the Army hasn't a clue why he's missing."

"Maria must be worried sick."

"Both of us are," Terry said.

"We want you to find him for us." Kerney's laugh was bitter. "I don't do that kind of work anymore."

"Listen, as far as the Army is concerned, Sammy is just another enlisted fuckup. All I got was a lot of bullshit about how I should go home and let them do their job. I was stonewalled at every turn."

"What makes you think I'd be treated any differently?"

"You won't be, but you're the best investigator I know. It's in your blood. You've got the right instincts."

"Is that so?" Terry shook his head at the sarcasm in Kerney's voice.

"I'm not trying to butter you up. I'm a street cop, not a detective. Sammy deserves better than what I can give."

Kerney said nothing for a minute.

"I've never heard you sound so modest. Have you stopped drinking?"

"I've been sober for two years." Terry tried to force himself to keep his attention off Kerney's stomach. It didn't work. He looked one more time.

"Like it?" Kerney asked.

"Wallace Stegner once wrote that the lessons of life amount to scar tissue." Terry shifted his weight uneasily. "It makes me want to puke. You should have fired my ass."

"I would have," Kerney agreed, "if you had told me the truth." Terry nodded in agreement.

"That too."

"Don't start apologizing," Kerney retorted, "or I'll start to puke." He pointed at the badge on Terry's shirt and changed the subject.

"I see you found another job after the department canned your ass."

"Maria pulled strings with the tribal council. I had to go through treatment before I could start the job. I'm on like a permanent probation. One drink or major fuckup and I'm fired."

Kerney weighed Terry's words. He sounded solid and straight. And it took some courage for him to show his face, Kerney thought.

"I hope it works out for you," he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

"I'll make it work. Find Sammy for me," he insisted.

"I can't help you." Kerney turned and walked into the cabin, letting the screen door slam behind him.

"Can't or won't?" Terry called out over the concerto's cadenza.

In the bathroom Kerney scrubbed ferociously with a washcloth to get the asphalt off his face, cursing to himself under his breath. He heard the screen door slam shut again over the strains of the final coda, threw the cloth into the basin of the sink, and went back into the living room to kick Terry out of his house. One look at Terry, legs rooted to the floor, told him he'd have to drag him out inch by inch. He walked to the tape deck and turned it off. Silence flooded the room.

"You're a persistent son of a bitch," he said.

"Sammy's my only child. You're his godfather, for chrissake. Don't hold my fuckups against him."

Terry squinted, looked away, and ground his teeth together to keep himself from begging. If it came to that, he'd do it. He took a breath and surveyed the room. It was sparsely furnished. Two old Navajo rugs, the sum total of Kerney's inheritance from his family, hung on the walls. A single bookshelf under a casement window held a television, radio, stereo, and some hardback books. A wrought-iron cafe table with a glass top and a matching chair stood to one side of the kitchen door, positioned for the view out a front window. It was as bleak as Terry's trailer; a far cry from the comfortable Santa Fe apartment Kerney had once shared with his girlfriend, now long gone.

"Get out of here, Terry," Kerney ordered. Terry unbuttoned his uniform shirt, extracted an envelope, and held it out.

"I'll pay for your time. Five thousand dollars." Kerney didn't touch the envelope.

"You don't have that kind of money."

"Banks do," Terry responded, thrusting the envelope closer. "I borrowed it."

Kerney plucked the envelope out of Terry's hand and opened the unsealed flap. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He felt the weight of the currency in his palm. Kerney waved the envelope at him.

"Guilt money, Terry?" Terry glared at him.

"No way."

"I could spend it all and find nothing."

"I'll get more if you use it up." Kerney stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his jeans.

"Tell me everything you learned at the missile range."

Terry gestured at the door. "I've got a file in the squad car. It's slim pickings."

"Let's see it," Kerney said, following Terry outside. The New Mexico sky was piercing blue and the air felt humid with the promise of more rain. The volcanic escarpment that blocked the highway from view sat under a cloud, the jagged points of the rift vague in the distance. Terry moved quickly to his squad car, reached in through the open door, and retrieved a folder. Kerney took it.

"I'll get started right away."

"You don't know how much I appreciate this." Kerney didn't respond. Head down, he leafed through the papers, scanning them quickly. "Kevin?"

Kerney turned away. "I'll be in touch."

"When Sammy came to see you… before he went into the Army… I mean, what was that about?"

"He wanted to ask my opinion about enlisting. I told him to blow it off and go to college."

"Did he tell you what I said?"

"As a matter of fact he did. It seems you preached the gospel of Duty, Honor, and Country."

"Stupid," Terry muttered. "If anything happened to him because of what I said…" He shook off the thought.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Kerney cautioned. He closed the file and nestled it under his arm.

"Did you develop any leads off the base?"

"No. Sammy stayed pretty close to the post. He spent some time in Las Cruces, but as far as I can tell he wasn't into the bar scene or doing a lot of skirt chasing."

"Was he having any personal problems?" Kerney asked.

"None that he talked about with me or his mother. Maria would have known if he was bummed out, or in a bind. She has a kind of radar about Sammy that way. His buddies I talked to drew a blank when I asked if he was in any trouble."

"Are you and Maria back together?"

"Not a chance."

"Still living in the same place?" Terry nodded.

"Same phone number?" Terry nodded again.

"I'll be in touch."

Terry handed him a business card. "Leave a message at the office if I'm not at home."

Kerney studied the card. "Okay, Chief," he said, slipping it into the folder. The sarcasm stung.

"Why didn't you finish kicking the shit out of me?"

Kerney laughed. "You'd let me do that?"

"No way," Terry replied. He got in the police car, closed the door, rolled down the window, and started the engine. The two men looked at each other.

"Thanks," Terry said.

"I'm doing this for Sammy, not for you."

"I know it."

Kerney watched the man responsible for his early retirement bounce the police cruiser down the ruts of the road. Three years ago he'd been chief of detectives for the Santa Fe Police Department. The first year after the shooting he'd been in and out of the hospital for reconstructive surgery on his knee and stomach, followed by a rehabilitation program that took every ounce of his willpower to complete, and put him in the best shape of his life, except for the patched-up gut and bum leg he had to live with. Terry had it easy as far as Kerney could tell.