Michael McGarrity - Tularosa

The two young officers in the room were suddenly quiet, shoptalk frozen in the air like hot breath on a cold winter's day. Terry tilted his chin in a wordless greeting, afraid to speak, his unblinking dark eyes locked on Kerney's face.

"I came here first," Kerney explained. Terry nodded his appreciation and cleared his throat. No words came. He unbuckled the Sam Browne belt that held his bolstered pistol and stowed it in a desk drawer.

"Will you walk with me to Maria's?"

"Of course."

"I will be with my son's mother," he told the officers, not seeing them at all.

"Ask her family to join us there." The two officers nodded wordlessly as Terry walked out the door with Kerney. Crossing the plaza, Terry felt detached from his surroundings. The familiar buildings looked strange, and his heart pounded in his chest like a powerful drumbeat. Oddly, he thought of corn meal and pollen. He needed to gather both for the burial ritual. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he reached Maria's front door. She looked at him, glanced at Kerney, and her hand flew to her mouth. Terry opened his arms and she exploded against him, small and vulnerable. She buried her head in his chest and sobbed. He looked for Kerney, and found him at his side, fretfully shifting his weight, staring at the ground.

When Maria stopped crying and relaxed her grip, he spoke to Kerney.

"Come inside and tell us what happened." His voice sounded gruff as the words tumbled out. Supporting Maria, he led the way. In the small living room, Kerney listened to the sounds of the house while Terry and Maria waited, dull-eyed and stunned, for him to speak.

A breeze sighed through an open window, the old wood ceiling creaked, and the hum of the refrigerator drifted in from the kitchen. Kerney wanted to melt away with the sounds. Maria and Terry sat close together on the small love seat. Terry's hand clutched Maria's. Maria spoke first.

"What happened to my son?" The truth would only send Terry on a rampage.

"It was a hiking accident," Kerney lied.

"In the mountains. On the missile range."

"When did you find him?" Terry asked.

"Yesterday."

"Did he suffer?" Maria asked.

"No, I don't think so."

"And his body?" Terry asked.

"Is it…"

"Intact," Kerney replied quickly. Terry looked relieved. Maria smiled bravely, her gaze riveted on empty space. She touched her hair, pinned casually into a loose bun, and quickly forced her hand back into her lap.

"He was saving his money for a new car," she said in a faraway voice.

"He wanted to pay for it himself. He was so proud about doing things on his own. I kept asking him to come home for a visit, but he wouldn't.

Not until he could take me for a ride in the car." Kerney picked up the portfolio from beside the chair and handed it to her.

"For you." Maria took the case, put it on her lap, stroked it gently, and with a shaking hand unzipped it. Terry leaned close as Maria unfolded the portfolio. For a very long time, they examined Sammy's work without speaking. It seemed so personal, Kerney wanted to vanish.

When they finished, Maria closed the case and smiled in Kerney's direction, her mouth a razor thing line of grief. Terry held the envelope with the five thousand dollars in his hand.

"This is your money," he said hoarsely.

"No," Kerney replied.

"Take it, please," Terry countered. His face looked ready to shatter into pieces. He was barely in control. Kerney shook his head.

"I can't do that." Sounds from outside the house intruded; cars arriving, subdued voices, footsteps on the gravel path. The family was gathering. Kerney stood up.

"I have to go." Maria held him from leaving with a gesture.

"Do you know when they will send Sammy home to us?" she asked.

"Soon," he promised. Maria stood and hugged him, patting his back as though it would ease her pain.

"I'm sorry," Kerney said. Maria looked up and released him.

"I know." She walked away to greet her guests. Old and young began to fill the front room, children hushed, adults somber. Condolences expressed in several languages floated on the air. Terry was at Kerney's side.

"Thank you," he said.

"I did nothing." Terry grunted in disagreement, searching for more to say.

"I'll call you about the services."

"I'll be there." He smiled dismally.

"Sammy would like that."

"Will you be all right?"

He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before answering.

"I need a drink. A dozen drinks."

"Will you take them?" Kerney asked.

"I won't."

"Good. Call me if you need to talk."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I do." Terry held out his hand. Whatever rancor Kerney felt about Terry was gone, part of a dim, unimportant past. He pulled Terry to him in a hug, and held him tight while his old friend finally cried.

Kerney slipped through a group of people waiting outside and walked up the dirt lane. On the plaza, filled with people moving in small groups toward Maria's home, he felt even more like an intruder. Some of the older women were veiled, and several elders were wrapped in ceremonial blankets. All looked at him with sidelong, passive glances. At the front of the police station, the two young tribal officers were in their squad cars, emergency lights flashing. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror. The officers had blocked the plaza with their cars. The pueblo was now closed to outsiders. *** Andy came through with a search warrant, signed by a local judge and delivered to Kerney by a bored city patrol officer who was parked in front of the apartment complex where Eppi Gutierrez lived. Kerney thanked the patrolman, turned down his offer for backup, and went to find the apartment manager. He showed the warrant to the man and learned that Eppi lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. He got the key and directions to the unit.

The complex, on a main throughway of Santa Fe, had been built by an out-of-state developer. Gutierrez's apartment was a string of three boxy rooms on the second floor, the layout dictated by the developer's computer program and slapped up with a few touches to create a cut-rate Santa Fe style. Gutierrez liked his toys: the living room had a big-screen television and a costly rack sound system, the kitchen counter held a variety of expensive gourmet appliances, and the bedroom contained a king-size water bed and a top-of-the-line mountain bike. The bike was against the wall, used as a dirty clothes rack. Kerney tore the place apart systematically. There was nothing taped under the dresser drawers, no incriminating notes in the pockets of clothing, and no coins and letters like those found in Gutierrez's truck. He dug through clothing, shoes, boxes, and papers. The living room, bathroom, and kitchen yielded the same dismal results. Packages in the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets held nothing but food. A high-powered hunting rifle and a set of golf clubs were in the hall closet, just where a burglar would expect them to be. The bathroom, including the toilet tank, held no surprises. What jewelry Gutierrez owned was scattered on the top of the sink counter, in plain view. Either Gutierrez had nothing to hide or he was an expert at concealment. He started over again, reversing the search. He upended the living-room furniture and pulled apart all of the cushions. He dug through the dead ashes of the fireplace, turned over the pictures on the walls, and looked through every book on the bookshelf.

Gutierrez's taste ran from horror novels to popular mysteries. He took one last look around the room, put the couch upright, and sat down in disgust, thinking maybe there was absolutely nothing to find. On the carpet by the overturned lamp table was a stack of unopened mail, mostly bills and advertising flyers. He flipped through the accumulation. One thick envelope had a return address from Gutierrez's office and carried first-class stamps instead of the usual metered imprint government agencies use. He opened it. Inside was a handwritten list on sheets of lined yellow paper. Kerney read it with growing awe.