Michael McGarrity: Tularosa

Someone had recently been in the vehicle. He found more smudges on the trunk lid. The car was locked. The interior was clean as a whistle. Kerney found that interesting. The Sammy he knew, on his best days, wasn't that neat. He went to his truck and drove toward the BOQ.

In the foothills that rose to meet the Organ Mountains, lights from the married officers' quarters dotted the landscape. The orderly at the BOQ gave him the key to a room and said there was more than enough time left to get a meal at the officers' club. Kerney's stomach grumbled and his leg ached. The knee just didn't do too well on long trips in the truck. He carried his bag to the room, unpacked a fresh set of clothes, and sat in the tub under the shower, letting the hot water soak away the throbbing in his knee.

While dressing, he had an impulse to check in with Sara Brannon. He rejected the notion. There was absolutely nothing to report. He closed the door and locked it. There was no sense making it too easy for the room to be searched.

Kerney entered the officers' club to find half a dozen men and women sitting at the far end of the bar away from the door. In the back dining area, separated by a waist-high partition, some junior officers and their wives were celebrating a young child's birthday. Laughter and chatter spilled over to the front of the room. Kerney sat at a small cocktail table in the barroom and received quick attention from a waiter. He ordered a light meal-his stomach, unable to digest any food in quantity, demanded it-and nursed a glass of iced tea while waiting for his food to arrive. The walls of the barroom, paneled in a rich walnut, were decorated with framed prints of nineteenth-century military scenes. Replicas of old regimental cavalry flags hung from the ceiling rafters. His meal, a pasta salad with a cream dressing, was served quickly. He ate slowly, enjoying the food. Eating out was something of a treat, and the meal was well prepared.

He was about to call for his check when Sara Brannon entered the club with a man. Both were dressed casually. Sara, in a loose ribbed pullover shirt, a denim skirt, and a soft pair of suede boots that accented her long legs, looked very classy. Her companion, a tall fellow, dressed in chinos, hiking boots, and a blue chambray shirt, with dark, sun bleached hair that curled up at the nape of his neck, had a studious, intelligent face. Eyeglasses highlighted his scholarly appearance. Sara didn't see

Kerney as she passed by; her attention was diverted by something the man was saying as he led her by the arm to the bar.

Hoping to leave undetected, Kerney watched Sara as he waited for the waiter to bring the check. She talked with her hands and seemed much more relaxed and animated than when Kerney had met her in her office. The tendency to fidget with her class ring was a habit, Kerney decided. She unconsciously toyed with it, rubbing her thumb along the band. The waiter came with the check, and Kerney settled up immediately, hoping for a discreet exit.

Sara saw his reflection in the bar mirror and waved him over.

"Lieutenant Kerney," she called. Forcing a smile, Kerney veered toward the bar. The man turned and eyed him with interest.

"I'd like you to meet Fred Utiey," she said. Utiey got off the bar stool.

"Nice to meet you," he said with a grin, extending his hand. Utiey was in his mid-thirties, about Kerney's height. His hand was calloused and his grip firm.

"Likewise," Kerney replied.

"You must be new on the post," Utiey said, reclaiming his seat at the bar.

"Lieutenant Kerney is with the Dona Ana Sheriff's Department," Sara clarified. Her eyes, guarded and unsmiling, never left Kerney's face.

"Join us for a drink. Lieutenant." She patted an empty stool next to her. In spite other relaxed veneer, it was an order, not a request.

Instead of sitting next to Sara, Keroey slid onto the stool beside Utiey, using the man as a buffer, and ordered a glass of white wine. Utiey didn't notice the unspoken exchange.

"Are you here on official business or just visiting?" he asked. Sara didn't give Kerney a chance to answer. She touched Utiey lightly on the arm.

"The lieutenant is working on a case with us." With Utiey placated, she gave Kerney a sharp, quick look, while her voice remained unruffled.

"Fred is the chief archaeologist at the missile range." Kerney hesitated. The lady is pissed, he thought, without a clue as to why. He smiled at Utiey.

"Your job must be very interesting." Utiey nodded with satisfaction. "It is. White Sands is an anthropologist's dream. There are over five thousand square miles on the base that were hardly touched by modern civilization before the Army took it over. The Apaches traversed the area, mostly to hunt or camp, and Hispanic settlers farmed on the fringes of the basin, but that was about it until cattlemen moved in from Texas, looking for free range. It was really one of the last western frontiers.

"It's a vast area that's been protected for almost half a century. That means no destruction of historical sites, no pot hunters digging for artifacts, no massive public use of the land. Some of the old ranches are still standing, with everything in them that the previous owners didn't carry away." Utiey paused while the bartender served Kerney his wine.

"You may not be interested in all this," he said, with an apologetic wave of his hand.

"But I am," Kerney replied. Utiey gave him an appreciative smile. Kerney leaned back, glanced at Sara, and decided she was really pissed off. The smile on her face didn't hide the antagonistic gleam in her eyes. Utiey continued talking, unaware.

"I've been here seven years and we've barely begun to touch all the historical sites on the range. I'm excavating right now at a place called Indian Hills, north of here in the San Andres. It was part of the old Pat Garrett ranch. He was the sheriff that killed Billy the Kid. In fact, Garrett himself was murdered at the San Andrews Pass. His killer was never caught."

"Interesting," Kerney said, taking a sip of wine. He put the glass down, pushed it to one side, looked at Sara in the mirror behind the bar, and inclined his head toward the exit. She caught the cue, interceded by touching Utiey lightly on the shoulder, and gave Kerney a charming smile.

"I should have warned you not to get Fred started."

"I enjoyed it," Kerney announced as he stood up. "Thanks for the drink and the conversation."

"Let me walk you out. Lieutenant," Sara said, touching Utiey again to keep him in place.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, Fred."

"Shoptalk?" he asked her with a grin. "Or should I say cop talk?"

"A bit of both." After another staunch handshake from Utiey, Kerney walked outside with Sara. In silence they waited as the birthday party celebrants trailing behind them passed by, loaded themselves into cars, and drove away.

"You wanted to speak to me. Captain?"

"Your little deception didn't work," Sara snapped.

"I know that Sammy's father once worked for you, and he's hired you to find his son. For some weird reason, Andy Baca decided to give you a badge and make you legitimate."

"You work fast," Kerney replied.

"Don't try to butter me up. Lieutenant. I don't like being lied to. I want an explanation and I want it now." The irritation in Sara's eyes made Kerney break contact.

The full moon was high, projecting a glow that created hushed charcoal shadows in the basin. The distant Sacramento Mountains, blurred shapes, glistened with a satin polish. He turned back to her, looked her square in the eyes, and spoke carefully, admitting the truth to himself for the first time.

"For a long time, Sammy and his parents were like family to me. I guess I can't shake that off as easily as I thought."