Michael McGarrity - Hermit_s Peak

During the last year there had been two incidents of cattle theft, two reports of illegal wood harvesting, and three acts of vandalism to cabins, along with eight burglaries to summer homes.

Gabe got out the two prior-year statistical reports and paged through the property crimes information. Up until last year, San Geronimo had been virtually crime free. He made a note to check with the county sheriff for an update on recent criminal activity in San Geronimo.

If the rising crime trend had continued into the new year, that would be very interesting information.

He put the reports away, turned to the keyboard, and began typing.

Tomorrow started his two days off, but he'd be back on the mesa at first light. They hadn't found the dead woman's skull yet, and Gabe wasn't about to stop searching until every inch of ground had been covered.

Before heading home, Kerney made a quick stop at a supermarket where he bought everything he needed to care for a dog. In the apartment he found Shoe on his feet, wagging his tail, with one of Kerney's sneakers clasped in his mouth. Three more shoes had been brought from the bedroom and scattered around the living room floor.

"Quite a collection you got there," Kerney said, as he extracted the sneaker from the dog's mouth. Wet with slobber, it had chew marks on the heel and tongue and some of the padding had been gnawed away.

"I guess it's yours now, boy."

He dropped it on the floor in front of the dog. Shoe snatched it up and gave it a shake.

The other shoes the dog had fetched were only slightly damaged. Except for the mate of the shoe he'd given to the dog, Kerney put the rest away with a reminder to himself to keep the bedroom closet door closed in the future. He spent an hour brushing tangles out of Shoe's matted coat, sprayed him again, cleaned up the dog hair on the carpet, and fed the mutt.

As Shoe ate, Kerney eyed the result of his efforts to groom the dog.

Salt-and-pepper hair dangled from his hindquarters and belly, and his tail was a twisted knot that needed dipping. The mutt still looked pretty ratty.

Kerney picked up and fanned through Saturday's mail, looking for a letter from Sara Brannon. He'd written to her last week. Given the distance his letters had to travel, he didn't expect a rapid reply, but occasionally their correspondence crossed in the mail. This time there was nothing. He hoped Sara hadn't changed her mind about coming to Santa Fe when her tour of duty ended.

All of the mail was junk, except for an envelope from Erma Fergurson's personal representative and executor of her estate. He opened the envelope and read Milton Lynch's letter. The appraisal had come in at two thousand dollars an acre. The land was worth almost thirteen million dollars. The final appraisal report would be mailed to Kerney within the week.

He stared at the amount in stunned silence before calling Lynch's home phone number. Lynch answered on the third ring.

"I thought I might be hearing from you," Lynch said.

"How in the hell can that land be worth thirteen million dollars?"

Kerney asked.

"I haven't seen the complete report, but it seems that some of the ranchers in the area have sold out to high bidders, or are subdividing their land. Five years ago, ten sections might have gone for eight or nine hundred dollars an acre, but not any more."

"Doesn't the land qualify under the farm-use value reduction provision of the tax code?"

"The two-thousand-dollar-per-acre figure is the reduction.

Subdivided five- to twenty-acre tracts are selling at four to six thousand dollars per acre."

"What will the taxes be?"

"You'll be taken to the cleaners, I'm afraid. The Taxpayer Relief Act defines a qualified heir as either a family member materially involved in the operation of the ranch for five of the last eight years, or an employee with ten or more years of employment prior to the decedent's death. You don't qualify for the one-pointdireemillion-dollar taxable estate exclusion. You'll pay taxes on the full value, less seven hundred thousand dollars."

"How much will I owe?"

"Federal taxes will exceed six million dollars. I haven't factored in th e state tax bite."

"How soon do I have to pay?"

"Nine months after Erma's death."

"Is that a firm date?"

"The tax forms are due then, but I could file a six-month extension for payment on your behalf."

"Is there anything I can do to avoid selling the land?"

"Installment payments to the IRS are possible. The estate can spread the cost out over fourteen years. But the IRS will charge interest-four to six percent."

Kerney did some quick mental calculations.

"That amounts to over four hundred thousand dollars a year, plus interest."

"That's right."

"Who did the appraisal?"

"I believe I've secured the lowest possible appraisal on the property."

"I'm sure you have. I need the appraiser's name for police business."

Lynch paused.

"Hold on."

After a minute, he came back on the line and read off the information.

A Santa Fe firm had done the appraisal.

Kerney scribbled down the name and address.

"Do you know who sold Erma the land?"

"She bought it from Nestor Barela in nineteen-sixty.

Don't ask what she paid for it. It would only depress you.

May I say something, Mr. Kerney?"

"Please do."

"Erma's estate is quite considerable. Not only did she inherit a sizable amount from her parents many years ago, she invested it wisely, and added to her net worth as the demand for her art drove up the price of her paintings.

Except for the land she willed to you, the remainder of her estate will become an endowment to the university art department."

"I understand that."

"Erma wanted you to be able to keep all of the land.

She knew how much it would mean to you. I advised her to establish a trust in your name, and she directed me to do so, with the proviso that I encumber sufficient resources in the trust to pay the inheritance taxes on the property. Her death occurred a week before the trust was to be established."

"I see."

"If you want to keep at least part of Erma's gift, let the estate sell some of the property for taxes. You'll still own a sizable chunk of land. I'm no rancher, but it seems to me you would have enough acreage left to start a small cattle operation."

"I'll think about it."

"You'll need to make a decision fairly soon," Lynch said.

"I know it."

"Let me know what you decide, Mr. Kerney. Remember, you stand to come out of this very well-off."

"I'm aware of that."

Kerney hung up in a foul mood, realizing he had no call to be so abrupt with Milton Lynch; he was a good man doing a good job. Erma had picked her executor wisely.

What grated Kerney had nothing to do with the windfall inheritance, although the amount of his net worth on paper staggered him. The thought of giving up thirty-two hundred acres felt like fate slapping him down again. As a child, he'd watched his parents lose the ranch on the Tularosa to the army when White Sands expanded. Now, he faced losing half of the best, and perhaps only, opportunity he would ever have to return to ranching. It felt like a bad dream or a sick joke coming back to haunt him.

He was glad he'd resisted Dale's offer to come in as a partner. With a tax bite in the high seven figures, it was totally out of the question.

For now, he didn't know what the hell to do, other than mull it over and think about options.

Shoe was at his feet, head resting on the sneaker, his eyes locked on Kerney. He reached down, picked up the sneaker, and tossed it through the archway into the living room. Shoe got up and fetched it back, his tail wagging.

"Let's see what else you can do." Kerney tried some common commands, and Shoe promptly obeyed each of them.