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.
"Can I ask what this is about?"
"A missing soldier. Maybe Captain Brannon mentioned him." Utiey smiled.
"Sara doesn't talk to me about her work." He leaned against the door of the vehicle, resting his arm on the bracket of the side mirror. "How can I help?" he asked.
"I'd like to know where you went on the field trip." Utiey pushed some hair away from his forehead.
"Easy enough. Come inside and I'll show you on the map." Utiey and his team shared a chaotic work space, dominated by a large trough table with dividers in the middle of the room. It held pot shards, hand forged nails, rusty shell casings, pieces of old machinery, fragments of rope and leather, and human bones, all sorted according to type and size. A woman at a work table labeled bits and pieces of rusty tools from a cart next to her. She looked up and smiled as Kerney and Utiey walked by.
Utiey guided Kerney through a clump of desks to a large map of the Tularosa Basin mounted on the far wall and started pointing.
"It's a one-day excursion. I don't go too far out-otherwise the time would be eaten up by travel."
He traced his finger up a primary-road course. "I take them to an old Spanish site called Black Bear Mine, back down to the 7-Bar-K Ranch site on the east slope of the San Andres-the wildlife and conservation people use it as a base camp-and the last place we visit is Indian Hills, where I'm doing an excavation." Utiey poked the map at Indian Hills. "I think I mentioned that when we first met."
"Indian Wells?" Kerney asked. The background in Sammy's painting of the Bobcat had to be Indian Wells.
"There is an Indian Wells, but it's completely offlimits, and you can only get to it by foot or horseback. It's an interesting site if you like geology or petroglyphs. Have you heard of it?" Utiey asked.
Kerney shook his head.
"I just thought you said Indian Wells. My mistake." Utiey nodded.
"The place-names can get confusing." He made a circular motion with his finger over the map. "The Indian Hills excavation is east of Cottonwood Canyon. A stand of trees gave me the first clue that I might find something. Cottonwoods need a lot of water, so I went looking for the source. I found gray quartz and white gypsum sand accumulations early in the dig. The winds move the sand toward the Sacramento Mountains, away from the San Andres, so it was a real anomaly. We hit a rock foundation and an underground spring that once fed into a pond. It's definitely a semipermanent Apache campsite." Utiey's voice rose in satisfaction.
"A very important find. I'm heading back out there today." Utiey's expression changed and became apologetic. "I'm boring the hell out of you."
"Not at all," Kerney assured him, rushing his question before Utiey had a chance to continue talking. The man was a self-absorbed motor mouth.
"Do you remember Sammy Yazzi? Specialist Fourth Class. He went on your last field trip." Fred nodded and repositioned his eyeglasses on his nose.
"I do. I was delighted to have him on the tour. He gave us a real interesting perspective of the Apache from a Pueblo Indian point of view."
"Did you know him before the tour?"
"Never saw him before or after," Utiey responded. "Sorry I can't be more helpful."
"That's okay." Kerney replied.
"I don't envy you your job." Utiey walked with Kerney to the open door. "If you're still on the base when I get back, I'll buy you a drink at the officers' club."
"Sounds good to me," Kerney said, squinting at the whiteness of the day that greeted him outside. He left Utiey to finish his loading chore and drove away. It was time to meet Sara at her office.
"Did you notice that the watercolors were numbered in sequence?" Sara inquired, one foot curled under her knee, her back resting against the passenger door ofkerney's truck. A slight road breeze from the partially open window rippled through her hair.
They were halfway to Elephant Butte Lake.
"No, I didn't."
"On the back of each sheet: two numbers separated by a slash. There should be thirty pictures. Only twenty-five were in the portfolio."
Kerney drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in response as Sara watched him. He had long fingers, perfectly proportioned. Kerney had taken care to dress for the occasion, Sara thought, with a private smile. He wore a light gray cowboy shirt with pearl buttons, black jeans, and freshly polished boots.
"No comment?" Sara nudged.
"I feel like we're chasing our tails," Kerney answered. "Lots of leads going nowhere."
"Frustrated?"
"So far." He smiled in her direction. "It's a big chunk of land out there. Lots of places where a person can get lost and disoriented."
"Or have an accident," Sara added.
"That too," Kerney agreed glumly, "but I still cling to the hope that Sammy's alive and kicking up his heels somewhere off the base."
"You do think that's realistic?"
"Not really. Sammy isn't the type. But without hope there can be no endeavor," Kerney quoted. "Some dead English writer said that. I can't remember which one; Samuel Johnson, Walter Scott." Sara laughed.
"Tell me something. Why did you drop out of graduate school to become a cop?" Kerney shot her a sideways look.
"You have done your homework."
"Of course."
"After Nam, I thought I needed peace and quiet. Graduate school seemed like a safe place to be."
"Was it?"
"Sure, if you believe that intellectual sharpshooting and belligerent superior attitudes are part of a quiet life. To me, it was just a mind game, so I decided to do something more real."
"I take it your wife didn't approve."
"Hell, no. When I told her what my intentions were, she decided I wasn't committed to maintaining a parallel career path with an equitable income that would match her anticipated earnings. She granted me an uncontested divorce."
"Was it that simple?"
"Nothing is that simple. She didn't want a husband with a second-class profession, and I didn't want a marriage that felt like a business arrangement. Otherwise, we were completely incompatible."
"Are you a romantic, Kerney?"
"I was. Now I'm a hermit. What about you?"
"There's very little time for romance in the military."
They drove in silence through Truth or Consequences, a town with no definition that spread out along a bypass looping the interstate. Main street, lined with dreary cafes, dress shops posing as boutiques, shoddy secondhand stores, and run-down tourist cabins bunched around empty parking lots, took on the stunted, meager personality of the sand hills above the town. Only the touch of green from the thick bosque that concealed the Rio Grande gave relief to the eye, pulling attention to the mountains east of the river. According to Sara, Bull McVay worked as a maintenance man at a vineyard in Engle. At the only stoplight in town, Kerney turned toward the mountains, and soon they were on a curving road cutting through the foothills. Elephant Butte, a startling blue-green manmade lake, spread out in front of them just before the highway dipped into a narrow, sheared-off granite pass, climbed again to meet the Jomada-the ancient route of the Spanish into North America-and ran straight toward the San Andres Mountains. Cactus savanna flowed across the desert interrupted by large thickets of creosote brush and mesquite. The long plumes of the sotol cactus rose on thick bases, protected by hundreds of spiny leaves, bearing the first signs of flowering growth. Clumps of green grama grass, pale rabbit brush and yellow wildflowers erupted wildly on the flat plain.
Sara remained quiet, gazing out the window and thinking how pleasant it was to rubberneck. The need for more of a personal life outside of her job had to be given greater attention, she decided.
A large billboard sign came into view, heralding the turnoff to the vineyard.
"I'll question McVay," she said, regretting the curt tone.
"Yes, ma'am," Kerney replied obsequiously. "Shall I wait for you in the truck, ma'am?" His blue eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile. Sara punched him on the arm.
"Don't be a smartass. Let's go." *** In the processing shed, Bull McVay worked alone, cleaning up the debris left over from a newly installed vat storage system. He dumped some scrap metal in the cart behind a small tractor and noticed a man and woman standing in the wide bay doorway. Tourists, McVay thought, returning to his work. The winery attracted visitors intrigued by the idea of a champagne vineyard in the middle of the desert owned by real Frenchmen who pumped water thirty miles from the lake in order to grow grapes. He was sweeping up when the woman approached.
"Hello, Bull," Sara said.
"Captain Brannon." Bull resisted the impulse to snap to attention. The man wasn't somebody Bull knew. He hung back a little from the captain, just within earshot range.
"What brings you here?"
"One of your old ballplayers went A.W.O.L.."
"Which one?" With huge shoulders, no neck, and a bulky frame. Bull had a nickname that was a perfect match for his body.
"Sammy Yazzi."
"I heard about that. I thought everything had worked out for him."
"What do you mean?"
"Sammy was hot to take some art classes at the university. All his sergeant had to do was change the duty roster. Steiner wouldn't cooperate, and Sammy was really bummed out about it. I came up with an alternative-almost by accident."
"What alternative?"
"A lady at church taught art at the university in Las Cruces before she retired. I mentioned Sammy's problem to her in passing. She told me to have Sammy call her, so I did. Sammy started studying with her."
"You know that for a fact?"
"Absolutely," Bull answered.
"When did this happen?"
"Just before I moved up here."
"Did Sergeant Steiner know about it?"
"I don't think so. Sammy told me as a way to say thanks for the favor, but I doubt he made a big deal out of it with anyone else. That's not his style."
"What's the woman's name?"
"Erma Fergurson. Sweet lady. In her seventies but still a ball of fire."
"Thanks, Bull," Sara said.
"Sure thing. Captain." The man with Sara, a rugged-looking guy, turned and walked away without saying a word. His right leg had been busted-up big-time. Probably the knee. Bull decided. He shook Sara's hand with his beefy palm and watched her ill walk away. She stopped at the door, looked around, and stepped into the sunlight with almost a girlish skip.
Kerney stood at the end of the parking lot, oblivious to Sara's presence, looking at the small cluster of houses and shade trees that marked the remains of Engle, now a town in name only. The pavement ended at the Southern Pacific railroad tracks, and a dirt road took over, thrusting east toward the San Andres Mountains. Gone were most of the private homes, the general store, the post office, and the abandoned hotel, which had still stood when he was a boy. The one-room schoolhouse endured, moored on a wide rock foundation. The long, narrow window casements started a good eight feet off the ground and ran nearly to the top of the building.
"What do you see out there?" Sara asked. Kerney's blue eyes smiled again.
"An eighty pound boy full of piss and vinegar who thought he would be a runt forever."
"What happened to him?"
"He grew up and found out nothing is forever. I think you're going to enjoy meeting Erma Fergurson," he said with a delighted laugh.
"You know her?"
"Damn straight I do. Let's go find out if she remembers me." Erma Fergurson opened her front door holding a writing tablet in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other. Dressed in a paint-splattered man's shirt and a pair of black slacks, she carried her age beautifully, slender and erect. Her delicately lined face took them in with clear eyes. She wore her gray hair pinned in a bun at the nape of her neck.
She glanced nonchalantly at the badge in Kerney's hand.
"You're here about the burglary," Erma said.
"What burglary. Aunt Erma?" Kerney asked.
"Oh, my goodness," she said, her hand flying to her mouth. "Kevin Kerney, is that you?"
"It's me," Kerney answered with a boyish smile.
"I don't believe it." A smile bubbled on her lips. "Let me look at you." She stepped back.
"You're still a handsome rascal." She turned to Sara, the excitement of the moment ringing in her voice. "Kevin's mother and I were college roommates. When he came to the university I was asked to keep an eye on him. When he'd act like a young buck, he would beg me with those beautiful blue eyes not to tattle on him to his parents."
"I'm sure he was quite persuasive," Sara replied.
"He was indeed," Erma agreed happily.
"Who is this pretty woman, Kevin?" Sara blushed.
"Erma Fergurson, meet Sara Brannon," Kerney said.
"A pleasure," Erma replied.
"Are you also a police officer?"
"Yes."
"So you are here about the burglary," Erma said.
"We know nothing about it, but it may be important," Sara responded.
"We came to ask you about Sammy Yazzi."
"Oh, yes, I would like that. I've been very worried about him. Come in and make yourselves at home." She ushered them through a curved archway into a studio space washed in north light from a high clerestory. Large landscapes, six feet high and wide, filled the walls with vibrant colors of foothills ablaze in a blanket of wildflowers, silvery tufts of Apache plume dappling the desert, and shimmering golden aspen rolling up mountainsides. Erma gestured at the two love seats separated by a print cabinet that served as a coffee table, and got them settled in.
"You haven't found Sammy, have you?" Erma guessed.
"No," Kerney replied, "but we did find some watercolors." Erma nodded.
"Excellent work. A wonderful series."
"We're missing five paintings," Sara said.
"I have them." She slid open a drawer to the print cabinet and spread out each watercolor on top of the chest. All five were of bighorn mountain sheep.
"Sammy left them with me to be framed. We were planning a showing at a local gallery." Kerney studied each picture, trying to get a sense of the location. A cliff face with a ram on the summit looked familiar. He was sure it was somewhere near the ranch, but couldn't place it.
"Did he work from photographs?" he asked.
"Yes. His camera was stolen in the burglary."
"Tell us about the burglary," Sara prompted. Erma shook her head in exasperation.
"My fault entirely. I ran out to the grocery store this morning and didn't lock up. They came in through an open window."
"What was taken besides Sammy's camera?" Sara queried. Erma picked up the notebook and put on her reading glasses.
"I just made a list. Two more cameras, a bedroom television, a VCR, and several pieces of jewelry I left out on a dresser. That's all I've found missing so far, and I've been through the house twice.
"The officer who came said it was probably a drug addict who robbed me. I guess they just take what they can carry out quickly and sell for money."
"Do you know where Sammy developed his photographs?" Kerney asked.
"Here," Erma replied.
"I have a darkroom in the corner of my garage."
"Are his prints and negatives there?"
"I'm sure they are," Erma said, rising to her feet.
"Shall we go and see?" The darkroom had a sink and a long counter with shelves above containing all the necessary chemicals and bins below for equipment and supplies. A cardboard photo storage box sat on the counter. While Sara and Kerney watched, Erma searched the contents once, and then a second time.
"My mistake," she said.
"Sammy must have taken them."
"Probably," Kerney agreed.
"Were the cameras stolen from the darkroom?"
"Yes."
"Are your prints intact?" Sara asked.
"As far as I can tell, yes. Should I search to see if anything else was taken?"
"I don't think you need to do that," Sara answered.
"Did Sammy leave anything else with you for safekeeping?" Kerney asked.
Erma withdrew her attention from Sara and looked at Kerney.
"The theft is connected with Sammy somehow, isn't it?"
"We don't know that," Sara said.
Erma's back stiffened, and she raised her chin.
"Kevin?" she demanded.
"It might be. Aunt Erma."
"Now I am upset."
Kerney took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"I want you to call someone to come and stay with you for a while," he said.
"That isn't necessary."
"Then how about a cup of tea?" he suggested. Erma brightened.
"That is necessary."
Over tea, Erma learned what she could about Sammy's disappearance from
Kerney while Sara carefully wrapped the watercolors in clear plastic sleeves. When Erma expressed the hope that Sammy would be found alive and well, Kerney's attempt at reassurance felt forced. It only made her more worried about the boy.
"He has such a rare talent," she said wistfully. At the front door, Kerney promised Erma he would come back for a long visit.
"See that you do," Erma replied, reaching up to give him a motherly hug.
"In fact," she said to Sara, "I want both of you to come back for a nice dinner so you can tell me exactly what this is all about."
"Sounds like bribery to me," Sara said. "I accept."
"It's a date," Kerney said.
Walking to the truck, Sara looked back at Erma. "What an exquisite lady she is. I hope I have that much class when I'm her age."
"I don't think you have a thing to worry about," Kerney said. Sara didn't break her stride.
"Do you think Andy has a deputy he can spare? I'd like your Aunt Erma to have some protection for a few days."
"That's a good idea," Kerney allowed, "but you'll have to ask very nicely. He's still smarting from that tongue-lashing you gave him."
Sara frowned.
"I forgot about that."