Home of the famous UFO Incident allegedly covered up by the military shortly after the end of World War II, Roswell traded on its notoriety, spurred on by several recent television shows. The old Main Street movie house had been converted into a UFO museum and gift shop, several companies conducted tours of the UFO crash site, and retail stores sold UFO coffee mugs, hats, tee shirts, toys, and posters of aliens and spaceships.
Aside from the UFO hoopla, Roswell was an ordinary small city that touted its mild climate, small-town flavor, capable work force, and recreational opportunities as a way to draw new businesses and retirees. Laid out in a checkerboard pattern, it was indistinguishable from many other Southwestern cities. The obligatory shopping mall was near the outskirts of town and strip malls peppered the major four-lane state roads bisecting the city. Main Street had lost its draw as businesses abandoned downtown, and new housing tracts stretched over the monotonous plains.
Two blocks east of Main Street on Pennsylvania Avenue, a tree-lined street with old Victorian houses, Kerney found Penelope Gibben at home. He sat quietly in her living room and watched her cry. Although Gibben was in her mid-sixties, in appearance she had not surrendered to senior citizen status. An attractive woman no more than five feet tall and weighing less than a hundred pounds, Gibben was stylishly dressed in a chenille V-neck sweater that displayed a single strand of expensive pearls and she wore lightweight wool slacks. She used very little makeup, but her eye shadow had smeared a bit from crying.
The living room had mahogany double doors that opened on to the entry hall, a marble fireplace, and sash windows that gave a view of the porch and front lawn. It was furnished with two armchairs in a matching floral pattern, a velvet rose-colored sofa, Colonial-style end tables, and a stout coffee table with curved legs.
“I simply can’t believe it,” Gibben finally said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I need to ask you a few questions about Judge Langsford.”
Gibben’s eyes blinked rapidly. “Even though our friendship ended, I’ve always been comforted by the thought that Vernon was nearby and not really gone. Now he is.”
“I understand that you and the judge were more than friends.”
Gibben’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“He was once your lover,” Kerney said.
She folded her hands in her lap and looked at Kerney with serious eyes. “You say that with such authority.”
“Do you deny it?”
“I suppose there’s no need to, now. Yes, we were lovers, although I’d rather the information remained confidential.”
“Tell me about your relationship with him.”
“It was perfect for many years until Vernon became dissatisfied with his marriage.”
“That bothered you?”
“I’m a very independent person, Mr. Kerney. I enjoy living alone. I’ve never wanted to marry, but I do like the company of men as long as they don’t intrude on my privacy. Vernon filled my need for a lover and a friend very nicely.”
There was something cold about Gibben’s revelation, but Kerney didn’t challenge it. “How long were you lovers?”
“Far longer than many marriages last,” Penelope said. “Almost twenty years. Eighteen to be exact.”
“How did you meet?”
“I met him at work, Mr. Kerney. Vernon’s father started Ranchers’ Exploration and Development and hired me as his secretary. I came to know Vernon through my association with the company. He owns a controlling interest in the business.”
“What is your current association with Ranchers’?”
“I’m the chief financial officer.”
“I understand Vernon ended his relationship with you because of the guilt he felt about Marsha’s death.”
“Do you know that Vernon and I were together when Marsha was killed?”
“I do.”
“How could he not feel guilty? We both did. The decision to end the relationship was mutual. After what had happened, neither of us could handle it.”
“Why was he considering a divorce?”
“Marsha never recovered from Arthur’s death. Her depression destroyed the marriage.”
“Arthur?”
“Vernon’s oldest son.”
“Tell me about Arthur,” Kerney asked.
“It was an absolute tragedy,” Penelope replied. “The children had all returned to Roswell for the holidays. Arthur was home from graduate studies in California. Linda was newly married, had her law degree, and was working for one of the large firms here in town. And Eric had just completed a drug rehabilitation program and seemed to be doing well.”
“What happened?”
“Of all the children, Arthur was the best athlete. In high school he excelled at track and field. As an undergraduate he gave up competitive sports to concentrate on his studies, and became a mountain bike enthusiast. When he was home from school, he would ride up into the mountains every chance he got. A hit-and-run driver killed him on the highway to Ruidoso five days before Christmas.”
“When was that?”
“Three years before Marsha died.”
“Was an arrest made in the incident?”
“The driver was never found. How did you come to learn about my relationship with Vernon? Surely, Linda didn’t tell you. Was it Eric?”
“Why is that important to you?”
“I know what Vernon did to keep our secret safe from the public.”
“You mean the fifty thousand dollars he gave to Eric?”
Gibben smiled wanly. “Over the years before Marsha’s death, Eric cost him a great deal more than that. But I don’t think Vernon ever begrudged him the money. He kept hoping Eric would straighten himself out.”
“I get the feeling that after the affair ended, your friendship with Judge Langsford remained intact.”
“For a time. Are you going to tell me who told you about my relationship with Vernon?”
“It was his personal assistant, Kay Murray.”
“I see,” Penelope said flatly.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Not really. Vernon was always drawn to women who could engage him intellectually and emotionally. Marsha gave him the security he wanted in a wife, but she was not very challenging in other ways.”
“You talk as if you know Ms. Murray.”
“I know Vernon.”
“Judge Langsford obviously looked for more than just an intellectual and emotional connection outside his marriage,” Kerney said.
“Are you asking me to speculate on the nature of Vernon’s relationship with Kay Murray?”
“If you wish to.”
“The Vernon I knew was a vigorous man with healthy appetites who was generous with those he cared about.”
“What did Eric do with the money his father gave him?”
“He bought a new van, moved to San Francisco, and became a cocaine addict. When the money ran out, he came back and has been living in Cloudcroft ever since.”
“How do you know this?”
Gibben sighed. “Eric refuses to have any further contact with his father, so Vernon appointed him a corporate board member with an annual stipend of twenty thousand dollars a year, to help him out. I send him the quarterly checks.”
“When did you issue the last one?”
“Two months ago. It was endorsed and cashed.”
“Is Linda also a board member?”
“No. She will have nothing to do with any of the family corporate holdings. As I understand it, she makes quite a comfortable living from her law practice.”
“What would you say Judge Langsford’s net worth totals?”
“Sixty million dollars, easily.” Tears returned to the corners of her eyes, and Gibben stood up. “I don’t think I can cope with any more questions right now, Mr. Kerney. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.”
“I may need to speak with you again,” Kerney said. “But I’d appreciate it if you would keep our conversation private.”
A tight smile crossed Penelope Gibben’s face. “Surely, you must know by now that keeping secrets is one of the things I do best.”
Kerney left thinking that in spite of the obvious difference in age, Penelope Gibben and Kay Murray seemed remarkably alike.
Kerney tried calling Linda Langsford’s law partner at home and got no answer. The office telephone yielded a busy signal, so he decided to stop in and see if Drew Randolph was working on the weekend. He found the building on a side street across from the county courthouse. Shielded by large trees and an expanse of lawn, the courthouse had a Greek revival facade topped off by a large dome.
The law office was open, and a buzzer sounded when Kerney stepped through the door into an empty well-appointed reception area. Kerney waited until a man came out to greet him.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
Dressed in a rib-neck jersey tucked into a pair of cotton chinos, the man stood an inch taller than Kerney’s six-one frame and looked to be in his late thirties. He had an athletic build and a well-developed chest.
“I’m looking for Drew Randolph,” Kerney said, displaying his shield.
“And you are?”
“Kevin Kerney.”
“I’m Drew Randolph. As I told the agent who called, I have no way of contacting Ms. Langsford. She didn’t leave an itinerary.”
“I understand that, Mr. Randolph.”
“Although I’m sure she’ll call in at least once or twice next week.”
“Did the agent inform you that we’re investigating Judge Langsford’s murder?”
“Yes.” Randolph’s expression turned slightly sour. “She also said, unnecessarily I might add, that I could be charged with interfering with a police investigation if I disclosed the information to the media.”
“Until every attempt has been made to notify the next of kin, we want to handle the case as discreetly as possible,” Kerney said.
“Surely, your people must understand that as an officer of the court I am aware of the technicalities.”
Kerney smiled at the pomposity of the man. “We like to cover all the bases, Mr. Randolph. How do you think Ms. Langsford will take the news of her father’s murder?”
“That’s an odd question,” Randolph said, leaning against the reception desk.
“I understand she has not been close to her father for some time.”
“True.” Randolph’s eyes searched Kerney’s face. “How can that possibly be relevant to Judge Langsford’s murder?”
“We may need her cooperation to solve the case. If she is uninterested in lending assistance, I’d like to know it now.”
“Do you know the circumstances of Linda’s disenchantment with her father?”
“Somewhat.”
“Then you know Linda has cut herself off from him, more or less completely.”
“I understand they exchange Christmas cards.”
Randolph nodded. “There is occasional, strained contact. I think a psychiatrist would say that Linda is conflicted about her father. She loves him, but she can’t forgive him. She keeps him at arm’s length, and at the same time can’t bring herself to completely sever the tie. I’m sure she’ll cooperate with you. After all, now both her parents have been murdered.”
“How long have you known Ms. Langsford?”
“We were in law school together.”
“Does she stay in contact with her brother?”
“Not to my knowledge. They have nothing in common. I take it you haven’t located Eric.”
“No, we haven’t. Does Ms. Langsford frequently take vacations without an itinerary?”
“We went to law school in Boulder, and we both love the Rocky Mountains. When we started the firm, we made a pact: I’d get a week of uninterrupted skiing in the winter, and she would have her annual high-country fall color tour. Since we limit our practice to oil and gas clients, coverage isn’t a problem.”
“That makes sense. Did you know Linda’s ex-husband?”
“Slightly. His name is Bill Kendell. He’s a vice president at a bank in Albuquerque. I don’t remember which one. He left here soon after the divorce.” Randolph held up a hand to ward off more questions. “Please don’t ask me about Linda’s personal life, past or present, Mr. Kerney. I’d rather you go directly to the source for your information. I’m Linda’s partner, and we have a solid, congenial work relationship, but we live totally separate lives.”
“Does the firm represent any of Judge Langsford’s companies?”
“We do. I should say, I do.”
“Which ones?”
“I’m the corporate attorney for each company.”
“Thanks for your time.”
The sheriff’s office was behind the county courthouse, in an old, nondescript commercial building that had been carved up into offices. The investigating officer on the Arthur Langsford bicycle fatality had retired four years ago, and with a deputy sheriff at his side, Kerney searched for the case file in boxes stacked in a back storage room. When he found it, he sat on a step stool under the glare of a bare lightbulb and read the accident report.
Just five days before Christmas nine years ago, Langsford had been hit by a car on a curve at approximately four in the afternoon, with the sun low on the horizon. Reconstruction at the scene indicated that the unknown vehicle was heading west, within the speed limit, when the driver apparently swerved to avoid a hazard in the road. Skid marks showed the driver had braked hard before hitting Arthur Langsford, who had been riding in the opposite lane. Traffic at the time had been light, and there were no witnesses. Follow-up attempts to locate either the car or the driver proved unsuccessful.
The deputy made a copy of the file for Kerney, who left thinking that a lot of very interesting information about Vernon Langsford and his family had come to light, but none of it yet seemed to have any bearing on the investigation.
He swung into the flow of traffic on the main street and called in his location and destination. Lee Sedillo came on the horn to tell him the search of Langsford’s Ruidoso home was under way.
Lee Sedillo met Kerney at the door and took him to Langsford’s study, where two agents were working their way through the judge’s financial records and personal papers. The furnishings echoed the decor of the living room: an oversize desk stood in front of a wall of books, and a matching leather reading chair and ottoman were positioned to give a view out the window to the fairway.
“We’ll toss the rest of the house after we finish here,” Lee said.
“Anything yet?” Kerney asked.
“Tidbits,” Lee replied. “We found a letter from Langsford’s daughter telling him not to appoint her as the personal representative of his estate. Langsford did it anyhow. His will, dated two weeks after her letter, names Linda Langsford as his representative. Except for some very generous donations to charity, a million dollars to Kay Murray, and a million dollars to a woman named Penelope Gibben, the estate is to be equally divided between Eric and Linda.”
“Penelope Gibben was Langsford’s mistress for almost twenty years,” Kerney said.
“If money is the motive, then we’ve gone from no suspects to at least four: Gibben, Murray, and the two children.”
“The letter bomb murder of Langsford’s wife still suggests the possibility the judge was killed for other reasons. What else have you got?”
“Langsford kept meticulous records, including receipts of his purchases and cash expenditures. Over the past five years, he gave Kay Murray fifty thousand dollars to help her buy a town house, and bought her a number of expensive presents—an eight-hundred-dollar lambskin jacket, diamond earrings—stuff like that.”
“And the Ford Explorer?”
“Another gift from the judge,” Lee said. “I spent some time at the clubhouse and talking to residents in the neighborhood. Murray’s car was often here overnight when the judge was in residence.”
“That’s interesting. Did the judge talk about his relationship with Murray to any of his neighbors or golfing buddies?”
“Nope, and all the people I spoke with had nothing but kind words about him. He was quiet, well-liked, and had a low handicap. Most didn’t even know he had been a judge. Except for Murray’s overnights, there wasn’t any other gossip about him.”
“Has Eric Langsford been located?”
“He hasn’t surfaced,” Lee said. “He worked as a handyman at a Cloudcroft inn until his supervisor fired him last month for chronic absenteeism. He moved out of his apartment and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Check with the San Francisco PD and see if they arrested or charged Langsford with any crimes six years ago. He once had a serious cocaine problem.”
“Which means he’s probably still using,” Lee said. “Do you want me to question Murray about the gifts she received from the judge?” Lee asked.
“Did her alibi about her Albuquerque trip check out?”
“Completely.”
“Let it ride, for now. I’ll follow up with her myself later on. But deepen the background check on her.”
“Will do. You look beat, boss.”
“I am. I’ll be at my motel room in Alamogordo, if you need me.”
“Get some sack time,” Lee said.
“That’s the plan.”
The lock in the motel door turned and Sara Brannon glanced up from her laptop computer to find Kerney staring at her with a surprised expression.
She went to him and snuggled against his chest. “I’ve been worried about you.”
Sara’s body felt warm and reassuring. Kerney stroked her strawberry blond hair, lifted her face, looked into her green eyes, and kissed her softly. “Not to worry,” he said. “How did you find me?”
“I called Andy, found out where you were staying, and hitched a ride out here on an Air Force cargo plane.”
Kerney looked out the window of the dingy motel room onto a panoramic view of the parking lot, half-filled with rental moving vans, semi-trucks, and subcompact four-bangers.
“This wasn’t the weekend together I had in mind,” he said. “Nor the place.”
“You don’t like your accommodations?” Sara said with a laugh.
“It’s the best Alamogordo has to offer, I suppose. I’m glad you came.”
“I considered it my wifely duty.”
“There’s nothing wifely about you, Sara. That’s why I married you.”
Sara smiled again and kissed him quickly. “Don’t sweet-talk me, Kerney. How much sleep have you had?”
“Not much in the last two days. How long can you stay?”
“I fly out from Holloman Air Force Base at six in the morning.”
“Give me a few minutes to clean up and we’ll go get something to eat.”
“I don’t want you to take me out, Kerney. Get some sleep.” Sara gestured at her laptop. “I have to finish my assignment, anyway.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“A nap would do nicely.”
Stretched out on the bed next to Kerney in the darkened room, Sara listened to his breathing deepen. Although she’d married Kerney impulsively, she had no regrets. He was, in so many ways, a perfect match for her. Aside from being sexy, he was honest and had never tried to dominate or smother her, which would have driven her away in a flash. Best of all, he fully supported her decision to continue her career as a serving army officer.
She’d never really given him a choice in the matter, and had made it clear from the start that she wasn’t about to walk away from four years at West Point and ten years on active duty for the privilege of becoming his wife. But she had the growing intuition Kerney wasn’t completely happy with the part-time nature of their marriage.
She stroked his hand and watched for a reaction. Kerney’s breathing remained even. Quietly, she got up, found her jacket, and left the room.
Kerney woke to the smell of food. The small motel writing desk had been cleared off, moved away from the wall, and covered with a red and white checkerboard paper tablecloth. On it, Sara had arranged a picnic dinner of Mexican take-out. The centerpiece, a spray of fresh-cut flowers, was arranged in the plastic ice bucket.
“Hungry?”
“Very. How long did I sleep?”
“Six hours. According to the locals, this is the best Mexican food in town. Stay where you are. I’ll serve you in bed.”
Kerney sat up and propped a pillow against the headboard. “Finally, I’m getting some of the treatment I deserve.”
“Careful, or you’ll find this plate in your lap,” Sara said. She came over with two plates, handed one to Kerney, and sat with him.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Sara Brannon.”
“Now, that’s the kind of talk I like to hear.”
They ate and talked, filling each other in on all the small events that didn’t get into their letters or phone conversations. By the end of the meal, Kerney felt rested, well fed, and much more like himself.
“Have you heard from Dale?” Sara asked.
Dale Jennings, Kerney’s oldest friend, ranched on the west side of the San Andres Mountains, and had been keeping his eye out for property on Kerney’s behalf.
“He’s been bugging me to get down there,” Kerney said. “Says he knows three ranchers who might consider selling.”
“Well, when are you going to take a look?” Sara asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do it tomorrow.”
Kerney laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“Why not? You’ve got eight agents and a lieutenant working the murder cases. Are you feeling indispensable?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Are you close to making an arrest?”
“We don’t even have a viable suspect.”
Sara poked him lightly in the ribs with an elbow. “Take tomorrow off.”
“Can you stay over?”
“I can’t,” Sara said, as she cleared away the plastic plates and utensils. “But if you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll be inclined to throw a hissy fit. You wouldn’t like that.”
“I don’t even know if Dale can get away.”
“He can. I spoke to him a couple of hours ago.”
“Well, aren’t you something?”
“Get used to it, Kerney.”
“Used to what?”
“Having someone in your life who’s concerned about you.”
“Bossy is more like it.”
“That, too. Are you ready for dessert?”
Kerney looked at the table, didn’t see any dessert, and glanced at Sara, who slowly unbuttoned her blouse. He grinned, reached over and pulled her to him.
In a briefing room at the air force base, Sara scrolled through her paper on Haitian military incursions one last time before shutting off the laptop. She needed to add footnotes and several more references to complete it, which meant putting in a long stint at the Command and General Staff College library once she got back to Fort Leavenworth.
As a lieutenant colonel, Sara was one of the highest-ranking members of her class, and she had no intention of letting junior officers outshine her. Finishing the paper as soon as possible would give her a head start on the upcoming battle command strategy exercise that would carry significant weight in determining the honor graduate for her class. Although graduation was months away and the competition was stiff, Sara planned to win that award.
She wished there was something she could do to help Kerney. The Shockley incident had rattled him badly, and while she could give him emotional support by telephone, it hardly seemed adequate. She’d deliberately arranged Kerney’s day off with Dale to explore ranching possibilities as a way to force him to take some downtime and decompress.
Sara knew from firsthand experience what it took to run a major violent crime investigation, and how wearing it could be. Serving in an army where combat assignments were closed to women, she’d carefully selected intelligence and criminal investigations as a career path that would take her as close to the action as possible. Her postings had included tours as an executive officer of a MP company in Saudi Arabia during the Persian Gulf War, temporary duty as a tactical intelligence staff officer in Bosnia, supervising a Criminal Investigation Unit at White Sands Missile Range, and commanding allied ground reconnaissance and intelligence units in South Korea.
On a professional level, she would have enjoyed the opportunity to work with Kerney on the case. Spree murders were relatively rare events, and the hands-on experience would’ve been invaluable. So would some more time with Kerney, she thought, especially in the sack.
She wiped away a smile when a senior airman stuck his head in the door to say the bird was ready to fly.
When he woke, Kerney found Sara gone and a love note pinned to a pillow, containing a graphic suggestion of how they could spend their next weekend together, which made Kerney smile. He cleaned up and called Lee Sedillo.
“Any progress?”
“We’ve finished reviewing the user-fee pay envelopes for the past thirty days. We’ve identified seven people who visited all four parks in a one- or two-day period. I’ve got agents checking every motel between Carrizozo and Alamogordo to see if any of them returned and registered as guests around the time of the murders.”
“Can you link any of the seven to Langsford?”
“Negative, Chief.”
“Have Langsford’s children surfaced?”
“Also negative, Chief.”
“Have the PIO release Langsford’s name and the fact that we’re seeking the whereabouts of his son and daughter to the media.”
“Will do.”
“Did you finish up at Langsford’s house?”
“No way, Chief. There’s a hell of a lot of stuff to go through. The judge was a total pack rat. I’ve got a man there now. Are you coming in?”
“Do you need me?”
“Nothing’s breaking.”
“I’ll be there this afternoon.”
Kerney answered the knock at the door, and Dale Jennings stepped inside.
“Where’s your bride?” Dale asked, eyeing the rumpled bedcovers with a grin.
“Long gone,” Kerney said. “She can only take me in small doses.”
“That makes sense. She said I’m to keep you occupied all day.”
“We’ve got the rest of the morning.”
“That will do, if we get our butts in gear.”
“Have you seen these ranches we’re going to look at?” Kerney walked to the chair by the window to grab his jacket.
“Nope,” Dale said, waiting for Kerney to turn away from the window.
“What do you think the chances are of getting four flat tires simultaneously?” Kerney asked, as he eyed his unit in the parking lot.
Dale stepped to the window. “Somebody doesn’t like you, would be my bet.”
“Let’s take a closer look.”
The tires had been punctured, but there was no other damage to the car. Kerney took a quick tour of the other parked vehicles and found no additional evidence of vandalism. He called Lee Sedillo and told him what was up.
“I’ll get the tires replaced and send an agent over to ask some questions,” Lee said.
“Don’t waste an agent’s time on this,” Kerney said. “Have a patrol officer take the call.”
“Who did you piss off, Chief?”
“Good question,” Kerney said. “Maybe one of Shockley’s buddies.”
“That’s a thought that worries me,” Lee said.
Dale Jennings took off his feed store baseball cap, scratched his head, and hoisted a foot on the truck’s front bumper. “Finding land that equals what Erma left you isn’t going to be easy,” he said.
Kerney nodded in agreement. The two ranches they’d toured held no appeal for him. One, situated on the back side of the Jicarilla Mountains north of Carrizozo, looked promising until Kerney spoke with the owner, who was bailing out of the cattle business because the Forest Service had fenced off the live streams and greatly reduced his grazing allotment.
The other property was west of Carrizozo, a windswept, poorly managed stretch of land within sight of Chupadera Mesa. In the best of years, four hundred acres would be needed to support one cow-calf unit.
Kerney looked at the herd of scrawny Brangus cattle moving slowly across the dusty rangeland infested with broom snakeweed. Toxic to cattle and sheep, broom snakeweed caused abortions. What grasses there were—blue grama, silver beardgrass, and side-oats grama—had been pretty much eaten down to the root.
“What?” Dale finally asked, as he studied the displeasure on Kerney’s face.
“Why bother to put cattle on the land if you have to truck in feed to keep them alive?” Kerney said.
“Some ranchers don’t feed much until it comes close to shipping time,” Dale said.
“That’s no way to treat animals,” Kerney said.
“I know it. Maybe this isn’t a good time for you to be looking for land.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kerney asked.
“Maybe better land will come on the market later down the road. Want to call it a day?”
“We’ve got one more to go?”
“Down by Three Rivers.”
“Let’s check it out.”
Twenty sections south of Three Rivers were up for sale, running from the arid basin to the foothills that defined the western boundary of the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation. Once, it had been part of the Albert Bacon Fall holdings that consumed a million acres from the Sacramento Mountains to the westerly San Andres Mountains.
Fall had been a senator from New Mexico before becoming Warren Harding’s Secretary of the Interior. His political career ended with the famous Teapot Dome scandal, amid charges that he had engaged in shady deals regarding national petroleum reserves set aside for the Navy.
Kerney asked Dale to take the old road to the ranch headquarters. He wanted to see the rodeo grounds that had once drawn ranching families from throughout the area for several days of friendly competition. As teenagers, he and Dale had won the team calf-roping event three years running.
All that remained under the grove of trees were some rotting boards from the judging stand and a few fence posts.
“Those were good times,” Dale said, staring out the truck window as they drove slowly by.
“Yes, they were,” Kerney answered.
They got permission from the ranch manager to tour the land, and took off on a dirt road that wound into the hills. Good rains over the summer had greened up the terrain, but the ground was rocky, with sparse topsoil, and only patches of bunch grass thrived.
Below them, the Tularosa Basin, once a broad savanna, spread out to the far off San Andres Mountains. Not even a half century of protection by the military had restored the fragile basin from years of drought and overgrazing. Where knee-high grasses once grew, now mesquite, saltbush, and creosote bush crowded out the more fragile native vegetation.
Inside an open gate high in the foothills, Kerney and Dale walked the land, neither of them happy with soil so poorly suited to retain moisture. In front of them, the twin peaks of Sierra Blanca on the Apache Reservation dominated the skyline.
“Not much you can do with this,” Dale said with a shake of his head. “It would take a full section to run one cow.”
The short wail of a siren cut off Kerney’s response. A four-wheel-drive bore down upon them, emergency lights flashing, and ground to a halt next to Dale’s truck. The man who got out of the truck and moved toward them wore a tribal police uniform shirt. In his mid- to late twenties, he was five-ten, with an olive brown complexion and dark hazel eyes.
“Let me see some ID,” the officer said, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered weapon.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” Kerney asked, flipping open his badge case.
“You’re trespassing on Apache land,” the officer said, dismissing Kerney’s shield with a glance. “I need a driver’s license from both of you.”
Dale fished out his wallet while Kerney did the same. As he watched Kerney hand the officer his license Dale thought there was something familiar about the young man, but he couldn’t place it in his mind.
“We didn’t see a sign,” Kerney said.
The officer pointed to a placard fifty yards away and plucked the driver’s license from Dale’s hands. “Wait here.”
“So much for professional courtesy,” Kerney said, as he watched the young officer stand next to the vehicle, open a citation book, and start writing.
“We’re getting tickets?”
“Looks that way.”
The officer finished up and returned. “You can either pay the fine by mail or appear in tribal court,” he said. The name tag over his right shirt pocket read OFFICER CLAYTON ISTEE.
“Is the ticket necessary, Officer?” Kerney asked.
“Apache land, Apache laws,” Istee said, nodding at the open gate. “I’ll wait here until you leave.”
“Cocky young fellow,” Kerney said, as Dale fired up the truck and drove through the gate.
“Apaches don’t like us much,” Dale said. “Actually, he reminds me of you.”
“I was never that sassy.”
“Oh, really? I meant his looks. He looks like you. Didn’t you notice?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Same deep-set eyes, same frame, same chin.”
The memory of Isabel Istee, his girlfriend during his senior year in college, ran through Kerney’s mind. The only girl he’d been serious about up to that time, she’d dumped him without warning or explanation. Whatever her reasons were, it didn’t matter anymore. Or did it?
He shook his head. It wasn’t possible.
“So, don’t agree with me,” Dale said, misreading Kerney’s reaction.
“Let’s call it a day, Dale,” Kerney said, looking out the window, his thoughts still on Isabel.
“Whatever you say.”