Michael McGarrity - Tularosa

Michael McGarrity

In memory of Maggie, who taught me the meaning of perseverance,
and for Mimi and Sean, who always believed,
and HH, who helped me find the key.

Author's Note
Many of the historical events, people, and places describedin this book are based on fact, while some are pure fiction or an elaborationof legend. Tularosa in Spanish means reddish reeds or willows.

Chapter 1.

Early-morning clouds, shreds of a heavy late-night rainstorm,masked the Ortiz Mountains. Wispy tendrils drifted over the foothills,turned into translucent streamers, and vanished in the sky. The cabin roofhad leaked during the night, soaking a stack of unopened junk mail andthe borrowed copy of a Winston Churchill biography left on the cushionof an easy chair. The chair smelled like wet cat piss, and Kerney didn'town a cat. Kerney mopped up the floor, dragged the chair outside into thesun, and tipped it over. The junk mail and catalogs dribbled into a brownpuddle in the driveway, floated momentarily, and sank out of sight. Thecover model on the Victoria's Secret catalog pouted up at him as the brownstain seeped into her eyes.

The saffron sun in the east, an extravagant eye, washedthe mesa in soft light. Inside, Kerney popped the Tchaikovsky tape in thecassette desk and cranked up the volume. The music, pushed along by a slightbreeze, followed him to the horse barn, where a gallon of roof asphaltsat next to the ladder, both conveniently at hand for the leaks that neverfailed to materialize after a soaking, windblown rain. He had patched theroof so many times it was now nothing more than a routine challenge. Givena few more storms, every seam, nail hole, and protrusion on the pitchedroof would be coated with asphalt gook. The old cabin wanted to sink intooblivion. Listing on a stone foundation, it was pretty to the eye,with a fresh coat of white paint and dark green trim around the windowsand doors, but sadly in need of major renovation. Kerney strapped on atool belt, deciding he would pull up the whole strip of roofing paper andslop gook directly on the boards over the leak. He carried the ladder tothe cabin, set it against the side of the house, and stripped off his shirt.With the asphalt can in one hand, Kerney hauled himself up the ladder,dragging his right leg slowly to each rung. The knee just didn't bend theway it used to, in spite of the best efforts of modern medicine. He naileda two-by-four to the roof to serve as a brace, crawled off the ladder,and planted his left foot against the brace to keep from sliding backward.In position, he stretched out on his stomach and got to work with the hammerpulling nails and stripping off the tar paper in the area of the leak.His reconstructed right knee, extended as far as it would go, protested.The planks under the tar paper had separated, leaving an inch gap betweenthe boards. He smeared asphalt into the crevices and on the boards, thinkingit was time to ask his landlord to spring for the cost of materials fora new roof. Quinn would oblige, and Kerney would have another project tooccupy his time. The Tchaikovsky concerto recycled several times on thestereo before Kerney finished the patch job. He're nailed the tar paper,coated the nail heads with gook, and looked out over the basin. There wasa flash of reflected light on the dirt road that cut through the rock escarpmentto the ranch. The road, still filled with runoff from the storm, glistenedlike a wire ribbon in the sharp morning light. He dropped the empty asphaltcan to the ground and climbed down the ladder, using his left leg to hopfrom rung to rung. He walked to the gate and swung it open, leaving stickyblack fingerprints on the railing, and watched the vehicle bounce in andout of the ruts of standing water, spewing mud as the tires dug throughthe puddles. There was no reason for a visitor. Quinn, his landlord, employer,and chief book lender, was presenting a paper at a medical convention inSeattle. After that, he was flying to Germany to attend another conferenceand take a long vacation. Kerney liked working for a wandering landlord.Most of the time he had the place to himself.

The car splattered through the mud and swerved throughthe slimy dirt in the roadbed, the tires throwing up a heavy spray of brownpaste. Windshield wipers, operating at high speed, smeared the ooze overthe glass, making it impossible for Kerney to see into the vehicle. Hewalked to the porch, sat on the step, and started cleaning the asphaltgook from his hands with a rag drenched in paint thinner. The fumes ofthe solvent made him sneeze, and he covered his nose with sticky fingers.Before he could go in and clean his face, the car plowed through the lastpuddle by the gate and rolled to a stop on the packed gravel driveway.It was a new, slick-top police cruiser with emergency lights mounted onthe front bumper. Even close up, with the wipers going full blast, theman behind the wheel was obscured by a grimy film of dirt. In Kerney'stime at the ranch--well over a year--this was the first visit by a cop.

A stocky man in a white uniform shirt got out and stoodbehind the open door of the cruiser, with the engine still running. Hewore a tribal police badge over the left pocket of the uniform shirt anda Sam Browne belt with a.357 pistol in a high-rise holster.

From the waist down he wore blue jeans and cowboy boots.The two men stared at each other cross the ten yards that separated them.

"Goddamn mud," Terry Yazzi muttered, reaching in to turnoff the engine. Kerney stood up and said nothing as Terry left the carand walked toward him. In the cabin the tape deck recycled once again andthe lyrical first movement of the concerto began anew. Terry stopped threefeet from Kerney, his eyes avoiding contact. Instead, he looked at theforeman's cabin, a white clapboard box with a small covered porch, thenswitched his gaze to the ranch house behind it, nestled at the base ofa mesa. He took in the horse barn and corral off to one side across a smallmeadow, and the upended chair in front of the cabin porch. He compressedhis lips and finally looked at Kerney. As he opened his mouth to speak,Kerney hit him flush on the jaw, knocking him flat on his ass. The blowmade Terry's teeth ache. He got to his feet and brushed himself off.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"No. I hurt my hand," Kerney replied. "What are you doinghere, Terry?" Terry's face had a healthy glow. His brown eyes were clearand serious. He had shed some weight and looked fit. Three years couldbring changes.

"I asked you a question," Kerney said. God, he wantedto hit him again.

"I heard you," Terry answered. He glanced at Kerney'snaked stomach, turned away, and looked out at the expanse of the GalisteoBasin, trying hard to regain his composure. The land rolled down from theranch through thickly studded stands of pinon and juniper trees. It gaveway to rangeland that butted against an escarpment that looked almost likean enormous, ancient man-made fortification. He took it in indifferently,and swallowed hard to keep down the bile that welled up in his mouth fromthe sight of the scar on Kerney's stomach. The ugly entry wound and thelong surgical incision brought the memory smashing into his head like afreight train. In spite of himself, he remembered the day three yearsago at the stakeout. The image of Kerney curled into a ball clutching hisgut as the blood came gushing out made Terry wince. He turned around andglanced at the scar again.

"You've got some tar on your face," he said finally, raisinghis eyes.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Around your nose and mouth."

"No shit?" Kerney rubbed his nose and inspected his fingertip.

"You're right. Thanks for pointing it out. Now go away,Terry." Terry stared back at him. His long, black hair, tied back at thenape of his neck, accentuated his Navajo features: a high forehead abovedark brown eyes and round cheeks. His tense lips were pressed thin.