Hermit's Peak (15 page)

He hoped she was leveling with him and that her sudden departure wasn't prompted by something he'd done. The thought didn't relieve the hollow feeling in his gut.

The dog leash was on the kitchen table. Kerney picked it up. There was still time to get to one of the shopping malls and buy a travel cage for Shoe. In the
morning he'd make arrangements to have the dog shipped to the Knox boy in California.

Shoe saw the leash in Kerney's hand, let go of the sneaker, and jumped up on Kerney in eager anticipation.

“So, you're ready to leave, too, are you?”

Shoe dropped down on all fours and headed straight for the front door.

 • • • 

Orlando Gonzales sat at a table by the window of the Rough Rider Bar. Across the street stood the old Fred Harvey Hotel and the train station. A slow freight moving south along the tracks rumbled like a low bass note in harmony with the Tex-Mex CD playing on the stereo behind the bar.

He took a pull on the long neck beer and started at Bernardo. “You wanted to talk. About what?”

“We need to catch up,” Bernardo said, flashing a smile.

“I thought the plan was we weren't going to hang together anymore.”

“Did you read the story in the newspaper about the bones the cops found on the mesa?”

Orlando's hand froze as he reached for his beer bottle. “Jesus. Was that her?”

“Part of her. I spread the body around. Some parts here, some parts there. The cops will never be able to ID her.”

“You cut her up?” Orlando asked in a choked whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“Because you couldn't handle it.”

“We should have just let her go.”

“Yeah, straight to the police. Listen, we both raped her.”

“I know that. But you killed her.”

“In the eyes of the law, both of us did. You should know that, being a cop's son and all. It's called murder during the commission of a felony.”

“I know what it's called,” Orlando hissed.

“You're still all fucked up about it, aren't you?”

“Keep your voice down.”

Bernardo looked over his shoulder. A few
viejos
sat at the bar in front of an enlarged photograph of Teddy Roosevelt and members of his Rough Riders, many of them New Mexican cowboys, taken at the top of San Juan Hill. A middle-aged couple played a video game at the back of the room where pictures from the old Rough Rider reunions once held in Las Vegas were hung on the wall. Nobody was within earshot.

“Listen, the bitch was a Mexican who was never reported missing. I checked it out.”

“You did what?” Orlando asked.

“I talked to the dude who manages my grandfather's old ranch. He told me Luiza went back to Mexico. End of story.”

“You couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?”

“At least I'm not letting this shit eat me up.”

“We did something wrong.”

Bernardo shrugged. “Just keep me posted on what your old man and the other cops are doing with the case.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” Orlando shook his head. “You can't be serious.”

“I am. We're in this together.”

“What good would it do?”

“Maybe keep our asses out of prison. We don't need any surprises.”

Orlando studied Bernardo suspiciously. “Can you be connected to the girl in any way?”

“Chill,
boto.
I met her one time, that's all. I already told you that.”

Orlando thought back to the night they'd picked her up. He'd been too drunk to remember anything clearly, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Bernardo's version of how he talked Luiza into the truck was a little screwy.

“You're sure?”

“Why would I lie about that?” Bernardo replied.

Orlando picked up his beer, clenched the bottle until his first turned white, and took a swallow.

“Well?”

“I'll see what I can find out.”

“That's better,” Bernardo said, reaching for his brew. “Relax, dude. Drink up.”

“Relax, shit. I feel like puking. I never wanted her dead.”

“Shit happens,” Bernardo said.

“It doesn't bother you, does it?”

“Not really. I can't make it go away. Neither can you. Besides, lots of murders never get solved.”

“You're cold, Bernardo.”

“I just want to keep everything cool.”

“Including me?”

“I worry about you.”

Orlando made a face and stood up. “I can live with it.”

Bernardo chuckled.

“What?” Orlando snapped.

“Can you?”

“I have for a year. Give me a ride home.”

“It's early. Drink another beer.”

“I'll walk.”

Bernardo slapped his empty bottle on the table and got to his feet. “I'll take you home,
mano.
You're no fun to drink with anymore, anyway.”

Bernardo pulled into Orlando's driveway. The living room curtains were open and a flickering television glowed through the window. Orlando had kept his head turned away on the drive home, gazing out the passenger window of the car, saying nothing.

Bernardo killed the engine. “You got something on your mind, bro?” he asked.

“Everything's cool,” Orlando replied as he opened the door.

Bernardo placed his hand on Orlando's arm. “You sure?”

Orlando peeled Bernardo's fingers off his arm. “What's with you?”

“Nothing. We just have to be straight with each other, that's all.”

Orlando got out of the car. “You want straight? I'll give you straight. I don't want to see you or talk about this shit again.”

“Mano.” Bernardo leaned across the passenger seat to look at Orlando.

“What?”

“You call me if you learn anything.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it.”

Orlando nodded sharply and walked toward the house.

Bernardo drove away, thinking he'd made a mistake asking Orlando to check out what the cops were doing with the investigation. It had just shaken him up and bummed him out. He wondered if Orlando might crack under the strain.

He thought back to the night of the murder. They'd been cruising together in his grandfather's truck, drinking beers, and shooting the shit, both with a major buzz going, when Bernardo had spotted Luiza walking along the road from Ojitos Frios.

It had been Bernardo's idea to pick her up and screw her. Orlando was too drunk to argue, too drunk to care. He passed out just before Bernardo turned the truck around and went back to get her. He pulled up alongside her with his pistol in hand, and told her if she didn't get in he'd kill her. She didn't resist or argue.

After finding a secluded spot away from the road, Bernardo waited until Orlando came to and gave him first crack at Luiza. Still drunk, it didn't take him long to finish, and when he crawled away to puke his guts out, Bernardo took his turn.

Luiza held herself rigid while he fucked her, eyes filled with hate, and Bernardo knew he was going to kill her. When it was over, he pinned her to the ground and smashed her skull with a rock.

He wrapped her body in a tarp and went to Orlando, who was sitting under a tree, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“You killed her,” Orlando said.

“She was going to turn us in for rape.”

“You said she wanted to get it on with us.”

“She changed her mind.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I'll take care of it,” Bernardo said.

And he did. After taking Orlando home, he returned, cut up the corpse like he was butchering a steer, and hid part of the body on the mesa and the rest in an arroyo twenty miles away. Then he washed out the bed of the truck and got home before anyone was up.

Bernardo coasted to a stop in front of his parents' house. He stayed in the car and lit a cigarette. His parents wouldn't let him smoke inside.

He'd lied to Orlando about not knowing Luiza. He'd met her when she came up from Mexico to work as a housekeeper at the Box Z Ranch that bordered his grandfather's new spread.

Luiza had been a complete turn-on: a great looking piece of ass, with a tight body, full tits, a small waist, long black hair, and shy dark eyes. He put some moves on her that Luiza had brushed off, treating him like some little kid.

When she changed jobs and started working at the Horse Canyon Ranch, Bernardo couldn't stop thinking about her. He would see her occasionally, but she'd have nothing to do with him. Once he'd offered her a ride when she was walking along the county road. But she
just blew him off and kept walking, making him feel like a fool. After that, Bernardo started to think of ways to teach the dick-teasing bitch a lesson.

Raping and killing Luiza had been a spur of the moment thing, but it opened up a whole new world for Bernardo. If his luck held and the cops couldn't identify Luiza's remains, the next time he would plan things more carefully. He had just the girl picked out. The image of Jessica Varela, the gringo chick with the Spanish name who worked at the hardware store, popped into his mind, and a pleasant feeling of anticipation ran through him.

He pushed the image aside and thought about Orlando. He could ruin everything, and Bernardo wasn't about to let that happen. He would have to keep an eye on him.

He crushed out the cigarette in the ashtray, got out of the car, and went into the house.

 • • • 

In his room, Orlando undressed and got into bed, trying to convince himself that Bernardo was right and there was nothing to worry about. But ever since the rape and murder, Orlando knew he would be caught and sent to prison—maybe even executed.

For a year he'd kept trying to pretend it never happened. But talking with Bernardo had brought it all back, like a hammer inside his head.

It had been Bernardo's idea to see if Luiza wanted to get it on. If Orlando hadn't been drunk, he never would have done it. But a lame excuse didn't count for shit. What could he say? That he didn't mean for it to happen?
That he never wanted to see her hurt or killed? Lame.

He'd thought a lot about suicide, but he didn't have the balls for it. Time and again, he'd thought about telling his father, and he didn't have the balls for that, either. If he could hold on for just a little more than a year, he would have his degree and then he could split. Get away from it all and go somewhere new. Put this shit behind him.

Downstairs in the living room, his father was asleep on the couch with the television on. His briefcase sat on the floor next to the kitchen table. Orlando thought about sneaking down to look through it. Instead, he started to cry softly into his pillow.

 • • • 

After an uneasy night with little sleep, Kerney kicked off the bed covers, pulled on his jeans, stood up, and stumbled over Shoe in the dark. The dog yelped and scurried out of the bedroom. Kerney found him hiding under the kitchen table.

He glanced at the pet cage he'd bought the night before. With Sara gone he didn't like the idea of sending Shoe away; it would just make the place feel all the more empty. He squelched the thought before it turned into a gloomy feeling and made himself a bowl of instant oatmeal.

By the time he was out of the shower and dressed, Kerney had decided to handle the mesa murder case himself, at least for a few days. It would keep the investigation from stalling, and give him something to think about besides Sara's abrupt departure.

He made some phone calls and found an air freight company that could ship Shoe from Santa Fe and deliver him to the treatment center where Wanda Knox and her son resided. Then he called the treatment center in California and confirmed with a staff member that Shoe would be welcomed at the facility.

He asked the woman to tell Lane Knox his dog would be there sometime during the day, packed Shoe's sneaker and all the pet necessities he'd bought in the cage, leashed the dog, put him in his unit, and drove to the air freight office, where Kerney paid the charges and the freight agent put Shoe in the cage. Shoe immediately started scratching to get out. He gave Kerney a sad look as the freight agent carried him away.

Kerney hesitated, almost called the man back, then turned and walked out of the building, knowing he would miss that dog.

At his office, he pulled the mesa murder file and read it through in detail. Melody Jordan had updated her report with the findings from her meeting with Dr. Lawrence. Lawrence's assessment wasn't hard evidence, but narrowing the possibility that the murder victim might be either a Central American or Mexican national could prove helpful.

The work Frank Houge had done before being pulled off the case was inconclusive. None of the three missing women who matched the victim's age had suffered an old fracture to the left arm, nor had any of the others from the remaining open cases.

Kerney skimmed the missing persons printout from the National Crime Information Center, came
up empty on any matches, and decided it was time to get out and do some old-fashioned legwork. It would also give him a chance to meet some of his new neighbors.

His ride across the mesa with Dale replayed through his mind as he drove out of Santa Fe. It was a beautiful piece of land Erma Fergurson had left to him. He tried to visualize it through Erma's artistic eye. He could see the crowns of the tall ponderosas in the heavy timber at the rim of the mesa with the stark face of Elk Mountain splitting the horizon, and the rich rangeland, thick with grasses bent by the weight of heavy seeds sparkling like pale white jewels in the breeze.

He wondered where Erma had gone with her brushes and her canvas to paint, and how many landscapes she'd produced during her summer retreats on the mesa. She'd left one of her paintings to him, but he hadn't seen it, and wouldn't until he had a chance to get down to Las Cruces. He knew he would love it. Maybe it would be a landscape of the mesa.