Hermit's Peak (16 page)

The pessimistic thought that he wasn't going to be able to keep all the land washed over him. He slapped his hand hard against the steering wheel to drive the thought away.

 • • • 

Gabe reviewed the background checks on Nestor Barela and his family that had been requested by Chief Kerney. On paper Nestor, his three sons, their wives, and the grandchildren were all law-abiding citizens with no criminal records. Nestor had served in World War II as a
tank commander and his oldest son, Roque, had been in Vietnam with the Ordnance Corps.

Nestor's three sons, Roque, Lalo, and Elias, all had clean slates. Roque, the oldest, had retired from the state highway department and now ran the family ranch. Lalo, the middle son, was a medical technologist at the local hospital, and Elias worked as an independent plumbing contractor.

Lalo's boy, Fermin, was a career marine assigned to embassy duty in the Philippines. The other grandchildren consisted of two boys—Bernardo and Gerald—offspring of Nestor's youngest son Elias, and Roque's three girls, who were still in high school. Both Gerald and Bernardo lived at home.

Gerald worked in the business office at a regional vocational school and was engaged to be married in June. Bernardo worked with his Uncle Roque on the family ranch south of Las Vegas that Nestor had bought with part of the proceeds from the sale of Horse Canyon.

Nestor had one great-grandchild, a two-year-old girl born out of wedlock to Bernardo and his former high school girlfriend, who lived in Denver. Under a court order, Bernardo paid child support of three hundred dollars a month, and his payments were up to date.

Nestor's wife had died several years before he'd sold Horse Canyon. He'd built the family compound on the Gallinas River to have his sons, their wives, and the grandchildren close to him, deeding a house and five acres to each of his boys, and keeping one parcel and a home for himself.

Gabe approved of Nestor's old-fashioned yet modern scheme to keep his extended family together. Too many Hispanic families had scattered as land changed hands and children moved away.

None of the information about the Barelas surprised Gabe. He'd grown up with Elias Barela and knew the family fairly well.

Nestor's truck was parked in front of his house, but there wasn't an answer when Gabe knocked at the door. He turned the corner of the house, saw three men leading saddled horses from the barn to a stock trailer, and walked down to meet them. When he got close, he recognized Nestor, Roque, and Bernardo.

He nodded a greeting to Bernardo. “Did you have a good time with Orlando last night?”

“Yeah, we drank a few beers and hung out for a while.”

Gabe shook Roque's hand. “Working hard, Roque?”

Roque smiled. “Always. My father treats us like peons.”

Nestor laughed. “You tell such stories, Roque.” He eyed Gabe's civilian attire. “What brings the state police to see us?”

“To ask a few questions. Did you know Carl Boaz?”

“I didn't even know his name until I read it in the paper,” Nestor said.

“How about you?” Gabe asked Roque.

“I knew him by sight,” Roque replied. “But not to talk to.”

“How about Rudy Espinoza?”

“We all knew Rudy,” Roque said. “He was nothing but trouble.”

“Do not speak unkindly of the dead,” Nestor said.

“I heard a rumor that you shot him,” Roque said, “for cutting wood and speeding.”

“Did Rudy have your permission to enter the Fergurson property?” Gabe asked, sidestepping the remark.

“Never,” Nestor answered. “I give no one permission to go on that land.”

Gabe turned to Bernardo. “Did you ever see him driving a three-quarter-ton dark blue Chevy long bed?”

“If I did, I don't remember it. We don't spend much time at the mesa.”

“That's right,” Roque added.

“You said Rudy was trouble. Did he cause you any?”

Roque shook his head. “Not personally.”

“A gringo came here on Sunday,” Nestor said. “A tall man with a limp. I don't remember his name. He was with another man in a pickup truck. He wanted to buy out my lease on the Fergurson property. He asked about Boaz.”

Gabe knew of the chief's visit to Barela and decided to keep it to himself. “Did he ask for Boaz by name?”

“No,” Nestor said.

“Did either Boaz or Rudy ever give you cause to be suspicious?”

“Rudy just drank a lot,” Bernardo said.

“He couldn't keep a job,” Roque added.

“That's it?”

“Rumors,” Roque said.

“Rumors?”

“That he was maybe breaking into some of the summer homes in the valley,” Roque said.

“Who told you this?”

“I don't know where I heard it.”

“Do you think he killed the woman you found on the mesa?” Bernardo asked.

“I don't know,” Gabe replied. Bernardo's eager tone of voice struck him as somewhat odd. “What do you think?”

Bernardo shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if he was so bad, why not?”

“That's an interesting theory. Do you know who Rudy hung out with?”

“Not me,” Bernardo said.

Both Roque and Nestor echoed Bernardo's comment.

“But I heard he got fired from Horse Canyon Ranch,” Roque added.

“When?”

“About a year ago. He worked there a short time.”

“Do you know why he got canned?”

“I have no idea. Emmet Griffin, the ranch manager, can tell you.”

“Thanks,” Gabe said. He shook hands with the men and walked up the gentle incline toward the compound.

Nestor waited until Gabe was out of earshot before turning to Bernardo. “Unsaddle my horse,
Jito,
and put him in the pasture.”

“You're not going to the ranch with us?” Roque asked.

“No, I'm going to the mesa.”

“What for?” Bernardo asked.

“To see for myself what damage has been done.”

“You shouldn't go alone,” Roque said.

Nestor looked sharply at his son. His reaction brought a quick, acquiescent nod from Roque. His gaze moved to Bernardo, and he raised his chin to point at the trailer containing the three mounts.
“Jito,
get my horse and put him back in the pasture.”

Bernardo moved off.

“Well, be home before dark,” Roque said, still unable to mask his concern over Nestor's plan to go to the mesa by himself.

“Stop always worrying about me, Roque. You make me feel old, and I am not ready to welcome such a judgment.” He patted his son on the arm. “I'll be back before you get home.”

 • • • 

On the road through Ojitos Frios, Nestor Barela found himself behind a slow-moving white van with a state government license plate. There were few places safe to pass on the dirt road, but he did so when the driver of the van opened the window and waved him around. He waved back at the woman and the passengers as he drove by. Soon the vehicle was out of sight in his rearview mirror.

He grunted in annoyance as he approached the old cabin. The gate to the property stood open and the scrap wood that had been nailed over the cabin door had been pulled off. He wondered if the police had entered the old building searching for clues.

Before he could take a look the white van appeared on the road. It slowed, turned, rattled over the cattle guard, and stopped next to his truck. Nestor approached
the woman behind the wheel. Painted on the side of the vehicle was the logo of the state university.

“This land is posted,” he said to the woman. The six passengers with her all looked very young. “No trespassing.”

“I have the owner's permission,” Ruth Pino said.

“The owner is dead,” Nestor replied.

“The new owner is very much alive,” Ruth replied, studying the man. He was about her father's age, perhaps a few years older, and his voice conveyed the tone of a man who expected to be obeyed.

“Who is the new owner?”

“Kevin Kerney. He inherited the property from Erma Fergurson.”

The name registered with Nestor. “Does he walk with a limp?”

“Yes, he does.”

“And you are sure he is the owner?”

“I doubt that Mr. Kerney would lie to me,” Ruth replied. “He is the deputy chief of the state police. Would you mind telling me who you are?”

“I hold the lease on this property,” Nestor said, concealing his surprise about Kerney and his profession. Why had the man not told him who he was?

“Then you must be Nestor Barela,” Ruth said.

“I am.”

“You can't deny us entry,” Ruth noted.

“Why are you here?”

“Fieldwork, Mr. Barela. There is a very rare plant on this land, and it must be protected.”

“What kind of plant?” Nestor asked.

“A cactus,” Ruth said. She described it in detail.

“I have seen it.”

Ruth's eyes widened in expectation. “You must show us where.”

“I have no time to hunt for plants,” Nestor said. “Where did you find this cactus?”

“At the wood poaching site,” Ruth answered, “on the west side of the mesa.”

“How much timber was taken?”

Ruth shook her head sadly. “Far too much.”

“I will go with you,” Nestor said. “I wish to see what has been done.”

Ruth smiled. “We'll follow you.”

 • • • 

It was midmorning when Susie Hayes took Sara's call in her Tucson office. After listening to Sara, Susie decided to take the rest of the day off and spend it with her friend. She had never heard Sara sound so pensive.

She asked where Sara was calling from, gave her directions to her townhouse, and beat her home by twenty minutes. When the doorbell rang she opened it to find Sara smiling apologetically.

Susie gave her a hug and pulled her inside. “You look wiped out, girl. Did you drive straight through?”

Sara nodded. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

She laughed and took Sara into the living room. “I owe you a bushel full of favors. I wouldn't have made it through the academy if it hadn't been for you always telling me to finish what I started.”

“Maybe I didn't do you a favor.”

Situated in the foothills, Susie's townhouse had excellent
views of the mountains to the east and the city below. She got Sara settled on the couch that faced a large picture window and sat next to her.

“Yes, you did, Colonel.”

Sara looked surprised. “You heard about that?”

“I may have left active duty, but I'm still tied into the grapevine. You did a hell of a job on the DMZ. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, tell me about this cop you're in love with.”

“I never said anything about being in love.”

Susie stifled a laugh with her hand.

“What?” Sara demanded.

“Oh, do you talk about having a baby with every man you sleep with?”

Sara looked at her friend. Susie's gray eyes smiled back at her.

“I like him a lot,” Sara said. It sounded defensive.

Susie ran her hand through her chestnut hair, put her feet on the cushions, and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Let's have it, Sara, and I mean full disclosure. We've got all day, tonight, and tomorrow, if needed.”

 • • • 

Gabe stopped by the county sheriff's office and got fresh crime statistics for the first quarter of the new year. Thefts and break-ins in San Geronimo had continued to rise, and none had been cleared. Somebody was having a hell of a lot of success ripping people off in the valley.

At home Gabe worked the phone. Connecting the dots between Rudy Espinoza and Joaquin Santistevan proved more difficult than he'd expected. He'd assumed
that the phone company would be able to verify a call from the woodlot to Angie Romero's residence about the time Gabe had left, but no such call was made.

Gabe tried the cellular providers, hoping either Rudy or Joaquin were customers with one of the companies. He came up empty with the local companies, worked the out-of-town providers, and struck out again.

The exercise took him the better part of the morning. He left the house wondering how in the hell Joaquin had gotten in touch with Rudy. Without confirmation that Joaquin had tipped Espinoza, Gabe didn't want to make any premature moves.

He decided to stake out Buena Vista Lumber and Supply to see if Joaquin left the office for lunch. If so, he would do a little snooping and talk to the employees.

He found a good spot where he wouldn't be noticed and settled down to wait. The lunch hour came and went, and Gabe was about to call it off when Santistevan's truck appeared and turned onto the highway, traveling south. Gabe wondered where Joaquin was headed. There wasn't much along the state road for a good thirty-odd miles—certainly no place to grab a quick lunch.

He drove into the lot half-expecting to be recognized, but the two employees on duty were not people he knew. One man was busy checking out a customer's load, while the other worked at a large pile of wood chips, bagging the material in burlap sacks.

He parked and made a show of inspecting fencing materials before wandering over to the worker bagging chips, where the odor of fresh-cut, green piñon wood greeted him.

“You need some help?” the man asked, as he tied off a bag and tossed it to one side. Anglo and in his mid-thirties, the man had long hair that was skinned tight against his head and tied in a bun at the nape of his neck.

“Not really,” Gabe said. “Do you sell that stuff or give it away?” he asked, nodding at the mound of chips.

“Sell it,” the man answered as he kept working. “Texans buy it to use in their fireplaces. They don't have much piñon to burn and they like the smell of it. Put a few chips in with the logs and it gives a nice aroma.”

“You're kidding.”

“It's true. A trucker hauls three or four semiloads a year to Lubbock, Amarillo, even Dallas.”