Incredulity spread across Tom Curry's face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, stuffing the glasses into his shirt pocket.
"Start at the beginning. And just who in the hell is we?" *** "He had every right to jump down my throat," Sara concluded. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it and twisted her class ring. Kerney sat at the far end of Sara's couch, legs extended, feet crossed. His cowboy hat rested on the cushion, still dusty and slightly mangled-looking. He wore a collarless maroon pullover shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of blue jeans. Sara wondered if he owned anything but jeans. The shirt accentuated Kerney's well-formed upper body.
"I'm glad to see you're not feeling sorry for yourself." Gutierrez's inventory was in his shirt pocket, yet to be revealed.
"Don't be snide." Kerney blinked in surprise at Sara's reaction.
"I meant it as a compliment. What did Curry say?"
"I think my report dampened his enthusiasm to have me cashiered. I got off with an unofficial reprimand."
"Are you off the case?" In the act of taking a sip of her wine, Sara pulled the glass away from her lips.
"Um, no. Officially, the FBI has the ball. A special agent by the name of Johnson is heading up the investigation. Did you find anything in Santa Fe?"
Kerney grinned, took out the inventory, and waved it at her.
"Gutierrez mailed an interesting letter to himself. Care to guess what was in it?"
"Don't give me a hard time." She wiggled her fingers at him. "Come on, fork it over." Minutes passed after Kerney gave her the inventory before she peered at him over the edge of the paper.
"This is incredible."
"Three to four million dollars' worth of incredible," he replied. "I had an expert give me a rough estimate. There's more. I stopped at the historical museum in Truth or Consequences. They have archival material on the history of Fort McRae, a post that operated on the north end of the Jomada during the Indian Wars. According to the records, in the spring of 1873 a detachment left the fort with military supplies bound for Fort Stanton. The convoy was attacked as it entered the Tularosa Valley. Eight soldiers were killed, along with three scouts, and all the mules and horses were stolen."
Sara waited for Kerney to continue. He didn't. She prodded him.
"Is that all?"
"The entire supply train was sacked by a band of Warm Springs Apaches led by a chief named Victorio. Nothing was ever recovered."
"Does it match the inventory?"
"I don't know. That information wasn't available. The person I talked to said it was probably in old War Department records. But I think Gutierrez found the spoils of that raid."
"That's extraordinary," Sara said.
"If you're right, Gutierrez was moving the cache in stages."
"And we showed up during the last run," Kerney agreed.
She flicked the papers with a finger.
"But moving it where?"
"Gutierrez would need an agent to manage the sale. The best way to sell it without getting caught is to a foreign buyer."
"Where does that take us?"
"Juarez," Kerney said.
"We're only forty miles from the border. Mexico is too close not to be his first choice. Customs should be able to tell me who the big smugglers are. Chances are Gutierrez at least put out feelers in Juarez, trying to connect with somebody." Sara shifted position and started pulling at her ring.
"You're assuming the transaction hasn't been concluded."
"I am. The postmark on Gutierrez's letter is dated last week. His notes indicate that he sent some samples to a buyer to prove he was selling legitimate goods. Besides, why would Gutierrez have any inventory left if the deal had been consummated? It wouldn't make sense."
"I'm way overdue for a leave."
Kerney shook his head. "Don't even think about it. You've got a career to protect." Her expression turned serious.
"You shouldn't go in alone."
"There's no risk."
"I'll query Interpol and see what they can tell us." Sara chewed on her lip reflectively before continuing.
"I've got an investigator in Juarez, Eddie Tapia, working an WOL case. He knows the area like the back of his hand."
"That would help. Can you contact him?"
"I should hear from him by midmorning."
"I can't wait that long. When he calls, give him my description and ask him to keep an eye out for me."
"He knows who you are," Sara replied.
"He was on your tail for two days." Kerney laughed, stood up, and tested his knee. It almost buckled on him. He started for the door, a grimace of pain on his face.
"Where are you going?"
"It's late and I'm leaving." Sara motioned for him to stay.
"You can sleep in the spare bedroom." The invitation was appealing for a lot of reasons, but he kept moving.
"I don't want to impose."
"Don't be silly. You look like you won't make it ten feet without collapsing. The spare bedroom is made up and the hall bathroom is right next to it. You won't disturb me a bit."
"Okay, you talked me into it. I'll get my gear." He was almost dragging his right leg as he went out the front door.
Michael McGarrity
Tularosa — Michael McGarrity *** Unable to sleep, Kerney flipped the covers back, sat up, and painfully lifted his leg over the side of the bed. His thigh and calf muscles were cramping badly, the result of too much time behind the wheel frozen in one position, no exercise, and the persistent strain on the leg from his unnatural gait. He turned on the lamp and stared at the leg with loathing; it hadn't hurt this much in over two years. Hobbling to the hall bathroom as quietly as he could, he sat on the toilet seat, ran hot water in the sink, soaked a towel in water that scalded his hands, and wrapped it on the leg, gently rubbing the warmth into the muscle. When the heat dissipated, he wrung out the towel, ran more hot water, and repeated the process. He was starting a third application when a tapping at the closed door came and he heard Sara's voice.
"Are you all right?"
"More or less," he answered.
"Can I come in?"
"I guess." Sara slipped inside the small bathroom, misted with condensation. On the toilet seat, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, Kerney held his calf with both hands, a steaming towel against the skin, a look of pure suffering on his face. Kerney's rebuilt knee had an abnormal bulge. The scar on his belly seemed to cut his torso in half.
"Would a heat pad and some ointment help?" Sara asked.
"Very much."
"I'll get them. Go stretch out on the bed." She left quickly.
In the bedroom, Sara put a heating pad on his lower leg and rubbed ointment on his thigh. As she kneaded the muscles, her eyes drifted to the scar, but she said nothing. After switching the pad to the thigh, she worked on his calf before ordering him to roll over on his stomach. She rubbed more ointment on his leg and, using the heating pad and her strong hands, eased the tightness.
After a long time she stopped, and the room was silent except for their breathing. Kerney couldn't see her. He started to turn over and felt her hand pressing between his shoulder blades.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Much better," he said.
"How much better?"
"A lot."
"Good," she said softly. The light went out, and he felt her weight on the bed. Her fingers traveled down his back and tugged at his shorts as she stretched out beside him.
Chapter 9
Frustrated, Eddie worked the streets of Juarez near the bridge to El Paso, trying to locate Lieutenant Kerney. After a failed attempt to reach Captain Brannon by phone the previous day, Eddie had continued his search for Yardman. When he made contact with the captain at midmorning, she had told him to drop Yardman, find Lieutenant Kerney, and back him up. Still in his humpback disguise, Eddie questioned street vendors, cops, cab drivers, and merchants along the boulevard, asking about a tall gringo cowboy with a limp. He kept his cover story simple-the gringo had ripped him off. It got him a lot of sympathy but no leads. Captain Brannon hadn't given Eddie much to work with. She had told him that Kerney was trying to get a line on the major smugglers in Juarez. That meant Kerney could be anywhere in the city, if he was in the city at all. Just about everything could be bought or sold on the Juarez black market, and you didn't have to cross the border to conduct business.