Mexican Hat kk-2 Read online

  It has to be solved quickly."

  Carol saw the writing on the wall.

  "How do you want it solved?"

  "The man you assigned to the investigation…"

  Aldrich thumbed through some papers.

  "Kevin Kerney. He's a temporary employee, correct?"

  "That's right. Hired out of your office."

  "Terminate him. I want you and the district out of this before it becomes an imbroglio. My staff has prepared a press release which should put the matter to rest. It will clearly state that we see a conflict of interest in having one of our employees reporting to another law enforcement agency, and that Mr. Kerney has been released from his job so that he can pursue the investigation for the district attorney."

  "That's not fair to a man who has done excellent work for me," Carol said evenly.

  "He may well be outstanding, but now he's a liability. If he's so damn good, the district attorney's office can put him on their payroll. I've got ranchers and environmentalists barking at my heels. I don't need to have the state police and others in the law enforcement community joining in the chorus. Terminate him."

  Carol stood up. Jack Wyman's eyes were lowered.

  Charlie Perry was twiddling a pencil between his fingers, looking pleased.

  She decided to test a growing realization.

  "I'll assign someone else to cover the poaching case."

  "That won't be necessary," Aldrich replied.

  "Charlie will handle it."

  "I see," Carol said, heading for the door.

  "It's good to see you again, Sam. Come visit more often."

  Aldrich's charm returned.

  "I will, Carol."

  Wyman gave her a weak smile and Charlie nodded a haughty goodbye as Carol closed the door behind her.

  After getting over being steamed with Aldrich and his spineless bureaucratic meddling, Carol was back in her office when an idea came to her. In spite of Aldrich's order to fire Kerney, maybe she had some latitude. It was worth thinking about.

  Padilla Canyon ended abruptly at a new rock barrier and fence that forced Jim Stiles to travel on foot. He checked his day pack to make sure he was adequately equipped. With a flashlight, water, freeze-dried rations, flares, matches, a first-aid kit, sweater, and a lightweight tarp, he could handle just about any situation. He added a hand-held radio and his holstered sidearm to the pack, slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, and started out at a brisk pace.

  The new trail, built by Amador's crew, soon separated from the road and scaled the canyon wall.

  Jim stayed on the roadbed, searching for any indication of motorized travel. Halfway up, he found a pull tab to a beverage can in the fine sand of a small arroyo that cut across the road. He bagged it, made a search of the area, found nothing more, and moved on. Beyond him, the new trail dipped to a low ledge before twisting up the side of the canyon. He scrambled to the trail and scanned the old road in both directions. A glimmer of reflected light in a cluster of boulders caught his eye. He climbed down to investigate. It was an aluminum beer can. Using a twig to retrieve it, he bagged the container and put it in his pack.

  The canyon, wide at the mouth, narrowed as it ran against Mangas Mountain. Tree cover thickened until the forest canopy cut off his view of the lookout tower on the peak. The canyon closed in sharply before it fanned out into a small clearing at the mine. All that remained at the site was the rubble of a stone cabin, a few rotted pilings that once held up a wooden sluice used to divert water from a small creek, and a ramp with tracks for ore carts that ran from the shaft to where the canyon floor met the creek.

  The creek was still running. Jim splashed water on his face before shedding his pack and looking around. Maybe Amador had seen evidence of an ATV, but all Jim could find were elk tracks near the creek that trailed off in the direction of Little Springs, the last watering spot before the meadows.

  It wasn't surprising; wind and recent rain would have erased any tread signs.

  Stiles turned his attention to the mine. Above the shaft entrance a horizontal row of logs braced by two vertical timbers held back the hillside. The entrance, trussed with a thick beam and joists, was square-cut and less than six feet high. He crawled in, flashlight in hand. The chamber plunged abruptly, the angled walls supported by heavy timbering above the ore cart tracks. It looked decidedly unsafe. The beam of his flashlight was swallowed up by the darkness of the tunnel.

  Disappointed, Jim sat back on his heels. There was no way he could climb down without a rope and someone to pull him up in case he ran into trouble.

  He crawled out, stood up, and felt something sticky on his knees. His jeans were stained with motor oil.

  He rubbed a finger on the smudges and sniffed it to make sure. There was no doubt.

  Back in the mine he found an area saturated with oil. Smiling to himself, Jim worked on a scenario.

  Any poacher who knew his business would scout the meadow on foot until he was sure of the cougar's territory. An elusive animal rarely seen in the wild, a mountain lion could range up to fifty square miles in two days or less. It would take a lot of stealth and patience to bring the animal down, and driving an ATV deep into the cougar's range would Spock it and defeat any possibility of a sighting. The old mine was a good place to stash the ATV while hunting the cat.

  It plays out. Stiles thought. The killer had to know that the Padilla Canyon road was closed the day he took the mountain lion and shot Hector Padilla. So he followed the horse trail partway with the ATV, hiked in, baited his trap, and waited at the shooter's blind. He was probably in position long before the mountain lion appeared to take the bait. Only an experienced, patient hunter could pull it off.

  He sopped up the oil with a handkerchief and put it into his shirt pocket, thinking a lab analysis might help identify the type of vehicle that had been hidden in the mine.

  Outside, Jim nestled the flashlight under his arm lit and bent over to brush the grime off his jeans. As he straightened up, he felt the bullet slam into his left side. The impact drove him against the cliff.

  A second round missed, splintered rock fragments into his face, and blinded him. It felt as if he had been gouged by dozens of flaming-hot barbs. He lay where he fell, unable to see, pain searing down his arm.

  He couldn't tell if the first shot had passed through his upper arm into his lung. The shots had come from above him on the canyon rim. The shooter would have to work his way down to confirm his kill.

  He stayed motionless, opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He thought about trying to crawl to the day pack for his handgun and gave up on the idea. Even if he could make it to the pack, he couldn't see to shoot.

  He would play dead and hope his sight came back. He listened intently, trying to make out the crunch of footsteps, the whisper of movement through the trees, the sound of snapping twigs. He felt pretty stupid about coming up the canyon alone.

  Then he lost consciousness.

  Kerney arrived at the Catron County Sheriff's Department expecting to find Jim Stiles stashed away in a cubbyhole studying Jose Padilla's papers.

  Instead, he encountered a lone dispatcher in the outer office who looked like a younger version of Omar Gatewood, with the same puffy cheeks and stocky frame.

  Kerney introduced himself and asked for Stiles.

  "Ain't here," the boy replied.

  "He's up in Padilla Canyon."

  "Doing what?"

  "Don't know. Said for you to meet him there. At the old mine."

  "When did he leave?"

  "About three hours ago."

  Kerney pointed to the radio.

  "Call him up."

  "Can't," the kid replied.

  "Transmitter won't reach into the canyon. It's a blind spot."

  "Who can talk to him?"

  "The forest lookout on Mangas can," the kid replied.

  "Call," Kerney suggested.

  "See if they've had any contact with Stiles."

  "Sure th
ing."

  The kid made contact, and Kerney listened to the conversation. There had been no communication between Stiles and the lookout tower.

  The kid looked up at Kerney.

  "Anything else?"

  "Who's working in the tower?"

  "Henry Lujan."

  "Ask Henry the quickest way to get to Padilla Canyon."

  "I can tell you that," the kid replied.

  "Fine. Then ask Henry to get Stiles on the radio.

  Tell him to keep trying until he gets a response."

  "Ten-four," the kid replied. He passed along the message and gave Kerney directions to Padilla Canyon.

  "Put search and rescue on standby," Kerney said, as he headed for the door.

  "And tell your father."

  The kid's eyes brightened. This might turn out to be as good as the Elderman Meadows murder. He was keying the microphone before the door slammed behind Kerney.

  Kerney found Jim's truck and started up the trail at a fast pace, his anger with Stiles building as he ran. Going into the canyon alone was dumb, and failing to call in made it worse-raising the possibility that something had gone wrong.

  He pushed himself to run faster, and his knee almost buckled in protest.

  He hated the damn thing for slowing him down. The pain that ran like a spike up his thigh he could handle, it was the permanent sub par performance the knee caused that really pissed him off.

  Finally the knee locked up and he was forced into a slow trot. Pockets of white clouds, empty of any rain, blocked the late-afternoon sun and cooled him down, but he had lost a lot of body fluid and his mouth felt like dry cotton. He started sprinting again when he saw Stiles sprawled in front of the mine entrance. Breathing hard, he reached Jim and bent over his body. He was alive but unconscious.

  His face was a bloody mess, and his left eyelid was almost torn off. A bullet had cut through muscle in Jim's left arm and he was bleeding freely. On the ground were the shattered remains of a flashlight.

  Using his handkerchief as a tourniquet Kerney stemmed the flow of blood and checked Jim's pulse.

  It was fast and erratic, and his skin felt cool to the touch.

  Jim's day pack yielded a first-aid kit. Working as quickly as possible, Kerney cut off the sleeve with a pocket knife, cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide, and bandaged it. When he saw the small dark stain on Jim's shirt pocket he flinched. Quickly he ripped the shirt open and found nothing but a deep bruise on the rib cage. If the flashlight casing and batteries hadn't stopped the bullet. Stiles would be dead.

  He pulled a soggy handkerchief from Jim's shirt pocket and took a whiff.

  It smelled like motor oil.

  Using the hand-held radio, Kerney called Henry Lujan at the lookout tower, gave his location, and reported an officer down. He picked Stiles up, carried him to the creek, stretched him on the ground, raised his feet, and covered him with a sweater and tarp from the day pack. He flushed Jim's face with water, cleaning off the blood and some of the rock fragments, working carefully around the eyes. Then he gently put gauze over each eye and taped them for protection. Stiles moaned as Kerney finished up.

  "You're going to live," Kerney said.

  "Jesus, Kerney, is that you?"

  "It's me."

  "I can't see a fucking thing."

  "Your eyes are patched."

  "Am I blind?"

  "I don't think so. Who shot you?"

  "Didn't see him. It happened too fast. The son of a bitch probably followed me up the canyon."

  "No. I saw only your tracks on the way in. Who knew you were coming?"

  Stiles forced a small laugh.

  "Probably half the county. I used the police frequency to give my destination. Every citizen with a scanner could have been listening."

  Kerney started stuffing some aspirin in Jim's mouth.

  "What are you doing?" Stiles mumbled, his mouth half full of capsules, as Kerney put the canteen to Jim's mouth.

  "Aspirin," he explained.

  "It will dull the pain a bit." K-erney watched Stiles drink deeply.

  When Jim finished, he treated himself to a swallow, and looked around for a chopper landing site. The canyon was too narrow for a helicopter to fly in, and there was no adequate clearing where it could set down.

  He looked back at Jim. Stiles needed to get to a hospital as quickly as possible.

  "Can you walk?" Kerney asked.

  "Help me up," Stiles replied weakly.

  Kerney stuffed the gear back into the pack, slung it over his arm, got Stiles to his feet, and walked him a few yards down the canyon. Jim leaned heavily against him, wobbly and uncoordinated. Walking him out wasn't going to work; he would have to be carried. Kerney put the day pack on Stiles and slung the man on his back. When Jim protested that he could make it under his own steam, Kerney told him to shut up.

  Each time Kerney stopped for a brief rest, Jim told him a bit more of what had happened. They heard the chopper long before it passed overhead, and soon the distant sound of sirens echoed through the mountains. Kerney picked up the pace. After a long stretch without stopping, Kerney stumbled and almost fell flat on his face. He put Stiles down and collapsed next to him.

  "Almost there," he said, gasping, trying not to sound completely winded.

  His chest was heaving, and his knee felt as if someone had pounded it with a hammer.

  "Let me try to walk."

  "There's no need," Kerney replied. Four search and-rescue team members came into view, trotting quickly up the canyon.

  "We're about to be rescued."

  Stiles turned his head in the direction of Kerney's voice.

  "Did I remember to thank you?"

  "You just did," Kerney answered, removing the day pack from Jim's back.

  He turned Stiles over to a paramedic, who did a quick check of vital signs, started an IV, elevated Jim's feet, and wrapped him in a blanket.

  The patches over Jim's eyes were removed, the damage quickly assessed, and fresh dressings applied. Kerney's spirits sank as the paramedic pointed to his own left eye, shook his head, and made a face, before ordering his companions to put Jim on a stretcher.

  Kerney followed the men to the landing zone. No time was wasted getting Jim in the chopper and on his way to the hospital. At the barricade a half mile farther down the canyon, he found a gathering of men and vehicles, including Omar Gatewood, two deputy sheriffs, a Game and Fish officer, and one of Carol Cassidy's permanent rangers. For some unexplained reason, two sheriffs patrol cars had emergency lights flashing, the colors almost completely washed out in the bright aquamarine sky. It must be for crowd control, Kerney reckoned, eyeing the canyon, empty except for the small circle of men, thinking that he was starting to catch Jim's offbeat sense of humor.

  Sheriff Gatewood pulled Kerney aside for a briefing.

  They stood next to Gatewood's patrol unit. The police radio cracked with traffic about the ambush.

  "What in the hell happened up there?" Gatewood demanded.

  Kerney filled Gatewood in with an absolute minimum of facts.

  "Who would want to shoot him?" Gatewood asked, as though Kerney could supply the answer.

  "The more important question is why was Jim shot," Kerney proposed.

  "Hell if I know," Gatewood admitted, tugging an earlobe.

  "I'll send the boys up the road to see what they can find." He waved his hand in a come-here gesture at the officers.

  "Give your boss a call," he added.

  "She wants to see you."

  "What's up?" "Can't say," Omar said, bending down to brush dirt off his shiny boots with a handkerchief. He walked to meet the officers halfway, issued some orders, and caught up with Kerney at his truck.

  "I'm going to make sure Jim gets a special commendation out of this."

  "That's a good idea," Kerney replied, trying to bite back the sarcasm.

  It didn't work.

  "After you do that, why don't you dispatch a deputy to patrol t
he Mangas road and get a reconnaissance chopper in the air, just on the off chance they may spot somebody coming out of the forest."

  Gatewood's expression changed to a scowl.

  "You got a bad habit of telling me what to do, Kerney. You know that?"

  "Wrong, Gatewood. I'm just suggesting that maybe you ought to get your priorities straight." He threw Jim's day pack in the cab, fired up the truck, and left Gatewood in a puff of road dust. In the rearview mirror he saw Omar bending down to brush off his boots with a handkerchief one more time.

  The early-evening sky was a banner of pink-and white clouds bordered by azure blue. Kerney checked his watch. Quitting time had come and gone.

  Carol was probably at home. He'd swing by and see her.

  Charlie Perry drove past as Kerney turned onto the road to the compound where Carol and her family lived. Kerney waved at Charlie to be polite and got a quick nod in exchange.

  Carol's husband answered Kerney's knock, invited him inside, and had him wait in the front room. With a piano against one wall, a loom with an unfinished weaving next to a window, and the remaining space filled with homey overstuffed chairs and oak furniture, the room felt both cluttered and comfortable. Carol came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

  "I've been listening to the scanner," she said, before Kerney could greet her.

  "Is Jim going to be all right?"

  "I think he'll make it."

  "Thank goodness." She draped the dish towel on the arm of a chair and sat down.

  "Please," she said, motioning to another chair across from her.

  Kerney joined her.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  "Yes. There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just barge ahead. I've been ordered to fire you."

  Kerney took it in.

  "Is that why Charlie Perry was here?"

  "Peripherally. He's been given the mountain lion case."

  "Any particular reason why?"

  "Because the acting regional forester, who's some thing of a barracuda, decided my decision to use you on the investigation was ill-advised.

  Charlie kissed up to him and got the assignment."

  "Are you in trouble?" Kerney asked.

  "No way. Charlie hasn't got that kind of juice.

  Neither does the regional forester."