At the Lujan residence, the Pontiac and Ford Bronco were parked inside the open gate. Lights burned inside the house. Loco was on his chain in the front yard, and there were occasional shadowy movements in the windows as people moved about.
Finally, the kitchen went dark, a sure sign dinner was over. Ten minutes later, Lujan hurried out the front door, got into the Bronco, and drove away.
Kerney followed, staying a quarter mile back.
Lujan traveled through Reserve to the state road that ran down to Glenwood and on to Silver City.
Kerney kept an eye out for a tail behind him, but the road was dark and empty.
Lujan passed through Glenwood and didn't slow down again until he reached the turnoff for the Leopold Vista Historical Monument, a wayside rest stop on the highway dedicated to the man who had established the Gila Wilderness.
Kerney watched the taillights of the Bronco make the turn and disappear behind the low hill that concealed the monument from the highway. With only one entrance, Kerney couldn't follow without being detected. He got a microcassette recorder from the glove box and left the truck far enough back from the entrance to avoid suspicion, parked in deep shadows under a cottonwood tree. He jumped the highway fence and walked around the hill to the back of the monument. The site faced a sweeping vista of mountains to the east, and was nothing more than a large parking lot with a sign that told about Aldo Leopold and the Gila. During the daytime, tourists could whip off the highway with camera in hand, snap a picture, and be on their way in fifteen minutes.
Three vehicles were in the lot: Lujan's Bronco, an expensive RV towing a compact car, and a light colored Chevy Caprice, with the parking lights on.
Hunkered down, Kerney memorized the license number of the Caprice and watched.
At the RV, a man packed up a folding card table and some chairs while his wife waited inside the vehicle. The Bronco and the Chevy, at opposite ends of the lot, showed no signs of movement. Almost nervously, the man at the RV lashed the table and chairs to the back of his vehicle, hopped inside, fired up the engine, and drove away.
Lujan got out of the Bronco and started walking toward the Chevy. The driver cranked the motor, turned the Chevy directly at Lujan, flipped on the high beams, and froze him in the glare. Lujan yanked a hand over his eyes so he could see against the light.
A man's figure emerged from the car and stood behind the open door.
Kerney turned on the recorder.
"What's so goddamn important?" the man said.
"I told you what happened," Lujan answered, moving closer.
"Yeah, you did. So what? Go home, call the sheriff, and report the break-in. That's all you have to do."
"No," Lujan countered.
"I've had it. This is too fucking much. People breaking into my house and everything."
The man laughed.
"You sorry son of a bitch, they broke into your storage shed, for chrissake, not your house."
"Same thing."
"I'll take care of it."
"How?" Lujan asked.
The man braced his arm on the top of the door and shot Lujan twice in the chest with a semiautomatic.
He picked up the spent shell casings, walked to Lujan's body, and, satisfied with his solution, got in the Chevy and drove off.
Kerney checked out Steve Lujan's body. There were two rounds, center mass, in his chest. He turned on his heel and left the monument. When the killer walked into the light to make sure Lujan was dead, Kerney had gotten a good look. He was thirty something six feet tall with short blond hair, and he had spoken with a thick southern accent.
The sound of hard pounding at the motel door brought Kerney out of a deep sleep. He fumbled for the light, got up, peered out the window, and saw Jim Stiles. He unlocked the door and Stiles slipped inside, a worried look plastered on his face.
"I've been looking for you since midnight," Stiles said snappishly.
Kerney wore only boxer shorts, and the scar on his stomach, a long surgical incision with a puckered entry hole from a bullet, caught Jim's attention. It was a nasty-looking wound.
"What time is it?" Kerney asked groggily.
"Four in the morning," Jim answered.
"What the hell is going on?"
"You tell me." Kerney struggled into his jeans, sank down on the end of the bed, and pulled on his boots.
"What's up?"
"Steve Lujan's been shot dead, and Gatewood's got an APB out on you. A city cop came by Molly's house looking for you."
Kerney tugged his arms through the shirt-sleeves and buttoned up.
"What the hell for?"
"I called Omar and asked him the same question. He's prepared an arrest warrant on you for Steve's murder."
Kerney rubbed the sleep from his eyes, snorted, and stood up.
"Based on what?"
"He said you were seen at Lujan's house earlier in the day, and Alan Begay told him about the phone call you had him make to Steve."
"That's it?" Kerney replied, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Gatewood doesn't have a clue, does he? I think the man has just redefined the meaning of probable cause. Will Karen sign off on the warrant?"
"I don't know," Jim replied.
"I called her after I spoke with Gatewood. She didn't know a damn thing about it." Jim paused and made a frustrated face.
"Are you going to tell me what happened, or not?"
"Oh. Sure. I saw Steve get whacked."
"By who?"
"I'm not absolutely certain, but he matches the description I got from two different sources. He goes by the name of Leon Spence."
"Who told you about him?"
"Alan Begay and a BLM officer in Deming."
"I know Alan. He's solid. Do you know how to find Spence?"
"Not really. But I know where he's been. Begay saw him at a private ranch on the Negrito Creek. It's owned by some millionaire from back east who Hies in. According to Alan, the ranch has a landing strip.
Does that ring any bells?"
Jim nodded.
"The old Double Zero."
"Can you get me there without any fanfare?"
"I think you should talk to Karen first," Jim countered.
"That can wait," Kerney replied.
"First, we pay a quiet visit to the Double Zero. What's the most unobtrusive way in?"
"Horseback."
Kerney eyed the sling holding Jim's left arm.
"Are you game?"
Jim flapped the sling against his side.
"Give me a break. This itty-bitty scratch won't slow me down.
Saddle me up and I'll take you there."
"What a guy," Kerney responded with a grin.
Jim smiled back.
"Stuff it, Kerney. How did you get into this pile of shit?"
"It was easy: a little breaking and entering, a little criminal damage to property."
"Before or after your trailer got bombed?"
"After. I'll tell you about it on the way."
As they left the motel in Jim's truck, a police cruiser turned into the parking lot and started spotlighting vehicles.
The Stiles family ranch was directly across the river from Jim's house, where the Negrito Creek drained into the San Francisco. Stiles and Kerney arrived before dawn with the moon still full above the mountains.
Jim drove to the horse barn, parked the truck out of sight, and told Kerney to saddle two horses while he paid a visit to his father.
In the paddock were two fine stallions, both about ten years old and built along the same lines, with well-sloped shoulders that would generate a fluid stride. He got the gear out of the tack room, saddled the horses, and sat on the top rail of the paddock waiting for Jim's return. The first light of dawn revealed the ranch house. It was a territorial-style L-shaped adobe with thick wood lintels above the first-floor windows. The sloping roof had a series of dormer windows over a covered porch.