Restrained again, walked to the bed and laid out, Charlie wondered why the hands didn't just kill him and put him in a coffin. He tried to keep track of time, but lost count as a wave of memories flooded his mind. He was back salmon fishing in Alaska with his father, then walking a Jamaican beach with his first girlfriend after college. He couldn't remember her name.
The sound of chopper blades intruded. He was pulled to his feet and marched outside. The cold air had a parched, dusty smell, his feet crunched on hard-packed sand, the wind whistled relentlessly.
Bundled into the helicopter, Charlie knew he was leaving the desert.
But he didn't care. He was still trying to remember the name of the girl on the beach.
Outside Albuquerque, Kerney and Sara headed west up Nine Mile Hill.
Soon the old trestle bridge that straddled the Rio Puerco on a dead-end stretch of old Route 66 came into view. Fifty miles to the south Ladron Peak, a hideout for thieves and rustlers in the territorial days, broke the horizon.
They sped through hill country that dipped and rose to reveal the ancient Laguna Indian Pueblo, where low adobe homes clustered around a humble white church.
Kerney eased off the Interstate at Grants. Established as a coaling station for the railroad, the town had thrived on logging and mining operations for a time, but now survived on the payroll from a state prison and the money travelers left behind as they stopped for meals, gas, or a night's lodging.
The icy state road to Ramah forced Kerney to slow down. For a while Sara imagined herself simply on a pleasant weekend outing. The porous black lava beds of the malpais mesmerized her. Stark and vast, it had a harsh, unrelenting beauty.
The badlands drew Sara's thoughts to Kerney. Could he ever be drawn away from a place of such breathtaking horizons, immense spaces, limitless skies, sweeping mountains? Probably not. Much like her father and brother, who ranched in Montana, Kerney's connection to the land was inbred and strong. In her heart that affinity made him even more endearing.
She rubbed her hand on his leg.
"What's that for?" he asked.
"Nothing," Sara said.
The weather closed in, bringing wind-driven snow. Past the badlands they moved through frosted mountain woodlands that gradually gave way to fallow pastures and glimpses of red rock mesas. The storm lifted outside of Ramah, swirling away to reveal a cold blue sky.
They passed El Moro National Monument, a massive sandstone butte with Indian ruins on the top and inscriptions carved into the soft rock at the bottom by early Spanish and Anglo explorers. yond El Moro giant monolithic figures, carved out of the sandstone by wind and rain, stood like sentinels overlooking a broad valley. They climbed a gentle rise, dropped into a shallow basin, and entered the Mormon settlement of Ramah, a charming village of stone and wood-frame houses with pitched tin roofs, fenced yards, and massive cottonwood trees. The fresh snow made everything look picture-postcard perfect.
Kerney stopped at a restaurant and got directions to Proctor Stra ley's ranch.
He cut fresh tracks on a snow-covered dirt road that wandered past some ancient cliff dwellings, narrowed down to a fence-lined track, and then opened onto miles of rangeland. The road led to one solitary round-top mesa where a cluster of buildings stood.
As they drew closer, Sara studied the buildings. The original ranch house had a hand-chiseled stone exterior, an enclosed front porch, and dormer windows. Some distance away on a small rise stood a flat-roof, modern Santa Fe-style adobe home. Beyond it, a little higher still, an estate-size residence with separate guest cottages, a swimming pool and cabana, and a detached six-car garage surrounded by perfectly landscaped grounds sprawled at the foot of the mesa.
"My, my," Sara said as Kerney braked to a stop, "what a nice place Proctor Straley has here."
"Where's the barn?" Kerney asked.
"The shipping pens? Equipment sheds? Not to mention the cattle."
"Gentlemen ranchers prefer to have such things out of sight," Sara answered in a highbrow tone.
"After all, it's a question of ambience."
Kerney laughed.
"You mean they don't want to get cow shit on their boots."
"Exactly," Sara said, climbing out of the truck.
"Let's go see what kind of feed supplement Proctor Straley favors for his herd."
Kerney laughed again. It felt good. *** A housekeeper took them through a great room with an arched wood ceiling offset by pale white smooth plaster walls. Recessed lighting accentuated oversized western paintings by modern cowboy artists. Deep green sofas and chairs were arranged to create quiet conversation areas.
Large slabs of polished marble on pedestal bases served as tables, and expensive Navajo rugs littered the hardwood floor.
Proctor Straley waited for them in front of a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace in a study room. A row of windows gave a view of the open range and forested ridge beyond. Under his feet on the flagstone floor was an early Navajo chief's blanket with strong alternating black and red horizontal stripes broken by a series of zigzag diamond motifs.
Heavyset with a ruddy complexion and closely clipped gray hair, Straley carried his seventy-plus years well. He had the eyes of a man who knew how to watch and listen.
Kerney flashed his shield and introduced Sara as Lieutenant Brannon.
Straley moved behind an oval mahogany desk, motioned at two low-back leather chairs, and waited for Kerney and Sara to settle in.
"Did you get a call that we were coming?" Kerney asked.
"No," Straley replied.
"Then I'm sorry if we've inconvenienced you," Kerney said with a smile.
"My secretary was supposed to call."
"She didn't," Straley said.
"Why are you here?"
"We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"What are they?"
"Were you aware of your daughter's affair with Scott Gatlin?" Kerney asked.
"Yes, but what's the point?" Straley asked.
"We're not convinced your daughter was murdered by Gatlin," Kerney said.
"Does that possibility interest you?"
Intense curiosity flickered in Straleys eyes.
"I hired Scott Gatlin, brought him to this ranch, treated him like a member of the family, trusted him. If he killed my daughter, I bear part of the burden. How do you think that makes a father feel?"
"Terrible," Sara said softly.
"How did you learn other affair with Gadin?"
"Phyllis never hid who she was or what she did from me, although there were times I wished she had. It took me many years to accept that she was a woman with strong appetites who didn't care what other people thought of her."
"It must have been difficult to raise such a daughter," Sara said.
Straley smiled wanly.
"We were always clashing. She could be as tough minded as any man I've known. While her mother was alive, she protected Phyllis from my censure. I was very disapproving of the way she lived. We had what you might call an uneasy truce over the past ten years."
"But you kept a relationship with her," Sara said.
Straley nodded.
"Absolutely. I did love her and I miss her deeply. She could light up a room with her exuberance. She had a special charisma that drew people to her, especially men."
"What do you know about her relationships with men?" Sara asked.
"She would only talk about them if I asked, and for a long time I avoided the subject. She had what she called her one-love rat-a time rule. As far as I know she never deviated from it, no matter if the affair lasted a week or a year.
Occasionally a lover would filter back into her life, but most were permanently banished. I think, in her own way, she was looking for the perfect mate to match her."