'Did he tell you to call Jim Stiles?'
'That's what I'm saying, man.'
'Thanks, Amador. You can go home now.'
'You mean it?'
'I sure do. Get that nose looked after.'
As Amador started to rise, Kerney cold-cocked him.
Ker emey left Amador where he fell. A bad feeling about beating up the man left a sour taste in his mouth. He cursed himself for giving in to the anger and drove away.
From the number of the squad cars patrolling the streets of Reserve it looked as though Gatewood, all his deputies, and the state police were out searching for him. Fortunately they weren't looking for him in Jim's truck. On the highway to Silver City, Kerney considered his options. With a murder-one APB out on him, playing hide-and- seek with Gatewood and his cronies wasn't an appealing idea. He could go to ground, stay in the open and risk the possibility of the danger inherent in a felony arrest, or turn himself in to the Silver City police and deal with Karen Cox. He had no place to hide and no desire to get conveniently shot for resisting arrest-which was a distinct possibility, given Gatewood's culpability.
That left jail as his only option. He would have to gamble that Karen Cox would play by the rules.
In Silver City he called Charlie Perry from a pay phone, told him what he planned to do, and asked him to get in touch with Karen and fill her in on the facts about Steve Lujan's murder. Perry was willing to oblige: Spence's handgun had been recovered, ballistics had matched the weapon to the slugs in Steve Lujan's body, and Spence's fingerprints had been lifted from the gun.
'I'll tell Gatewood to cancel the APB and void the arrest warrant,'
Perry added.
'Leave Gatewood out of it,' Kerney snapped.
'According to Amador Ortiz, it was Gatewood who told him to set up Jim Stiles for the ambush at Padilla Canyon.'
'That's serious shit,' Perry said.
'You bet it is,' Kerney replied.
'Where's Ortiz now?' Perry asked.
'I had to beat the truth out of him. He's probably home with a broken nose.' Perry sighed.
'You're some kind of hot-dog cowboy, aren't you?'
'Whatever,' Kerney said.
'One more thing: talk to Karen Cox in person, okay?'
'Are you paranoid, Kerney?'
'No, cautious,' Kerney answered.
'Paranoia is an FBI trait.'
'Not anymore. J. Edgar Hoover is dead,' Perry replied and hung up.
It was well into the graveyard shift when Kerney turned himself in to the on-duty commander at the police department. He was photographed, fingerprinted, booked, and placed in a holding cell. After about an hour, the commander, a young lieutenant with a washed-out complexion, tired eyes, and a weight lifter's body, returned and squinted at him through the bars of the cell.
'Looks like you've had a busy night,' the lieutenant said.
'There are additional charges pending on you out of Catron County. Seems you forced some guy off his property at gunpoint and pistol-whipped him.
Do you want to call a lawyer?'
'No,' Kerney answered without hesitation. For now, he was in the safest room in town, and it wasn't costing him a dime.
'Call the ADA in Catron County for me and tell her what's happening. Her name is Karen Cox.'
The lieutenant nodded.
'I'll give her a call.' He passed a brown bag through the bars.
'Sack lunch,' he explained.
'Left over from the morning prisoner run to the courthouse.'
Kerney took the bag and opened it. It contained a bologna sandwich on white bread, an orange, and a cookie.
'Thanks.'
'No problem.'
The lieutenant stayed put and watched Kerney eat his meal. When he'd finished, Kerney crumpled up the bag and gave it back to the officer.
'I hear you were a good cop in your day,' the lieutenant said.
'I like to think so,' Kerney allowed.
'That guy you cold-cocked must have really pissed you off.'
Kerney laughed and stretched out on the cot.
'Did I say something funny?'
'Yeah, in a way, you did. It reminded me of the old saying 'There's no such thing as a free lunch.'
Nice try, Lieutenant.'
The lieutenant shrugged lazily.
'You can't blame me for trying.'
'I don't. But a stale sandwich, a cookie, and a piece of fruit won't get you a confession.'
'It might help if you talked about it. I'm a good listener.'
'And I'm an innocent man,' Kerney said. He waited until the lieutenant gave up and walked away before closing his eyes. He was asleep within minutes. ‹‹I want to make sure I'm doing the right thing,' Mrs. Wheeler said.
Emily Wheeler, age eighty-five and the author of The People of Pie Town:
The Last of the Frontier Homesteaders, smiled at Jim Stiles and Molly Hamilton as they sat close to each other on the sofa. A nice-looking young couple, she thought to herself, but the young man would look better without those nasty scratches on his face, the eye patch, and his arm in a sling.
'I understand, ma'am,' Jim replied.
The front room of the small house had pictures everywhere: in frames on the bookcases, in carefully placed arrangements on the walls, and lined up on the top of an upright piano. Many of the photographs were old, dating back to anywhere from the turn of the century through World War II. Emily Wheeler kept her memories right where she could see them.
'What can you tell us about Louise Cox?' Molly asked.
Mrs. Wheeler, perched at the edge of a Victorian chair, placed her hands firmly in her lap. A slight woman, she sat as erect as a young girl. She wore a housecoat and slippers. Her round face, widely spaced eyes, button chin, and full lips gave her an appearance of perpetual cheeriness.
'She was just a sweetheart,' Emily said.
'The schoolchildren absolutely adored her. She was an excellent teacher.'
'I'm sure she was,' Jim said.
'When was the last time you had any contact with her?'
'I'm not sure Louise would want me to tell you anything more. Is she in some kind of trouble?'
'No, ma'am. We just need to talk to her.'
Emily eyed the young man cautiously.
'Can you tell us how to contact her?' Jim prodded.
'I really don't feel comfortable betraying a confidence,' Emily replied.
On the end table next to the sofa was a copy of Emily Wheeler's book.
Molly picked it up.
'What fun it must have been to write this book,' she said.
'Have you seen it before?' Emily asked.
'Oh, yes. We have the copy you donated to the library at Western New Mexico University. I keep it in the reference section.'
