mountains, and soon they were on a curving road cutting through the foothills. Elephant Butte, a startling blue- green manmade lake, spread out in front of them just before the highway dipped into a narrow, sheared-off granite pass, climbed again to meet the Jomada-the ancient route of the Spanish into North America-and ran straight toward the San Andres Mountains. Cactus savanna flowed across the desert interrupted by large thickets of creosote brush and mesquite. The long plumes of the sotol cactus rose on thick bases, protected by hundreds of spiny leaves, bearing the first signs of flowering growth. Clumps of green grama grass, pale rabbit brush and yellow wildflowers erupted wildly on the flat plain.
Sara remained quiet, gazing out the window and thinking how pleasant it was to rubberneck. The need for more of a personal life outside of her job had to be given greater attention, she decided.
A large billboard sign came into view, heralding the turnoff to the vineyard.
'I'll question McVay,' she said, regretting the curt tone.
'Yes, ma'am,' Kerney replied obsequiously. 'Shall I wait for you in the truck, ma'am?' His blue eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile. Sara punched him on the arm.
'Don't be a smartass. Let's go.' *** In the processing shed, Bull McVay worked alone, cleaning up the debris left over from a newly installed vat storage system. He dumped some scrap metal in the cart behind a small tractor and noticed a man and woman standing in the wide bay doorway. Tourists, McVay thought, returning to his work. The winery attracted visitors intrigued by the idea of a champagne vineyard in the middle of the desert owned by real Frenchmen who pumped water thirty miles from the lake in order to grow grapes. He was sweeping up when the woman approached.
'Hello, Bull,' Sara said.
'Captain Brannon.' Bull resisted the impulse to snap to attention. The man wasn't somebody Bull knew. He hung back a little from the captain, just within earshot range.
'What brings you here?'
'One of your old ballplayers went A.W.O.L..'
'Which one?' With huge shoulders, no neck, and a bulky frame. Bull had a nickname that was a perfect match for his body.
'Sammy Yazzi.'
'I heard about that. I thought everything had worked out for him.'
'What do you mean?'
'Sammy was hot to take some art classes at the university. All his sergeant had to do was change the duty roster. Steiner wouldn't cooperate, and Sammy was really bummed out about it. I came up with an alternative- almost by accident.'
'What alternative?'
'A lady at church taught art at the university in Las Cruces before she retired. I mentioned Sammy's problem to her in passing. She told me to have Sammy call her, so I did. Sammy started studying with her.'
'You know that for a fact?'
'Absolutely,' Bull answered.
'When did this happen?'
'Just before I moved up here.'
'Did Sergeant Steiner know about it?'
'I don't think so. Sammy told me as a way to say thanks for the favor, but I doubt he made a big deal out of it with anyone else. That's not his style.'
'What's the woman's name?'
'Erma Fergurson. Sweet lady. In her seventies but still a ball of fire.'
'Thanks, Bull,' Sara said.
'Sure thing. Captain.' The man with Sara, a rugged-looking guy, turned and walked away without saying a word. His right leg had been busted-up big-time. Probably the knee. Bull decided. He shook Sara's hand with his beefy palm and watched her ill walk away. She stopped at the door, looked around, and stepped into the sunlight with almost a girlish skip.
Kerney stood at the end of the parking lot, oblivious to Sara's presence, looking at the small cluster of houses and shade trees that marked the remains of Engle, now a town in name only. The pavement ended at the Southern Pacific railroad tracks, and a dirt road took over, thrusting east toward the San Andres Mountains. Gone were most of the private homes, the general store, the post office, and the abandoned hotel, which had still stood when he was a boy. The one-room schoolhouse endured, moored on a wide rock foundation. The long, narrow window casements started a good eight feet off the ground and ran nearly to the top of the building.
'What do you see out there?' Sara asked. Kerney's blue eyes smiled again.
'An eighty pound boy full of piss and vinegar who thought he would be a runt forever.'
'What happened to him?'
'He grew up and found out nothing is forever. I think you're going to enjoy meeting Erma Fergurson,' he said with a delighted laugh.
'You know her?'
'Damn straight I do. Let's go find out if she remembers me.' Erma Fergurson opened her front door holding a writing tablet in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other. Dressed in a paint-splattered man's shirt and a pair of black slacks, she carried her age beautifully, slender and erect. Her delicately lined face took them in with clear eyes. She wore her gray hair pinned in a bun at the nape of her neck.
She glanced nonchalantly at the badge in Kerney's hand.
'You're here about the burglary,' Erma said.
'What burglary. Aunt Erma?' Kerney asked.
'Oh, my goodness,' she said, her hand flying to her mouth. 'Kevin Kerney, is that you?'
'It's me,' Kerney answered with a boyish smile.
'I don't believe it.' A smile bubbled on her lips. 'Let me look at you.' She stepped back.
'You're still a handsome rascal.' She turned to Sara, the excitement of the moment ringing in her voice. 'Kevin's mother and I were college roommates. When he came to the university I was asked to keep an eye on him. When he'd act like a young buck, he would beg me with those beautiful blue eyes not to tattle on him to his parents.'
'I'm sure he was quite persuasive,' Sara replied.
'He was indeed,' Erma agreed happily.
'Who is this pretty woman, Kevin?' Sara blushed.
'Erma Fergurson, meet Sara Brannon,' Kerney said.
'A pleasure,' Erma replied.
'Are you also a police officer?'
'Yes.'
'So you are here about the burglary,' Erma said.
'We know nothing about it, but it may be important,' Sara responded.
'We came to ask you about Sammy Yazzi.'
'Oh, yes, I would like that. I've been very worried about him. Come in and make yourselves at home.' She ushered them through a curved archway into a studio space washed in north light from a high clerestory. Large landscapes, six feet high and wide, filled the walls with vibrant colors of foothills ablaze in a blanket of wildflowers, silvery tufts of Apache plume dappling the desert, and shimmering golden aspen rolling up mountainsides. Erma gestured at the two love seats separated by a print cabinet that served as a coffee table, and got them settled in.
'You haven't found Sammy, have you?' Erma guessed.
'No,' Kerney replied, 'but we did find some watercolors.' Erma nodded.
'Excellent work. A wonderful series.'
'We're missing five paintings,' Sara said.
'I have them.' She slid open a drawer to the print cabinet and spread out each watercolor on top of the chest. All five were of bighorn mountain sheep.
'Sammy left them with me to be framed. We were planning a showing at a local gallery.' Kerney studied each picture, trying to get a sense of the location. A cliff face with a ram on the summit looked familiar. He was sure it
