U.S. Army intelligence agent. The agent had bushwhacked them on a rural New Mexico highway during a winter snowstorm as they returned from a meeting with the murdered woman's father. Fortunately, they had survived, but not the assassin.
The experience had shaken Kerney's trust in his government and heightened his paranoia about the intelligence community. Privy to information about the government-decreed killings of citizens, Kerney could not assume that he, Sara, or their unborn child were safe from retaliation, or would ever be. The spycraft organizations involved in the cover-up could easily decide their knowledge was a dangerous, unacceptable liability.
To cope, he'd been steering a survival course by keeping a low profile and operating on the assumption that he was still under surveillance, and probably would be for some time to come. It was the right thing to do, but it left Kerney with a caged feeling. He hoped that taking on the Montoya homicide follow-up investigation would lift his spirits.
In truth, hunkering down and concentrating on management issues had paid good dividends. Dead-wood had been cut, response times on calls had improved, the percentage of cleared cases had increased, and a new pay system for patrol officers was about to be established that would bring their salaries in line with plainclothes personnel. Still, Kerney couldn't bring himself to get jazzed about his successes.
George and Lorraine Montoya lived on a dead-end dirt lane within easy walking distance of the historic Santa Fe Plaza. On the fringe of a prestigious neighborhood, the lane consisted mostly of two rows of modest homes, all built just before or after World War II. The few houses that had changed hands from Hispanic to Anglo ownership were easy to spot. Enlarged, lavishly landscaped, and given the Santa Fe look, they dwarfed the simple farm-style cottages that were so out of vogue among the gentry and the new-rich immigrants.
Kerney had called ahead to arrange a meeting with the elderly couple, and they were waiting on a small porch when he pulled to a stop behind a beautifully maintained old pickup truck parked in a gravel driveway. Both looked apprehensive as he approached. Mrs. Montoya, a short, round woman, clutched a string of rosary beads. Her husband, equally round and just a few inches taller, seemed to flinch as Kerney drew near.
On the telephone, he'd given no reason for his visit other than to say he had fresh information to share. A deep sadness showed on their faces as he reintroduced himself and shook George Montoya's hand. His palm was moist and his grip vise-hard.
'Our Anna Marie is dead, isn't she?' George Montoya asked.
'Yes.'
He let go of Kerney's hand and gestured at the screen door. 'Please tell us what you know,' he said, his voice cracking.
Inside, Kerney sat in the front room with the couple. Nothing in the room had changed in the years since his last visit except for a new television and an oak stand to hold it. On the walls hung Mrs. Montoya's stretched canvas embroideries of New Mexico song-birds-at least a dozen-all nicely framed. Kerney recognized a flycatcher, a warbler, and a goldfinch. He summarized as gently as possible the facts surrounding the discovery of Anna Marie's body.
Mrs. Montoya crossed herself. Her lips trembled slightly. 'Was her body burned in the fire?'
'No,' Kerney answered. The couple was silent for a time.
'Did you see her?' George Montoya asked. The years had aged Montoya. His hair was thin, the skin under his chin above his Adam's apple was loose, and his eyes were glazed.
'No,' Kerney said.
'How did she die?'
'A blow to the head,' Kerney answered.
'Murdered,' Mr. Montoya said hesitantly, as though the word could beget the act.
'We believe so. Can you think of any reason for her to travel with someone to Lincoln County?'
Mr. Montoya shook his head. 'She had no friends or relatives there.'
'Perhaps she knew a person from the area,' Kerney said. 'A classmate from graduate school, an old Santa Fe friend who'd relocated.'
'Anna Marie never mentioned anyone like that,' Lorraine Montoya said.
'Did she ever spend time there on business or vacation?' Kerney asked.
'I can't recall that she did,' George added, looking at his wife for confirmation.
'It's possible,' Mrs. Montoya replied. 'But it may have not been important enough for her to mention.'
'So, a weekend jaunt out of town or a business meeting she'd attended might not come up in conversation.'
Mrs. Montoya nodded solemnly. 'We felt blessed that she lived close by to us, and we saw her frequently. But she didn't tell us everything about her day-to-day activities.'
'No old boyfriend from that neck of the woods?'
Mr. Montoya slowly shook his head. 'She would have told us about somebody that important to her. Why are you asking these questions?'
'I know it's hard right now. Based on the facts we have, I'm inclined to believe your daughter knew her killer. She disappeared for no apparent reason, her car was abandoned, and her body was hidden near a very busy state road a hundred and fifty miles away. If it had been a random act by a stranger, the chances are likely Anna Marie's body would have been discovered soon after the crime, much closer to home.'
'Someone she knew killed her?' Mrs. Montoya asked, her voice shaky. 'How can that be? Everybody liked Anna Marie.'
'It could have been someone she knew slightly,' Kerney said. 'A casual business or social acquaintance.'
'A stalker?' Mr. Montoya asked.
Kerney nodded. 'Perhaps. Or it could have been a premeditated attack carried out for some other reason.'
'What reason?' George Montoya asked.
'That I don't know. But I'm troubled by the fact that the perpetrator took Anna Marie so far from Santa Fe. I'm wondering if it has any significance.'
'Was our daughter raped?' George Montoya asked, his body tensing in anticipation of Kerney's answer.
To Kerney's mind the indicators strongly suggested sexual homicide. 'We don't know that, and probably never will,' he replied.
'I saved her wedding dress to put in her casket,' Lorraine Montoya said in a whisper.
'When can we bring her home?' George Montoya asked, reaching to squeeze his wife's hand as she cried quietly at his side, her rosary forgotten.
'In a day or two,' Kerney replied.
'What will you do now?' Montoya asked.
'Try to find your daughter's killer.'
'Someone she knew, you said.'
'Possibly,' Kerney said.
George Montoya's eyes clouded and his voice dropped to a whisper. 'For years I hear her footsteps on the front step, hear her voice, see her in the kitchen talking with her mother and sister, thinking that when the phone rang she was calling.'
'I am so sorry to bring you this news,' Kerney said.
'It is best for us to know,' George Montoya replied. 'We must tell our son and daughter.'
'I'll need to speak to them.' Kerney rose and gave Mr. Montoya his business card. 'Are they both still living in town?'
'Yes.'
'I'll try not to make it too difficult. When would be a good time to call them?'
'Perhaps tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow, then.'
George Montoya searched Kerney's face. 'This never ends.' His voice cracked and he turned away to comfort his wife and hide his tears.
Kerney let himself out and closed the screen door. As he crossed the porch he heard Mr. Montoya's heart- wrenching sob.
In Albuquerque Clayton went searching for information about Humphrey from people who knew him. Like
