As a child, Clayton had toured the fort with his uncles, to see the place the white eyes had built to wage war against the Mescaleros and confine them to the reservation. Opened in the 1850s and decommissioned as a military installation just before the turn of the twentieth century, the fort had subsequently become a hospital for the treatment of tuberculosis, an internment facility for German prisoners during World War II, and a rehabilitation center for the developmentally disabled. Situated near a river lined by ancient oak trees, the main fort consisted of beautiful old military buildings around a grassy quadrangle. Currently it served as a minimum security prison for women, and was probably one of the prettiest lockups in the entire country. In an unusual way the fort had reverted to its original purpose, with one notable variation: women—not Apaches—were now imprisoned on the grounds. Clayton wondered if only the Mescaleros appreciated that irony. At the airport, a facility that served mostly private planes, Clayton quickly made the rounds of everybody on-site, flashing Johnny Jackson’s likeness and the grainy photographs of the blonde, and asking questions.
