“It is not hard out there.” His head turned, but he didn’t look at me. “I like the night; I see my ancestors in the dark, a thousand foot-steps, deadly quiet. The ghosts are with me, and I see them, but it was different the last time I was out on recon-ops.” His eyes came around like searchlights. “I saw myself.”
I waited.
“But it was okay, because I was behind me. As long as my ghost is behind me, like a shadow, then I am safe.”
I continued to wait.
“If he ever moves up in front of me, it will be bad.”
* * *
“It is really too bad.”
I took my eyes off the road and glanced at him. “What?” Due to DCI’s slow response, the VA administrative staff not being available till tomorrow morning, Brandon White Buffalo not returning our calls, and my inability to sit still, we had decided to take a drive down to Powder Junction and talk to the bartender at the Wild Bunch Bar.
“For the young woman to have come so far seeking a relative. . . .”
“We’re not related.”
He smiled. “I believe you.” He gestured toward Cady. “If it were not for what sits between us, I would be willing to swear that you have never had sex in your life.”
She ignored Henry. “Evidently, she thought you were related, or why would she come all the way to Wyoming?”
“And how else would she know who you are or, more importantly, where you are?” He looked out the window at the passing landscape and the trailing edge of the Bighorn Mountains. “Who knew you from back then and could provide that kind of information now?”
I thought about it, and the thought was depressing. “You really think that she thought she was related to me and came all the way from Vietnam?”
“It is the worst-case scenario.”
I shook my head. “Why wouldn’t she have written or made a phone call?”
“Perhaps her circumstance did not allow for it.”
The radio interrupted the philosophical debate. Static. “Unit one, we got the report from DCI, and Saizarbitoria says to tell you he forgot and took the personal property packet for them and says that he’ll give it to you when you get there. He wants your 10-40. Over.”
I tried to pluck the mic from the dash, but Cady was faster. She had always liked pushing buttons. “Roger that, base. Our 10-40 is...” She looked at me.
“You started it, now finish.”
Henry’s voice rumbled in his chest. “Mile marker 255.”
She stuck her tongue out at me and rekeyed the mic. “Mile marker 255, about a mile north of Powder Junction.”
I leaned over and added my part. “We’re a minute away. Tell him to keep his badge on.”
We pulled off the highway, drove through the underpass, and saw two young boys, who looked like brothers, standing at the corner of a day care and jumping up and down in unison with their hands above their heads. They waved.
I waved back, figuring there probably wasn’t a lot to do in the southern part of the county.
I turned right onto Main Street into the slanted parking spot alongside Sancho’s unit. There was a motorcycle with a cover partially over it and with Illinois temporary plates that was parked on the sidewalk; there was a battered maroon Buick, which had California plates, that was clumsily parked at the curb at the far end of the boardwalk; and there was a forest-green Land Rover with the words DEFENDER 90 across the side parked next to it—didn’t see many of those, even during tourist season. We got out and walked down the wood planking, and I noticed that the Land Rover was from California, too.
The Wild Bunch Bar wasn’t too different from any other bar along the high plains; it was a rambling affair with three pool tables and a connected café, although there were a few things that made it stand out a bit in comparison with some of the others in the county. Reflecting the influence of the Australian and New Zealand sheepshearers, there was an All-Blacks soccer poster by the door and a tattered Aussie flag over the jukebox.
There was a flat-screen television at the far end of the bar, certainly a new addition, and a dark-haired man in a leather jacket and sunglasses was seated under it; he was actively watching the Rockies being pummeled by the Dodgers. He smiled, cried out, and raised a fist as L.A. loaded the bases. There were no other customers in the café.
The bar was along the left-hand side of the room, and Saizarbitoria was seated on the stool closest to the door; he was having a cup of coffee with the bartender, a stringy-looking young man with flame tattoos and a shaved head. Thirty, maybe. “’Sup, Sheriff ? Can I get you folks something?”
I looked at my daughter, who in turn looked at him. “Diet Coke.”
I motioned to Henry and me. “Iced teas.”
I sat on the stool next to Sancho and pulled his written report from under the personal property bag at his fingers. The bartender’s name was Phillip Maynard, and he had a local address but had only moved here a week earlier from Chicago. He came back with our drinks, and his eyes lingered on Cady. “You new around here?”
She slid the can closer to her. “No.”
I folded my arms on the bar and got his attention. “Are you?”
He looked at me and quickly made the familial connection. “Uh huh.”
I sipped my tea. “So, there was an Asian woman in here night before last?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded toward Saizarbitoria. “He show you the photograph?”
“Yeah.”
“Same woman?”
He put his hands behind his back and tried to look at the report. “It was kind of hard to tell, but the clothes were the same.”
I nodded. “You get a lot of Asian women in here?”
He paused for a second. “I don’t know, I started less than a week ago—they could come in here in droves. I don’t know.”
"When did she come in?”
“Friday afternoon, before the after-work rush.”
“Right. And what time is that?”
He thought about it and shrugged. “She was gone by four-thirty. She wasn’t here for very long.” I finished my drink and looked at Henry, who had yet to touch his. I followed his eyes as they traveled to the man with the sunglasses in the corner, who smiled a worried smile and then returned his attention to the National League West.
“What’d she have?”
Maynard refilled my glass. “I think she just had some wine.” He thought about it. “And a bag of pretzels.”
"She say anything?”
He reached around and took a sip of the beer that he had stored on the counter behind the bar. “Nope.” His eyes went back to Cady.
I studied the report. “It says here she arrived around noon?”
“Yeah.”
"Four and a half hours?” I looked at him. “You don’t consider that to be very long?”
The blood was rising in his face. “Well, I mean...some people stay in here all day.”
“And for four and a half hours she didn’t say anything?”
“Nothing in English, just French and a little Vietnamese.”
I gave him a look. "Vietnamese?”
He nodded. “I washed dishes in a Vietnamese restaurant in Chicago. I don’t speak the language, but I can recognize it.”
“Who did she talk to?”
“Herself.”
“Was there anybody else here?”
He studied the bar. “There were a couple of ranchers that came in to get out of the sun.”
"You know their names?”
“No.”
"Ever see them in here before?”
He shook his head no. “Like I said, I been here less than a week.”
I glanced at Henry, who was still watching the man in the corner who still appeared to be enjoying the ball game. “What’d they look like?”
“Working ranchers—locals, not the fly-in type.”
I thought that the description fit the Dunnigan brothers who had been haying the roadside along Lone Bear Road. “About sixty-something? One of them wearing a straw hat, the other in a ball cap with a ranch brand on it, had a squint?”
He started nodding before he answered. “Yeah, that was them.”
“They talk to her?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Catch any of the conversation?”
He shrugged. “They were tryin’ to hit on her. I mean, she was good-looking.”
“They leave together?”
“No, she left before they did.” He paused for a second, and I knew he was thinking about changing this part of the story. "You know...”
The trick in these types of situations is to assure the subject that you know there’s more to the story and to let them tell it. “Yep?”
“They did leave just a little after she went out.” He partially closed one eye and bobbed his head. “They really were hitting on her pretty hard, now that I come to think about it.”
I nodded. “Anything else? It’s a homicide investigation, so don’t feel as if you have to hold back.”
“She paid in quarters.”
“Quarters?”
"Yeah.”
I continued to look at him. “That’s odd.”
He nodded, quick to agree. “I thought so, too.”
“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” I handed the report back to Santiago and stood. “I’m assuming that we can contact you here or at the address my deputy’s got on the report?”
“Yeah, I’m here all summer. I don’t have a phone yet, but I’m workin’ on it.” He pulled a thin, black cellular from his back pocket. “I’ve got this, but it only works at the parking spot outside the veterinary office.” He nodded up the road. “They’ve got painted rocks to mark the spot, and a sign that says ‘telephone booth.’”
“Welcome to Wyoming.”
He was suddenly talkative. “They supposedly have WiFi down at the motel, but I have yet to find it.”
I stood, anxious to end the interrogation and work the rest of the room. “Okay. Let us know, would you?” I walked behind Cady and toward the dark-haired man with the sunglasses, who still seemed completely absorbed in the baseball game. I noticed it was in commercial. “Hello.”
He looked from the television to me and stood, dropping his sunglasses with an index finger to peer his almond-shaped eyes over the top. “I’m good, Sheriff. How about yourself?”
I was a little taken aback by his friendliness, not to mention the non sequitur, but you get used to this kind of reaction when you wear a badge. “Fine, thanks. Is that your Land Rover out there with the California plates?”
“Yes, sir.” He looked about fifty, perhaps a little older, and appeared to be in very good shape. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
"Just passing through?”
He paused when I didn’t answer his question. “I have a piece of property I’m taking a look at in anticipation of retirement. ”
“Here in the area?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what do you do, Mr.... ?”
He extended his hand, and his grip was strong. “Tuyen. I’m in the motion picture industry, in the distribution of Asian-market films in the United States.”
“Mind if I see some ID?” He immediately trolled in his back pocket, brought out a black leather wallet, which he held close, pulled out his driver’s license, and handed it to me. He waited. His name was Tran Van Tuyen, and he was out of Riverside, California. Even in the photo, he was smiling. Fifty-seven. I memorized the license number and handed it back to him. “Thank you.”
"Have I done something?”
“No, we’ve just had an incident concerning a young woman who might’ve been from out of state, so we’re simply checking everyone.” He stopped smiling, just a bit. “Mr. Tuyen, are you Vietnamese?”
He blinked, and I felt guilty for even asking. “Yes.” He didn’t say anything else.
“The reason I ask is that the girl I mentioned is Vietnamese.”
He stared at the bar stool between us. “I see.”
“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“What did this young woman look like, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Long black hair, midtwenties, dressed in a pink top with a black skirt.”
It appeared that he was thinking about it and seemed sad that I was asking. “No, Sheriff, I’m afraid not.” I watched what looked like a flood of emotions in him, a mixture of sorrow, loss, and then suspicion. “What has happened to this young woman?”
“I’m afraid it’s an ongoing investigation, and I’m not in a position to divulge that sort of information at this time.” I listened as the training kicked in and thought about how I sounded like a recording and that maybe after the statement, I should have beeped. I had had this feeling before. “Are you going to be in the area long, Mr. Tuyen?”
He seemed preoccupied but answered with the same practiced smile. “Yes, the property I am looking at is near the town of Bailey, which is nearby?”
“Just up the way, off county road 192. What’s the name of the property?”
“Excuse me?”
I leaned on the bar and tried to get a read on him. “The property you’re thinking of buying, Mr. Tuyen.”
He pulled what looked to be a fax from one of the realty offices in Durant. I studied it. “The Red Fork Ranch—that’s a nice place.” I handed the paper back to him and noted it was dated yesterday. “Richard Whitehead moving?”
“I’m afraid I do not know; I only know that the property is for sale.” He returned the paper to his pocket, his license to his wallet, slipped a ten from it, and then stood and placed the bill-fold into his jacket. He was about five feet nine, tall for a Vietnamese, thick of wrist, and his movements were very precise.
"Mind if I ask where you’re staying?”
“The Hole in the Wall Motel, in room number three.” He picked up the empty bottle and set it on the inside of the bar. “I’m going to look at the property after I leave here. You’re not going to pull me over a mile up the road, are you?” He sighed. “Because if you are, I’ll just take the Breathalyzer test now.”
I inclined my head toward him. “I get the feeling I’ve offended you, Mr. Tuyen.” He didn’t say anything. “If I have, I certainly didn’t mean to. I’m sorry to say that we don’t get too many Vietnamese here in Wyoming, and you’ll have to excuse me if I find it odd that we should suddenly have two.” I continued to look at the man and was conflicted with my own mix of feelings. It was possible that I was bordering on racial profiling.