The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 (30 page)

He didn’t see it coming, nobody would have. He was used to my irascible moods and just thought he had caught the sheriff at a bad time. He had. I brought my hand up in a full-reach swipe that caught the side of his head and propelled it face first into the quarter panel of the Thunder Chicken, as my right boot scooped his feet out from under him. The impact was thunderous on the hollow flank of the car, and the dent it left was substantial. He didn’t get up but lay there beside the rear wheel, a small pool of blood spreading from the side of his downturned face.

I stepped over his legs and rolled him to one side, brushing away his hat and grabbing his shirtfront, pulling his face up close to mine. “If you ever harm a prisoner in my jail again . . .” But he wasn’t listening, he was out. I held his head there for a moment and then gently laid it down on the concrete. I felt sick. It was from the adrenaline, or at least I blamed it on that. It always hit me afterwards. I would have to walk it off. I became aware of some movement behind me as I stood and stepped away and continued up the steps and into my office. Whoever it was that had walked up had evidently decided that whatever they had to do with me wasn’t that important.

The door to the office was open when I got there. Ruby held the knob with her other hand over her heart, her eyes wider than I had ever seen them. “Oh, my Lord . . .”

I breezed past her into the reception area and almost collided with Lucian. He teetered back and nearly fell as I caught him and stood him upright. I figured a good offense was the best defense. “You got something to say?”

His face broke into a broad grin. “Damn, what a lick!”

I left him there and continued down the hallway, through the door, and into the jail’s holding cells. I slammed the door back, stormed through the open cubicle, and sat myself on one of the bunks, my back thumping against the wall as I clutched my shaking hands together and set my jaw. I concentrated on my hands, willing them to stop; it took a while. My breathing was returning to normal, and the flushed feeling was starting to fade. I licked my lips and exhaled, trying to push the rest of the adrenaline through my flooded blood stream. I hated it, I hated seeing it, I hated hearing about it, and I hated doing it. I brought my head up to find a terrified Bryan Keller looking at me from the other bunk. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He was crouched in the corner with his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around them; only his eyes were visible over the kneecaps.

We listened as the commotion from the reception area carried down the hallway and bounced off the masonry walls. I had no idea you could hear everything so well from the cells. The front door was closed, but there was a scooting of chairs and a murmuring of voices. You could hear Lucian’s voice above the others, “Bring ’im on in here, Ladies Wear . . .” More murmuring and voices, “How you like them apples, you little son of a bitch? You try and get up, and I’ll kick your ass so far . . .” It trailed off with the roaring in my ears. It was like being underwater and, for a few moments, I floated there, letting the sinking feeling in the middle of my shoulders wash over me. I was tired.

A while later, Henry peered around the divider. His hair hung down, and his face looked at me sideways.

I took off my hat and placed it on the bunk beside me, running my hands over my face. “What?” It would appear that not all the adrenaline was gone.

“Nothing.”

I sat there for a moment. “He all right?”

He stepped around the divider and ducked his head to look through the bars. “He will never play the violin with his nose again, if that is what you mean.”

“Better call the EMTs.”

“He is already gone; Ruby has taken him to the hospital. It seemed to be the best thing, since his uncle would not stop kicking him.”

I waited. “You think I overreacted?”

He shook his head in mock earnest. “Oh, no. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to someone parking in your spot.” He wandered over to the doorway of the cell. “How about we have breakfast?” He glanced down at Bryan. “How about you?” To my relief, Bryan declined, and we slipped out the back way. “Interesting office management skills, kind of a ‘violence is not the answer so I’m going to beat the shit out of you’ philosophy.”

I was looking at the sky; still nothing, but I could feel the coming storm. My eyes continued up the South Pass to the snow above the tree line; I was looking for George Esper.

“Kind of like Indian foreplay.”

He had to be up there, somewhere.

“What do ten Indian women with black eyes have in common?”

The fishing flies were the key and, if Ferg could connect the very specific lures to very specific areas, we might have a chance.

“They just won’t listen.”

If George knew about the weather, would he come down? Would he go looking for his brother?

“How was your date last night?”

The more time went by without finding him, the more likely it was that he was dead. I would have to deputize one of Ferg’s buddies and send him out to sit at the Esper place to see if anybody was going to show up.

“You did not let her touch the wine, did you?”

And what the hell was going on in Longmont? I could have driven down there and looked for them myself by now. At least Bryan was safe, but I needed to talk with his father. There was something there, maybe.

“By the way, I got word on Artie Small Song.”

I stopped. “What?”

“I thought that might get your attention.” He was smiling and shaking his head. “I got a call from his mother, and she thought that we might want to know that Artie has been in Yellowstone County Jail, up in Billings, since Saturday.”

That narrowed the field. “Charge?”

“Carrying an unregistered concealed weapon without a permit.”

I nodded to Dorothy when we threaded our way through the three or four locals sitting at the counter, and we took seats on the end stools toward the back. They had looked up, and I didn’t smile. “So, what’re you doing following me around?”

“I thought you would be interested in Artie, and I have information about the feather.” He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Something has happened?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your manner is curt and slightly agitated.”

“Jacob Esper is dead.” I watched him very carefully, but there was no visible response.

“That answers some of your questions.”

“You don’t seem very upset.”

“I am not. Should I be?”

I looked at him for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” Dorothy brought over some coffee and a couple of menus.

She was looking at my winter gear, and she smiled. “The game’s afoot?”

I tossed the menu back to her. “The usual.” She raised an eyebrow and looked at Henry.

“I will have what he is having.”

The other eyebrow rose. “He doesn’t know what he’s having.”

“I will have it anyway.”

She looked at the both of us, shrugged, and headed back to the grill.

“Tell me about the feather.”

He sat back up straight, took a sip of his coffee, and made me wait, finally turning back and looking me in the eye. “Wanda Real Wolf. She used to head up the Cheyenne Artist’s Co-Op.”

“The one that went out of business?”

“Yes. It is much easier to get Indians to work together than artists.”

“They’re her feathers?”

“Feathers, plural?” I set my jaw and nodded, and he looked at me for a while. “Interesting. You have it with you?” I took the feather from my jacket and handed it to him. He turned the plastic bag over in the light from the windows and studied the contents. “It too could be Wanda’s.”

“I don’t suppose Wanda keeps detailed records of her feather sales?”

He sat it down between us and took another sip of his coffee. “Worse than that, she does not sell them separately, only on objects she and her immediate family make.”

“Like?”

“Dream catchers, flutes, pipes, dance headdresses, items like that.”

“I don’t suppose she has a limited clientele?”

“High-end tourist shops, all over the country.”

“Great. So these things could be pulled off anything?”

“Yes. I asked her if there was any way of finding the location or age of the pieces, but she said no.”

I started to take another sip of my coffee, but the smell informed me that I had had enough. “Any way to tell what pieces the feathers could have come off of ?”

“She said that small pinholes at the base of the quill probably meant that they came off dream catchers or pipes, nontraditional usage.” He caught me looking at the feather between us. “Both have such holes. I am afraid that does not narrow the field much.”

“No.” I took the feather and stuffed it back in my jacket.

He waited quietly. “There is more?”

I weighed my options and decided to clear the air. “How come you were late going running yesterday?”

He sat his coffee cup down, and a mischievous glint shaded his eyes. “I was out shooting white boys.”

“I’m serious.”

He turned and looked at me, square. “I know, and it is starting to piss me off.”

Moment of truth. “Where were you?”

He turned on his stool, straightening his body and trailing a hand down to rest lightly on his leg. The smile was gone, and his eyes had flattened. “Are you going to hit me?”

My voice sounded mechanical. “I’m through hitting people today. Where were you?” It was a long pause.

“Sleeping with Dena Many Camps.”

Two steaming plates of Canadian bacon and eggs, sunny side up, with grits, were slid under our noses. I glanced over and then looked again. “That’s the usual?”

She looked at Henry. “Told you.” With this, she freshened our coffee and moved down the counter to take care of the other customers. You had to hand it to her, she could tell when her clients wanted peace, if not quiet.

I started to work on my usual, but he was still watching me, and I was starting to feel ashamed of myself. “She’s half your age.”

He laughed. “Are you going to jail me for that now?” He turned and began eating.

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“It is only premarital sex if you are planning on getting married.”

I spoke out of the corner of my full mouth. “You should be even more ashamed.”

He kept eating, finally replying between bites, “You are such a prude.”

“Pervert.”

“Jealous.”

I told him about Al’s description of the shooter, and we were through it, but he remained quiet for a while. I continued with the story of the two fishing vests, the flies, and Al Monroe. He agreed with the theory that George was probably up there somewhere. He asked if I’d checked the Forest Service sign-in sheets. I told him we had. He was thinking, “Largish with long maybe dark hair?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Interesting.” He ate some more of his breakfast. “Were they hand-tied or store bought?”

“What?”

“The flies. If they were new and store bought, then maybe they mentioned to someone where they were going?”

“I’ll radio up and ask Ferg.”

We finished breakfast, and I asked Dorothy to fix up a usual for an occupant. She put it in one of the Styrofoam containers and handed it to me with a worn smile but with no questions. I tried to mend some fences. “I’ll probably be back for dinner.”

“I’ll set the name cards.”

* * *

We climbed the stairs behind the courthouse; the weather hadn’t changed, and I was beginning to think we’d gotten a reprieve. When we got back to the office, Lucian was gone, but Ruby was waiting for me. I handed her Bryan’s breakfast.

“His nose is shattered.”

“I’m feeling bad enough, you don’t have to add to it.”

“You’re not feeling anywhere near as bad as he is. They patched him up, but they say he’s going to have to go up to Billings to get it properly set.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I waited for more, but there wasn’t any. “Could you see if you can raise Ferg on the radio?”

She flipped the toggle switches on the console and reached for her headphones, holding one side up to her ear. “Why, you want to beat on him, too?”

I continued into my office with Henry close behind. He occupied the seat in front of my desk and was smiling. I sat in my chair. “So, you wanna be a deputy?”

He looked at the accumulated clutter on my desk and the general disorder of the place. I had to admit, it didn’t look all that inviting. “I think I might work better outside the framework.”

“Well, we do have a moral turpitude clause.”

The little red light on my phone began blinking, and I was starting to get an idea of how angry Ruby was with me; she never used the intercom, she always came to the door. I picked up the receiver and spoke cautiously, “Yep?”

“Ferg, line one.” And she was gone.

I hit it. “Ferg?” The connection wasn’t great, but I could hear him. “Where have you covered?”

Static for a while. “I started with Crazy Woman, middle fork of Clear Creek, and I’m headed up to Seven Brothers.”

“I’ve got a question for you. Were those flies hand-tied or store bought?”

“Store bought, definitely.” He paused. “I think they’re from the Sportshop.”

“That is good news. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and looked at Henry.

“Do you want me to go out to the Espers and see who shows?”

“They also serve who stand and wait.”

“Yes, but the pay is shit.” He looked around the office. “Have you got any books around here?”

“I think I’ve got a paperback copy of
Crime and Punishment
”—I scouted out the bookshelves—“and I’ve got
Lolita
around here somewhere.”

“I will pick something up.”

As he left, Ruby appeared at the door, and I noticed he gave her a wide berth. “I need to talk to you.”

I did my best to look repentant, but I had the feeling contrition wasn’t suiting me. “Yes?”

“You need to talk to Bryan. I don’t think he fully understands why it is he’s here.”

I thought of all the things I had to do. “Okay.” She stayed there, leaning against the doorway and looking at me. “What?”

“You’re a sheriff. You’re supposed to stand against such things, not for them.” I made the mistake of smiling. “It’s not funny.” She was really angry now, the blue in her eyes was neon. “You could have called him in and talked to him, you could have fired him . . . There’s no end to the options that were open to you, but no, you waited, you planned, and you executed. Your actions were deliberate and with forethought.”