by C. J. Box
As they finished breakfast, he thought of something. He said, “You didn’t mention seeing Large Merle last night.”
Large Merle was a fellow falconer and member of the underground resistance. He was a huge man who had known Nate in the old days but had moved west and had gone to fat. He wore a full beard and stained clothing from his job as a cook in the restaurant in Kaycee. Large Merle rented a ramshackle home up on the south rim of the canyon. The only established road to get to Nate’s stretch of the Hole in the Wall passed through Large Merle’s property, and his friend would clear or shoo away visitors. Either way, Large Merle would call Nate on his satellite phone and let him know who had been there at his place and who might show up in the canyon. Since Nate had been expecting Alisha, he hadn’t realized until now there had been no call.
Alisha took her last bite of the trout and closed her eyes as she chewed it. She loved the fresh fish, and he loved watching her eat it. She said, “Merle wasn’t home.”
“Maybe he was cooking,” Nate said, unsure.
“The restaurant wasn’t open when I drove by,” she said. “I was thinking of stopping in for a cup of coffee.”
Nate sat up. “Large Merle has never left without letting me know,” he said.
She shrugged. “Maybe it was an emergency. Doesn’t he have a sick dad somewhere?”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
“He’d let me know if he drove to Casper. He always does.” Then, pushing quickly away from the table: “Alisha, I can’t explain it, but something’s wrong. Let’s pack up.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Are we coming back?”
“No.”
8
Nothing spells trouble like two drunk cowboys with a rocket launcher.
That’s what Laurie Talich was thinking as she drove them down the rough two-track toward Hole in the Wall Canyon.
Not that they were real cowboys, sure enough. They wore the requisite Wranglers, big Montana Silversmith buckles, long-sleeved Cinch shirts, and cowboy hats. Johnny Cook was a silent strapping blond from upstate New York near Albany, and Drennen O’Melia, chunky and chatty and charmingly insincere, was a Delaware boy. But they were young, strong, dim, handsome, and eager to please. Not to mention currently unemployed since that incident on the dude ranch from which they had recently been let go.
The AT4 shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, still in the packing crate in her rented pickup, was as real as it came, though.
The night before, Laurie Talich had found Johnny and Drennen playing pool for drinks in the back of the Stockman’s Bar in Saddlestring. The bar was dark, cool, long, narrow, and iconic in a comfortably kitschy Western kind of way. She’d been advised this would be the place to find the right kind of men for the job, and her adviser had been exactly right. She’d sat alone on her stool at the bar for three straight nights, long enough to learn the name of the bartender—Buck Timberman. She was coy and hadn’t revealed hers. He’d called her “little lady,” as in “What can I get you, little lady?”
“Another one of these, please.” Meaning Crown Royal and Coke, even though her husband used to chide her and say she was ruining two good drinks with that combo.
She’d paid in cash so there would be no electronic receipts, sipped her second drink of the night, and shot furtive glances at the two dude ranch cowboys. They chalked their sticks, called the pockets, mowed down all comers—tourists, mainly—and collected their drinks. They noticed her: slim, jet-black short hair with bangs, and light blue eyes the color of a high-noon sky. She dressed the part in form-fitting Cruel Girl jeans, a jeweled cowgirl belt, and a white sleeveless top. Her legs were crossed one over the other, but when she rotated the stool and looked at them, the dagger-like toe of her right boot would twirl in a small tight circle, like a tongue licking open lips. Oh, they noticed, all right.
The more she watched them, hearing snatches of braggadocio and bullshit, knowing they were being observed and playing it up as much as possible, the more she began to believe she’d found the right boys. They’d be perfect for the job. They were role players, too: rent-a-cowboys for the summer. The guest and dude ranches throughout the Bighorns as well as most of Wyoming and Montana were swarming with them. The ranch owners needed seasonal help who looked and acted the part, because their clients expected it, and boys like Johnny and Drennen were perfect for the kind of job she had in mind. Young, handsome (at least Johnny was), Caucasian, nonthreatening to the permanent staff, unambitious in terms of running the guest ranch operation, willing to work the short three- to four-month seasons between snows, and without two nickels to rub together. For the ranch managers, it helped if they knew something about horses, and it was even better if they could play a guitar and sing a cowboy song. Mostly, though, they were required to look and act the part. No backwards baseball caps, street piercings, baggy pants, or shirts two sizes too big. These types would never replace the real wranglers and hands on the ranches, but they’d serve as pleasant enough fantasy eye candy for the wives and daughters, and they’d provide strong arms and backs for menial chores around the ranch.
Unless, of course, they lured the two teenage daughters of a wealthy Massachusetts union boss away from their family cabin while the parents participated in Square Dance Thursday and got the girls drunk on Keystone Light beer and were caught in the horse barn in the act of ripping the tops off the foil-wrapped condoms with their teeth—well, then they’d be fired, like Johnny and Drennen had been.
And they’d wind up playing eight-ball for drinks in the historic Stockman’s Bar, overlooked by beer lights hung from chains from the knotty pine ceiling, and generations of local black-and-white rodeo cowboy photos looking down at them from the walls, judging them and no doubt finding these two insufficient. As if Johnny or Drennen would give a rip about that.
Once she’d decided they were probably the right fellows, she slid off her stool and slinked by them on the way to the women’s. They politely tipped their hats to her, and she paused to talk. She offered to buy them both a drink when they were through playing pool. She said she liked their style. That she was intrigued by them. They ate it up.
Laurie Talich settled into one of the dark high-backed booths near the restrooms and waited. Timberman brought her another Crown Royal and Coke, and she ordered two long-necked Coors because that’s what Johnny and Drennen were drinking. She’d counted and knew they’d each had six beers already.
They played the last game fast, and lost when Drennen scratched on the eight ball. She watched the shot and determined he’d done it intentionally to speed things up so they could meet her. She suppressed a smile and waited to unleash it when the two faux cowboys joined her in the booth. Drennen asked to sit next to her and she moved over. Johnny slid in straight across the table. Neither removed his hat.
It didn’t seem to matter that she was ten years older and without another female friend. She caught Johnny staring at her wedding ring, despite the fact that she’d sprinkled the phrase “my late husband” into the conversation here and there. Since the boys weren’t much for nuance, she finally said, “My husband was killed two years ago,” and it finally seemed to register with them.
“Uh, sorry about that,” Drennen mumbled.
“What happened?” Johnny asked.
“He was shot,” Laurie said, keeping her voice low and steady. “And I was kind of hoping you might want to help me locate someone. A man who knows something about what happened because he was there. See, I’m new to the area. I could really use the help from a couple of men who know their way around.”
Johnny and Drennen exchanged glances. Drennen broke into a smile, although Johnny seemed either unsure of his own reaction or simply drunk and placid. She could tell they liked being called men as well as the implication they were locals.
Johnny grinned crookedly and held out his hand. “Johnny,” he said. “This other’s Drennen.”
“Walking After Midnight” was playing on the jukebox. “Patsy,” she said, knowing they wouldn’t get it. She shook Johnny’s hand first, and then offered her hand to Drennen, who flinched at first but then shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Patsy,” Johnny said, draining his bottle. “I bet Drennen and me could use another one of these while we talk, if you don’t mind.”
She gestured to Timberman again with two fingers, meaning she was fine but the boys were thirsty.
“I’m willing to pay you boys quite a lot of money,” she said. “As long as you keep your mouths closed and we actually find him. You see, I’m quite well off, due to the insurance money and all.”
“Shoot,” Drennen said. “Who don’t need some money these days? Money’s like . . . gold.”
Which made Johnny grin and say to Drennen, “If you’ve ever said anything stupider than that, I can’t remember it.”
“I have,” Drennen assured him.
“See,” Johnny said, “it gets kind of frustrating to be around rich folks all summer long. They don’t seem to even know they’re rich, which is a pisser. You just want to say to them, ‘Give me just a little of what you got. You won’t miss it and I could sure use some of it.’ ”
The new beers arrived, and she sat back. She’d laid it out and now it was up to them. She wouldn’t tell them any more until they begged for it. And if the whole deal collapsed, she’d said nothing so far that would implicate her in any way. Not the name of the man she was looking for. Or the name of her adviser.
“It ain’t like we’re busy right now,” Johnny said, drawing little circles with his fingertip through the condensation on his full bottle.
Drennen said, “Hell, we’re camping up by Crazy Woman Creek. And it’s starting to get cold at night, and damned if I’m gonna spoon with that guy.” He pointed the mouth of his bottle toward Johnny, who grinned.
“Me and Johnny—this ain’t no Brokeback Mountain kind of deal,” Drennen offered.
“Jesus,” Johnny groaned at his friend. “Get back to the money part. Don’t pay Drennen any mind. He . . . talks.”
Drennen agreed, not the least bit offended.
She shook her head and gestured toward the pool table. “You boys are unemployed and living in the mountains, yet you manage to get a ride to town for some leisure activities.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Drennen said earnestly. “Even the unemployed got a right to a night on the town.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, looking closely at him, wondering how much of his head was solid rock. “That’s why it’s such a great country. We won’t let anyone take our rights away.”
“Damn straight,” Drennen said, nodding. “I could just kiss you for that.” Then he leaned over to her, the weight of him on her, and raised his chin in an effort to peck her on the cheek.
“Ow!” he yelped, and recoiled, snapping his head back so hard his hat bounced off the back of the booth and tumbled to the table. He plunged both of his hands between his thighs. “What was that? It was like a snake bit me in the unit.”
“No snake,” she said, withdrawing the knitting needle from where she’d jabbed him under the table, “and no kissing. No hijinks of any kind. Not until we come to some kind of understanding.”
Johnny watched the whole scene without flinching, without expression. He looked at her and said, “But maybe after that?”
“Jesus,” Drennen said, reclaiming his hat and fitting it back on. “Did you see what she did?”
Laurie looked back at Johnny and said, “It’s always a possibility. But first things first.”
“You mentioned money,” Johnny said in a whisper, leaning forward across the table. “What kind of dollars we talking about here?”
“Ten thousand,” she said. “You can split it even or decide who gets the greater percentage.”
Johnny frowned. “Why would one of us get more than the other?”
“We’d split it right down the middle, right, Johnny?” Drennen said.
“Suit yourself. I was just thinking one of you may have a harder job than the other. But however you want to handle it is fine by me.”
Timberman brought more beers and again she paid in cash. “Last call, little lady,” he said.
“Her name’s Patsy,” Johnny said, as if he were gallantly defending her reputation.
Timberman winked at her. He got it.
“So,” Drennen said, leaning in as well, so the three of them were inches apart. “Who we gotta kill?”
His tone indicated he was half joking.
She said, “Have you ever killed anyone?”
The question hung there for a moment, then Drennen quickly said, “Sure.” But the way his eyes darted to Johnny and back to her after he said it indicated to her he was lying. Trying to impress her. And he knew she probably knew it, so he said to Johnny, “That Mexican,” as if trying to prompt a false memory. He lowered his voice, “That fuckin’ Mexican wrangler they hired. The one with the attitude.”
She nodded.
“Well,” Drennen said, leaning back and puffing out his chest. “Let’s just say he don’t have a bad attitude no more.”
“That Mexican,” Johnny echoed, nodding. “We capped that son-of-a-bitch.”
She said, “His name is Nate Romanowski, but that shouldn’t matter to you one way or another. So, where are you boys camped? I’ll give you a ride.”
It had happened two years before. Chase Talich, her late husband, had gone west from Chicago—where they had fine jobs working for important, if infamous, local men—with his brothers Cory and Nathaniel. The Feds had cracked down in a high-profile show of force that had caused Chase’s employers to flee the area. The last time she’d seen him, he was packing a suitcase in the bedroom. He was calm, as always. He said it might be a couple weeks before he came back. He said he’d call, but he couldn’t tell her exactly where he was going. He said he’d bring her back a cactus or a saddle.
Since Chase handled all the finances and had given her a murderous stony stare the one time she’d asked about them, she was naturally concerned about his future absence, especially because she was two months pregnant. They lived well on the North Side, she didn’t have to work, and her days consisted of shopping, Pilates, and lunching with the other wives whose husbands were involved in the Chicago infrastructure, as they put it. Of course, she had seen references to the “Talich Brothers” in the Tribune, and she knew Chase had been in prison when he was young. But he took good care of her and gave her a generous cash allowance every month and she was treated very well in clubs and restaurants when she gave her name. She was willing to not think much about it. That was her trade-off.
For five weeks, he didn’t call. His only contact was a large padded envelope sent from somewhere called Hulett, Wyoming, with her monthly cash allowance. Not even a note.
Then the Feds showed up. She knew when she opened the door that something had happened to her husband. They told her he’d been shot and killed in a remote part of northeastern Wyoming, practically in the shadow of Devils Tower. Nathaniel, Chase’s younger brother, had also been killed. Only Cory, the oldest, had survived. He was in custody and facing federal and state charges.
Desperate, she went to see her brother-in-law in Denver. Through the thick Plexiglas of the federal detention facility, he told her what had happened. How Chase had been bushwhacked by a local redneck who carried the largest handgun he had ever seen. That’s when she first heard the name.
She’d desperately quizzed Cory. Where had Chase stashed his money? How could she get access to it? How could she raise another child—Cory’s future nephew or niece—on her own with nothing?
Cory didn’t help. He said Chase had kept his finances to himself. Besides, Cory said, he had problems of his own and she’d need to learn how to take care of herself.
It was devastating. She was ruined. She wished she could find Chase and kill him all over again for leaving her like that with nothing. So she’d
got an abortion, sold the house—which he’d put in her name to avoid scrutiny—and learned to knit to help take her mind off her situation. She’d turned bitter and spent a lot of time imagining what her life would have been like if Chase had come back. If that redneck hadn’t killed him.
Laurie Talich’s father had spent his life within the Chicago infrastructure . Alderman, bookie, and mayoral assistant—he’d held so many jobs, yet never seemed to have an office where he went to work every morning. He was a loving father in a remote way, and seemed to look to her and her brother for solace and comfort and to remind himself he wasn’t all bad. He was a slow, doughy man who arrived home at all hours but never returned from a trip without candy and gifts for his children. In his retirement, he grew peppers and onions in his garden and watched a lot of television. But he was still connected, and when she went to him in desperation, he opened his home to her and listened to her troubles.
One night, after a few glasses of after-dinner wine, he told her she must seek vengeance.
“No matter what you think about your ex-husband or what you’ve learned about him since, you can’t let this go unpunished,” he said. “When someone hurts a member of your family, no matter what the reason, he’s hurt you by proxy. You go after him and get revenge. People need to know there are consequences for their actions, especially when it comes to our loved ones. That’s the only way to keep some kind of order in the world because, God knows, these days no one will do it for you. Not the pols, not the cops. I’d do it myself if I could get around, but I’m too damned old and busted up. Revenge is a cleanser, honey. You need to be cleansed.”
She’d arrived in Wyoming the month before. It was remarkable—everyone seemed to know everyone else. She asked questions, got answers and leads, and eventually wound up in Saddlestring. It took only three days to find someone who knew Nate Romanowski.