by Gregory Ashe
“Leather,” Jem said.
For almost a full minute, Tean struggled not to respond. Then he said, “What?”
“It’s a leather fetish. You want me in leather boots, a leather codpiece, leather nipple, um, pasties, leather collar, leather hat. Because I’m a bad boy. And you’ve got a hard-on for bad boys.”
“Do you have any idea how awful leather is?” Tean said. “I’m not just talking about the animals that are slaughtered to manufacture it. I’m talking about the environmental impact.”
“I don’t,” Jem said, “but I think you should tell me. In fact, I think you should yell at me about leather all the way back to the lodge.”
“We’re not going back to the lodge.” Tean dropped his foot on the accelerator, and they shot up US-128. “We’re going to Onion Creek. We’re going to look at where the stampede happened because the whole thing was wrong, and I should have noticed it earlier.”
“Please tell me you’re doing this to spite Ammon.”
“Of course not. I’m doing this because two people have been killed and they deserve justice.”
Jem nodded.
“Spiting Ammon is just this incredibly fucking satisfying extra.”
“Swear jar.”
“Don’t get me off topic. The first problem with the leather industry is chromium-saturated wastewater.”
“You realize I was just saying that stuff about yelling about leather to help you feel better.”
“I don’t care. You have to listen, so be quiet.” Tean took a deep breath. “But toxic runoff and contaminated waterways are the obvious problem.”
“Of course. Obvious.”
“Very few people consider the environmental damage that is a precondition to leather production.”
“But you do.”
“Deforestation, for example.”
Tean got so caught up in the explanation that he forgot about Ammon. He barely noticed when Jem leaned over to push his glasses back into place, but he didn’t miss—couldn’t miss—when Jem rested a hand on his nape, the touch warm and strong and solid.
22
Onion Creek came out of the sandstone bluffs, a silver scribble running down to the Colorado. The starry sky showed the silhouette of rimrock: a ring of larger formations—the Towers to the north, the Titan farther east, Fisher Mesa to the south—but also pinnacles, hoodoos, balanced stones like goblin heads. At night, with the weak light giving just enough clarity to make out those shapes, the valley—with its improbable name of Richardson Amphitheater—was a surreal place, a wax world twisted into nightmarish shapes. When Tean got out of the truck, a coyote was howling.
“God, this place is a fucking trip,” Jem said. “Next time, I get to pick where we go on our bromance date.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“Anything’s a date if it’s two people who want to pork.”
“Excuse me?”
“Or if they just want to be super best friends,” Jem added hurriedly.
Tean grabbed his gear bag, two high-powered flashlights, and several disposable gloves. He also grabbed bottled water.
“We need to get you a daypack,” Tean said, handing Jem one of the bottles of water.
“I’ll carry your bag.”
“No, it’s fine.”
But Jem was already pulling it off Tean and slinging it over his own shoulder. “You’ve had a bad night. And I’ve made it worse. Let me do something nice for you.”
“Oh. Thanks. Although you were the one who got kicked in the head.”
“But I have a very thick skull. Besides, I want to dig through your bag and steal any good meds.” Jem flashed a huge smile, the real one that showed his crooked front teeth. “Kidding.”
“Not funny.”
“Too soon?”
“Not funny on general principle.”
They left the Ford on the BLM road, scrambling down the rocky shoulder until they reached the flat pan of the valley. Tufts of panic grass whispered against Tean’s khakis; when Jem’s leg caught on a Russian thistle, the crackle of dry vegetation exploded in the valley’s stillness. The sound echoed back, somehow even louder, and the name amphitheater no longer seemed quite as silly.
“What about snakes?”
“What about them?”
Jem kicked a chunk of rock off into a shadowy clump of sage; something darted out—a kangaroo rat, or maybe a packrat—and Jem jumped.
Catching Jem’s arm, Tean steadied him and fought a smile.
“Do not laugh.”
“Never.” Tean cleared his throat. “As the desert gets cooler at night, most of the snakes become less active.”
“Less? Less isn’t the same as ‘dead and will never move or rattle or bite me again.’”
“Well, very few of them are active by day during the summer, and their activity level at night depends on the temperature, how quickly they can feed, that kind of thing.”
“So I’m supposed to hope that these snakes have full tummies and they won’t bother me?”
“Well, mostly you’re supposed to pay attention, look, listen, and stop moving if you spot one. They don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
Jem mumbled something, and the words snake and my dick were the only part Tean could make out. Tean laughed quietly and released his arm.
“I didn’t say let go,” Jem growled.
When Tean took his arm again, Jem moved closer, a whiff of antiseptic floating with him. He remembered Jem’s pallor, the way he shook when Tean touched him. Another broken place. Another door that Jem had nailed shut because it hurt too much to open—even though life had a way of opening those doors again and again.
They found the slot canyon easily, and Tean scowled as he played the flashlight back and forth. “Those morons ruined the scene.”
“Almost like they meant to,” Jem said.
Tean frowned.
“I’m not saying they did,” Jem said. “But if they didn’t, they ought to hand in their badges and start setting pins at a bowling alley.” Adjusting the weight of the gear bag, he said, “What did you mean, this was all wrong?”
“Two things,” Tean said. “The first thing I should have realized—the first thing anybody should have realized—is that a herd of horses is unlikely to stampede into a narrow space like a slot canyon. They stampede because they’re in a panic, and panicked animals are trying to get away from whatever they perceive as a threat. A lot of stampedes do happen at night, and the causes can seem insignificant—something as trivial as a tumbleweed can get a herd panicked and running. But stampeding animals wouldn’t ordinarily choose to run into a cramped space.”
“So somebody forced them up the canyon.”
“I think so. Cowboys can turn stampedes—they’ll do it to keep a herd from running straight into a river, for example, or off a cliff. And some Native Americans tribes would steer buffalo stampedes off of buffalo jumps, so they could harvest the animals after they fell to their death.”
“How do they do it?”
“Well, now they typically use a loud noise. Pistols are still common. The key is to turn the leaders of the stampede; the rest of the herd will follow.”
“So,” Jem said, “if they could force the leaders of the stampede into the mouth of the canyon, the rest of the herd would go too.”
“In theory.”
Jem seemed to think about this for a moment. “It sounds dangerous.”
“It is. I mean, you’re either on a horse or, in some cases, on an ATV. You’re trying to direct a terrified animal that’s capable of crushing you, and another fifty or hundred other animals—more, in a lot of cases—right behind it.”
“So we’re talking about someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“I think so.”
“It wasn’t Tanner, then. Not that part”
“No, I don’t think so either.”
Jem’s blond eyebrows arched. “Why
do you say that?”
“Because this required two people. What was your reason?”
“Because I knew him, and he was a massive tool who didn’t like animals.” Jem scanned the valley and the slot canyon again. “Two people. One to start the stampede and keep them moving this direction, and another to turn them into the canyon.”
“Minimum. A larger team would be ideal, but when you’re covering up a murder and faking a death, you probably want to reduce the number of people involved.”
“Jager.”
“We don’t know that.”
Those blond eyebrows went up again.
Tean sighed. “Yes, probably Jager. He’s worked for the BLM for decades. Even if he’s only an indifferent rider, with all that experience, he’d probably be able to manage something like this.”
“But they weren’t just firing into the air to scare the horses. They were shooting them.”
Tean nodded.
“That was Tanner,” Jem said. “The sick little fuck would have gotten off on something like that.”
“So we’re back to the same question: why would Jager help Tanner?”
“Greed or fear.” Jem glanced around again, his gaze moving more slowly as he panned the flashlight. “God, you weren’t kidding. It looks like they had a tractor pull out here. There’s no way we’re going to be able to find anything, not after they trampled everything.”
“Actually, that was the second thing.”
“What?”
Tean cleared his throat. “Well, the stampede obviously started somewhere else. That’s the other thing I should have realized. We need to see where it got started.”
“How do you know this kind of stuff?”
“How do you know that saying Reagonomics and proto-receipts and who knows what else will convince someone to give you info about credit card transactions?”
His grin was incandescent. “Because I’m a scumbag. You, on the other hand, are brilliant.”
“I’ve just spent a lot of time reading things most people don’t read.”
Jem’s eyes were fixed on him, so intense even by moonlight that Tean had to look away.
Tean cleared his throat and said, “It’ll be more difficult at night, but I think it’s worth a shot.”
“And you’re easy on the eyes. Have I mentioned that?”
“From here on out, we need to be quiet so we don’t startle any animals.”
Tean started away from the canyon, his steps tracing a half-circle as he covered the ground near the red-rock cliffs. Jem kept pace, the gear bag making a soft thunking noise against his hip. The smell of Onion Creek blew toward them from farther up the valley: mud, and a note of heavy-metal bitterness that Tean didn’t miss.
“You might be the gentlest person I’ve ever met,” Jem said, his voice barely louder than their steps scuffing across the alkali hardpan. “I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you. It’s not about you; my brain knows I can count on you. Let you help me. It’s just hard. I don’t know how to say it. It’s—it’s terrifying, actually.”
“I shot a door,” Tean said. “And one time I clubbed a guy with your dirty sock. I’m not that gentle.”
“It was a clean sock. And that door had it coming.” Jem let out a breath slowly. “I didn’t say thank you. That’s what I’m trying to say. And I’m sorry.”
Tean shrugged. “What is a casual acquaintance for?”
“Platonic soulmate, you mean.”
“The relationship equivalent of two mismatched socks tumbling together in a dryer.”
“Did you know you’ve got a cute butt?”
Stumbling, Tean would have fallen except Jem caught his arm. “Now would be a good time for those ball gags I saw you researching on your phone.”
Jem’s face darkened, the change visible even in the weak light. “I was—that was—” He coughed, spat, and said, “A friend asked me, you know, to give my opinion.” Then he leveled a finger at Tean. “And I just want you to admit one good thing about yourself. Say, ‘I have a perky butt.’ Say it.”
“Jem—”
“No, I want to hear you say it. ‘I, Teanemic Mahogany Leon, have a butt as perky as cherries jubilee.’ Or say you’re smart. Or you’re kind. Or you’re funny, but like a black hole.”
“Jem—”
“Say it, or we’re going to have a fight. A real one.”
“Jem, in the first place, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. More importantly, the stampede came this way.” He gestured at the hundred-yard span ahead of them, where brush and scrub had been trampled and broken. “Come on.”
They followed the trail of destruction. It crossed a shallow wash of sand and loose rocks, and it ended at a narrow stream. Tean played his flashlight over the churned mud and the accumulation of tracks.
“They came here to drink. See how some of the tracks are baked into the ground? This was a place they visited frequently. This is where they were startled into a stampede.”
“Is that Onion Creek?” Jem asked.
Tean shook his head. “Onion Creek isn’t potable. Too many toxic things leach into the water from deposits in the ground. Arsenic and sulfur, I think, although I might be remembering that wrong. This is a tributary, and it must be clean enough that the horses are willing to drink from it.”
“He was here. Tanner, I mean.”
“I think so. Close enough to see the herd, definitely.”
“No, look: tire tracks.”
Tean raked the light at an oblique angle. Near the stream’s bank, where the soil was soft, a tire had left clear impressions. Jem took several pictures.
“Let’s see what else the fucker left,” Jem said.
They stuck together for the search; Jem groused whenever Tean let go of his arm, and Tean didn’t mind working a spiral pattern together. It didn’t take long before Jem called out and pointed to a flash of brass. A rifle casing. Jem photographed it, and they moved on. They found another. And then another. And then they found a cigarette butt, the white paper glowing when the flashlight’s beam skimmed across it.
“Careless,” Tean said.
“Or intentional,” Jem said.
Tean moved back toward the stream, trying to gauge if Tanner—or whoever the shooter was—had gotten any closer to the herd while firing. Jem, with a strange look on his face, moved off into the darkness, his flashlight bobbing from side to side. His disappearance barely registered until he called Tean’s name, his voice sharp.
Tean picked a path through the scrub in the direction of Jem’s call. He stopped when he smelled putrefaction, and then he hurried.
Jem was standing at the lip of a ravine, where the ground dropped away into darkness. At the edge of the flashlight’s reach lay a dead man, his body bloated, the skin split and slipping. A white man with dark hair.
“Is that—”
“Blake. That’s Blake.” Rage choked the words. “So who the fuck did we find back in that canyon?”
23
“Either you get in your truck,” Ammon said, “or you go to jail.”
Jem was too tired to care why Chief Nobles, Sheriff McEneany, and Trooper Haggerty didn’t want to talk to them again after the first round of interviews. Jem was also too focused on Jager to give the issue much thought. The BLM special agent stood off by himself, just within the ring of floodlights that had been set up to illuminate the scene. The only indication Jager gave of their encounter earlier was the way he carried himself, his posture slightly off, favoring the two stab wounds Jem had delivered with the sharpened tip of the barrette. Jem barely heard what Ammon was saying; his attention was fixed on Jager, willing the agent to try something—anything—again.
“Come on,” Tean said, tugging on Jem’s sleeve. “Before you start growling.”
Jem let Tean lead him back to the truck, and when the doc wasn’t looking, he swallowed two more of the pills he’d bought off that trucker. They d
rove to the lodge, where Scipio, fully rested, decided now was the perfect time to play. They indulged him for as long as they could, letting the Lab run on the lodge’s impossibly green grass—mostly, he inspected sticks and marked the trunks of the pinyon pines. The Colorado murmured at the edge of the lodge’s electric lighting, and then it spread a blanket of currents and spangled eddies, the stars caught up in deadfalls and bobbing in the riffles. Jem started out of a doze at the touch of Tean’s hand, and his first thought was that sometimes people woke from nightmares and spells with a kiss.
“I don’t think you’ve slept in three days. Let’s get you to bed.”
He came close to sleep. He went to a white-walled place where hands grabbed him, held him, where he’d run and they caught him every time. When Jem jerked up from the pillow, the stitches pulled, and a headache throbbed to life. Scipio was standing on his back, all four paws firmly planted, barking.
“Oh my actual fuck,” Jem moaned, pulling the pillow over his head.
“Down,” Tean was saying, obviously trying to keep his voice low. “Scipio, down.”
Jem tried to roll over, but Scipio was surprisingly heavy, and the Lab didn’t have any trouble adjusting his balance to stay directly on top of Jem when Jem shifted.
“Oh my actual ever-fucking fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” Tean whispered. “Ammon called, and Scipio went crazy.”
“Is he part mountain goat?”
“Why would Ammon be part mountain goat?”
Jem packed the pillow down more tightly over his ears.
“Oh,” Tean said after a moment. “Scipio. Right.”
“Please kill me.”
“Go back to sleep. Scipio, down. Right now.”