Rough Country

by John Sandford

  They heard a car turn in at the driveway, and Slibe got up to look. “It’s that Zoe,” he said.

  “I called her,” Wendy said.

  “What the fuck for?” Berni asked.

  “Because she’s smarter than we are, and she knows about things like contracts and taxes,” Wendy said. “And besides, she’s in love with me, so we don’t have to pay her.”

  “She’s a pain in the ass,” Slibe said. “And she hates my guts.”

  Zoe knocked, and Slibe let her in. She said, “Slibe,” and he said, “Zoe.”

  ZOE TOOK THE CONTRACT, saying, “I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Just read the thing,” Wendy said.

  Zoe went into the kitchen to do that.

  Slibe said to Windrow, “But if you don’t want them, even if they do make an album, but it doesn’t sell that well, then you can throw them away.”

  Windrow nodded: “Absolutely. The contract is written in my favor, because I’m the one taking the risk here. Show me a bank mortgage where it says the buyer doesn’t have to pay, if he doesn’t feel like it. Bullshit, there are no bank contracts like that. They all favor the bank. In this deal, I’m the bank.”

  THEY WERE ALL SITTING in the living room area of the trailer-home, Windrow closest to the exit, which was near the middle of the trailer, Wendy and Berni on a long couch against the end wall. Windrow was looking at Berni when he thought he saw something move behind the venetian blind, where the bottom blade of the blind was bent. Something like an eye, but then it was gone, leaving nothing but the gathering darkness.

  Zoe came back, handed the paper to Wendy, and asked, “What do you want to know?”

  “Basically, if I should sign it,” Wendy said.

  “I can’t tell you that. Depends on what you want to do. I don’t know anything about this Spodee-Odee. Is it a big deal?”

  “Pretty big deal,” Wendy said.

  “According to this guy,” Slibe said, nodding at Windrow.

  “We’re not the biggest club in the country, but we’re up there,” Windrow said.

  “Well, I’ve seen a few contracts with writers, and it looks like those. Mr. Windrow is sort of acting as an agent here. That’s the fifteen percent part. Of course, if you get another agent, he’ll also want fifteen percent . . . but you don’t have to pay Mr. Windrow if you play, you know. Depending on how much money is involved at that point, you could decide to go either way. Unless . . .”

  Wendy: “Unless what?”

  “Unless the band breaks up and you quit singing,” Zoe said. “I don’t see what happens then.”

  “One of two things,” Windrow said. “If she wins the lottery and is worth a hundred million bucks and doesn’t want to sing, I sue her, hoping to get a piece of the hundred million bucks. The second thing would be, she doesn’t win the lottery, the band breaks up, she quits singing, goes to work in a diner, and what the fuck would I sue her for? Half of her next cheeseburger? If that happens, I wave it off. There’s no profit in going after what doesn’t exist.”

  “That’s some pretty fancy tap-dancing right there,” Slibe said.

  Wendy started flipping through the contract. “What about this chick O’Hara? It says we’ve got to take O’Hara while we’re with you. How about if we kept Berni for that month?”

  Windrow said, “Bite the bullet, Wendy. O’Hara’s the best female drummer out there, who’s loose. She’d fit you guys like a glove. Divorced, no kids, and she’s looking for a new band. I’ll make the deal with her, she’ll come up here and work out with you. And Berni can start working on her front act, right up on stage with you, singing backup, showing off, playing the tambourine, maybe. Strut-tin’ her stuff.”

  “Fuckin’ tambourine,” Berni said, and she dropped her face into her hands, and again, Windrow saw the flash behind the venetian blind. Was there somebody out there?

  Wendy put her hand on Berni’s thigh and said, “We can do it. We can make you into the hottest thing on the stage. I’ve got these big cow tits, but you’re what every cowboy wants. . . . It’ll work.”

  Slibe said, “Something else about this contract . . .”

  SO THEY ARGUED into the evening, watching the clock, and finally Wendy turned to Slibe and said, “We gotta get down to the Goose. But I’m gonna do it. I gotta talk to the other guys, but I’m gonna do it.”

  And to Windrow: “Are you in town overnight?”

  “Yup.”

  “So let’s get together at the studio tomorrow, we can talk to everybody at the same time, and I’ll give you the contract. You coming to the Goose?”

  “Gonna get something to eat first, if you got a recommendation.”

  Wendy looked at Zoe, who said, “Probably . . . the Duck Inn. Right downtown.”

  “This is bullshit,” Slibe said. “I say we take the whole thing to a lawyer tomorrow. What’s the rush?”

  “No big one-day, two-day rush,” Windrow said. “But I’ve got to get somebody lined up, quick. I got a hole I’m trying to fill. You take it, fine. You don’t—well, we’re lining up people for next summer and fall. That’d be your next shot with us. If Johnny Ray hadn’t drove his Mustang into a ditch, there wouldn’t be this hole.”

  “I’m doing it,” Wendy said. “I’m doing it.”

  18

  ZOE SPOKE.

  Virgil put his hands on his head and asked, “What the hell you mean you can’t find him? We talked to him. We saw him coming out of this place. . . .”

  Sig said, “The Duck Inn.”

  “. . . three hours ago. He’s probably back at his motel—”

  “He’s not,” Zoe said. “I went over there and knocked on his door. I even went out to the airport and talked with Zack.”

  “Airport guy,” Sig said.

  “And Jud’s plane is still parked there.”

  “Probably in a bar.”

  “I cruised all the downtown bars. He was supposed to be there right at seven.”

  Virgil looked at his watch and turned to Sig. “I must’ve picked you up about then.”

  “I looked at the clock just before you got here and it wasn’t quite seven.”

  “So we must’ve got down to the Duck place at . . .”

  “Maybe ten after.”

  “So he was already running late,” Zoe said. “He doesn’t know anybody in town, he told us that. I couldn’t find him. Wendy and Berni and Cat are out looking for him. . . . I mean maybe he’s drunk out in a ditch somewhere. . . .”

  “Wasn’t drunk when we saw him,” Sig said, picking up some of her sister’s anxiety.

  Virgil said, “Aw, fuck me. If that guy’s off on a toot somewhere . . . Do we know what kind of car he was driving?”

  “It was a red Jeep Commander,” Zoe said. “He was out talking to Wendy this afternoon, when I went out there. I left at the same time he did, so I saw the car.”

  Virgil went out to his truck, got his phone, and called Sanders. “This may be a complete false alarm, but maybe not: we need to get your guys looking for a red Jeep Commander driven by a guy named Jud Windrow. . . .”

  SIG SAID, “Virgil—go.”

  He didn’t want to. “This isn’t an investigation, it’s a search,” he protested. “All I could do is go out and drive around.”

  “I can see what’s going through your head, okay? We can’t do this, not with you all cranked up, looking at your watch every two minutes. You’re going to be getting phone calls. So go. Find the guy. I’ll be here.” She smiled at him. “I don’t really think anything’ll break off.”

  HE WOUND UP in the driveway with Zoe, and said, “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, what was I supposed to do, Virgil?” she asked.

  “Yeah, yeah . . .”

  She said, “I do feel bad. Siggy likes men, and since Joe’s been gone . . . and Joe . . .”

  “What about Joe?”

  “Joe’s a heck of a guy,” Zoe said. “He wanders off, like this, and it’s no way to have a marriage, but he was a heck of a
guy and she misses having a guy around. You know, if he’d been an asshole or something, maybe she’d want to sign off men. But Joe wasn’t. Isn’t. He’s funny, he’s hot, and he’s sort of . . . out there. And I know she needs something like that. You guys are going to be good together.”

  “Christ, maybe you should have married Joe, if he was such a heck of a guy.”

  “Virgil . . .”

  “All right. I’m going,” Virgil said. “And you know what? Fuck a bunch of Joes.”

  DRIVING BACK TOWARD TOWN, he had a thought, pulled into a driveway, found his notebook, and called Prudence Bauer, in Iowa. She picked up on the second ring, and he identified himself: “I hate to bother you, but Jud Windrow didn’t call you this evening, did he?”

  “No. Why would he?”

  “Well, I got the impression that you were friends; I thought he might have given you a ring. He’s going to sign up Wendy.”

  “Virgil, we’re friends, slightly, but he was really friends with Connie,” Bauer said. “Now tell me the truth: have you lost him?”

  “Temporarily,” Virgil said.

  She said, “Oh my God, no,” and he regretted calling.

  “We don’t know that anything happened,” he said.

  “But you think that, or you wouldn’t have called,” she snapped. “Don’t lie to me, young man.”

  “We’d like to find him,” Virgil conceded.

  “You should call his ex-wife. Her name is Irma Windrow, and she still works at the Spodee-Odee as the bookkeeper. They’re very close,” she said.

  VIRGIL DID THAT.

  “We’re trying to get in touch about this, uh, contract he was working out with Wendy Ashbach,” Virgil said.

  “Haven’t heard a thing—he usually calls around ten o’clock. It’s past that, so, you know, he doesn’t always call . . .”

  She knew nothing—but Windrow hadn’t called in.

  Virgil’s annoyance was shifting to alarm.

  THE SHERIFF CALLED BACK. “We got the tag number from the rental place, and did a quick run-through in town, didn’t find him. We’re gonna spread out. What’re you doing?”

  “I’m going out to Ashbach’s place. That’s where he was before he disappeared—this whole damned thing has to do with the Ashbachs. I don’t know which one, but it’s one of them.”

  “Where you at?”

  “Just going past the Arby’s.”

  “Pull in there, at Arby’s. If you’re going out to Ashbach’s. I’m going to send a couple guys along with you.”

  VIRGIL PULLED IN, left the motor running, and three or four minutes later, a sheriff ’s car pulled in and he got out to talk.

  The two cops were called Ben and Dan, both large, beefy guys with blue eyes and butt-crack chins, and Virgil said, “It’s my personal opinion that one of the Ashbachs is involved in all this. I want to keep everything calm when we go in there, because this shooter knows how to use a weapon and he’s crazy. Okay? Got your vests? When we get there, I want you to behave like it was a ‘shots heard’ situation. Don’t get right next to each other so he could spray you. Let me go in, while you stay back. You got a rifle? Lay the rifle flat on the backseat and when you get out, open a back door and stand behind it, just in case.”

  WHEN HE FINISHED the briefing, and thought Ben and Dan understood the problem, he led the way through the dark to Slibe’s. The farther in they got, the more the dark seemed to close down on them, like India ink spilling across the sky, and the more the trees seemed to hang down low over the road; and when they got on the gravel track, the narrower the road seemed to get, and the shorter the headlight beams, like the lead-in to a horror movie.

  They went past the red mailbox that marked the last house before Slibe’s, saw lights in a garage and what was probably the kitchen, and then they were at the end of the road. Slibe’s house was dark, though an outdoor light cast a pink glow over the yard. Virgil could see a light in the kennel, up toward the peak of the roof, and a couple of lights in Wendy’s double-wide. Two cars were parked outside the double-wide, and Slibe’s truck was parked in front of his house.

  Virgil tapped the brakes three or four times to tell the deputies that they’d arrived, then turned past the no trespassing sign, rolled by the sprawling garden, into the yard.

  VIRGIL WENT TO THE DOUBLE-WIDE, lights trailing across the windows. He saw a curtain move as he got out of the truck, and a flash of Wendy’s face, and then the door popped open and Wendy, with Berni behind her, asked, “Did you find him?”

  “No.” He was aware of the two deputies lounging behind their car. Good.

  “Did he go back to Iowa?” Berni asked, over Wendy’s shoulder.

  “His plane’s still at the airport,” Virgil said. He looked around and then asked Wendy, “Where’s your old man? And your brother?”

  “Dad’s down at the house, the Deuce, I don’t know—but he was here earlier. He didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  A door slammed on Slibe’s house and Virgil turned that way and saw Slibe coming off the porch, and he glanced at the deputies—one of them nodded and said something to the other, in a low voice.

  Wendy said, “Berni told us about you beating her up this afternoon.”

  Slibe came up and asked, “What the hell’s going on?”

  Virgil said, “Jud Windrow’s gone missing.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?”

  The question was too sharp and too quick, Virgil thought, too defensive, and he could feel something uncoil in his brain.

  “He was last seen here, talking with you people,” Virgil said. “The night before McDill was shot, she spent with your daughter. Your daughter was going to sign with Jud once before, except her contact got strangled down in Iowa. That suggest anything to you?”

  “Yeah, my daughter’s getting fucked over by somebody,” Slibe said.

  “WHERE WERE YOU TONIGHT around seven o’clock—and where was your son?” Virgil asked.

  “I was here. The meeting broke up, and Jud took off and the girls took off because they were playing. I fed the dogs and worked with a couple of them until it got dark.”

  “What about your son?”

  Slibe glanced toward the kennel, then said, “He’s gone walkabout. I saw him loading up his pack and told him I needed some help with the dogs. He said he didn’t have time, and he got his rifle and headed out.”

  “On foot?”

  “Yeah, of course on foot. They don’t call it drive-about,” Slibe said. “Anyway, Jud was okay when he left here, everybody saw him. How’s the Deuce gonna follow him into town, on foot? Carrying a rifle?”

  “Jud was going to the Duck Inn,” Wendy chipped in.

  Virgil looked at the three of them, running his tongue along his lower lip: goddamnit, they were lying. Had to be. Someplace along the line . . .

  Berni said, “You know who did it? If Jud’s gone? It’s your girlfriend, Zoe.”

  Virgil said, “We’ve looked at Zoe and ruled her out.”

  “Why? Because of her ass?” Wendy asked. “Let me tell you, she doesn’t do as much with it as you’d think.”

  “She’s the one who told Jud to go to the Duck Inn, so she’d know where he was,” Berni said, pressing.

  “She runs all over the place up here, doing her taxes,” Slibe said. “You see her car anywhere, you just think, she’s doing her accounting.”

  “She might have heard I was with McDill,” Wendy said. “She was all over the lodge the day after me and McDill got together and somebody might have seen us. She sure knew McDill well enough that she could have known that she went down to see the eagles every night.”

  Virgil thought about the bartender: the bartender had seen Wendy with McDill. Had somebody else?

  Wendy looked at her father and Berni. “And that lady who got killed down in Iowa . . . that’s when Zoe and I started hanging a little bit. That was . . . two years ago. It was.” She turned back to Virgil: “Jesus Christ, Virgil: it was Zoe.” />
  Virgil felt the corner he’d been pushed into: they were making a spontaneous case—maybe—but it sounded good, and he had no absolute rebuttal.

  To Slibe, he said, “I want to see your son. I don’t care where he’s gone, you get him and tell him I want to talk to him. And if I don’t hear from him by tomorrow, I’m gonna start a manhunt. We’ll dig him out of the brush. . . .”

  Slibe snorted: “Fat chance.”

  “I’ll find him,” Virgil said, holding Slibe’s eyes for a moment.

  Slibe didn’t flinch, stared back, his eyes like black marbles: “What? You’re gonna frame him? The Deuce didn’t do it. And why would he, anyway?”

  No speakable answer to that, Virgil thought. Because he wanted to fuck his sister? Because he was afraid she’d go away and never come back?

  Virgil said, “I want to see him. Tomorrow.” He turned and headed back to his truck, nodded at the deputies, who got in their car. He climbed inside when Wendy screamed at him, “Zoe did it. Zoe did it, you asshole.”

  VIRGIL LED THE WAY out, drove until they were out of sight, then pulled over and the squad pulled over behind him. He walked back and asked, “Either one of you know, or could you find out, where Jan Washington lives?”

  “Sure. She’s out south of the river. . . .”

  Virgil got directions and looked at his watch. Midnight. Well, screw it, if Washington’s husband was home, he could get out of bed. He asked the deputies, “What’d you think back there?”

  They glanced at each other, then one said, “I got this bad feeling about them.”

  “So do I—they’re all a little too tangled up,” the other one said. “I kinda wonder about Wendy and her old man. I wonder if he knocked off a piece of that, like, maybe, years ago, or something.”