by Joanna Bell
"Hey."
I stared at the word for a minute, maybe longer, wondering if more would follow. None did. It was almost ten o'clock in Montana, which meant it was almost midnight in D.C. Ninety-nine percent chance Matt had been out drinking and was now texting me on the off-chance that I'd respond and he could spend a good half-hour rambling about how much he missed me. Unfortunately for Matt, I was finished with listening to him. We'd been broken up for years, since the end of undergrad – a breakup I'd seen coming, and dreaded, for almost my entire senior year. Surprisingly, when it actually happened I seemed to have an easier time of it, rather than Matt. He still contacted me every six months or so when he was bored or drunk or just didn't know what to do with himself.
Did I miss him? No. Yes. Well, I missed how it had been at the beginning of our relationship, when he used to look at me in that way of his, when he used to smile every time he saw me. I did not miss how it was at the end, after it degenerated into a stalemate of me being almost constantly aggrieved and Matt steadfastly refusing to acknowledge or deal with any of my grievances, whether or not they were justified. I remember saying to him, during one of our last conversations, that he seemed to want all of the benefits of having a devoted girlfriend, but none of the responsibilities. And he was still doing it, still texting me out of the blue whenever he felt the need, as if it had yet to occur to him that people need things back in exchange for their care and attention.
I should have blocked him a long time ago. I planned to, when I got back to D.C. But that evening in Montana, I was almost grateful for the reminder of my life back at home. It was an odd little town, Little Falls, tiny and tucked away from any major roads, almost eerily quiet at night.
The next day I stayed in my motel room reading up on the McMurtry case. I already knew it pretty well, but what else was I going to do? Go sightseeing? There was nothing to see. At a quarter to eight I put on a lighter weight skirt suit and headed out to Sweetgrass Ranch, determined to get something out of Jack McMurtry's grandson.
It was dusk when I arrived, and there were no signs of anyone being home besides a single porch light shining outside the front door. The dwelling was one of those old, rambling Victorian-style farmhouses, complete with a single towering oak tree out front. I parked by the front gate and walked up the long driveway, noticing the way the air smelled different than it did in the city. Not of restaurants, perfume and car exhaust but of the outdoors, of vegetation and what I think might have been hay. It wasn't unpleasant, even if the quietness of the place still made me uneasy.
I knocked on the front door and waited for a few seconds, thinking to myself that Jack McMurtry would be a very stupid man to try to avoid me. But just as I was about to walk back to my car, the sound of footsteps inside reached my ears and I waited.
"Blaze Wilson."
"Good evening, Jack," I replied, conscious of how badly he'd reacted to being called 'sir' and 'mister' the previous day and eager to keep things civil – for as long as possible, anyway.
"I suppose you want to come in?"
I chuckled. "The way you say that makes it sound like I'm some kind of vampire, but yes, thank you, I do need somewhere to put all this paper –"
"Well that kind of is what you are, isn't it?"
"Hm?" I asked, not understanding the question and distracted by the task at hand.
"A vampire," Jack said, holding the door open for me in a way that managed to silently convey the exact opposite of a welcome. "That's a fair assessment, isn't it?"
It's not like I'm not used to dealing with hostility – I am. And usually I'm good at dealing with it, good at defusing it – it's one of the reasons I was made a special agent when I was barely 25. But Jack McMurtry was getting under my skin in a way I wasn't happy about.
"A bloodsucker?" I chuckled, a little too brightly. "I've never been called one of those before."
Jack harrumphed and led me down a long hallway and into an enormous, shabby (and not in a good way) kitchen and gestured to a table crowded with unopened mail, flyers and various junk. I spotted the IRS logo on some of the unopened letters and picked one of them up.
"Look at this," I chided. "If you'd opened your mail, maybe you could have saved us both some time?"
That's generally how I handle interactions like that one. I'm the good cop. And then, later, I can be the bad cop. But first I always try to give the person I'm interviewing a sense that I'm on their side, that I want to help. Which I do.
Jack McMurtry wasn't having any of it. He didn't even sit down. He put his hands flat on the table and leaned over it, looking right at me. "There's no need for that, Ms. Wilson."
"No need for what?" I asked, feigning innocence as I cleared a spot on the table for my laptop.
"For bullshit," Jack snapped. "There's no need for bullshit. I know why you're here. You know why you're here. So why don't you just tell me how much I owe and f– "
He caught himself before finishing the sentence, which I had the distinct impression would have concluded with '...and fuck right off."
"Fine," I shrugged, "we'll do it your way. It doesn't matter to me."
I don't think Jack was expecting that reaction from me. I think what he was trying to do was ruffle my feathers. He didn't know who he was dealing with. And when I didn't respond by getting angry or upset he backed off, as if suddenly remembering the manners his mother had taught him, and offered me a drink. "Do you want a coffee? Uh, tea? I think I have some of that herbal stuff in the cupboard. Might be some apple juice in the fridge, I'll just –"
"Just water, if you don't mind," I responded, not at all thirsty but not wanting to turn down a small conciliatory gesture.
Jack got up to get me my glass of water and I watched, taking in some of the little details I'd missed about him. For one, he appeared to be absolutely filthy. His jeans and his t-shirt appeared to be almost caked in a thick layer of – dust? Dirt? Also, he was wearing cowboy boots. I had never in my life seen a man wearing cowboy boots. Was he wearing them for show? Or did they have some kind of practical –
"Here you go."
Jack handed me a glass of water and I was glad of the low light in the kitchen, because he'd just caught me looking at him and my cheeks began to burn. What the hell? Where was the usual ice in my veins? I coughed and turned the laptop to face Jack, opening my mouth to launch into my spiel about payment plans and good faith agreements, but he spoke first.
"I work outdoors, you know."
"Huh?" I asked, scowling at myself over my seeming inability to concentrate. It must have been the traveling, I was probably more tired than I was willing to admit. "I mean, um, what was that?"
"I work outdoors," Jack repeated, half-smiling. "So you can stop looking at me like you're wondering when I last took a shower. It was this morning, for the record, I just didn't have time to clean up and change before you got here. Next time I'll be sure to scrub up nice."
"Alright," I said, refusing to be baited, "you wanted to know how much you owe."
I wasn't sure if Jack McMurtry had any idea how much he owed – or if he had any ability to pay. His grandfather's finances were murky at best, but as far as Pender and I could tell it was the kind of murky that came with being old and careless, not purposefully evasive. Jack ran a finger along the length of his left eyebrow, an oddly endearing gesture, and took a deep breath.
"Yeah, I do. And you said I owe this, right? Even though it was Blackjack's debt?"
"The taxes are owed on Sweetgrass Ranch," I explained. "Whoever owns the property owes the taxes. It's not quite that simple but we can get into it –"
"Sure, yeah," Jack replied quickly. "Yeah, just tell me."
Instead of telling him, I pointed to the laptop screen and leaned back in my chair, waiting to see if there was going to be fireworks.
Jack stared. He stared for so long, with no visibly change in his expression, that I started to wonder if he was missing it somehow. "It's just there," I said. "At the bottom right
."
The half-smile was gone and the lack of a response was almost worse than the protesting and yelling I'd gotten used to. "Jack?" I asked, figuring maybe talking about details might help. "I'm going to need to see your grandfather's death certificate, and any –"
"Sweetgrass Ranch has been in this family since 1884, you know. My great-great-great-great-grandfather bought this land and settled down here with my great-great-great-great-grandmother after they got married. Every single person on my dad's side of the family was raised in this house – this is the original house. Most of them are buried here, too. Some day I'm sure –"
As Jack spoke, his voice got louder and faster until the words were just tumbling out. I knew I had to put a stop to it.
"Jack," I said, gently. "Jack, no one is saying you're going to lose the ranch. I'm not here to –"
"BULLSHIT!" He bellowed, slamming his hands down on the table so hard the laptop jumped. "Bullshit, lady. No one is saying I'm going to lose the ranch. But I am, aren't I? Because if you think I've got that kind of money – if you think I've got almost two million dollars just laying around...!" He trailed off, obviously furious, and paced up and down the kitchen.
"Do you have siblings?" I asked, not at all perturbed. "It's not like you have to come up with a lump sum right this minute. Maybe other family members could help with a payment plan?"
As quickly as he'd blown up, Jack suddenly sat down and put his head in his hands. "You don't understand," he said, so quietly I had to lean in closer to hear him. "This whole family has fallen apart. Yeah, I've got siblings, but I don't know where any of them are. Except for Connor, and he won't be interested in saving this place, believe me. I'm fucked, Ms. Wilson. I'm truly fucked."
There was no self-pity evident in Jack McMurtry's tone. I surprised myself by almost feeling bad for him – and I never feel bad for people who don't pay their taxes. Why should they get away with it when the rest of us don't? It appeared to be a situation not of his own doing, though, which made it easier to sympathize.
"Do you have your grandfather's death certificate?" I asked after a brief silence. "I'm going to need a copy for my records – I can bring it back to you before I leave or mail it from D.C., it's up to you."
Jack ignored my question. "So how long do I have? Before you kick me out, I mean?"
I held back the frustrated note that wanted to creep into my voice – it wasn't surprising that Jack was all over the place after the news he'd just received. "We're not there just yet, Mr. – uh, I mean, Jack. Surely you have some assets? Some savings? The IRS isn't actually hell-bent on taking people's property away from them – in fact I think you'll find we're quite amenable to –"
"Payment plans, I know. Listen, Ms. Wilson?"
"Yes?"
"I think you should leave now."
I waited a few seconds before responding. "Jack, we haven't even begun. I need a lot of things from you – forms, declarations, information – that's why we arranged this meeting."
"Yeah, I know. But I just found out I'm going to lose the family property – that that's going to be on my head. We can talk until the cows come home, but I don't have anything like that amount of money and there's really not much talking is going to fix now, is there?"
He wasn't hearing me. I tried again. "We can work something out, an agreement, a –"
"You're not hearing me."
I snapped my head up, surprised at Jack vocalizing the very thought that had just been in my own head –about him. "I'm sorry, what?" I asked. "I came out here to try and see if we could save your property. What needs to happen –"
"Do they test you before you're allowed to join the IRS?" Jack cut me off. "I'm just wondering what level of psychopathy a person needs to achieve before they can make a living taking the things people have spent their whole lives working for away from them. Do you need to be truly heartless, or will they settle for just a little mean?"
He was staring at me from across the table, his gorgeous blue eyes appraising me coldly, as if I were something awful he'd just found on the bottom of his shoe. It wasn't the first time I'd been looked at in that way. I closed my laptop slowly and began gathering the papers I hadn't even finished laying out on the table.
"You're right, Mr. McMurtry. Maybe it would be a better idea if we continued this – when? Tomorrow?" Instead of looking at him, I busied myself getting ready to leave.
"But you didn't answer my question."
"I'm not here to answer questions about anything other than your taxes," I replied tightly, shoving the laptop into my briefcase and starting down the hallway that led back to the front door. "If you have a question about that, feel free."
"That's real handy, isn't it?" Jack shouted after me as I opened the door. "You're a perfect goddamned stranger and you show up here expecting me to answer your questions like some naughty schoolboy, and you don't even have the decency to do the same? I told you none of this mess is my fault, and you're still looking at me like I'm some kind of criminal –"
"Now, Jack, that isn't what I –"
"Save it, lady. Save it for someone who buys it. Look at you, you can't even look me in the eye. Touched a nerve, did I? Got a little –"
"No you did not touch a goddamned nerve!" I yelled back, realizing even as the words were leaving my mouth that I'd just officially lost the battle. I took a deep breath and held the door open, willing myself to meet Jack McMurtry's gaze. "You have to pay your taxes, Jack. That's how it works. That's how you get nice roads out here in the middle of nowhere to drive on and fire trucks and the infrastructure for you to go online from your home. Everyone benefits, and everyone pays in. Those who choose not to do so are stealing from the rest of us. So if you want me to feel bad about doing my job, you've got another thing coming you sanctimonious... presumptuous...!"
I slammed the door as emphasis when the perfect ending to my sentence, the one that would make Jack McMurtry instantly realize how wrong he was, evaded me. Well, I shut the door firmly – let's say that. Then I stomped down the driveway to the car, nearly tripping a couple of times on the uneven ground and completely enraged at myself for losing it like that. That was bad. Not just professionally, either. Don't get me wrong, it was unprofessional. But it was personal, too. I took pride in my cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor. It was my thing. And some handsome, broke jerk had just taken that away from me.
I slammed the car door behind me and turned the engine on, blasting the AC and doing some yoga breathing for a few minutes. It didn't work. Then I drove back to the motel, thinking of calling the D.C. office the next day and asking if it might be possible to send another agent out to deal with Jack McMurtry. I certainly didn't want to see that smug look on his face – the one that had been there when I finally cracked and yelled back – ever again.
In the morning, it somehow seemed less imperative to have another agent fly out to Montana. Making a request like that would have led to questions, and I knew perfectly well my answers to those questions would have been silly. The whole point of the job is to be tough, to have a thick skin, to always keep in mind that although what you're doing isn't popular, it is necessary. No, there was no way I was calling the office and telling them I was coming home early because some dirt-encrusted cowboy said a mean thing to me.
I was going to have to call Jack to arrange another meeting, though. Later. I glanced down at my phone. Not even nine a.m. What was I going to do with all my free time in Little Falls, Montana? I went to the front desk and asked the supremely bored looking clerk if there was a gym in town. She smiled.
"No, there's no gym here. Not enough people I guess. Besides, anyone who wants to get some exercise just goes for a hike in the foothills."
"The foothills?" I asked, thinking maybe a hike would be just the thing to burn off a little of my nervous energy before setting up another meeting with Jack. "Are they close to town?"
The clerk swung her arm wide in the direction of the plate-glass window behind me. "They're all around
you. Little Falls is in the foothills – you can just drive down to the end of Main Street and turn left on Paddock Road. Keep going until the road turns to dirt and you'll see signs for the trails. Or you can drive out of town, too, but you should probably get some bear spray if you want to do that."
I laughed. "Yeah, I think I'll stay within the city limits."
"And take an umbrella," the clerk called after me. "There might be some thunderstorms coming in off the mountains."
"Thanks!" I called over my shoulder, barely even hearing what she'd said about thunderstorms and certainly not registering it as anything I needed to be concerned about.
Two days of living on disgusting canned food, two days away from the gym and the yoga studio – I was feeling pretty gross. I followed the clerk's instructions and pulled over a few minutes after the asphalt on Paddock Road ended, in front of a sign that said "Foothills Trail." As far as I could remember I'd never been hiking in my life, and unbeknownst to me I was not at all dressed for it. There were no trees, the landscape was just grassy rolling hills, all leading up, in the distance, to the Rocky Mountains. I felt better almost immediately. I felt so good, in fact, that I didn't stop to check the time or the distance I'd gone until a good forty-five minutes later when my feet became so hot in their heavy sneakers that I was tempted to go barefoot the rest of the way.
The sun was higher in the sky by then, too, and it wasn't just my feet that were hot. A tiny little whisper of worry crept into my mind when I tried to check on my phone how long the trail was and realized there was no signal. No big deal, just sit down and cool off, then go back the way you came.
I sat down just off the trail in the tall, dry summer grass, hoping maybe someone would come along and offer me some water. But the citizens of Little Falls were not out hiking on a weekday morning – I appeared to be alone. I was also, unfortunately, not cooling down at all. The sun was beating down onto my uncovered head and I realized, way too late, that I should probably have worn a hat. I stood up a few minutes later, when it became clear that sitting was offering no relief, and looked around.