The Dark Horse wl-5

by Craig Johnson

  “You bet.”

  I hung up, and my two deputies stared at me-Vic, of course, was the first to speak. “What the hell was that all about?”

  I studied the phone and thought about the conversation I thought I’d just had. “I believe I just had a warning shot from the Department of Justice fired across my bow.” They both studied me, but I changed the subject. “Ambien and Lunesta?”

  Sancho nudged his ball cap back. “What?”

  “I’m assuming they’re sleeping pills?”

  Vic glanced at Sancho and then at me, unwilling to let it go. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Nothing-just a bunch of political foolishness.” I picked the file back up and began studying the notations in the margin. “What’s this stuff about the FDA?”

  Saizarbitoria glanced at Vic, who continued to watch me, and then spoke. “Ambien was pulled by the FDA as unsafe, and then they suggested stronger warnings. They’re called sedative-hypnotics and they have a side effect known as ‘complex sleep-related behaviors.’ ”

  “You hear about this stuff in Rawlins?” The Basquo had been a corrections officer in the state’s extreme risk unit.

  “The Internet. When we got the report from DCI, I looked it up. Technically, it occurs during the slow-wave or deep stages of nonrapid eye movement sleep. The subject is usually incoherent though the eyes remain open, and there are cases where people dress, undress, cook, eat, and even drive cars-completely unaware.”

  I sat forward. “Wait, you have a computer?” Sancho had taken the office next to Vic’s but kept his door shut most of the time, an act I felt was somewhat antisocial, considering I didn’t even have a doorknob. I looked at Vic. “He has a computer?”

  She shrugged. “He knows how to use one.”

  “I could learn.” I studied the file. “Do you need a prescription for this stuff?”

  Sancho picked up his sandwich again. “Yes, but there were about twenty-seven million prescriptions written last year.”

  I flipped the sheets but couldn’t see anything about any prescribed medications. “Where did Mary Barsad get hers?”

  “There’s no mention of it in the report, but it was in her bloodstream.”

  I looked up at the Basquo; it was important information, but the young man seemed uninterested. “You figured that out from the blood tests?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “At any point, did you call down to Cheyenne and ask the investigators at DCI about this?”

  “Yeah, they seemed pretty upset that they hadn’t caught it.”

  I had gone back to the report. “I bet they did.”

  5

  October 21: six days earlier, afternoon.

  It had meant a great deal that Eric Boss had driven down from Billings just to have this conversation.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, Walt, but you’d be doing me a big favor. We’re into this one to the tune of close to nine million dollars, and if there’s any funny business I just want to make sure we’re not the ones footing the bill.”

  I sipped my coffee and slid it across the counter for Dorothy to refill. “What, exactly, is it you want me to do?”

  The insurance man pushed the bone-white, cattleman-style hat back on his head, and I noticed the golden crucifix hat pin that glinted in competition with Boss’s grin. “Well, nothing illegal.” He shifted the smile to the chief cook and bottle washer. “How good’s the pie today, honey?”

  She looked back at him more than just a little askance as she poured coffee. “Are you trying to get our sheriff in trouble?”

  “Nope.” He picked up his mug and winked at her from over the edge. “Just got a tough job and need a tough guy for it.”

  She placed the pot back on one of the burners and dumped the grounds from the other, readying it for a refill. “You get him hurt, and you’re gonna know what tough is.”

  Boss ignored her and reached down to pull up a leather satchel that was engraved with the words COWBOYS FOR CHRIST across the hand-tooled leather. He retrieved a thick file from the bag and put the pile of papers on the counter between us. “You know me, Walt, I don’t mind paying on a righteous claim, but I need to know if this one’s on the level.”

  “Don’t you have investigators who do this sort of thing?”

  “We do, and the last one I sent barely escaped with his life.” He sipped his coffee. “They are a regular bunch of outlaws out there. The law of the land has left Absalom, and I need somebody to go out and reintroduce it.”

  “To the tune of nine million dollars.”

  “Exactly.”

  “A feast is made for laughter, and wine makes life merry, but money is the answer for everything?” I didn’t see any reason to tell the insurance man about the phone call with Sandy Sandberg or the one with Attorney General Joe Meyer, for that matter, figuring there was nothing like getting offers for more marching orders on a march you’d already decided to make. “Ecclesiastes 10:18.” I slid the folder beside my mug and looked up at the blond man’s nonplussed face. “Who’s the beneficiary in all this?”

  It took an instant for Boss to respond. “Barsad’s got a brother in Youngstown, Ohio, who sounded on the phone like he was just as glad to hear Wade was dead.”

  “He hasn’t shown up?”

  “Nope, but I don’t think there was any love lost between ’em.”

  “What’d he say about the wife, Mary?”

  He thought about it. “Didn’t say anything.”

  “No questions about why she did it or how?” Boss shook his head. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Some, but they sounded estranged, so maybe he never met the wife.” Vic swung open the door of the Busy Bee and sat on the stool beside me. Boss glanced at me and then at Vic. “Hello, young lady.”

  I continued to study the file without looking up. “It’s all right, she’s with me.”

  Taking his chances, Boss ordered the pumpkin chiffon pie and looked back at Vic. “We were just discussing that people do all kinds of horrible things to each other, young lady, but I figure that’s between them and God. I’m more concerned with the work at hand.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Vic nodding. “Amen.”

  I flipped to the contact sheet. There were a couple of numbers for Wade’s brother-work, home, and a cell. “You mind if I give him a call?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I read the figures and tallied up. “So, you think he burned all those horses with the intention of insurance fraud?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d say it was pretty telling of his character if he did so.”

  I flipped some pages. “The problem being DCI didn’t find any signs of arson?”

  The insurance man grinned in Vic’s direction, the effect being halfway between a snake-oil salesman and a snake. He watched her closely as Dorothy poured her a cup of coffee. She doctored it with the requisite cream and four sugars. “Exactly.”

  “You want whipped cream on that pie?”

  He was still looking at Vic when he answered. “Yes, ma’am. That would be fine.”

  I followed the insurance man’s eyes and then gazed up to the crucifix on his hat. “Maybe your boss was trying to hit him with a lightning bolt and missed.”

  His face colored a little, embarrassed at getting caught staring at my deputy. “My boss doesn’t damn well miss.” He leaned forward and tipped the brim of his hat to Vic. “Excuse my French, young lady.”

  The coffee cup had stalled out, just in front of her lips. “Yeah, well, you watch your fucking mouth.”

  October 28, 12:48 A.M.

  I lay there listening to the loud voices and country music and thought about how much energy it was going to take to put my clothes on, go next door to room number three, and tell them to turn it down and quiet up.

  There wasn’t a lot of space with the two of us on the bed, but the beast had insisted. He was sprawled across the bottom, so I’d attempted sleep with my feet hangin
g off the edge diagonally. It didn’t work, so I made use of the only reading material I could find in the room.

  I stuck an index finger in the Bible I’d found in the bedside drawer, left for travelers in need of salvation via the Gideons; Absalom was seemingly prime territory. There was a loud thump against the wall, and Dog sat up at the end of the bed, a low growl beginning to emit from his pulled-back lips.

  “Easy, easy-” I took a deep breath and rolled my head over so that I could see the partially melted clock-radio’s plutonium-like green numbers.

  12:52 A.M.

  The headache was still lingering, and I started thinking that I should’ve gotten some of Mary Barsad’s medication myself. The party in the next room had started at a little after midnight, and an hour later the soirйe was in full swing.

  I retrieved my index finger, stared at 2 Samuel, and read aloud: “And unto David were sons born in Hebron: and his first born was Amnon, of Ahinoam the Jezreelitess, and his second, Chileab, of Abigail the wife of Nebal the Carmelite, and the third, Absalom the son of Maacah the daughter of Talmai king of Geshur-” I paused and looked at Dog’s big brown eyes. “Are you getting all this?”

  His head lowered back to the stained bedcover.

  “That’s a lot of begetting.” I skipped ahead to the juicy part. “Absalom was riding upon his mule, and the mule went under the branches of a great oak and his hair caught fast in the branches and he was left hanging between heaven and earth.” I nudged the beast with my foot, but he ignored me. “That’s what you get for riding a mule.” I continued my theatrics. “And Joab thrust three darts into the heart of Absalom while he hung, still alive in the oak tree. And ten young men, Joab’s armor-bearers, surrounded Absalom and struck him, and killed him.” As if the three darts hadn’t done the job. I nudged Dog again, but he didn’t move. “Seems like all they do is beget and slaughter people in this book. In the Old Testament part, at least.”

  The volume of the radio next door increased. It was a station out of Durant, and I recognized Steve Lawrence’s voice as he introduced the next song. “This is an oldie but a goodie, ‘Cattle Call,’ from that Tennessee plowboy, Mr. Eddy Arnold.”

  I remembered that it had been one of my mother’s favorites. A fellow by the name of Tex Owens had written it while waiting to do a radio broadcast. It had begun snowing in Kansas City that night, slowly at first, but then it had blotted out his view of the buildings across the street.

  1:05 A.M.

  Owens had grown up on a ranch, not unlike myself, and had done a lot of cattle feeding in the winter; knew what it was like for the animals out in the weather, the wet and cold. He’d felt sympathy for all those animals and just wished he could call them all in and break up a little corn for them to eat.

  1:06 A.M.

  Thirty minutes later he had written the music and four verses. I could still see the little 45 turning on my mother’s suitcase of a record player on hot afternoons in August. I was in high school and thought the tune one of the corniest things I’d ever heard, referring to it as goat-yodeling music. My mother knew I hated the song, and so she played it constantly. She might have been the reason that I was considered by some as a bit of a wiseguy.

  1:07 A.M.

  I found my lips moving along with the lyrics. I’m not a very good singer-as a matter of documentation, I’m horrible, but I can be loud. My father used to call it my field voice and forbade me to use it in the house. As I started singing, Dog turned and looked at me with an ear cocked. In the short time we’d known each other, he’d never heard me sing. Encouraged by his attention, I sang louder.

  Then I sang even louder.

  I’m pretty sure I was shaking the walls when Dog joined in. “Oooooooo, ooooooooo, doooooooo dee dee-ooooooooooo, doooooo, doooo doo-doo-doo-dee… For hours he’d ride on the range far and wide / When the night winds blow up a storm. / His heart is a feather in all kinds of weather, / when he sings his cattle call… Oooooooo, ooooooooo, doooooooo dee dee-Ooooooooooo, doooooo, doooo doo-doo-doo-dee…”

  I gave out with one more chorus of yodeling, and Dog howled with me when I noticed that they had turned the radio off next door. There was a certain amount of conversation, and I could hear a number of expletives as somebody thrashed around the adjoining room. He was cursing and threatening as a woman laughed. Then she laughed again.

  Five seconds later, the somebody was hammering my door. Dog barked, and I rested the Bible on the nightstand, got up, and slipped on my jeans and boots.

  I ignored the. 45 Colt in my duffel and opened the door.

  “You some kind’a fuckin’ comedian?”

  As I’d suspected, it was Cliff Cly. I guess he had decided to take his party to a room. He was still wearing the same droopy potato-chip straw hat, sunglasses, and the two-day beard but had stripped down to a sleeveless T-shirt that read PRO BULL RIDING TOUR. He was holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and leaning a shoulder on my doorjamb for support. Dog growled from behind me, and I turned my head to shush him, then turned back to the ranch hand. “Excuse me?”

  He leaned in a little closer and, with the strength of the alcohol fumes, I was sure I didn’t have any hair left in my nose. “I said, you some kind’a comedian?”

  I studied his face, the wobbling intent of his eyes, the elongated nose. “I don’t take myself all that seriously, if that’s what you mean.”

  He cocked his head and tried to focus his eyes on mine, and I could see just how profoundly drunk he was. “You…” He belched. “You take me seriously?”

  “Right now? Not so much.” He stood there for a moment more, then pushed off from the doorway. He staggered a second and started to raise the bottle, but the movement was so slow and clumsy, I didn’t even bother to raise a hand in defense. Instead, I watched as he lost his balance.

  “Oh, shit-”

  I reached out and tried to grab him, but I was too slow and he sprawled backward and landed on his back with a liquid thump, the bottle of whiskey skittering down the slight gravel incline toward my rental car.

  I took a step forward and crouched down on the walkway as Dog trotted out and joined me in looking down at the semi-unconscious Cliff Cly. I glanced back at Dog. “I know this is twice in one night, but people don’t usually act like this.” Dog looked at me, unsure if I was telling the truth or just defending the species. I gathered Cliff, sitting him up and leaning him against my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  His hat fell off, his head leaned against me with sunglasses askew, and he belched again. “I’m kind of fucked up in general, so it’s hard to gauge.”

  I had to smile. “Well, let’s try and get you into your room.”

  He was heavy, and I could tell that the majority of his weight was muscle, but I was able to put one of his arms around my neck and lift him to a partially standing posture by grabbing his belt, which was made out of some kind of chrome timing chain. The door to his room was still open, and the lights were on, so I moved us in that direction. Dog sniffed at him but then moved away. He definitely didn’t smell good.

  When I got to the doorway, I recognized the Rubenesque tattooed woman from the bar. She was seated on the bed in a bra and panties, and she looked to be about four months pregnant, a fact that had been hidden by clothes earlier. Her mouth, which was outlined with very dark lipstick, made a perfect O.

  “Can you help me with him?”

  She looked past me with black penciled eyes. “Where’s the Jack?”

  I carried Cly toward the bed and sprawled him there, face first at her feet. “I’m just guessing, but I think he’s had enough.”

  She got off the bed and walked past me toward the door; there was a peacock on her back with feathers that exploded in greens and blues toward her neck. “Yeah, but I haven’t even got started.”

  I rolled Cliff over and figured he could sleep it off where he lay when I heard a yip come from the young woman. I turned and saw that Dog, standing in the open doorway, had frozen her. I walked over, s
hooed Dog with my leg, and led her through the door. He looked hurt, and considered us like a disgruntled Grendel.

  “Where’s the bottle?”

  Before I could catch myself, I glanced toward the car and down the slight incline.

  She looked up at me, her blond hair shifting to the left. I think the dark roots were a fashion statement. “You’re the guy from the bar.”

  I reached for my hat but then remembered it was sitting on the table in my room. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You look real familiar-”

  I couldn’t place the face, and it was unlikely I’d forget the tattoos, so it was possible that I hadn’t ever arrested her. “Guess I’ve just got one of those faces.”

  She smirked in an attempt at a smile. “It’s a good face.”

  “Thanks, it’s a little tired right now, so I’m going to take it to bed.”

  She walked down the incline, tiptoeing on the gravel with bare feet, stooped and picked up the bottle, and crow-hopped back to the wooden walkway; she held the whiskey and her stomach with her left hand. The other she stuck out-it had a locomotive amid floral designs and a jack-o-lantern, which trailed up her arm in blues, purples, yellows, and reds. “Name is Rose.”

  By any other name. I stood there for a second, then extended my hand into hers. Her grip was strong.

  “Did you hit him?”

  “No, he passed out.”

  “There wasn’t any fight part?”

  “No, the passed-out part came before the fight part could get started.”

  She shook her head. “That’s Cliff all over. These rodeo cowboys all think that eight seconds is a good ride.” She raised her other hand, which had a lacelike design inked on the fingers that became snakes that intertwined as they climbed. “Most people wouldn’t stand up to him like that.”

  “Seems like you were rooting for a fight just a couple of hours ago.”

  She smiled fully this time. “Boring night in the big town. I was just looking for a little excitement.” She glanced into the room she shared with Cliff and then looked back to me. “He’s only been around for a couple of weeks, but I can tell you, he’s crazy.”