I nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
“You strike me as one of those guys who doesn’t forget much.”
I watched as she brought the bottle up and noticed there was a good two inches left. I thought about a young woman I knew, an Indian princess, who had been born with fetal alcohol syndrome. “How ’bout you not do that?”
She paused. “What?”
“Just do me a favor and don’t drink.” For the next five months, I thought-but you’ve got to start somewhere.
“Why?”
“You’re pregnant.”
She looked down at her belly in mock surprise. “Wow, wonder how that happened?”
There’s a bone-weary quality to putting on your white suit in these kinds of situations, but you do it anyway. “What’s your baby’s name?”
Her hand dropped to support the girth as she grinned. “Wiggle.”
This was going to be harder than I thought.
She tossed a shoulder and then leaned it against the T-111 siding of the motel’s exterior wall, closed her arms around herself, and shivered. “It’s what it does.” I stood there looking at her and said nothing-I had probably said too much already. I reached a hand out for the bottle, but she pulled it behind her, and a look of anticipated defiance streaked its way across her face. “Hey, no way-”
I took a deep breath and marveled at my ability to find a place even more tired than the place I’d been. “Okay.” I turned and started into my own room.
“Whatta ya mean, okay?”
I looked back at her and then gestured to the front of The AR. “If I take that away from you, what’s to say that you won’t just go back over to The AR and get a full one?”
She studied me for a while, an even more puzzled look on her face. “The what?”
I shook my head just to clear it a little and make sure I was the only one in there. “The BAR.”
Her head cocked to one side, and the blond pageboy swayed just a little as her eyes stayed steady with mine. I stood there for a moment as she turned and began closing the door behind her with her foot. The bottle was still in one hand, and her belly was supported with the other-where worlds collide. “Mr. Good Samaritan, you’re in the wrong town.”
The door shut softly.
Boy howdy.
I stood there thinking about Wiggle, about what kind of chance he or she had, and wondered, in a place like Absalom, what kind of chance any of us had.
I was about to go back to my room when I noticed that the truck parked in front of The AR was a new, red Dodge duellie with no plates. I motioned for Dog to go in and then plucked my shirt off the chair. “Stay, and this time I mean it.” He looked after me as I closed the door.
I circled the backside of the empty truck and couldn’t see any temporary tags taped to the inside of the back window that I might’ve missed. It was probably some young rancher having made his first, second, or third pile of money from coal-bed methane, or one of the local boys coming back to show off a little to the hometown crowd of forty. There were a million reasons for the truck to have been there, another million for it not to have plates. I wasn’t sure why I was fixating on the Dodge, other than the oldest trick in the lawman’s repertoire-the hunch.
I walked the rest of the way around the truck and paused at the passenger door. It was locked, but on close inspection through the tinted windows, I could see a Winchester lever-action. 30–30 propped up against the dash.
I looked back at the bar-the lights were out in the main room, but it looked like there were still a few on in the kitchen in back. I thought I could hear voices and decided to circle and see who might be inside. I walked to the right and went around the final unit and up a small rise to the roadway behind the motel. There were no streetlights in Absalom, and along with a smear of clouds, it was a moonless night that made it hard to pick through the high grass, garbage cans, and automobile parts without making a racket. I finally found a path that led to the back of the establishment’s kitchen.
There was one light on in the short hallway connecting the bar with the kitchen, and it looked like there were two men talking. I edged a little closer and could make out Pat’s profile beside a pay phone on the wall-he was leaning back with his arms folded as a taller man in the shadows gesticulated passionately. They were keeping their voices low, but it was a heated conversation and I could just make out the gist of the thing.
The owner of the bar lifted his head and looked at the other man defiantly. Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and then the taller man began speaking again, in an even lower tone, with his index finger in Pat’s face.
There was a mudroom leading into the kitchen, and I carefully opened the screen door and slipped inside, or slipped as gracefully as I could. The floorboards bleated and complained under my weight.
I stood there without moving, but the conversation stopped.
I waited for a moment and then leaned forward to get a better look, but the light was off now and both men were gone. I pulled back into the corner and stayed where I was, waiting for the next sound, which was the pump-action of the shotgun I had seen on the shelf under the bar.
I could run, but I don’t do that very well. I could waltz through as if I were just looking for a little midnight snack and get a serving of a few ounces of lead for my trouble, or I could just stand there quietly like a buffalo in a stand of year-old aspens pretending that if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
I heard footsteps in the bar. Whoever it was, either Pat or the tall man, they weren’t playing fair. The first thing we always tell people who have to deal with burglary is to make your presence known by flipping on all the lights, scream at your wife to call 911, and turn loose the dogs while you get the. 38 from the closet. Never, but never, go sneaking around in your own house at odds with some stranger.
Nobody was talking, nobody was turning on lights, and I had that hunch feeling that nobody was calling 911.
There was some more whispering, and I could hear someone coming down the hallway, through the kitchen, and toward the mudroom where I stood; he was moving slowly and carefully. I could see the barrel of the shotgun first and could even register the diameter-20-gauge-in the direct cast of the moon that had, of course, chosen to come from behind the clouds.
If the thing shifted four inches to the left, it would be pointed directly at my gut.
The shooter stepped forward, and I could make out the hands holding the scattergun and the gold Masonic ring. The owner of the bar and maker of the crapper laws stepped full into the moon glow, blinked, and looked out the screen door to my right. The barrel wavered for a second, at which point he took two steps closer, still looking out the doorway and into the overgrown back of the place.
I could see his face clearly. His hat was missing, and it looked like there was some swelling around the nearest eye; blood was palmed from his nose to his hairline. I looked at his hand again and could see the still-wet blood there.
Evidently, the taller man had struck him.
I hadn’t breathed since he’d entered the tiny mudroom and still didn’t. I watched him lean his face forward to get a better view of the back bushes. The swelling at his eye certainly wasn’t helping in the search, but he must have seen something because he suddenly turned toward me and looked directly up to my face.
The sound was already coming out of his mouth when I grabbed the shotgun with both hands and pivoted the butt up and into his chin-it sounded like a cleanly hit baseball. After a brief moment of teetering, he started to go over backward, but I was now practiced and grabbed one of the straps of his overalls and pulled his collapsing body into me.
I lowered him to the floor with one arm and leaned him against the wall with his legs folded underneath him, and then checked his pulse, which was rapid, but there.
Out cold.
I wondered why he hadn’t fired. I checked the Winchester and discovered that the reason he hadn’t was that he must’ve automatically clic
ked the safety on, something a lot of inexperienced shooters do. I was happy with his inexperience, clicked off the safety, and stood. More footsteps echoed from the silence, and I took the two steps that would give me a clearer view of the short hallway leading toward the front of the building. I could only see a small portion of the bar.
Nothing.
I unfocused my eyes to adapt to the dark and allowed them to become motion sensors as I stepped into the kitchen proper. There were a few BLTs on two plates on the cutting board along with a couple of cans of Coors. One of the sandwiches had a single bite taken out of it, and the other had been eaten, except for the crusts. Evidently, business had interrupted dinner, and then there was me.
The floor continued to complain under my weight as I took the first step into the hallway. I kept my eyes on the surface of the bar, fully expecting someone to flip over the counter with a two-handed grip and pop a few into my chest.
I raised the pump-action to my shoulder and tried to remember which way the front door of the bar opened, settling on left to right, and chose the right and larger side of the public room on which to concentrate. Television and movies would have you believe that the proper way to do this type of thing is to leap into a room, first directing your weapon one way and then the other, but without backup, it’s a fifty-fifty proposition that you’d enter said room dead.
In the dark, if you’re alone, the rule is reveal low and very slow. I crouched at counter level, slid along the wall, and scanned the area where the makeshift fight ring stood ghostly and empty. I pivoted the shotgun to my left, keeping it level to the bar and looking into the area where there were the few tables and mismatched chairs.
Still nothing.
I was sure I hadn’t heard the front door open and equally sure that the other man must still be inside when the big Dodge chirped and the interior lights came on in the truck. I started around the bar, quickly moving toward the front, when something moved to my left, raised up, and fired.
I staggered back, tripped over a loose chair, fell to the floor, and scrambled to put the bar between us. His aim had been high. He stood and continued forward, around the bar and toward me with what sounded like a 9 mm. The rounds from the semiautomatic blew through the beer poster on the wall and tore into the ceiling as I found the baseboard and turned the 20-gauge back toward the shooter. I decided to shoot high as well, since all I really wanted to do was back him off long enough to get a look at him.
I pulled the trigger and listened to the loud crash as the front window of the bar exploded onto the walkway out front, immediately followed by the roar of the Dodge as its engine dieseled to life.
I abandoned the thought of a remote starter and figured he’d just been throwing down cover fire long enough to get himself out the door to his avenue of retreat.
I struggled up from the floor and grabbed the corner of the bar as I ran toward the jagged glass shards of the now-shattered front window; I slid to a stop in the full illumination of the truck’s high beams.
I brought the Winchester up in a half-extension, the barrel pointed directly at the darkened driver’s side. Old habits die hard, and the words were out of my mouth before I could reassess. “Sheriff, freeze!”
There was a brief second when absolutely nothing happened, except the second, third, fourth, and fifth helping of guessing; you don’t know who they are, you don’t know if they’re going to comply, you don’t know if they’re still armed, you don’t know if they’re still aiming at you, you don’t know if they’re involved with the case, and you don’t want to shoot even after being shot at, unless you absolutely must.
Then the big full-ton shifted, and the reverse lights illuminated the rear of the truck. I lowered the barrel of the shotgun, aimed at the radiator, and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click.
Nothing.
I jacked the pump-action as the Dodge flew into reverse, sprayed gravel in a murdersome arc, and was jammed into a forward gear. I took aim at the rear tires and pulled the trigger again.
Click.
Nothing.
The truck disappeared over the hill at the edge of town and then reappeared on the next hill, hell-bent for diesel leather as it continued down the Powder River Road, the smoldering running lights like tracers in the darkness.
I turned back and heard noises from the rooms in the motel-people shouting, people running, and probably now people dialing 911. I rested the shotgun on the particleboard surface, jacked the pump-action back but not forward, and looked into the empty chamber of the Winchester.
I raised my head and could still see the unconscious owner of The AR propped against the mudroom wall in the pooled moonlight. I spoke quietly to the two of us as I lay the scattergun on the bar and watched my hands shake. “Who the hell puts only one round in a shotgun?”
6
October 28, 6:11 A.M.
I waited quietly in the back of the Campbell County sheriff’s cruiser, tried not to concentrate on the multitude of stains on the seat, and watched as the former and now retired Absaroka County sheriff and the current and very active Campbell County one explained to a deputy why it was he couldn’t arrest me. The deputy didn’t seem happy with the turn of events but, with less than a year on the job and facing close to a half-century of experience, he didn’t have much recourse.
Sandy laughed with Lucian, and they came over to the parked car where they both got in the front. They turned and looked at me through the wire mesh that divides the arrester from the arrestee, both grinning like possums.
My old one-legged boss shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ.”
I shrugged as best I could with the handcuffs on, nodded toward him, and looked at Sandy. “What, you decided you needed backup?”
He smiled and glanced at Lucian. “He said you were most likely lost, and we should go look for you.” Everybody liked Sandy, and if you didn’t, all he had to do was smile and you would. “He also said it was likely that people would be shooting at you.” I didn’t say anything, and he continued. “That deputy of mine wants to put you in jail some kind of bad.”
“I refused to give him any ID and didn’t offer a whole lot of information. I told him I’d just wait for you. I take it he doesn’t know who I am?” The young man was watching us from the walkway of The AR.
Lucian interrupted. “He thinks you’re Dillinger, but then he couldn’t find his pecker in a pickle jar.”
Sandy folded his arms over the back of the front seat. “So, what happened?”
I told them.
“Holy crap.” He sighed.
I leaned forward. “What’d Pat say?”
“The owner?” I nodded. “He says he was closing up the place and that he heard something in the back and went to check it out.”
“With the shotgun?”
The sheriff of Campbell County snorted. “He didn’t mention that part, till we asked him how the window got blown out and onto the road.”
I looked at him. “And?”
Lucian laughed. “He says somebody drove by, threw a few shots into the bar, and kept going. Says it happens periodically when he makes folks pay up their tab-said he always throws a few rounds back at ’em just to dissuade ’em of the activity.”
I readjusted my weight. “And the part about being unconscious when the deputy got there?”
“Says he slipped and hit his head.”
“In the mudroom. In the back?”
“Said that’s where he usually goes when folks are shootin’ up the front.”
I pushed my cuffed hands to the side. “Well, since he’s not saying anybody hit him, do you think he has any idea who did?”
Lucian chimed in again. “Hard to say, but since you displayed yourself in a rather dramatic fashion and announced to any and all, including the fella in the truck, that you were a sheriff, it might be time for you to get the hell outta Dodge-red, white, or blue.”
I looked at Lucian and thought about the woman in my jail as it grew silent in the
cruiser. “Have you been to the jail?”
“Mine?”
“Mine.” Our eyes met, and I was always struck by the darkness in his pupils; maybe I needed to get him and Saizarbitoria together. “You meet her?”
His voice changed, growing softer. “Yes, I have.”
“Do you think she’s guilty?”
He took a deep breath and blew it out of his nostrils like a shotgun blast. “She’s burnin’ bridges in her head; I’m just not sure if he was one of ’em.” He studied me. “What’s that got to do with horseshit and hat sizes?”
“Everything.” He made a noise in his throat. “Somebody taught me that, a long time ago.”
It was quiet, and neither of them looked at me.
“Well.” The ex-sheriff of Absaroka County sniffed and thumbed his nose. “Never did any of this undercover crap-you’ve got a lot of people worried that you’re gonna fool around and get yourself killed out here.”
I thought that the old sheriff had been sent out to check on me, but I didn’t figure on him admitting it. I changed the subject to save him any further embarrassment. “What’s everybody else in the motel say?”
There was a pause as Sandy prepared to speak; Lucian and I both looked at him. “Not a whole heck of a lot.” He scratched his neck and placed one of his sun-leathered hands on the dash, the heavy, curved, Cuban bracelet on his wrist blinking in the morning sun. “There’s a little tattooed girl that says you beat up her boyfriend, but other than that it’s business as usual out here on the Powder River-ain’t nobody sayin’ nothin’.”
“Who called 911?”
“Anonymous, female, from the pay phone outside the post office/library up the hill.”
I thought about it and could only come up with one name. “You’ll run a check on the Dodge?”
“Yep.” The hand on the dash reached for the mic.
“One more thing?”
He and Lucian turned back to look at me. “Yeah?”
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