The road was gone, and a thin layer of snow, less than an eighth of an inch, covered the ground and vegetation for as far as I could see into the gloom, except for a perfect circle of dark ground where there was no snow and where nothing grew. The bay stopped and looked at the scene with me. There were no struggling tufts of grass, no sage, nothing. It was as if some flying saucer had landed on top of the mesa, burned all the undergrowth and the thin skim of snow, and then had gone.
I exhaled and my head dropped again, but when I forced my face back up I could see something in the middle of the circle, like the center of a clock with both hands pointing toward midnight.
I knew it was a hell of a lot later than that.
I thought about the teepee circles that were part of the landscape in our portion of the country, but I couldn’t see any of the rocks that the Indians would have used to mark the periphery. And the circle was too big. Even the Crow and Cheyenne family-sized teepees wouldn’t be this large in circumference.
Crop circles maybe, but there were no crops.
The bay pulled up a little way from the edge, then pranced toward it and whinnied. I was just beginning to wonder if it was really a hole and that my tired eyes were playing tricks on me when another lightning strike hit no more that a hundred yards to our right. My horse had had enough, and he bolted to the left. I tried to hang on, but this time he pivoted, slipped, and fell.
I hit on my side like a load of firewood and felt the air push from my lungs with the impact and a sharp pain in my foot as the bay landed on my boot with an audible crunch. I lay there for a second to get my bearings, assess the damage, and generally feel embarrassed about falling off my horse. For a westerner, coming unmounted is as shameful as wearing your pants inside your boots, asking somebody how big their spread is, or pissing on the floor of the Alamo.
The only good thing about the fall and the excruciating pain in my foot was that it cleared my head enough to think about what I was going to do now that the bay was hightailing it north across the hardpan range and disappearing into the darkness. I watched the stirrups bouncing off the horse’s sides in a comical interpretation of a TV western and allowed my head to fall back on the crusted snow. “Damn.”
The hammer of the .45 was digging into my back, and I started to roll over, when another streak of pain ran up from my right foot. My eyes watered with the hurt, and I wiped at them.
It was then that I saw something at the far edge of the circle. It was something dark and big, and it was rapidly moving my way. I thought it was the owl again, even though it was the wrong color and didn’t seem to be flying, and figured maybe he thought he’d found a culinary bonanza.
I tried to raise my head, but the pain in my cheekbone made it hard, so I just watched as the big creature stamped the ground and rushed forward to snake out its long neck and snap at my head with huge clacking teeth.
Pain be damned, I yanked back and looked up at a thousand pounds of unrivaled fury. It was a horse, but only in the sense that the headless horseman’s horse was a horse. I could hear the clanking of chains where the thing had come unfettered from hell, and I expected fire to blow from its nostrils at any moment.
Unable to move any farther, I lay there on my back and watched as the black beast reared on its hind legs and crashed its hooves to the ground only inches from my foot; it stamped at me over and over again.
I had found Wahoo Sue.
I discovered a reserve I didn’t know I had and dragged myself back on my elbows as the horse screamed at me and whinnied and snapped the air in an attempt to get free from the nylon halter around her head. She was close enough that I could see where it had rubbed her raw and where the dried blood had stained her dark face. The harness was connected to a heavy, rusted logging chain that was in turn connected to a rock in the middle of the circle, and the length of links had torn and chafed the chest, barrel, and rump of the tortured animal.
October 26: four days earlier, afternoon.
Mary Barsad’s hands had come up again, and she had tried to aim an imaginary rifle despite the restraints at her wrists.
“His voice kept telling me to do it, and when I looked at his body lying there on the bed it was as if I already had shot him. It was as if the blood was already there, that I’d already shot him, but the voice was telling me to do it again.”
I moved to my right, placed my hands on the foot rail of the hospital bed, and looked into her face. “You fired the rifle?”
Tears spilled from her lower lids and highlighted her high cheekbones. “Yes.”
“How many times?”
Her head went back as if she’d been struck and then stayed at that odd angle. “Three times.”
I don’t think the expression on my face changed, but the facts had. “Three times.”
“Yes.”
Wade Barsad had been shot six times.
She turned her head toward the light. “He said that he deserved it, said that he deserved to die.”
“Wade.”
“Yes.”
This time she didn’t move. “But the voice that told me to kill him—it was Wade’s.”
October 31, 2:30 A.M.
“She likes you.”
The voice came from the darkness to my left. I could see his outline as I lurched up on one elbow, but I was still having trouble focusing. “How can you tell?”
“ ’Cause she would have killed you if she didn’t. Okey?”
I stared into the darkness. He had come closer, and I could see his shape more clearly. I’d figured it out, but now that I heard the hard nasal voice like flat stones falling and the signature word, it was confirmed.
“How are you, Wade?”
He laughed. “I knew you’d find out; it was just a question of when.” The horse strained against the chain, but this time she directed her fierce aggression toward him. He walked closer but was careful to stay outside of the circle where Wahoo Sue had licked the snow and nibbled everything else in a desperate attempt to stay alive. “She doesn’t like me much, but then the feeling’s mutual.” He squatted down in the running shoes and was holding a roll of duct tape. “Just out of curiosity, when did you know it was me?”
My head slipped to one side, and I could just make out his face. From the photographs I’d seen, it was indeed Wade Barsad. I flexed my foot and caught my breath again as the pain clamped inside my boot—broken, no doubt about it. “Meadowlarks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Despite the pain, the horse, and the appearance of Wade Barsad, I had to fight against a mounting exhaustion and mumbled. “Meadowlarks.”
He smiled and made a sucking sound with his teeth. “I’m still not following you.” He reached out and shook my shoulder. “Hang in there, Sheriff, I’ve been dying to have this conversation.”
“Different song.”
Wahoo Sue continued to stamp at him, but since he was the one who had staked her, he knew her range. “What?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and I think I was drooling. I tried to wiggle my foot again in an attempt to wake up, but the pain had subsided to a throbbing, and my eyes started to close. “The eastern meadowlark has a song that’s different from the western one.”
He stared at me. “So?”
I tried to concentrate, but my neck muscles had dissolved somehow. “On the phone. . . . Supposed to be your brother back in Ohio, but I heard a western meadowlark.”
He sat back on his ankles. “You’re shitting me. On the cell phone?”
“Yep.”
He was laughing again and leaned back to sit beside me. “Okey, so you’re John J. Audubon.”
I lay back, thinking that it might be my only chance to keep my sidearm, and stared into the heavily clouded sky. “It was your brother, the dentist, in the house—burned up.”
He nodded. “I was getting pressure from my old business associates, and the FBI wanted all of the names and account numbers that I’d written down in exchange for furth
er protection, so I decided to do away with Wade Barsad. I got my brother to fake the dental records for a cut of the insurance money, but I needed a body. Unfortunately for him, it turned out to be his.”
“You walked Mary through it, while she was on the pills—”
“You know, I was worried about the mob and worried about the FBI, but then you showed up and I don’t even know your name. After I saw you with Vanskike and the boy, I figured I’d better dope you up before taking you on, that’s why I didn’t just wait for you at the trailer.”
“Hershel.”
He nodded again. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t want to kill him, but he ran. And let me tell you, he was some kind of fast when he got going. I had to throw a bullet into him to stop him, and then I thought that I wouldn’t want him to suffer.” Barsad laughed and looked at the horse, whose chains clanked against her efforts to get to him. “So, I finished the job.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the 9 mm semiautomatic. “And now I have to shoot you and make it look like you shot him, and do something with the kid and try to find my missing kite, and I don’t have time for all this.”
His voice touched something off in Wahoo Sue, and she stamped at him again. I turned from the horse and could feel my eyes getting a little wobbly. “Sorry to inconvenience you.”
“Yeah.”
“The boy.”
He gestured with his chin. “He’s in the truck with an old friend of yours.”
“Dog?”
He laughed. “No, not your damned dog. I tagged him with the four-wheeler, so I thought he wouldn’t be any more trouble. Besides, he wasn’t worth a bullet so we drove off and left him.”
I’d allowed my arm to fall to my back and made an attempt to roll toward him as if I were interested in the conversation. “The canteen.”
“Yeah, I wrote the note. It was a calculated risk, ’cause I wasn’t sure if you’d seen the old guy’s handwriting.” He studied me some more. “How are you still awake? It must be your size.”
I could feel my Colt, but I had to get my jacket out of the way to reach it. “I am a little drowsy.”
“You should be; I put enough sleeping pills in that canteen to drop a buffalo.” He started to rise, and I froze my hand. “Anyway, there’s somebody that wants to meet you before you knock off for the night. Okey?” He looked back into the darkness to our left and shouted. “Hey, hurry up if you wanna talk to him.” He looked down at me. “He’s going to love seeing you again—”
Cliff Cly came out of the dark and stood there with Hershel’s Henry rifle in his hands. I was happy to see that he was in pretty rough shape. He ignored me and looked at Barsad. “Where the fuck did you get this?”
A quiet second passed. “I got it off the cowboy.”
Cly looked at the old repeater and then back to Barsad. “You kill him?”
Wade shook his head, and I wondered why he was lying. “No. I told you Cliff, I don’t kill people unless I have to.”
Cly walked over closer and looked down at me. I noticed his face was pretty messed up and he was wearing a neck brace. I could see the individual knuckle marks on his forehead, and the swelling and discoloration around his eye was far worse than mine. I felt a little better.
I looked up at him. “How’s your head?”
He glanced at me in a dismissive manner. “Fuck you.” He turned and shouted to Barsad. “What about this asshole here?”
Barsad’s voice sounded a little farther off, and he must’ve been going toward the truck. “He’s got enough product in him that he’ll overdose, but we’ll shoot him with Hershel’s gun and come up with a story later.” The rodeo cowboy leaned down, holding the .44 Henry on his thighs with one hand, and started feeling around my jacket with the other. “Check him for a gun. Okey?”
Cly’s face was very near my own. “That’s what I’m doing.” His hand froze against mine as I clutched the Colt at the small of my back.
Barsad’s voice faded. “I’ll get the kid.”
Cly’s eyes and mine locked, and I could feel my muscles tense as I got ready to make one last, desperate move. He didn’t blink and leaned even closer. “Don’t hit me again, you big son-of-a-bitch; the last time you practically took my head off.” He winked and then glanced over his shoulder, looked back at me, and smiled. “Relax, Sheriff, I’ve got us covered, just don’t shoot me. Okey?” He was grinning now. “Hey, kimosabe, can you understand me? I’m on your side.” He studied me for a moment more, and then stood and shouted. “He’s clean.”
I wondered what the hell was going on as Cly stood up. There was a lot of noise, and I listened as at least two doors were slammed. Barsad’s voice carried from the left. “What the hell . . . where’s the kid?!”
“What’a ya mean?”
There was more noise, and it sounded as if something was slammed into the bed of the truck. “He’s not here, Cliff!”
I tugged at my jacket and pulled the .45, clearing it from my body but continuing to keep it hidden.
Wade came into my sight, and my ant’s-eye view made them look like giants. “Did you tie him up and put him in the truck?”
“No, there wasn’t time. I just taped him and left him on the four-wheeler.”
“I didn’t see the four-wheeler when I was just back there. Where’d you shittin’ put it?”
He gestured. “It’s back at the . . .” Just then, I figured I wasn’t the only one who heard it start up. “Oh, fuck.”
Out a couple of hundred yards to the west, I could see the lights of the ATV as it turned and sped away on what I assumed was the road. Barsad took a few steps in that direction but then stopped and looked back at the two of us, then at just me. “Kill him, and I’ll get the kid.”
Cliff shook his head and fumbled with something in his pants pocket as he took a step toward Barsad. “I don’t think—”
Wade must have seen the move; he wasn’t a man to take chances, so he lifted the 9 mm and fired, the bullet hitting Cly squarely in the trunk of his body. He shuddered for a moment, then the big Henry repeater hit the ground and went off, the bullet going into the air, and he collapsed. As he did, I lifted my wavering arm and fired the .45. I was wide and to the right but kept firing as Barsad made a rapid retreat in the direction of the truck.
I continued to throw rounds in Wade’s general direction, but he didn’t fall. I finished off the clip with a solid thunk as a round hit the truck. I watched as the cab lights came on in the Dodge, but the motor didn’t start. I guess he was fumbling for his keys.
I hit the button and watched as the empty magazine slipped from the Colt, and I slammed in the other one that I had put in my jacket pocket. It was like an out-of-body experience, as though somebody else’s arms raised and fired just as the big Dodge started.
I saw the passenger side window explode as I emptied the clip. Wade Barsad disappeared but only for a moment, and I was monumentally disappointed to hear the motor roar and the duellie spray dirt as its lights bobbed, and he sped away.
The horse was going berserk but was at the far side of the circle and out of sight. I watched as the chain, embedded in the rock, heaved and straightened in a direct line into the darkness. I fell back flat and lay there breathing and thinking—what the hell else could go wrong? I could feel my eyes closing and knew that if I didn’t get up soon, I wasn’t going to be getting up at all.
I looked at the spent semiautomatic in my lap, the slide locked in the open position. I ejected the clip and began refilling it from the loose rounds in my jacket pockets, the cartridge spring making a slight metallic sound as I reloaded.
With each breath I listed a little further, and I might have even fallen asleep if not for Cly, who spoke from the gloom, his words accompanied by a light giggle. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough shooting for one night?”
I’d thought for sure he was dead.
I rolled over on my stomach and began crawling toward him. He was clutching something over his chest.
He was still giggling and spitting up a little blood with it as I leveraged an elbow—his face only a couple of inches away. “You should stop laughing; it can’t be good for you.”
He giggled some more. “How bad is it, Deputy Dawg?”
There was a fair amount of blood, but it was low and to the left—intestines, I hoped, not a lung. It was difficult to tell how bad, but he’d live, for a while, at least. I looked at his face. “Who the hell are you?”
He kept giggling and pulled his hand up. I noticed that he was holding his wallet, which he flipped open exposing a badge. His voice was singsong, and he sounded like he was an announcer on a bad fifties TV show. “Why I’m Cliff Cly of the FBI.”
14
October 31, 3:04 A.M.
He wasn’t giggling anymore. “How long do you think I’ve got?”
“Longer than you’re going to want.”
He swallowed underneath the neck brace and dropped the wallet. “God damn it, this hurts. I showed the kid how to drive the thing and told him that if I didn’t get back in a couple of minutes, to just gas it the hell out of here and stay off the roads.” His eyes closed, and he clutched his stomach. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I looked at the young man’s face. I had to admit that he was good; I hadn’t made him, but now, seeing the symmetry of his features under the stubble, and his general demeanor, even after being shot, it all made sense.
It also explained why Sandy Sandberg had called off the polygraph.
Another wave of exhaustion swept over me, and I started getting a little panicked about all the things I had to do before I fell over. I touched his arm, and he grimaced. “You have to let me take a look.”
“Fuck you, you one-eyed bastard. No way.”
I casually wondered if he’d looked in a mirror lately. “We have to put something in there to staunch the bleeding—your hands aren’t doing the trick.”
He ground his teeth, and I could hear the crunch of the enamel from a foot away. “No.”
“Look, I’ve got to roll you over and see where the bullet went.”
Walt Longmire 05 - The Dark Horse Page 21