Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  Picking myself up on one elbow, I could see the Bear climbing up the fire escape at the back of a three-story redbrick building to my left, and above him, barely visible in the cascading flakes, two people going onto the roof.

  “Damn it.” I grabbed my hat and pushed off, running the length of Wall back down to Main, keeping my eyes on the rooftops, and sliding another ten feet into the main thoroughfare.

  Holding my hat in front of my eyes to give me a clearer view, I could see that there was a large turret on the corner building, and I could barely make out the shadow of somebody looking down from the front cornice. I shouted up at her, “Roberta Payne, sheriff’s department—you need to stop!” She looked both ways and then behind her as the man yanked her away. “Whatever your name is, you need to let her go!”

  He ignored me, and they both disappeared.

  I moved sideways down the street, keeping an eye on the roof and trying to see, even though the falling snow was blinding.

  After a moment, Henry appeared at the cornice. “Where did they go?”

  “Not this way, they—” It was then that I saw something move on the roof of the next building, a full flight lower than the corner one that Henry was on. I pointed and yelled at the Bear, “They’re down there; they must’ve jumped!”

  The Cheyenne Nation flung himself from the taller building, but I couldn’t see if he’d landed well or not.

  Running sideways and hoping to spot a taller building that might impede their rooftop progress, I tried to keep up but watched as the couple made an easy traverse onto the next three buildings, with me, sliding along in my boots, desperately trying to keep pace on the ground.

  Suddenly, I noticed that a half-ton pickup with its bright lights blasting up Main Street had stopped about fifty yards away. Bringing my hand up to shield my eyes, I peered through the fog freezing in the snow-filled air and finally figured it must be Willie.

  I stood there for a few seconds, unsure of his intentions, when he revved the engine, lurched forward, and headed straight for me.

  For all Willie knew, he was protecting the couple from a wild cowboy-and-Indian duo who might mean them harm. I would’ve liked to have shown my badge, but there wasn’t time. Carefully, I pulled the Colt from my holster and leveled it at the rapidly approaching vehicle.

  The truck stopped when I guess Willie figured out what he was up against.

  I took a step forward and raised my sidearm, just to show him I wasn’t intent on putting a bullet into him, and yelled, “Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department.” Unsure if he’d heard me, I yelled it again.

  That’s when he hit the gas and started straight toward me.

  Unwilling to be run over, if by mistaken identity or not, but not wanting to hurt the driver, I fired low, figuring I would hit the front of the truck and something that would disable it.

  The brakes locked up, and the truck slid at an angle to my right.

  Tugging at my hat, I leaned my head to one side and tried to see in the cab to make sure the bullet had not deflected, but the snow and the reflection on the glass made it impossible.

  Suddenly, the wheels started spinning and I raised my sidearm again, only then noticing that the truck was retreating, once more at a high rate of speed. He backed the vehicle into a parking lot at the end of the row, and as I ran after him, I saw Roberta and the unknown man leap onto a one-story building, swing around a billboard advertising the newest, biggest, and best of something, and lightly jump to the ground next to the vehicle in waiting.

  I was getting closer but watched helplessly as they vaulted into the attacking pickup, which fishtailed out of the parking lot and headed off in the other direction, the billowing tunnel of snow in their wake closing off the air behind them.

  Their taillights disappeared as the Bear dropped to the ground, both of us leaning over with our hands on our knees in an attempt to catch our collective breath.

  He caught his before I caught mine, of course. “Who. Knew. We. Were. Chasing. Spider-Man . . . And. Spider-Woman.”

  I nodded and stooped to see a little antifreeze in the snow—I must’ve dinged the radiator—as another set of lights suddenly appeared from the other direction, along with a spotlight that blinded us. A voice rang through a loudspeaker mounted in the grille of a black-and-white Dodge Charger. Static. “Deadwood Police—don’t move!”

  Standing and holding my .45 high and wide so we wouldn’t get shot, I shouted, “Sheriff Walt Longmire, Absaroka County, Wyoming!” I gestured toward Henry with a smile. “C’mon, we’ve got a ride.”

  —

  “Follow what car?”

  I’d gotten to say follow that car only one other time in my life, and the young patrolman was ruining the expectations I had with my second request. “It was a half-ton pickup, blue in color, headed east on Main . . .”

  Tavis Bradley, who had turned out to be a part-time patrolman with the Deadwood Police, had cost us more than part time trying to figure out who we were and what we were doing, but had finally fallen in line and started the warm, if not hot, pursuit in his completely useless-in-the-snow Charger. “I called them in, even though you didn’t have a plate number . . .” The car slid sideways as we joined routes 14/85 south, and I wished, once again, that I had been driving. “There can’t be that many vehicles out here tonight.”

  “Turn your headlights on low, please?” The Bear, seated in the front seat with Tavis, peered over the hood at the surface of the road. “It is fast disappearing, but there is one, clearly defined set of tracks.”

  The young man did as he was told. “He’s headed onto Sherman toward Cliff, but my jurisdiction ends where 385 branches off and goes south to Custer and the state park.”

  I leaned over the seat. “We’re going to broaden your horizons tonight.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the Highway Patrol? They’ve got a detachment in Custer and in Rapid City and can cut him off.”

  “Get ’em on the wire.”

  As the kid snatched the mic from his dash and talked to the HPs, Henry and I watched the road and tried to figure out what had happened in Deadwood. “I don’t get it, why split up?”

  The Bear pointed, urging the patrolman to go left.

  I thought about it. “I can understand if you decided to change your life and hide out . . . Well, in all honesty I can’t, but was she acting as if we were going to kill her or he was?”

  He turned, giving me his usual horse eye. “I’m voting that she fears him much more than she does us.”

  The patrolman hung up the mic and glanced back at me through the rearview. “They’re setting up cars on 44, 16, and 385, so he can’t go south and he can’t get over to Rapid, so can I slow down?”

  “No. There are other roads he can take, right?”

  “Small ones.”

  “Well, we’re going to keep after him while we can still see his trail or else we might lose him to those small ones.”

  Tavis looked glum. “If I wreck this new cruiser, the chief is going to lose me.”

  “Who’s your chief?”

  “Emil Fredriksen.”

  I laughed. “Fightin’ Freddie?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yep, I worked with him a couple of times back in the day, when I used to moonlight the Sturgis Bike Rally.”

  The Bear spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Dare I ask how he got the name?”

  I shook my head, thinking back to a time when I was a struggling deputy with a wife, a child, a mortgage, and a car that needed a transmission. “Oh, every time some tough guy would say that Emil was just a tub of guts and that if he took off his badge and gun they’d kick his ass, he’d take off his badge and gun and kick their ass. I think his badge and gun got more wear from being thrown onto his dash.”

  In any other circumstance, it would have been a wonderful drive thro
ugh one of the most beautiful and, according to the Indians, spiritual places in the world, but with the snow and fog, it was like driving underwater.

  I had the kid shut off the lights on the light bar except for the warning ones at his rear, just so that if the SDHPs were out here moving around they wouldn’t back-end us.

  “Why no lights?”

  “Henry can’t see.” I watched the road for a few seconds then tried to make out the signs, but they were enameled with snow. “Any idea where we are?”

  I was talking to Henry, but Tavis answered. “Just south of Hill City, I think.” He turned in the seat and looked at the Bear. “You Sioux?”

  “Lakota. Some, but mostly Cheyenne.”

  “I never met a Cheyenne before.”

  The silence of the vehicle got to the kid, and before long he spoke again. “How ’bout telling us a story, I mean the sheriff and me have been talking the whole way . . .”

  Henry nodded. “I know.”

  “Well, tell us a story, an Indian story to help pass the time.”

  The Cheyenne Nation glanced at him, then back at me, and then at the road. “You may not like my stories.”

  The kid wouldn’t give it up. “What, do all the white people die in the end?”

  “No, only white-people stories end with everybody dying . . .” He sighed and then smiled to himself. “There was an Indian and a Ve’ho’e traveling together—”

  “What’s a Ve’ho’e?”

  I joined the conversation. “White person.”

  The Bear continued as if we hadn’t spoken. “These two were on a hunting trip, but they were not doing very well, when suddenly a duck flew out of some rushes and the Indian shot it with an arrow at the exact same time as the Ve’ho’e shot it with a gun.” Henry’s hands came up, gesturing as he warmed to the story. “They plucked the bird and made a fire, burying the duck in the ashes so that they could eat it the next morning. As they were going to sleep the Ve’ho’e made a wager, telling the Indian that they should sleep well tonight and dream, and whoever had the best dream in the morning would be the one to eat the duck.”

  I had heard this story numerous times.

  “The next morning the Ve’ho’e awoke very early, but when he looked at the Indian, he could see his eyes watching him and so the Ve’ho’e said, ‘I have had a marvelous dream!’

  “The Indian, seeing his enthusiasm, allowed him to tell of his vision first.

  “‘In my dream, there were winged white women who came down from the sky who promised me everything forever if I would only join them in Heaven, but I explained to them that I did not have wings. So they lowered a ladder down for me and I began climbing up.’

  “The Indian jumped to his feet and pointed at the Ve’ho’e and agreed—‘I have had this same vision, a dream so powerful, so vivid that it must be shared by more than one person.’

  “The Ve’ho’e nodded. ‘It was as if it actually happened!’

  “‘Yes, I saw you climb up the ladder and disappear.’

  “The Ve’ho’e, sensing he had won the bet, exclaimed, ‘Yes!’

  “The Indian continued to nod. ‘So I ate the duck.’”

  It was quiet in the cruiser as the Bear returned his hands to the dash and his attention back to the road.

  The kid finally spoke up. “That’s the end?”

  The Cheyenne Nation’s voice echoed off the windshield. “Yes.”

  “Well, that sucked.”

  “For the Ve’ho’e, yes.” Henry smiled. “I told you you would not like the story.”

  For the sake of peace between the races, I tapped the kid’s shoulder and asked, “You from around here, troop?”

  “Sioux Falls, but they weren’t hiring this time of year.”

  “How long have you been on the job?”

  “Four weeks—got my criminal justice degree from Black Hills State.”

  “What made you want to be a police officer?”

  “I just want to help people, right?”

  The Bear looked at him again, and I slapped Henry’s shoulder to get him to knock it off, the back of my fist making a loud smacking noise against the black leather. “Right.”

  Henry’s voice rose with his finger. “Left.”

  The kid turned to look at him. “What?”

  “Left, turn left.”

  “Right.” He did as he was told, but after a moment, he spoke again. “What is it that this woman’s done?”

  I rested my chin on my arm. “Disappear, but the problem is that a couple of other women have had the same thing happen to them, and I’m hoping that she might be able to connect some of the dots for me. That, and I’ve got a dead sheriff’s investigator to throw in the mix.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Suicide.”

  The Bear raised a fist like a mace. “To serve and protect, right?”

  I hit him in the shoulder again.

  The kid looked at me. “How long have you been a sheriff?”

  I shrugged. “About as long as you’ve been alive.”

  Some quiet time went by, and then there was a little edge to the young man’s voice. “So, what about you?”

  Henry shook his head. “What about me what?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  The Bear smiled. “No, I am freelance.”

  The tone was still there when he asked the next question. “So, what do you think we are?”

  The Cheyenne Nation didn’t look at either of us when he responded with a philosophy the young patrolman would develop sooner or later, if he lived that long. “Consequence.” You could hear all of us breathing in the cruiser as we tracked along in the deep snow. “Consequence is what we all are.”

  9

  “Stop.”

  Tavis hit the brakes, and we began a slow and agonizing slide on the cushion of snow, finally coming to rest at a diagonal, blocking both lanes. We’d been driving for what seemed like an hour, following the only set of tracks on the road, and all I could think was how embarrassing it was going to be if we were trailing a garbage truck. The young patrolman and I sat still as Henry leaned forward, looking past the kid through the driver’s side window farther down the road.

  “What?”

  He gestured. “No more tracks.”

  I leaned back, wiping the fog from the inside of the window, and even though I was unable to do much about the outside, I could see that the Bear was right and that the road ahead was pristine and undriven. “The road less traveled?”

  “They must have turned off.”

  I patted Tavis on the shoulder. “Can you get her turned around and go back?”

  He nodded. “I think so.”

  As he tried, I scoped the outside to try and get my bearings. “Shouldn’t we have met up with one of the Highway Patrol roadblocks by now?”

  “Seems like, but maybe they’re just a little farther.” He pulled the cruiser ahead in an arc, and we slowly started back up the invisible road.

  “How could you see that there were no more tracks?”

  The Cheyenne Nation shrugged. “Did not see it—I felt it. And heard it; the snow feels and sounds different when it has not been driven on.” He raised a hand again. “Stop.” We slid and then rocked back and forth like a moored boat as the Bear unclicked his seat belt. “They went off the road here.”

  I looked out my window. “That’s a road?”

  Henry shook his head. “I cannot tell, but that is where they went.”

  I tapped Tavis’s shoulder. “How ’bout it, troop?”

  “What if it’s not a road?”

  “Then we’re probably going to sink this Charger like a U-boat.”

  “I’d rather not do that.”

  I raised the collar on my coat and tugged down my hat. “Then we leave it wher
e it’s more likely to be damaged and walk.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not leaving this unit.”

  Henry gestured toward the supposed road. “That, too, is a choice.”

  Without warning, and I guess to show us that he was also ten feet tall and bulletproof, the kid spun the wheel and hit the gas. The big motor on the Dodge leapt at the opportunity and literally pounced into the tracks of the pickup, only to sink with a muffled thump like the plumping of four very large pillows.

  I leaned forward between them and looked at the Bear. “What’d that sound like to you?”

  He pursed his lips. “That we are, beyond even the slightest shadow of a doubt, stuck.”

  Tavis threw the cruiser in reverse and stomped on the accelerator before either of us could advise him against it. The Charger spun its wheels and, if possible, dug itself in deeper. “Shit.” He turned to look at us.

  “Looks like we walk after all.”

  “Shit.”

  Henry pushed open his door and climbed out. “My sentiments exactly.”

  “You want to open the door for me? There aren’t any inside handles back here.”

  Tavis got out on the other side and trudged back up to the road. “Shit.” He stood there and looked both ways. “I have no idea where we are.”

  Henry looked around with me and then pointed toward something hanging in the fog. “Is that a sign?”

  The patrolman walked toward it and slapped the pole with his hand, whereupon the majority of the snow slid off on top of him. “Shit.” He shook most of it off and then looked up and read the sign. “Oh, more than shit.”

  I stooped and shone my flashlight on the tracks, which illuminated a few drips of coolant in the snow. “What?”

  “It’s 16.”

  “Meaning?”

  Zipping up his duty parka, he walked back toward us. “We’re between the main roads leading to either Rapid City or Custer.” He looked around at the twenty feet that were visible. “Probably somewhere in Custer State Park.”

  “I guess we’re lucky he didn’t go to Mount Rushmore.” I joined the young man. “Are there any structures around? Lodges they may be trying to get to?”