“It wasn’t me, damn it!”
We both looked at the detective as he clutched the lower part of his face, blood, tissue, and teeth scattering across the front of his shirt onto the table. He fell off his chair as another shot whizzed between us. I released my grip on Lucian, and he turned his .38 toward the bar.
I grabbed the Walker just as another round struck the table, sending splinters into the air, and I whirled in time to see the bartender attempting to take better aim. Lucian fired and hit the man in the upper right-hand quarter of his chest, spinning him around and throwing him into the bar-back with a crescendo of shattered glass before he slid to the floor.
Figuring I could count on the old sheriff to check his shot, I shoved the big Colt in my belt at my back and kneeled down by the wounded detective—the round had shattered his jaw but had exited through the other side. He was still clutching at the ghastly wound as I yanked a bandana from my back pocket and attempted to slide it beneath his fingers, the blood going everywhere.
He tried to speak as his eyes glazed over, and with the amount of blood in his mouth, I was afraid he might choke. “Don’t try and talk; it didn’t get your throat, so you’re not going to bleed to death.” I held the material against the side of his face. “Hold on to this; he got your jaw. Keep your mouth shut and just lay there and try to not go into shock.”
He blinked once, and then his eyes sharpened, followed by a curt nod.
I yanked my head up to look at Lucian, who had crossed to check on the man behind the bar. “Dead?”
The old sheriff nodded. “Or doin’ a damned fine impersonation of it. How’s the New Mexican?”
“Alive, but he’s going to need some dental work. Take some of these bar towels and go over there and sit with him and keep him from going into shock. I’ll get on the radio in his car and call in the troops.”
I could’ve used the cell phone or the phone in the bar, but I figured by the time they got me patched through a 911 operator, I might as well have gone out and gotten on the detective’s two-way. The snow which had covered the vehicles had just about stopped, but now there was a ground fog that obscured the landscape.
Whiteout. Like South Dakota. “Well, hell.”
I stood there for a moment, feeling something out there in the blank, white parking lot—almost as if something was watching me. Ignoring the feeling, I walked over to the detective’s cruiser and yanked the door open—it sounded like a glacier cleaving. I threw myself inside and turned the key, thanking the heavens that Harvey, like most Wyoming residents, had left it in the ignition.
I punched the mic and reported shots fired and an officer down at the Sixteen Tons Bar, whereupon the dispatcher asked me the location. “It’s in Arrosa, about fifteen miles east of Gillette . . .” So much for speeding the process.
Static. “There are a number of communication towers down in that area and with the weather conditions and the amount of responses we’ve got out it might be a while before they get there.”
I keyed the mic again. “The officer is stabilized, but in pretty rough condition, so get us an EMT van and a couple of units as quickly as you can.”
Static. “And who is this again?”
“Sheriff Walt Longmire of Absaroka County.”
Static. “So you’re not Campbell County personnel?”
“No, but Detective Richard Harvey is, and he’s lying on the floor bleeding, hopefully not to death.” I threw the mic against the dash and clumsily cut the ignition, figuring if I was hauling the detective into town I was going to do it in my truck, which had four-wheel drive.
Climbing out of the cruiser, I pushed at the bandage on my neck where I’d irritated it and stood there in the fog with the feeling of being watched overtaking me again. There was a breath of a breeze, and I looked across the parking lot where the fog had parted like a curtain and at the concrete-block building and the American flag that flapped feebly against its own pole, attempting to get my attention. I stood there for a moment longer and then charged into the bar.
Lucian was with the detective and was holding the side of his face with the towels. “Bartender’s still dead, in case you were wondering.”
“Lucian, wasn’t the guy from the post office sitting on one of these stools before the shooting started?”
The old sheriff glanced around. “The horse’s ass with the ponytail?”
“Yep.”
He gave it a quick thought. “He was there earlier, but I don’t remember him being in the place when the bartender shot Harvey here.” He sighed. “You think he ran out before or when the shooting started?”
I stopped to pick up the detective’s .357, undeterred by the bloody molar and chunk of jawbone lying beside it, and then moved toward the back door. “I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”
“What the hell do you want from me then?”
I gestured toward the wounded man. “How’s he doing?”
Lucian looked down at the steady eyes peering up from the gory mess of a face. “He was trying to talk, but I told him to shut the hell up and wrapped those towels around his face along with a couple of sponges from the counter over there.” He looked up at me. “You gotta hand it to these New Mexicans; they can bleed with the best of ’em.”
I placed a hand on the door. “Help’s on the way, but it may take a while with the ground fog out there. So collect as many teeth as you can and just try and keep him from bleeding to death.”
“You goin’ out there into the rain, sleet, and snow and gloom of night?”
“Late afternoon.” I nodded. “The postman’s the only one who can still talk, and he’s not here and that speaks volumes.”
“What do you want me to do when the troops arrive?”
I pushed the door open and stood there, waves of cold and bad feelings enveloping my exposed flesh. “Find me.” I stepped out into the monochromatic landscape.
—
The postman’s tracks traced to the left around his doomed office, the divots partially filled in but still visible. You couldn’t even see the road for the frozen fog and the snow had started softly falling again—it was like walking into cotton batting, the flakes swallowing all sound.
I went around the building, almost tripping when I stubbed my boots on one of the covered parking curbs, and looked down at the area where the postman had evidently paused to watch me as I’d called in backup. That must’ve been the feeling I’d had.
It was possible that Rowan had just wanted to make himself scarce in a room full of flying bullets, but then why hadn’t he returned? And why had he stood out here and studied me as I’d called in? I pulled the big Colt from the back of my pants and stuck it in my sling again, one gun possibly proving to not be enough.
The footprints led to the rear of the post office, where the back door hung open about eight inches.
I glanced at the only vehicle parked behind the building—a battered CJ 7 Jeep without a straight piece of sheet metal on it sat with a good eight inches of snow on the hood. I thought about checking for the keys or pulling the coil wire but figured the thing was derelict. I sidled up beside the back door of the building and gently swung it open with the barrel of the detective’s .357—the storage room was empty.
Stepping inside, I made a quick sweep of the area, and then, dipping the Colt into the narrow aisleways and following the prints, worked my way down a couple of rows of eight-foot metal shelves.
There was a basket half overturned on the floor not unlike the one that the postman had given to me containing the collective mail of Jone Urrecha, so I nudged it over the rest of the way. It was empty, except for a sticker that had rolled up and was half stuck to its side. I stooped down and plucked it from the basket and read the typed address, a label redirecting mail for Linda Schaffer, the clerk from Kmart, to a box at this post office.
I stood and lo
oked around at the mountains of paper ready to avalanche on me should I decide to start digging and wished I had Dougherty with me. It was just as I’d had that thought that the cell phone in my pocket started buzzing and I pulled the thing out and looked at it; Dougherty. I punched the button. “Hey, troop. I was just thinking about you . . .” There was no reply. “Dougherty?” There was still nothing. Evidently the reception was good enough to allow a call to go through, but not enough to retain it. I glanced around the post office, finally spotting a phone on a nearby desk. I picked up the receiver, satisfied with the dial tone, and punched in Corbin’s cell number.
“Hello?”
“Dougherty, it’s Walt Longmire.”
“Yeah, I just called you.”
“I know, the transponders down here are covered with ice and malfunctioning; nothing is working. Did you find something?”
“I’ve been going through those files and came across a transcription that wasn’t in the computer, somebody else he talked to.”
“Who?”
“A woman named Izzy—does that ring any bells?”
A faint alarm went off somewhere in the periphery of my head, but nothing I could place. “Izzy?”
“Yeah, Izzy. Evidently she was involved with the Dave Rowan guy in something that Holman seemed highly suspicious of.”
I looked around, aware that I was still pursuing a felon. “Well, keep digging and get back to me.”
As I hung up, I could still hear his voice. “How?”
Rowan had continued through a door into the commercial area and around a counter where three P.O. boxes hung open, one with a key still hanging from the lock. There were wet boot prints there that trailed across the tile-covered floor and out the front.
As I pushed open the door into the silence of the outside, I saw that the tracks were much fresher and more defined, and that now there were two individuals walking. It looked as if they’d taken only one step out and then headed to the right, away from the bar toward the strip club and the scattered trailers belonging to the dancers.
There was a thundering noise growing louder to my left as I headed east on the frontage road, and all I hoped was that it wasn’t a plow coming up from behind preparing to dump a few tons of snow on top of me. The sound became more familiar as it grew louder, and I turned my head in time to see the billowing vortex of snow being swept along behind another Burlington Northern Santa Fe. As it is with mountains making their own weather, the mile-long train drew its own along with it, clearing the road and the surrounding area as it carried millions of dollars’ worth of not-so-hard fuel.
The pair of prints passed the trailers and angled into Dirty Shirley’s parking lot, making a beeline for the back door where I’d first seen the bouncer. I tried it but it didn’t budge, and then I thought about shooting the lock as they do on TV shows like Steadfast Resolution, but in reality, all that ever does is mess up the lock and not open the door.
Still thinking about that name, Izzy, I began the long trudge around the building and eventually got to the alcove that protected the front entrance. Where had I heard that before? I pulled on the door, it opened, and I eased it closed behind me.
It was dark in the interior of the building, and I couldn’t see much beyond some half-drawn heavy curtains that led toward an elevated area. There were a few illuminated liquor advertisements behind the bar that were reflected in the numerous mirrors on the black velvet walls. I stood there for a few seconds, letting my eyes adjust, and thought I might’ve seen something move.
I watched the mirrors and finally saw the end of a baseball bat hovering in the blackness. Unsure from which direction it was reflecting, I figured I had to make a guess. Remembering that the bouncer had led with his right, I decided to move to the left and direct fire to the right, where he’d most likely be.
As mistakes go, it was a doozy.
He was on the left and caught me with the Louisville Slugger. Luckily, it was a glancing blow and I’d dropped my head, but unluckily, I tripped on the shag carpet and tumbled off onto the dance floor. When I hit the ground, the .357 clattered out of my hand and slid across the tile underneath the other platform.
“You know, you really should’ve left off on this one. Not only are you too old for this shit, but you’re too dumb, too.” He patted the wooden bat in the palm of his other hand with a continuous smack. “Now I’ve got to beat you to death, and I was just getting to kind of like you.”
I rolled over and stared up at him. “Where’s the postman?”
“Dave is taking care of business.” He stopped at the step and took a few practice swings. “That’s what we’re all doing, taking care of business.”
I pushed a little away and propped myself against a chair. “And what part of the business are you in?”
He palmed the bat again. “Right now, the tenderizing business.” He stepped down. “USC, huh?”
“Yep.”
He raised the bat. “Well, Trojan, say hello to the Fighting Irish.”
I pulled the Colt Walker from my sling and carefully aimed it at his face. “Fight this.”
He stared at the massive barrel of the vintage firearm.
“I’ve never seen a human being shot with one of these cap and ball jobs, but I’ve heard they about half explode on contact, so not only do you get the primary wound, but bits and pieces of the ball scatter all over you.” I could see him weighing his chances. “But you won’t have to worry about that because before I take another hit with that bat, as my old boss used to say, I’ll spray your brains out of the back of your head like a manure spreader.”
There was a tense moment, and then he lowered the bat onto his shoulder and sighed. “I don’t want to go to prison; I just wanted to get my knee fixed.”
“It might be a little late for that.” I pushed off the floor, keeping the Walker on him. “What’s going on around here, anyway?”
He reached a hand out, but I ignored it and stood on my own, watching his muscles tense in his shoulders as he thought about swinging the bat again.
I shoved the big Colt in his face. “I’m getting the feeling that you just aren’t trustworthy.” I pulled the cuffs from my pocket, tossed them to him, and motioned toward the pole at the center of the stage. “Hook yourself to that.”
He stepped back. “No way, man.”
I lowered my aim at his good leg. “Do it, or you’re going to be rehabbing both of those knees.”
He dragged a chair from one of the tables onto the stage and did as I said, slumping into a seated position with his wrist attached to the chrome pole. “Happy?”
“Give me the bat.” He did, and I sat at another table with the lumber in front of me. “So I’ll ask the question again—what’s going on?”
“My question, exactly.”
The voice that came from behind me was female, sort of, and was accompanied by the sound of a slide-action being pulled back on a 9 mm semiautomatic. I turned and was treated to the sight of the sister of the sheriff of Campbell County and proprietor of the establishment pointing a pistol at me. “Tommi.”
She threw her purse and coat onto the bar and looked at the two of us. “What the hell is going on in here?”
Thor was the first to speak. “Thank God you’re here, Tommi. I caught this guy snooping around and hit him with the bat, but he got the jump on me and cuffed me to the pole—”
I interrupted. “Call your brother; I’m working on a case involving the missing women. Your boyfriend, Dave, the recently deceased bartender of the Sixteen Tons, and the mullet with the mouth cuffed to the pole here are all involved.”
She looked disgusted—then considered him and then me again. “Mister, I’ve done quite well in life knowing what aspects of my business I need to involve my brother in, and which ones I don’t—another thing I’ve fine-tuned is my ability to sniff out bullshit when it�
��s being shoveled my way.” She came down, sat in the chair across the table from me, and then readdressed her aim to the bouncer. “Now, Thor, you tell him everything he wants to know or I’ll shoot you myself.”
The blond kid pleaded. “Tommi, you don’t understand—”
The 9 mm went off, splintering a hole in the stage floor no more than a yard away from the kid’s foot as he wrapped himself around the pole.
I sat the Walker on the table and cleared my nearest ear with the tip of a pinkie. “You mind telling me when you get ready to shoot that thing again?”
She casually lifted the semiautomatic and blasted another round in the stage a foot away from the kid’s other sneaker, causing him to leap up, overturn his chair, and stand comically behind the chrome pole. She glanced at me. “I might be shooting some more.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Think nothing of it.” She took out a cigarillo and a lighter and rested her elbow on the table in order to sight the pistol on Thor’s private parts. “You were saying?”
The kid was on the verge of crying. “It wasn’t my idea.”
She puffed her cigarillo as if her life depended on it. “Comforting, seeing as how in the couple of years I’ve known you I’ve never known you to have one.”
“It was the postman, honest.”
I watched as Tommi’s hand tightened around the pistol. “Dave.”
“He always rings twice.” Figuring the kid was scared enough, I reached over and lowered Tommi’s weapon. “Tell me about Mr. Rowan, Curtis.”
“It was his idea.” Thor relaxed and leaned against the pole. “He gets these catalogs with women in them at the post office, and he figured he could go into the business himself what with it closing and him losing his job anyway.”
“Mail-order brides?”
“Yeah . . . Well, kind of.”
“Kind of?”
He nodded. “More like servants. We were all talking over at the bar one night, and he brought the subject up. We didn’t know that he’d already done it twice with women from town, but we figured we had a supply of girls that we could use from the club—”
Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery Page 22