Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  “You mean you abducted these women against their will and sold them?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  I sat there, thinking that the report from Tommi’s pistol had affected my hearing. “Slaves.”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  She raised the pistol and aimed again. “Can I shoot him now?”

  I pushed the 9 mm away. “Not till we find out where the women are.” I turned and gave the bouncer my most immediate and severe attention. “At last count there are three—where are they?”

  “Um . . .” He mumbled the next part. “All over.”

  “I’m shooting this little bastard on general principles.”

  I held the gun away. “Where are they?”

  He shook his head as he spoke. “One might be somewhere in Florida, maybe.”

  “Rowan has the list?”

  He nodded. “He knows everything.”

  “So, where is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Tommi lifted the pistol again, and this time I didn’t attempt to dissuade her, and Thor suddenly remembered the conversation. “He came in here and told me you were going to kill us all and that I was supposed to stop you no matter what it took.”

  “Then he left?”

  “Yeah.”

  I thought about it. “There had to be a place where you kept the women before shipping them out or delivering them; where was that?”

  “We kept them sedated in the trailer.”

  “The one that burned down?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stood. “What about Jone Urrecha?”

  “Who?”

  I gestured toward Tommi. “Shoot him.” She did, this time missing his foot by inches. “Your running partner, the Basque woman.”

  “The schoolhouse.”

  I stuffed the Colt Walker into my sling. “Over by the bar?”

  “No, the old one back up the canyon road.”

  I walked to the stage and lifted the short curtain that trimmed the dancing area but couldn’t see the .357. “There’s a pistol that slid under there that belongs to the detective that’s been working on this case. When the sheriff’s department gets here to take golden boy into custody, tell them about it, would you?”

  She nodded. “Will do. You headed for the schoolhouse?”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t see a damn thing out there.” She stubbed her cigarillo out on the table. “You want me to send the troops and my half-wit brother after you, or do you just want to shoot that asshole Dave and leave him for the coyotes?”

  “It’s tempting, but send them after me.”

  “Will do.”

  I straightened my hat and zipped up my coat with my good arm, careful of the bandage on my neck. “Can I drive there?” She and the bouncer looked at each other. “I take that as a no.”

  “It’s just a dirt road and all rutted out; in weather like this I think you better walk.”

  “How far?”

  “’Bout a mile.” She frowned. “And I was going to marry that son of a bitch.”

  —

  When I came out the back door of the strip club and looked across the field, I could see that the Jeep was gone. I could also see the revolving lights of a Campbell County Sheriff’s car. I hustled across the parking lot and down the road, getting to the Sixteen Tons Bar in time to see the present sheriff of Campbell County and the retired sheriff of Absaroka loading the wounded investigator into the backseat.

  “Where’s the EMT van?”

  Sandy turned and looked at me as they made Harvey as comfortable as possible, his head wrapped with so many bar towels it was starting to look like the top of a snowman—all he needed was some coal and a carrot. “With this fog, you’re lucky that radio call you put in with my dispatcher got through to me. I’ll drive him over to the hospital and then come back.” He glanced past me, toward the mail office next door. “I understand we’ve got somebody who’s gone postal?”

  “From what I got from Curtis, the kid I handcuffed to a pole over at your sister’s strip club, he, the dead bartender, and the postman are running some kind of white-slavery ring.”

  He guffawed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I wish I were.” I glanced at the hills behind the small town. “Supposedly they kept the women in the old one-room schoolhouse up in the hills out here.”

  Sandy stopped laughing and nodded. “There’s a road, but the fastest way to get there is to follow the railroad spur behind the school that deadheads about a mile down the canyon—and that way you can drive.” He pointed to a line of empty coal cars. “They sometimes park the cars there before they roll ’em down to Black Diamond, where they fill them up. When you get to the end of the line, hop over the top of the hill, and the school will be right there.”

  I held a hand out. “Let me borrow your cuffs?” He handed them to me, and I reached for my keys. “There’s a road beside the tracks?”

  He nodded. “A lot better one than that goat path on the ridge.”

  I started to move off, but Lucian caught my arm. “What do you want me to do?”

  I glanced at Sandy. “Is this the only road out of town?”

  “In or out.”

  I turned back to the old sheriff, the man who had gotten me into this mess. “Stay here in case he decides to make a run for it. Take Harvey’s car and set up out there on the entryway to the railroad crossing.” I started off toward my truck. “You see him, you stop him.”

  Lucian called after me. “Like I did the bartender?”

  I called back over my shoulder, “Or the coffeepot.”

  14

  There was a BNSF high-rail truck sitting at the top of the deadhead, the kind that can run on railroad tracks when the gear is lowered, and I slowed down and stopped to yell out my window, “Any chance of you guys moving these cars in the near future?”

  He smiled. “You chasing the mailman?”

  “He go by here?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  I looked at the cars and at the narrow roadway on the side, clogged with snow. “Really, any chance of moving these damn things?”

  He pushed the hood back on his Carhartt, and I recognized the man I’d met at the Sixteen Tons, Fry printed on a name patch. “In about forty-five minutes we’re gonna move ’em out and fill ’em up.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The mine is worried they’re gonna get snowed in, so they’re gonna take this spur train and attach it.”

  “No sooner, huh?”

  He smiled. “Not unless you want to hook that big V-10 up and pull ’em yourself.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” I rolled the window back up and decided that I didn’t need the sling anymore. Pulling the cumbersome thing off and stuffing it in my pocket, I carefully slid my arm into the sleeve of my coat—my neck was sore, but I could deal with that. I spun the wheel, negotiated my way around the coal cars, and began the slow and arduous task of drifting my way down the sloped road in an attempt not to slip off into the ditch or run into the train cars.

  There was a fresh set of tracks that rolled alongside in a straight line, a testament to the Jeep’s more nimble design, but I kept turning into the slide and making progress. I glanced at the tops of the coal cars and could see that they were, indeed, empty.

  The only way to keep any kind of forward momentum was by staying on the gas, even though I was traveling about thirty miles an hour sideways to do so.

  Fortunately, when I got to the end of the line, there was a buttress of railroad ties and fill dirt, looking almost like a ramp, leading up to the last car, and, more important, an open area where I could goose the truck and climb up out of the ditch to straddle a flat spot.

  I gunned the three-quarter-ton, dodged between two cottonwoods, both about as big around as a coffee table, climbed out of t
he Bullet, and looked at the Jeep tracks. I sighed and unlocked the Remington shotgun from my transmission hump, figuring if I was going hunting I might as well go prepared. Before closing the door, I reached in, snagged the mic from my dash, and thumbed the button. “Lucian?”

  The old sheriff’s voice rang back. Static. “What do ya need?”

  “I’m at the end of the rail spur, but that damned Jeep of his was able to slip through and follow the goat path leading up toward the school.”

  Static. “There was a reason those drove into Berlin and Tokyo and not a bunch of pickup trucks, you know.”

  “Yep, but what I need is for you to keep an eye out in case he circles around on the old school road.”

  Static. “I’m backed up to the railroad crossing in the detective’s car. These assholes from the BNSF say I’m going to have to move when they hook on to that spur of yours, but when that thing starts moving there isn’t anybody going to be able to get through anyway.”

  “Make sure you and the interceptor are on this side, would you?”

  Static. “Sure, I wouldn’t want to miss any of the fun.”

  I tossed the mic back inside, plucked a handheld from the side pocket, and clipped it to my belt. I closed the door, stepping into the midcalf snow, threw the strap on the twelve-gauge on my good side, and marched off after the Jeep.

  It was getting warmer, causing the whiteout fog to thicken like pudding, and the snow in the gulley was over my knees, but there was still not much wind. Luckily, I had the Jeep tracks to follow, so I switched off and began walking the tire-track tightrope, finally making it to a stand of naked trees and another slight depression that flattened out to the ridge where the old schoolhouse must’ve been.

  As I got to the top of the hill, I paused to catch my breath and promised myself that if the postman made a run for it, I would just shoot him, pretty sure I was too tired to do anything else.

  There was a discernible shadow to the left with a smaller shadow to the right, about the size of a vehicle. I jacked a round into the shotgun and continued to follow the Jeep tracks, hoping that I wasn’t too late, but pretty sure that if Jone Urrecha was still alive, he would use her to negotiate.

  It was about then that I heard the unmistakable whizz of a 9 mm round whipping past me into the distance. I immediately crouched, brought the Remington up, and pointed it in the direction of the report. “Rowan, you better throw down that weapon and call it quits.”

  There was silence for a few moments, and just in case he was a better shot than I thought, I moved to the left a little, keeping a low profile against the slope.

  His voice was high and nasal. “How about we make a deal, Sheriff?”

  I pinpointed his location to be in or near the Jeep, so I continued to the left, figuring I could work my way along the ridge and circle around, keeping the school between us. “I don’t usually negotiate in these kinds of situations.”

  “I’ve got the woman.”

  “I know that.”

  “You better stop moving out there or all deals are off.” There was more silence, obviously more than he could stand. “You want to hear my offer?”

  I thought about letting him sweat, but I was concerned that as nervous as he was he might shoot Jone. “I’m listening.”

  “What if I leave her here in the schoolhouse, and you let me go back down the hill in the Jeep?”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you?” Against my better nature, I thought about it. “You know I’ve got officers back in town, right?”

  “I know you’ve got an old, one-legged sheriff down there, but I’d imagine that the rest of them are trying to get Richard Harvey to the emergency room or scraping the citizenry off I-90.”

  He had a point.

  “I’ll leave her in the school for you.”

  “Along with your gun.”

  “What?”

  “You throw that pistol of yours out here toward me or it’s no deal. I don’t mind leaving you to the Campbell County Sheriff’s Office, considering how you shot one of theirs—”

  “I didn’t shoot him!”

  “Good luck explaining that in the heat of the moment.” I let him think about it. “But I’m not letting you waltz out of here armed.”

  “What makes you think I don’t have another gun?”

  “Because if you had, you would’ve used it instead of that 9 mm. I’m hefting this twelve-gauge with a full-length barrel and loaded with buckshot.” I let him think about that. “It might not get all of you at this distance, but it will get some of you—that much I can guarantee.” It got real quiet. “I’m through negotiating, in case you’re wondering.”

  There was no response, but something sailed through the air and landed with a soft thunk to my right. I moved in that direction and fished in the snow, finally pulling out a Ruger semiautomatic minus the magazine.

  He found his voice. “I didn’t figure there was any reason to give it to you loaded.”

  “Fair enough, but you better not be lying to me.”

  The ignition on the CJ-7 fired, and I listened as a door opened. “She’s inside; a little drugged up, but I’ve found that makes ’em easier to handle.”

  “You’re not going to get far.”

  “I’ll take my chances; anyway, I’ve got friends.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Watch your back, Sheriff.”

  The sound of the door closing was accompanied by the revving of the engine as he spun the Jeep around and circled to the right to what I assumed was the regular road to the school.

  I unclipped the handheld from my belt and keyed the mic. “Lucian, can you hear me?”

  Static.

  “Lucian, if you’re reading me, the postman, Rowan, is headed down the hill; feel free to shoot the Jeep, but I’d like him alive so I can find out where the other woman is and about his partners in this little cabin industry of his.”

  Static.

  I listened to the sound of the Jeep as I fastened the radio to my belt and started back up the hill. It sounded like the four-by-four was having a hard time negotiating the rutted road, and even as if it might’ve veered to the right and circled around toward the railroad spur, but sounds were strange and untrustworthy in this kind of storm.

  Just in case, I pulled Vic’s cell phone from my pocket and looked at the lack of bars; of course, NO SERVICE.

  —

  Depth-charging my way to the school, I could see the prints where he’d been standing but also where he had dragged the girl to the other side of the Jeep. “And that’s what you get for having one shred of trust.”

  Just to make sure, I climbed the steps and yanked the door open—empty.

  Leaping off the stoop, I tromped through the shallower snow on the ridge and pulled the radio from my belt. “Lucian, he’s got the woman with him, so be careful taking him.”

  Static.

  I headed off following in the tracks of the Jeep, which arced back toward the road we’d taken up from the railroad spur. “Now, why would he do that?” The road was worse but faster, so maybe he thought his odds were better doubling back and using the train for cover.

  I had another hike ahead of me, but it was a path I knew and it was downhill. I sidled my way down the hill and back into the trees, where at least I could tell if I was upright.

  There was a loud clanking noise, and I figured the empty coal train was pulling out. Great, just in time for Rowan to be able to drive on the tracks.

  Increasing my speed, I finally got to the flat area at the bottom of the gulley where I could make better time. The sound of the clanking cars was thunderous, but I could still hear a high whining sound of tires spinning in the snow in an attempt to find purchase.

  Moving into a hampered jog, I held the twelve-gauge with the butt under my arm in an attempt to keep it steady. There wa
s a spot of darkness up ahead, but I was pretty sure that was either my truck or the buttress at the end of the line. I slowed when I got to the Bullet and looked around in all directions but still didn’t see the Jeep. I moved around the ties and stood on the railroad tracks, peering into the distance where the train had disappeared.

  I could still hear the noise but could see nothing.

  It couldn’t be more than a hundred yards ahead.

  With a deep breath that imitated a steam locomotive, I pressed off and ran along the uncovered area where the coal cars had sat, finally seeing the Jeep turned sideways in a ditch where Dave Rowan must’ve pushed his luck just a little too far. The four-by-four was buried at the bottom of the trench, and the only thing it was doing at this point was throwing snow into the wheel wells.

  I raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger, firing a round into the air a little in front of me so as to avoid any double-ought precipitation.

  Rowan let off the gas, and his hands shot up to the roof of the CJ-7.

  I lowered the barrel on him and yelled as I walked closer, “Shut it off!”

  He did as I said and then raised his hands again.

  “Where is the woman?”

  He didn’t say anything, and I lowered the barrel of the twelve-gauge on him. “Where is Jone?”

  He smiled a sickening smile and shouted back, “Jone who?”

  I yanked the door open and grabbed him by the coat front, shoving the muzzle of the shotgun under his chin and forcing his head back. “Tell me where she is or I scatter the top of your head all over the insides of the Jeep.”

  His eyes widened, but his voice still had confidence. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  I slipped the barrel away and blew out the passenger-side window.

  He jumped, and I was betting he soiled himself just a bit. “Agha . . . !”

  I jacked the slide mechanism, bouncing the empty shell off his chest, and shoved the muzzle back under his chin. “I’ve had a long day, and I wouldn’t press my luck if I were you.”