Death Without Company

by Craig Johnson

  She crushed the Rainier after the final swallow. “She says I need a good fuck.”

  I nodded, sage-like, and looked at the crumpled can still in her hand. “Maybe she’s right.”

  “She says you need one, too.” She tossed the wad of aluminum in the trash can under the desk. “Don’t take it personally. It’s been her advice on the human condition since Khrushchev pounded his shoe on the table at the UN, and Dad says it’s always been the case.”

  “Something tells me your mother doesn’t use the term good fuck.”

  “No, she uses the term roll in the hay, but it just doesn’t have the same poetic ring.”

  I found myself becoming slightly aroused as it dawned on me that Vic probably talked dirty during sex, which shouldn’t have come as such a surprise since she did it in accompaniment with everything else. “So, you think your mother needs a roll in the hay?”

  “Since Khrushchev.”

  “That’s a lot of rolling.”

  Her attention went back to the reports. “Yeah. Well, she’s married to supercop.”

  She didn’t talk about her father all that much, but his influence was plainly felt. It would have been easy to dismiss Vic’s relationship with him as the difficulties a man with four sons had when confronted with a daughter, but his dealings with the four boys didn’t seem any less rocky. She yawned.

  “Go home.”

  I helped her put her coat on, and she turned and stood there studying me, looking nothing like a deputy is supposed to look. She grabbed the lapels of my sheepskin jacket and then smoothed them with the palms of her hands. “I still can’t believe you’re getting laid before I am.”

  I exhausted a short breath, a reasonable excuse for a laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not.”

  She picked up the containers of Metamucil and waited till she was around the corner and a couple of steps down the hall before calling out. “It does.”

  When I got back to Lucian’s room, it was quiet. The door was closed and locked again. I knocked. “Lucian?” There was no answer, but I could hear muffled sounds along with some splashing noises. “Hey, you getting bashful in your old age?” I listened and could swear I could hear more than one person in there. I glanced back down the hall, where I had returned the passkey, but there was another sharp noise, and I was committed.

  I couldn’t hear anything anymore, and a surge of panic raised my head by contracting the muscles along my shoulders. “Lucian!” I pulled my .45 out and crossed the hall; I knew from past experience that if I used my foot to break down the door, my foot would be the only thing that went into the room. I could hear more noises now, so I charged across and planted my entire side, shoulder first, into the door. It exploded and blew me against the wall beside the bathroom. I saw a leg move in the bathtub and brought my head around to see someone running up the hillside outside Lucian’s patio, someone big.

  “Sheriff, freeze!” He was gone. I rushed into the bathroom, my lungs settling as I holstered my sidearm and bounced off the edge of the tub as I hit the slippery floor.

  The shower curtain was wrapped around the old sheriff ’s body, and the water was still running. I pulled the curtain from around him and cut the tap. His leg was still up on the seat, but the rest of him was lying on his side with a fist clenched at his chest. I reached under his neck and pulled him up from the accumulated water that, having been freed from the curtain, was now swirling down the drain. He coughed, and I turned his face so that when he threw up, it would follow the water. It smelled like bourbon, and I held the one-legged man against my chest as he retched to a stop. He blinked his eyes and looked up at me. “What’re you doin’ here? Go get that son of a bitch!”

  I grabbed a towel from the rack, placed it under his head, put him back down, and raced from the bathroom, through the main room, and out the patio doors. I pulled my sidearm, slid to a stop, and looked at the boot prints. They trailed up the hillside. It looked as though someone had brushed against one of the pine trees about halfway up the hill. He must have slipped but had regained his footing and had continued on. The Datsun pickup was gone.

  I paused at the edge of the parking lot, having been careful to make my own path up the hill. The tire tracks and the exhaust melt of the Datsun were still compressed in the snow, and I knelt to look at the boot print where he had gotten in the truck. All the prints were marred enough so that we’d never get a decent imprint, but I placed my boot alongside: big, bigger than mine.

  Lucian had struggled up to a sitting position by the time I got back to the bathroom, and I was glad I’d shut the sliding glass doors. He was shivering and clutched his remaining extremities, so I propped him back up on his seat and wrapped another towel around him. I pulled a thick Royal Stewart bathrobe that Cady had given him last year from his closet and picked up one moccasin. I caught myself looking for the other one before remembering that he didn’t need it. His prosthetic leg was leaning against the door and on it was the other slipper. I snatched up the leg and continued back into the bathroom, where he looked up at me, still clutching himself. I sat on the toilet and wrapped the bathrobe around him, placing the leg against the tub, secure in the thought that this should be the order of things.

  There was a little blood in his smile; he must have bitten his tongue in the struggle. I pulled the old man in and tried to warm him up before looking for a phone. He was struggling with something and, after a moment, his clenched fist came out from the folds of the robe, and he opened his hand. In his palm was an almost foot-long hank of jet-black hair.

  The bloody smile held. “Got a piece of ’im.”

  10

  No one at the home drove a Datsun pickup, and the only one in our tax records was a rusted hulk out on the Miller Ranch down near Powder Junction. It hadn’t run since Steve and Janet’s daughter Jessie had planted it in an irrigation ditch back in ’89. Steve told Ruby I could have it for the annual sheriff ’s auction if I came and got it; I gratefully declined.

  I sank my head back onto my folded coat and draped my arm down to pet Dog. I was having a hard time getting Ruby to concentrate on the Datsun pickup rather than Lucian.

  “How about the DMV?” Except for the sound of the plastic keys, it was quiet in the office. Cady had left a message last night that she had gotten a ride from Henry and that she had arrived at the cabin safely. She also said that she and the Bear had stopped at the grocery on the way out. She also thanked God that they had. She also reported that it had only taken ten minutes to shovel out the living room and that Henry had used more duct tape to seal up the roof. She was asleep when I got there and, when I risked a kiss on the top of her head this morning, she hadn’t stirred.

  The tapping stopped. “Three.”

  “Locations?” From my perspective on the wooden bench of the reception area, I could see the serrated clouds on the ridges east of town. The sky was a striped fiery orange, and the snow between was pink.

  The thin, nimble fingernails coated in lacquer continued typing. “Lusk, Laramie, and Lander.”

  I gave out with my best Basil Rathbone and wondered about the location of Watson. “Hmmm, I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

  “They all start with L?”

  I held up an index finger. “Perchance a clue. Let’s start with the closest.”

  Tapping. “Ivar Klinkenborg.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Wants or warrants?”

  More tapping. “None.”

  “Age?”

  “Sixty-eight.”

  “Next.”

  There was silence for a moment. “Which is closer, Lander or Laramie?”

  I didn’t answer, because I wasn’t sure. Vic and Saizarbitoria had gone out to a vehicular altercation on 196 just south of town, and it was the Ferg’s day off. The Bear was MIA and was probably back on the Rez. I was idly thinking that at least I had Dog, when he got up and moved back over to Ruby. “Let’s do reverse alphabetical ord
er.”

  I got a look on that one. “Jason Wade.”

  “Wants or warrants?”

  Tapping. “One DUI, two moving violations, both HPs. Recent registration from Nebraska.”

  This time I stuck a fist in the air. “Go Huskers. The big red N stands for knowledge.”

  Another pause. “Is that a no?”

  I threw my arm back over my eyes. “Height?”

  “Five-eight.”

  “Next.”

  More tapping. “Leo Gaskell, thirty-six, three moving violations and a domestic violence charge from two months ago.” Even more tapping. “Involuntary manslaughter, did a five spot in Rawlins, weapons possession, processing, drug abuse violations, clandestine lab operation five years ago, did a year in Fremont County, more drug abuse violations. There’s an assault on a law enforcement officer with no charges pending.”

  I was already up and watching her. “Height?”

  “Six-five.”

  “Hello.” She looked over at me as I thought about it for a moment. “Call up Bill Wiltse in Fremont County and ask him what he knows.” It was quiet for far too long. “What?”

  “Had it occurred to you, as a trained and veteran officer, to get the license plate number?”

  I let out a large sigh in hopes that she would feel sorry for me. “Maybe I’m slipping.” I slumped back on my folded coat. She took a sip of her green tea that I knew, from one small sample, tasted like lawn clippings. I rearranged my arm and pulled my hat down, knowing full well the silence was about Lucian. “He’s fine, Ruby.”

  She exhaled a response, and I waited in the silent darkness of my hat. “You’re sure?”

  “You couldn’t kill him with a ball bat.” I thought about how Lucian had looked when I’d run him over to Durant Memorial, flushed with excitement. “He looks better than he has in years. If I’d known what an effect it was going to have on him, I would’ve tried to kill him years ago.” I waited, but she seemed satisfied. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you lie about not knowing Mari Baroja?” It was quiet again.

  “At that point in time, I thought it concerned Lucian’s personal life.”

  I lifted my hat. “Fair enough.” I stood up and started down the steps to the little kitchenette in the basement. “I’m going to go make coffee.”

  “I’m sorry I lied.”

  I stopped on the landing and looked up at the painting of Andrew Carnegie, a leftover from the library years. All the time I’d worked with Lucian, he would salute Andy every time he went by. I smiled back up at her. “It’s all right, you weren’t that convincing.”

  I paused there on the landing and looked at the photographs, the six black and whites and the one color photo, all in cheap frames. I was the color photo, the one with the silly mustache and the too long sideburns. I scratched my beard and thought about my professional lineage.

  Red had retired to ranch in the southern part of the county, had listened to the wind until he had grown loopy as a barn swallow in late elderberry season, and had finally shot himself in the heart. A drunk fourteen-year-old cowboy had knifed Del; Otto was crushed under a team of horses; and, as near as we could tell, Charley and Conrad had just disappeared. I knew why Lucian had called it quits. Things had changed in the seventies, and the world could no longer leave his peculiar brand of law enforcement well enough alone. He had ridden the trail for more than a quarter of a century and that was enough. It wasn’t a happy collection of fortunes, but it did help to put Room 32 at the Durant Home for Assisted Living in perspective.

  The old sheriff was a little roughed up, but he was going to be fine. I had saved a small strand of the hair, but the rest was already on its way to Cheyenne and DCI.

  I scared up the coffee, folded a paper towel in lieu of a filter, and stepped back to the satisfying gurgle of impending caffeine and thought about another nine months in office. Somehow, it seemed longer than the past twenty-three years and three months altogether.

  I noticed the blinking red light on the wall phone in the hallway, picked up the receiver, and tried to think of what Saizarbitoria would say, finally settling on. “Jail.”

  “It’s Bill Wiltse. He says he wants to talk to you about this Gaskell character.”

  I punched line one. “Hello?”

  “Have you got Leo Gaskell?”

  I raised my eyebrows and looked at the phone for my own entertainment. “Hi Bill, how are you?”

  He was quiet for a minute; I think for emphasis. “Do you have him?”

  “No, actually I don’t.” I looked in at the coffee pot, but it wasn’t quite full. “You wanna tell me what this is all about? He doesn’t seem to have any outstanding . . .”

  “He assaulted one of my off-duty officers at the Lander Saloon about two weeks ago and broke the orbit around his left eye and dislocated his jaw.”

  The coffee was ready, so I turned over one of our rare official mugs with the sheriff ’s star, poured, and watched as a few drops sizzled on the warming pad.

  “What’s this all about, Walt?”

  I took a sip of the coffee, a little strong but it would do. “Oh, I ID’ed a Datsun pickup last night, and we’ve had someone over here attempting to do that thing that ends all other deeds.”

  “What?”

  That’s what I got when I quoted Shakespeare to other sheriffs. “You wanna fax over a copy of your files and a photograph of Gaskell?”

  “You bet. Hey, Walt?”

  “Yep?”

  “Be careful with this jaybird, he’s bad news.”

  Leo Gaskell fit the bill, but what connection could he have with the Barojas or Lucian? I would have to deal Leo around like a bad card and see what came up. Just for the luck of the draw, I had put out an all points bulletin last night.

  I started up the stairs with my cup of coffee. “Anything on that APB with the HPs?” Ruby shook her head. “Add the plate number.” I called back to her as I made for my office. “You find anything on the priest?”

  “He lives at the rectory over at St. Mathias. Father Thallon looks after him.”

  I could go find the old priest but, without Saizarbitoria, I couldn’t do much. I could check on Lana, Isaac, or Lucian at the hospital, head over to the home and ask around, or maybe even call in the Baroja twins and have a little chat. The opportunities were endless.

  I swiveled my chair around and looked at the orange mountains that paled to lighter shades in the morning light. The sun was out, but it was doubtful we’d get much higher than the teens during the course of the day. The foothills were covered with a deep drift of snow that had piled on from the northwest so that the whole county looked as if it were leaning to the southeast.

  I knew better than to call the greatest legal mind of our time before noon on a day she wasn’t billing on an hourly basis. It was still relatively early, and I needed company for breakfast. I figured the Log Cabin Motel was a good place to look.

  “What if I want the special rather than the usual?”

  Dorothy crossed her arms and smiled at me like a magician forcing a card. “The special is the usual.”

  I nodded, looked at Maggie Watson, and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have the usual special.”

  She looked to Maggie. “Me, too.”

  Dorothy opened the waffle iron, set up for Belgian. It wasn’t the usual usual. I looked at the menu absentmindedly and wondered, if I were a breakfast, which one I’d be? Probably the usual. “So, how are our abandoned safe-deposit boxes measuring up?”

  She sipped her coffee. “Pretty boring, actually.”

  “How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

  “Maybe two days.” It was quiet in the little café. “How’s your case going?”

  “Don’t ask.” A thought occurred to me, and I looked at the chief cook and bottle washer. “Hey Dorothy, who in this county is bigger than me?”

  She was still but didn’t turn. “Bigger in what way?”

>   “Taller.”

  “Brandon White Buffalo.”

  I took a sip of my coffee, glanced toward Maggie, and dismissed that suggestion. “Anybody else?”

  She sat the bowl against her hip and tilted her head. “There was a guy in here about a week ago, construction worker, really big.”

  “Not a local?”

  “No.”

  “Working around here?”

  “Maybe. Outside work; wearing those big arctic Carhartts.” She motioned to the farthest stool at the end of the serving counter. “Sat down there, kept to himself.”

  Maggie was watching me prime the pump. “Did he say anything that might’ve given you an indication as to who he was or where he was working?”

  She shook her head. “No, he hardly said a word, and it was busy.”

  I decided to go with the big indicator. “What’d his hat say?”

  “I don’t read every ball cap that comes into this place, life’s too short.” She poured the batter into the waffle iron, closed it, and then turned back to look at Maggie. “Asks a lot of questions, doesn’t he?”

  When they had stopped steaming, she flipped the Belgian waffles from the iron, drenched them in maple syrup, and dressed them with confectionary sugar and a few strawberries for good measure. She slid the hot plates in front of us, reaching back for the pot after noticing our cups were about empty.

  I started eating as she watched. Dorothy liked to watch me eat, and I’d gotten over it. Maggie seemed to be enjoying her usual usual. “You ever hear of Jolie Baroja, the cousin?”

  She poured herself a cup. “Some talk about the ETA. He was over there for a few years during and after the war.”

  “That’s a nasty little terrorist group for a priest to be tied up with.”

  “Like I said, just talk.” She took another sip of her coffee. “He must be older than dirt. He did the mass at the Basque festival a few years ago in Euskara. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he speaks English, at least not anymore.” She glanced at Maggie, who was doing her best to ignore us. “You know what they say about the Basques; like a good woman, they have no past.”