Death Without Company

by Craig Johnson

  She gestured with a slight incline of her head. “Yes.” I looked up, but as soon as I smiled, the warriors and their horses and the woman standing in the saddle disappeared.

  Mari laughed, and it was stunning. It lingered in a luxurious moment, and I studied the little laugh lines at the corners of her mouth; they were like friends I had forgotten. I watched her talk and felt like I was being towed backward through heavy water.

  She stepped forward and took my hand in hers. She was so beautiful, I could not breathe. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s the matter.” Her free hand rested on my shoulder. Her fingers were warm, and a fingernail flicked across the hairs at the back of my neck.

  She pulled my face down. “It’s okay.”

  I suddenly felt off balance. Her head had tilted to the side to escape the brim of my hat, and I could feel her breath against my chest as she went up on tiptoe. “Sorry, I’ve got something in my throat or something.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Her face came closer, and all I could see were those huge brown eyes that made me feel as if I were walking in mud that squeezed up between my toes. I was still falling, and the background slid away from me as she made tentative contact with my lower lip. There was still something caught in my throat. “This is getting embarrassing.”

  “It’s okay.” She smothered my mouth with hers and blinked. Her hands were now on either side of my face and were holding me as I looked into gold bottle rockets shooting into the darkness of her pupils with contrails of iridescence, but the colors changed suddenly and tarnished, and I felt very cold. My back bent, and I felt it arch against a hard surface.

  I still felt her lips on mine. I felt the warmth and the desperation as her hands covered the rest of my face and refused to let go. I rolled to the side, and the pressure in my head lessened as I coughed and breathed with a ferocious intake of air. I felt as though I was being beaten with a hundred broom handles. I blinked, but my left eye didn’t seem to cooperate, and my right one felt like it was about to fall out.

  She was still there in my blurred vision; she sat on her knees and held on to the lapels of my jacket. Somebody was there with her, just to the side, some kind of monk with a hood pulled up around his face, and another person I couldn’t make out. I could almost swear the monk had a hatchet. He shook almost as badly as I did, and I was afraid he might drop it on me.

  She pulled me up by my collar, held me there, and I could feel her sobbing against me. Her grip was strong, and she pulled my head into the crook of her neck and rocked me. I could feel her pulse as she pressed me against her throat. The trembling in my own body refused to subside. I tried to move, and my head rolled back just enough to see her face. Her fingers slipped, and my head bounced on her warm, soft lap.

  There was a time, a time I remember when people would show up and sit on the hillsides, and the professional diver would come to town from Casper. I was a child and sat on my mother’s lap and watched in wonder as he put on his cumbersome diver’s suit with the military-surplus, two-hose regulator. He would disappear into one of the small ponds to retrieve the little white balls. Every time he would reappear with a rush of bubbles, the assembled crowd would cheer and whistle. I asked my mother why it was that everyone applauded whenever the diver reemerged with the basket of ten-cent golf balls. I looked up at her blond hair and the translucent blue of her eyes where the angle of the sun shone through her pupils, and she smiled and squeezed my hand. “Small mysteries solved.”

  I took another breath, and the tremors became so great that my teeth felt like they were going to break off in my mouth. I started to rise, but her other hand held me against her lap. I tried to smile, but instead bit my lip and breathed out a liquid belch.

  My hands fell to the side, and I must have loosened my grip because the golf ball that I had been holding slipped from my grasp and rolled across the ice.

  She reached out and pounded my chest in a fury with her fist. There wasn’t much feeling there, and the only reason I could tell she was striking me was that my head jarred a little with each blow. She beat on me until I feebly raised my hands in surrender. Her tears struck my face. “You stupid fucking son of a bitch!”

  14

  “We think it was the extra layer of fat that saved you.” We were seated on the table in one of the examination rooms and were still waiting for the report from the eye doctor. Henry was sitting on my right because he knew it would irritate me. “A man with a normal amount of fat would have perished.” I sighed, trying not to think about how bad my face hurt and instead fingered the little plastic band they had attached to my wrist. The band had my name, age, blood type, and two bar codes, one for my meds and one for my lab, but I wasn’t planning on being here in another fifteen minutes so the whole system would become academic.

  “You are lucky your coat snagged on the tree branch, or we would have never found you.” I fingered the tender spot at my side and stared at the floor with my one eye. “We argued over who had to give you mouth-to-mouth, but since I was the one who pulled you out, Vic did it.” He nudged me with an elbow. “I think she enjoyed it, or would have under different circumstances.” I felt him shift his weight and then hold something far out in front of me so that I could see it. “I thought you would like a souvenir from the briny deep.” He dropped a golf ball into my outstretched hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” Simple and honest; no one accepted praise with the grace of the Cheyenne.

  “How’s Sancho?”

  “I think he was more ashamed than hurt and is up and walking around even though his feet are sore.” He watched me. “I think he is embarrassed that you had to save him.” He was still smiling. “I told him you have saved lots of people.”

  I nodded, and it was quiet for a moment, so I changed the subject. “How deep is Clear Creek?”

  He slid off the table and walked around to where I could see him. He still had the Vietnam Special Forces tomahawk in an oxblood sheath at his belt. “Usually three to four feet.”

  “Then why is it we have the Challenger Deep of the Marianas Trench out there?”

  He was trying not to smile. “You picked the part that used to be the old reservoir.”

  “I didn’t pick it, Leo Gaskell did.” I looked up through my one eyebrow. “How deep is that damn thing?”

  “Twelve feet where you went in.”

  I looked up at the clock in the examination room: 11:23 A.M. “I have to get out of here, where the hell is the damn doctor?” I started to reach up to my ear, but he slapped my hand.

  His eyes stayed steady with mine as he slowly shook his head. “You are a horrible patient.”

  I bounced the golf ball off the floor. “How are Lana and Cady?”

  “Still asleep. They had a late night after we brought you in. Their door is locked, and Jim Ferguson is sitting in a chair outside it.” He dipped his head for a better look at my one eye. “Is that Cady’s Chief ’s Special?”

  I bounced the ball again. “I loaned it to her.”

  He nodded. “There were a lot of guns being scattered about last night.”

  “Anybody find the shotgun?”

  He stood up straight and flipped his hair back. “I did. I also found Saizarbitoria’s Beretta and your hat.” He gestured toward the offending article on the chair beside the door. “I like him.”

  “Who?”

  “Saizarbitoria.” He thought about it. “He is tough. He outran me last night, barefoot.”

  It was as good a scale as any. “He’s also half our age.” I waited a moment. “How the hell did Leo Gaskell get away?”

  “Perhaps Leo Gaskell is tougher.” Henry’s turn to sigh. “That, and Joe Lesky’s car has been stolen.”

  I waited a second to make sure I had heard him right. “What?”

  “He must have doubled back to the hospital parking lot and taken the car which, lucky for Leo Gaskell, was unlocked and had the keys in it.”

  I shook
my head and reached up to scratch my eye; he slapped my hand again. “I wasn’t going to touch my ear, damn it.” I rested my head against the pinched fingers that now held the bridge of my nose in an attempt to snatch the pain from my head. I bumped my eye patch and immediately regretted it. “Have we got an APB out on Lesky’s car?”

  “Yes.”

  “No signs of a Mack truck with a house trailer connected to it, I suppose?”

  “No.”

  I released my nose. “Where’s the staff?”

  “All back at the office; we did not think there was any reason to continue the stakeout.”

  I thought about Leo. I sat there like a typewriter with the carriage jammed. “Something’s not adding up.” I waited a while longer but, predictably, it was hovering, my usual itch just out of reach. “If you were going to kill somebody, would you walk there?” I looked down at my clean clothes, a gift from the hospital laundry, and turned my head so that my good eye was toward him. “Something else that’s been bothering me . . .” I scratched that little itch in the back of my mind and started making connections. “Why didn’t Leo kill Lana at the bakery?”

  He took a deep breath of his own, and I marveled at how easily it went in and came out. “Any chance you might have chased him off?”

  I summoned up the images from that morning. “There were tracks but no vehicle.”

  “Taking into consideration Leo’s laissez-faire attitude toward transport, do you think it possible that he was still there?”

  I thought about the one set of Lana’s prints going into the bakery and none coming out. “He must have been.”

  The door opened, and Andy Hall was the first through it, just the man I wanted to see, even if it was only with one eye. Behind Dr. Hall were Isaac and Bill McDermott, who had decided to stick around in case we turned up some more bodies. It was three against two, but I had the Indian and that always evened things out.

  Dr. Andy was the opthamologist from Sheridan and was a kind-hearted soul with an intelligent and quiet demeanor. He reached out with long-fingered hands, raising the eye patch and tilting my head back. It was funny how doctors handled people like luggage. “How do you feel?”

  “Great.”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “Nonpenetrating fracture of the left orbital with lacerations to the retina.” He half turned to the attending gaggle, and they all nodded in agreement. “I sutured the damage to the epicanthic fold; any cosmetic alterations can be done after the eye has stabilized.” He released my head and looked at me. “How’s your vision?”

  “Before or after the eye patch?”

  He looked back to Isaac for some assistance. The old doctor stepped forward with his hands clasped together. “The cold water was enough to slow your metabolic rate, but just so you do not underestimate the seriousness of the situation, you drowned last night.”

  I glanced over at the coroner. “If it was all that serious, I’d be talking to him.”

  McDermott was quick. “You wouldn’t be talking at all.”

  Isaac started in again. “Pulmonary edema carries a progressive bacterial infection which we are preventively treating with antibiotics, but your shortness of breath, poor color, and general weakness . . .”

  “Walking pneumonia.” I smiled at them, and it hurt. He hadn’t stayed in his hospital, so why should I? I snapped the little plastic wristband off and handed it to Isaac, who already had his hand out. I stood and picked up my hat. “All right, we’ve discussed the pneumonia; let’s do some walking.” I put my hat on; it felt funny, and I’m sure it looked worse. “I’ll take the drugs if you want me to.” He handed me a small plastic bottle. I steered Isaac out of the room and moved down the hall a little ways. “Is there a ring of master keys to the hospital that is kept in the basement?”

  He thought. “A custodian might have left a set there, because it is easier for him to get to them, but he shouldn’t have. It is a breach of security.”

  “Could you check that for me?”

  “Yes, I believe I can do that.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder and looked back to the Bear. “Are those keys still on the floor beside that desk?”

  “Vic took them for fingerprinting.”

  I looked back to Isaac. “I’ll return those to you when we’re through.”

  Bill McDermott stopped us as we passed him. “I’ll need written permission to release the body of Mrs. Baroja to the next of kin. They’ve requested her about four times now.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody’s asked about Anna Walks Over Ice?”

  He glanced at Henry. “Actually, somebody has.”

  I looked back to the Cheyenne Nation with my good eye and tried my half smile. “Of course they have.”

  It was a short drive over to the bakery from the hospital; I almost hit three other cars on the way. “Maybe I should drive?”

  “This eye patch thing takes a little getting used to.” It had warmed up, but there were still extended icebergs lining the roadsides and median. It had been a humid snow, and the coated trees looked as if they had been vacuum sealed for next year’s use. I looked out at Main Street, at the three-quarter inch, exterior plywood cutouts of bells, wreaths, reindeer, and the like. Twelve years running, and I was sure they were the most unattractive decorations in Wyoming; exterior ply holds ugly a long time. I remembered Ruby’s promise to take care of my Christmas shopping. I would have to check.

  I parked in front, cut the motor, and unlocked my Remington long-barreled 870 from the dash. “I wonder if she has a hide-a-key.”

  “What’s the fun of that?” We crossed the sidewalk, stepped in front of the door, and looked at the jamb surrounding the entrance to Baroja’s Baked Goods. Henry pressed himself against the facing and placed both hands around the knob, carefully but forcefully shifting the lock mechanism to the right and away from the catch. The door kicked forward as the bolt slid past the jamb with a mechanical clunk.

  The shop smelled just as good as it had earlier in the week. “I assume you’ve already been here, as a customer, I mean.”

  “Numerous times.”

  “Figures.” I walked down the hardwood floor and listened to the hum of the big, white ceramic coolers. He went behind the counter and began filling the espresso machine. “What are you doing?”

  “Making espresso.”

  I was sure there were entire folders of contact prints, photographs, pathology reports, DNA procedures, serology, and trace evidence on my desk about Lana’s supposed attempted murder, but sometimes it’s important to see the scene, to see the blood. I crouched down. There was the origin target on the floor, but the wave castoff and cast-off bloodstains were what I was looking for, the follow-through and the drawback of the weapon that had struck Lana Baroja. They were there, along the nearest table, on the floor and the baseboard of the back wall. He had stood beside the doorway and hit her as she came up from the basement.

  “Walt?” I turned back because his voice had changed. “Someone has cut a loaf of bread on the butcher block, has taken some provolone and buffalo mozzarella from one of the coolers, and has chased the meal with a couple of jugs of Wheatland microbrew.” He looked up. “Lately.”

  I was glad I had taken the 12-gauge from my truck.

  There were three doors on the landing: one to the bathroom, one that went to the basement, and one that continued upstairs. The steps to the second floor were warped and swayed in the middle. Tongue-and-groove boards paneled the stairwell, and a tiny grime-covered window provided the only illumination on the second landing where the stairs turned and went the other way.

  I jacked a shell into the shotgun, flipped off the safety, and started the second flight. I didn’t figure I was going to surprise anybody, so I decided to introduce myself. Henry called from the front, “Ha-ho?”

  “Broadcasting.”

  It was quiet for a moment. “Careful, I do not want to have to drink two espressos.”

  There were three rooms on the upper level:
a small one for storage with a few windows that overlooked the alley in the back; another with a two-by-four table pushed against the wall; and the front room with a couple of windows overlooking the street. This was the room where Leo Gaskell had been living.

  There was a ragged and torn polyester sleeping bag piled against one of the corners with a child’s bucking bronco blanket and a dirty pillow. The remains of downstairs’ repast lay on the floor nearby. There was a flashlight, which had been stolen from Northern Rockies Energy Exploration, and the coat I had seen him in last night. There was no Leo.

  I coaxed the coat from its crumpled position with the barrel of the shotgun and flipped it open. It was a bloody mess. You could see where two of the pellets had done the most damage, one in the arm and the blood on the sleeping bag showed where the other had hit his foot. As bad as I was feeling this morning, somewhere out there, Leo Gaskell was feeling worse.

  I nudged the jacket again and examined the inside pocket where two crystal-meth vials had exploded and thought that maybe Leo wasn’t feeling much of anything after all. I put my gloves on and fingered the shattered glass containers. A full 65 percent of the Wyoming division of criminal investigation’s cases concerned clandestine lab activity. It was a scourge. From Leo’s dental situation, I had assumed meth-mouth and was right.

  “Espresso?” We all had our addictions. I sat against the wall and clicked the safety back on the shotgun before placing it in my lap. I took off my gloves. My fingers hurt. He sat beside me and sipped. “Well, at least we know where Leo has been keeping himself.”

  “As the possible illegitimate grandson of Charlie Nurburn, I also ask myself where Leo’s daddy might be, if anywhere.”

  “We are looking for a white male.”