Depth of Winter

by Craig Johnson

  They followed, but I stalled out and turned to Lowery. “You lead, but let Adan do the talking.” He slipped by, plastering himself against the wall and swiveling his head, looking all the world like a bad TV cop. “What are you doing?”

  “Clearing the hallway; clear and sweep, man.”

  “We’re supposed to be acting like we belong here.”

  “Oh.”

  I nodded toward Adan to take the lead—he didn’t know the layout of the building, but at least he wouldn’t get us killed. We followed as I nudged Lowery to the rear. “Keep the AK trained on me at all times, got it?”

  He nodded, some of the hair creeping from under his hat. “Got it.”

  Adan followed the hallway that led us to a larger opening that looked like it would lead outside, so he went through another smaller archway to our right. There were lights every ten feet or so, electric ones now that we approached the center of the building, which cast a golden glow on the uneven walls. If not for current circumstance, it was a beautiful place.

  Adan suddenly pulled up short and held up two fingers.

  Showtime.

  I reached behind me, finding the muzzle of Lowery’s AK, and pulled it into my back. “C’mon.”

  As we rounded a corner, I could see that there was a stairwell leading to the right and a landing where the stairs changed direction and continued up. The two guards were looking at us as we approached, and I held my hands together and my head down.

  A rough-looking one glanced past Adan at me. “Qué está sucediendo?”

  “Tenemos él que el jefe estaba buscando.”

  He stooped a little to look under the brim of my hat. “Quién?”

  “El sheriff.”

  “Ah . . .”

  As he finished the statement, Adan hit the man on the back of his head with the pistol with enough force to practically kill him, and he dropped like a poleaxed steer.

  I threw myself at the other one, slamming him into the wall and knocking out his air. Grabbing the KalishniKov from a stunned Lowery, I popped the guard on the side of the head with its butt. Unbelievably, both men started to stir. Adan pushed me aside and using a syringe, injected something into their necks.

  “What the heck is that?”

  “You have your weapons, and I have mine. It’s a concoction of my own making, and they will have wonderful dreams for the next three to four hours.”

  Handing the rifle back to Peter, I glanced up the stairs to make sure the activity hadn’t brought out any spectators.

  Pulling a small bottle from his shirt pocket, Adan reloaded the syringe. “Let’s go. I thought we were in a hurry.”

  Adan crept up the stairs, paused, and again held up two fingers. We caught up, and I assumed the same demeanor I had before, wishing I’d wiped a little blood from the men below onto my face to make the entire scenario a little more believable.

  When I made the landing, Adan took me by the elbow and pulled me along as Lowery brought up the rear. “Qué está pasando?”

  The two men stepped from the wall by a door about halfway down the hall, the smaller one the first to speak.

  Adan yanked me along, and I felt like we were getting pretty good at this. “El hombre buscado.”

  “Vamos a ver cuánto él esté buscado.” The man laughed.

  The other man looked past us at the ludicrous figure of Lowery. “Qué estás haciendo con él?” We were getting close now, and he gave the impression that he thought something was wrong and began raising his weapon. “Te conocemos?”

  Slamming my arm down, I knocked the rifle from his hands and then brought an elbow into his gut and he collapsed.

  By the time I got turned, Adan had the other man against the wall and was attempting to hammer the side of his skull with his pistol, but the angle was bad, so I reached out with both hands and simply slammed his head into the rock wall.

  As he dropped, Adan took out the syringe and stuck this one as I turned and kneeled down to the one I’d hit, who was still trying to catch his breath. Rolling him over, I kneeled on his back and held him there till Adan injected him as well.

  He shuddered once and then lay still.

  As the Doc checked his pulse, I stood and tried the handle on the door, feeling the clasp give as I pressured it with my thumb. Turning to look at the other two, I could see Adan was ready, but Lowery was standing a little down the hall looking like he might run.

  Whispering, I motioned for him to move his ass. “Get over here.”

  He did as I said, and the two of them joined me at the door.

  The Doc looked up at me. “Are you sure you want to go in first?”

  Pulling the Colt from the small of my back, I pushed the latch the rest of the way and swung the door open enough for the butt of an M16 to get slammed into my face with all the force of an angry mule.

  I clawed at the door facing to try to catch myself and was rewarded with another slug in the face and a dozen or so automatic weapons locking into place from all around us.

  The world was spinning and things started to go black, but I was aware of somebody raising my head and screaming, “Howdy, Sheriff!”

  10

  My face hurt.

  My head hurt.

  Pretty much everything hurt.

  I tried to raise my head, but my neck muscles weren’t cooperating; besides, it was dark, and my left eye was pretty well swollen shut, the skin scraped off down to the end of my nose, which was clogged with congealed blood.

  I lifted my left hand, but there were heavy chains attached to it, and it was almost more effort than I could summon to get a finger to my nostril to do a farmer’s blow, which I immediately regretted. I cleared half my nose, but it felt as if I might have lost a quarter of my brain along with it.

  I waited till the throbbing faded and tried raising my head again, this time getting a little farther so that I could see my boots at the end of my legs. A foot was dangling off to one side, and I thought it might be broken, but I moved my leg and it straightened out.

  My right hand was not so lucky and as I stared at it resting on my thigh, I could see the forefinger was bent at an extreme angle—no way that wasn’t dislocated.

  So I guess they had my gun.

  I started reaching for the wayward finger with my left hand but a wave of nausea welled up, and I decided to wait a minute.

  I looked around. To my surprise, it was not a suite at the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver, Colorado; instead it was a stone floor, stone walls, and a heavy door with a tiny window covered with bars which was the only source of light.

  I took a deep breath. The room was even smaller than the others we had been in, with a thick coating of dust and cobwebs. I guess this particular cartel didn’t go to great pains to incarcerate their prisoners—just took them out back and shot them.

  I was honored.

  I cleared my throat, not particularly because I wanted to say something, but because there was something in it. A few seconds later someone’s head, backlit by the hall light, appeared in the door’s small window and then disappeared just as quickly.

  I could hear some people talking in the distance and waited but didn’t hear anything more.

  Deciding to while away the time by getting my finger back in its socket, I reached across and took hold of the tip, feeling a familiar albeit excruciating pain. I’d dislocated a finger or two in my time, and sometimes it wasn’t convenient to get medical assistance. I had learned the technique from Coach Cagle Curtis back in my offensive lineman years as a Durant Dogie.

  Folding the digit in a hyperextension, I pulled and it popped back in place, just as I was about to puke or pass out. I took a big breath and just sat there letting the waves of pain travel up my arm and into my head, which, already overloaded with pain, refused delivery. “Ouch.”

  I looked over my sh
oulder and could see that the manacles were attached to each other with a heavy chain that ran through an iron ring in back of me. Turning a little, I yanked on the chain, but the whole apparatus showed no sign of moving.

  There was noise in the hallway, closer this time, and I could hear someone inserting a key and unlocking the door. The massive wooden slab swung open, and I saw a familiar silhouette.

  “Hey, there’s a new sheriff in town.” I said nothing as he stepped inside and crouched down with the same rifle in his hands. “Damn, you look like hell.”

  He didn’t look so good himself, courtesy of the beating I’d given him in the abandoned bank building. “Back in my day, the stock on that M16 would’ve broken like a Mattel toy.”

  “Yeah, they’re making them a lot better these days.” He gestured with the space-age weapon. “I just can’t bring myself to carry one of those Russian pieces of shit.”

  I grunted. “A patriot.”

  “Something like that.” He leaned in. “How’s your head?”

  “It hurts.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, I’m in trouble for that—I wasn’t supposed to mess you up, but I explained to the boss that you were a little hard to bring down. Hell, at least I didn’t shoot ya.”

  “Thanks.”

  He flapped a hand, tucked the rifle in the crook of his arm, and pulling the fixings from his shirt pocket, began rolling himself a cigarette. “Don’t mention it.”

  “So how much of it was a setup?”

  “The whole thing . . . I mean not getting my ass kicked back in Torero, but everything since you got up here.”

  “The patrol?”

  He lit the cigarette and inhaled. “Think of it as collateral damage, one old man and a couple of kids—I’m assuming you killed them?”

  “Two out of three.”

  “You let one live?” He shook his head. “You gotta get with the program, Sheriff. Hell, if you’d killed me, you wouldn’t be in the mess you are now.”

  He extended the cigarette toward me, but I shook my head. “How did you get out of the bank vault?”

  “One of my guys went looking for me.”

  “Lowery was in on it?”

  “Yeah, right about now your friends with the FBI are looking for you at the Taco Garage Restaurante in Mexico City, the bright spot being the food ain’t bad and the margaritas there are incredible.”

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.” I looked at him with my one eye. “Be sure to tell Lowery that the next time I see him I’ll make an exception and kill him.”

  He took a few puffs and then broke the silence. “Will do, but I’m not sure how much of an opportunity you’re gonna get.”

  “Where’s Adan?”

  “The Doc? He’s not my problem—I’m in charge of you.” He smiled. “Now, we can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. . . . Does that sound familiar?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I have to get you cleaned up, but I can’t take the chance that you’re going to do something stupid, so I’m getting someone who you won’t harm and who is dying to see you.”

  “My daughter?”

  “No, too soon for that.” He stood, stubbing the cigarette out on the wall and then flipping it at me. “We want you in good shape, kind of like a prize steer.” He smiled the grating grin. “You want some water, food, a shot of tequila?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, you let her know.” He stepped back to the doorway and ushered Alexia in, holding a medical bag and a basin and towel. “Ta-dah!”

  She backed against the wall, her hand over her mouth.

  “Aw, c’mon, he doesn’t look that bad.” He turned and studied me a little more closely. “Actually, I guess he does.” He nudged her the rest of the way in. “You two have fun, and I’ll be back in a bit.” Then he closed the door behind him.

  I smiled up at my daughter’s housekeeper. “Hi, Big Al.”

  “Oh, Sheriff . . .” She shook her head and began crying. “I am so sorry.”

  I continued to smile, at least I think it was smiling—with all the bruises and cuts it was hard to tell from my side. “How’s Cady?”

  She immediately kneeled beside me and set the medical supplies on the floor. “She is fine, Sheriff.”

  “Walt, please.”

  She dipped the washcloth in the hot water and began dabbing at my face. “They have not hurt her. She is under the strict protection of Mr. Bidarte. One man said an inappropriate thing to her, and they cut his throat.”

  “Not a lot of job security around this place, huh?”

  She continued working on me, wringing out the towel and dipping it in the bowl for fresh water. “This is a terrible, terrible place.”

  “Have you seen the man I arrived with, Adan Martínez?”

  “No.”

  I thought about her loss. “I’m sorry about your nephew.”

  She nodded but kept working, now applying ointment to my face. “He was a good boy, but he has gone on to a better place.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t take much.” I glanced around. “Do you have any idea what it is they have planned?”

  “No.” She placed a few bandages on my face and then leaned back to look at her handiwork. “Oh, Sheriff.”

  “Walt.” I tried to smile. “That’s all right, the worse I look the more trouble I can cause between Culpepper and Bidarte.” Even in the depths of the building, you could still hear the drums and horn blasts from the square. “The party is still going on?”

  She scooted in closer. “I have something for you.” She reached into the pocket of her dress and produced my star. “Miss Cady, do you want me to tell her?”

  I took the hardware. “No, and give this back to her, if you would. Tell her I’m fine, and that help is on the way.”

  “This is true?”

  “No, but tell her anyway.”

  The thick door creaked open enough for Culpepper to stick his head in. “All right Mamacita, let’s get out of here and let him rest—he’s going to need his energy.” He studied my bandaged face. “Jesus, you still look like you got hit by a train.”

  “What do I need my energy for?”

  “The headman says you’re going to be part of some public presentation tonight, so you better get some rest.”

  I yanked on the chains. “I’m supposed to rest like this?”

  He stood there looking at me. “You need to go to the bathroom or anything?”

  “No.”

  He slammed the door. “Good, ’cause you weren’t going to get to anyway.”

  * * *

  —

  Lucian Connally, the previous sheriff of Absaroka County, lifted his dark eyes from the chessboard to mine. “Kill him.”

  I skipped my bishop to the side, avoiding his knight, and then looked up at the old sheriff, my mentor. “I don’t even know where he is.”

  “Then find out—it ain’t like you’re without resources.”

  I studied him as he studied the board. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘sleeping dogs’?”

  “Yes, I have, but I also know that if the bastard goes for your throat a couple of times you make damn sure that he sleeps for good.” His dark eyes came up to mine and stayed there as he leaned back in the hair-on wingback. “In case it has escaped your attention, you are in a war.” His eyebrow arched over the mahogany eye. “You remember war, where the sons-a-bitches are tryin’ to kill you?”

  “I seem to recall.”

  “Well, welcome back.” He reached out and took the tumbler of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve 23 Year Old, doming the glass with his fingers and shaking the remaining cubes. “There ain’t no law to this. He killed your son-in-law, most likely your child, neutered your woman, made threats against your daughter and grandda
ughter, and tried to kill you a couple of times.” Holding the tumbler up, he spoke again before sipping. “Hell, I’da killed him for any one of those things.”

  We sat there in silence for a while. “Maybe he’s done.”

  Lucian lowered his drink, setting it on the table, adjacent to the board. “The hell he is, he ain’t gonna be done till he takes everything of importance to you and then he’s going to take the only thing you got left, your life.”

  * * *

  —

  It wasn’t real sleep, just that quasi-sleep where you waver between the two planes not really gathering much from either. I was slumped against the wall when I heard somebody unlock the door.

  I couldn’t see who it might be, so after a few seconds I gave up and slouched into a sitting position. “Who are you, and what the hell do you want?”

  “It’s good to see you.”

  I started in spite of myself and then sat up, allowing my eye to adjust. “Having trouble sleeping?”

  He smoothed his thick mustache and studied me. “Sometimes.”

  “I would, if I were you.”

  “I’m glad you have come.”

  “I had a choice?”

  Another individual carried in a chair and set it beside the door. Bidarte lowered himself onto it with a little difficulty and carefully held out a plastic cup to me. “Life is choices, some good, some bad.”

  I took the cup and smelled; it was water. I took a sip and then rested the cup on my leg. “You don’t look like you’re moving very easily.”

  He laughed sourly and then adjusted his white hat. “Thanks to your deputy, Miss Moretti.”

  “She wants to know why you aren’t dead.”

  “I sometimes wonder that myself.”

  I slumped back against the wall. “Are you responsible for the death of her brother, Michael?” He stared at me, saying nothing. “My son-in-law?”

  “You are keeping score?”

  “Always.”

  “I gave up keeping score a long time ago, I’m afraid.” He motioned for me to sip the water. “My mother is dead. You were kind to her, and I wanted you to know. The medical facilities here are not as good as in the US, and there were complications with her diabetes.”