A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  She sat there with all that training and experience she’d culled from the Philadelphia Police Department stamping down on her emotions, but I’d had a lot of experience with unquenchable fire lately. The tarnished gold eyes sharpened like a straight razor as she turned to regard them. “Oh, you fuckers.”

  “Book ’em, run ’em—I want to know everything.”

  After a moment, she turned and nodded at the dash. She took a deep breath, reached down, and started the engine. “You will.”

  I looked at the group. “Call the Ferg in to help.”

  Her beautiful jaw stiffened. “There’s a problem with help.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Witnesses.”

  I stepped back as she laid her own strip up Main, fishtailing sideways as she sped through the intersection at 192 and shot up onto the highway about as fast as her old unit could travel.

  I turned and started to walk up the steps almost into the owner/operator of The Noose. “They were here all night, Walt.”

  I stood there three steps down and looked her in the eye. “When did they get here?”

  “Early—six, maybe six-thirty.”

  I sighed.

  “Not what you wanted to hear.”

  “No.” I stared past her at the lights illuminating the Merc proper. “Looks like you’ve gotten rid of the majority of your books.”

  She adjusted her glasses and smiled. “Most of them went to the library, but I’ve got a stack for you in the back.”

  I didn’t move. “I find it strange how suddenly you’ve decided to give up the ghost and close your business.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, but I could see the incredulity growing in her eyes. “You don’t believe me?”

  I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I don’t know who to believe.” Forcing her to move back, I started up the remainder of the steps. She moved, but just enough to force me to brush by her, her voice sharp with righteous indignity. “So we’re no longer friends.”

  I stopped and stood there. “It’s dangerous being my friend; you might not want the job.”

  • • •

  Henry was behind the bar with the shotgun lying on the surface; he was drinking what looked to be orange juice.

  “Like a day without sunshine?”

  He slipped a look at Ronald Lynear and Tom Lockhart at the other side of the bar. “Fights germs.”

  Lynear was the first to speak. “We’re going to get them out as soon as you set bail.”

  I nodded. “That should be in a few weeks.”

  “Then I’m filing a wrongful arrest and harassment charge against your department.”

  Lockhart placed a hand on his arm and then slid a piece of paper toward me. “Take a look at this.” It was an ATM slip from the small branch bank across the street, dated yesterday, with a withdrawal of two hundred dollars—the time, six thirty-two. “What’s that look like to you?”

  “It’s an ATM slip for what looks like two hundred dollars, but since I have a career in law enforcement, I’m not sure how to count the number of zeros.”

  He attempted to control himself. “You see the time?”

  “Yep, they teach us how to do that at the academy over in Douglas; they say it’s important.”

  “We grabbed some cash when we got to town and came straight over and started drinking and playing pool.” He gestured behind me where Eleanor stood by the door. “You’ve got a reliable witness who tells you the same thing.” He shook his head at me as if I were some child in need of reprimand. “You haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

  Shooting a glance at Ronald, I reached over and stole the Bear’s juice. “I’m curious, Reverend, what it is you’re doing in a den of iniquity like this?”

  He smiled. “I’m not drinking, but I thought I’d join in the celebration.”

  “And what is it you’re celebrating?”

  He made a face, as if it were obvious. “Our new water well.”

  I turned and looked at them. “And how were you able to drill that well without the benefit of your Hughes polycrystalline three-cone bit?”

  He looked at me with an expression as blank as the biblical nonshifting desert sands. “Our what?”

  “The industrial one-hundred-seventy-thousand-dollar bit we found in the back of Big Wanda’s Plymouth that she ran off the road to try to keep us from finding.”

  The sands remained still. “We used the one that was attached to the Peterbilt that you saw the other night. Tomás fixed it. I’m sure I don’t know what other drill it is you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe you don’t.” I set the glass down and squared off with Lockhart. “But I bet he does.”

  A long moment passed, and Lockhart placed a hand on Lynear’s shoulder and spoke to the confused man. “Ronald, why don’t you head back to the ranch; I’m sure your father is wondering what’s happened.” He slapped him gently. “Go on, we’ll be along in no time.”

  The man of religion glanced at all of us and then quietly departed, excusing himself as he passed Eleanor, still standing at the entrance.

  Lockhart stood there for a moment more and then started toward the door. “Could I get you to step outside with me for a moment, Sheriff?”

  I stared at him, at Eleanor, and then back to Henry. I pushed off the bar and followed him out the door.

  It was cool, but the rays of the sun were just starting to rise over the plains with a diffused, yellowish-gray glow. I turned to Lockhart, leaning against one of the support poles.

  Lynear was just backing out in an older Buick with a crumpled fender that had been touched over with gray primer on the passenger side. We both watched as he pulled out and drove away.

  “I’m a professional; I want you to know that.”

  I turned and looked at him, folding my arms over my chest. “I do. It’s a professional what that I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Sheriff, how much money do you make a year—forty, fifty thousand?”

  “I don’t know; like I said, they stopped teaching us remedial math at the academy.”

  He nodded. “But you can tell me what time it is, right?” He turned and looked at the rising sun, and I watched him shiver. “Well, how about I tell you what time it really is?” His face returned to mine. “Time to look the other way.”

  I said nothing.

  “How old are you, Sheriff? Closing in on retirement with a half-finished house would be my guess, with children, a daughter, maybe? Newly married and expecting your first grandchild? A professional herself, possibly a lawyer in a large eastern city, an associate with hopes of making partner. . . .”

  I cut him off. “I get it, you know all about me—I sure hope there’s more to this conversation than that.”

  “I hope so, too, Sheriff, I hope so, too.” He shivered a little more, and I had to admit that I was enjoying his discomfort. “What if I told you that I’d like to make a donation to the Walt Longmire reelection campaign?”

  “I’ve already been reelected.”

  “Oh, this money would be disassociated from any political responsibilities; you could use it for whatever you wanted, finishing your house, a gift for your daughter, college for the grandchild. Anything you’d like, it doesn’t matter. A lot of money, Sheriff. Like Senator Everett McKinley Dirksen used to say: a billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking serious money.”

  I dropped my head and spoke into my folded arms. “So, we’re talking about serious money, then.”

  “Very serious.”

  I raised my head slowly and stared at him. “Mr. Lockhart, are you trying to bribe me?”

  He smiled. “Hasn’t it ever been tried before?”

  “Nope, generally people are smarter than that.” I tilted my head and looked at him. “They don’t know, do they?”

  “Who know what?”

  I gestured toward the departed car and the general direction of East Spring Ranch. “Your religious friends, they d
on’t know about whatever it is that you’re doing that’s going to result in serious money.”

  “That’s really not the point here, is it?” He shivered some more, looking in the bar and longing for the warmth inside. “So, am I to take that response as a no to my offer?”

  “That was an offer, was it?”

  “Yes, it was and still is. Just for looking the other way. Nobody gets hurt.”

  “Nobody gets hurt.” I probed the grain of the boardwalk with the toe of my boot. “And that’s why you killed Double Tough, because he had a working knowledge of whatever it is you’re doing?”

  A look of exasperation flitted across his face. “Why would we kill your deputy?”

  “For a Hughes polycrystalline three-yoke bit.”

  His response was swift and a little angry. “Sheriff, if I wanted, I could have a truckload of them within twenty-four hours.” He pushed off the pole and stood in front of me. “I didn’t kill your deputy—it makes no sense. I have to admit that I didn’t know about you before, but now that I do I can see that you would be a formidable adversary.” He took a breath. “I’m a businessman, beyond all the things you think I am or the things you think I do—I am in business. Now, you tell me, is it good business for me to take you on?”

  I said nothing.

  “Why would we want a war with you?”

  I still said nothing.

  “Well, there’s your answer.” He gestured toward the bar. “Do you mind if I collect Tomás? It’s been a long evening.”

  I gestured with a nod and watched as he went to the door, opened it, and called inside. Lockhart started for the truck and a moment later was followed by Bidarte and the Cheyenne Nation.

  As Bidarte passed, I stuck out an arm and stopped him, leaned in, and sniffed him. He stared at me for a moment, then stepped onto the gravel, and, standing by the door of the truck, he studied me as Henry and I leaned on either side of the wooden pole.

  Lockhart pulled his keys from his pressed khakis and hit the button to unlock the doors on a black half-ton, then stepped off the boardwalk and opened the driver’s side. A thought occurred to him, and he spoke again. “By the way, I have to ask—did you smell kerosene on Gloss?”

  I studied the horizon, where that first glimmer was simmering under the streaked sky. “No.”

  I saw a flash of movement to my left but before either the Bear or I could react, there was a loud thunk in the post between us. I turned my head slowly and could see Bidarte’s blade buried in the coarse grain of the wood just at head height, still vibrating from the impact.

  Henry and I stared past the foot-long stiletto at each other’s faces. The Cheyenne Nation reached up and plucked the knife from the post, expertly nudging the tang and folding it back before tossing it to the tall Basque. “If you were aiming for the post, that was a good throw.”

  Bidarte tucked the knife into his back pocket. “Oh yes, señor. I was.”

  I ignored him and studied the horizon.

  Looking at the sun for a moment, Lockhart followed my eye, and patted the top of the cab as an afterthought. “Concerning Mr. Gloss and the kerosene, it would’ve been easier to lie.”

  I kept my eyes on the rising sun as the two of them climbed in the truck and backed into a sweeping arch that gave them a clear trajectory up the embankment and south onto 192.

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  13

  “I think Dog sleeps with you more than I do.” She had elected to pass up her usual seat on the guest chair in my office and sat on the floor near me.

  I had slept on it again, as there wasn’t any room anywhere else. The hard wood, barely covered with a thin pad and threadbare carpeting, was killing my back, but at least I had had company. I reached over and scratched the belly of the beast that happened to be sleeping with his paws in the air, which displayed his more personal attributes. “He’s very faithful.”

  Looking nowhere near as tired as I felt, she sat with her back against the bookcase. “So am I, and look what it gets me.”

  “Were you up all night?”

  She shuffled the papers in her lap. “Yes.”

  I peeled the blanket back and started to stretch; my back ached but not nearly as much as my left knee, which had been worrying me since my adventures on the mountain last May. I rolled over and looked at her, still equipped with the bad-hair-day cap from last night. “You wear it better than I do.”

  She glanced at me and then reached down and, giving me a nonverbal critique on the current state of my hair, handed me my hat. “I was just booking and researching scumbags, you were having the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, I am to understand.” She kept looking at me and grinned. “As your undersheriff, it is my duty to inform you that you are looking more and more like an unmade bed.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow and placed my smoky, water-stained hat on my head. “Better?”

  “An unmade bed at, say, Bob’s Flophouse by the river.”

  I yawned. “Right.”

  “The kind you rent an hour at a time?”

  “Got it.”

  She nodded as if she’d finished a report. “I have news.”

  I pointed at the stack of papers. “It looks like.”

  “More important than this crap.”

  I struggled my way into a sitting position, which disturbed Dog, who also rose, licked my face, then gingerly stepped over Vic, and, likely in search of a second or third breakfast, disappeared out the door. “What could be more important than this?”

  “Like Lazarus risen from the grave . . . Double Tough is alive.”

  I turned and stared at her. I’d been thinking about nothing else as I’d drifted in and out of sleep all morning, half-convincing myself that what had happened last night hadn’t, but it just wouldn’t wash. “If this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

  She shook her head. “They hit him with the defibrillator in the EMT van and the fucker popped back to life—I swear to God.” She turned and sat Indian-style. “They say that Henry breathing for him all that time must’ve kept him going long enough for them to bring him back with a couple thousand volts. I told him he probably had a disease from all the places that the Bear’s mouth had been.”

  I could feel the swelling of heat behind my eyes and a ballooning in my chest as I sat there—almost as if coming back from the dead myself. “He can talk?”

  “No, at least not yet.” The emotion was about to overwhelm her, too, but she laughed and wiped a bit of moisture from the corner of one eye—I had the feeling she wasn’t telling me everything. “I mean, he’s half covered with second- and third-degree burns, and he’s going to lose the eye—but he’s alive.”

  I felt a tear streak down the side of my face and watched as she half-sobbed another laugh.

  “Uh oh, the waterbed has sprung a leak.” She put her hand on my face and continued smiling, even as the tears were now streaking her own. “He squeezed my hand, you know, when I told him about getting cooties from Henry. I mean he’s screwed up; nobody goes through something like that without sustaining some kind of brain damage and with him how can you tell, but he squeezed my hand when I was joking with him.”

  “Billings?”

  She looked at her wristwatch. “No, Denver. They’re taking off with him in about an hour if you want to go up to the airport and see him off.”

  “I do.” I pushed the blanket away and slowly stood. “That’s two out of his nine lives that we know about.”

  She glanced back toward the reception/dispatcher area. “Everybody wanted to wake you up and tell you, but Ruby wouldn’t let us. So I waited till you turned over.”

  “I don’t think I turned over.”

  “I don’t care.” She smiled fully, crinkling her eyes and showing that canine tooth to full advantage, wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, and took her customary seat. “You got the good news; you want the bad news now or when we head to the airport?”

  “Now.” I again pointed at
the stack of papers. “This stuff?”

  She shook her head. “The elusive Orrin the Mormon is once again at large.”

  “Junior or Senior; please don’t say both.”

  “Cousin Itt.”

  I slumped into my chair. “This is getting embarrassing.”

  There was more than a little accusation in the next statement. “It’s because we’re running the place like a revolving door; the kid is in and out going to work, and the two of them are endlessly watching My Friend Fucking Flicka, so you turn your back for an instant and he takes French leave.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She sighed. “I mean he’s relatively harmless, or as harmless as you can be when armed like a commando, but it’s starting to insult the credibility and professionalism of the department; I think it reflects badly when schizophrenic derelicts and arrested peoples are using the jail like the Kum & Go.”

  I smiled. “Agreed.”

  “We looked for him in the beds of all the trucks.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Her face came up, and the smile had returned. “Double Tough’s alive.”

  I laughed. “Yep.”

  She came around the desk and roosted in front of me, but this time I kept a hand on the edge, determined not to have a repeat of the Flying Wallendas. She leaned forward and put her arms around my shoulders, pulling me in. Despite all common sense, I found my own arms rising up and folding around her in a return embrace and thought about what this might lead to if we had been at my cabin. Her lips tickled my ear as she whispered, “I’m not sure if I’m happier that he’s alive or that I don’t have to watch what you were going to do to yourself.”

  I pulled back and placed my forehead against hers. “Thank you.”

  She softly head-butted me and then leaned back a respectable distance, placing her hands on the stack of papers that she had placed on the desk. “Speaking of people trying to get out of jail . . .”

  “They didn’t escape, too, did they?”

  “No, they’re doing it the old-fashioned way, with lawyers—makes Orrin the Mormon’s technique seem honest and forthright.” She stood and looked down at me. “You want some coffee? I want some coffee.”