A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  The house was down by the Middle Fork of the Powder River, set back in some Russian olive trees and red willow. Two-story and large for the area, it probably had been built as a ranch headquarters seventy-five years ago, but as the town had crowded in, the ranch had up and left. The clapboard was covered in a black spray of mold where the overgrown trees rested on the surface. Overall, the impression was one of decay; just the kind of place where two bachelors might live.

  “It’s the House of Usher.”

  There was a late-model Chevrolet parked in the driveway with plates that read FRY, which lead us to believe that there was no reason to call first; the only disturbing thing was that the driver’s-side door hung open. I parked in front of the bridge at the edge of the high grass. “They need a lawn mower.”

  We got out and walked to the driveway. Vic went to the overloaded mailbox and pulled out a handful of assorted mail. “What they need is a wrecking ball.”

  Henry looked at the windows, empty except for the Rebel flag hanging in the front. Still holding the shotgun, he took a few more steps forward and made his stand at the end of the driveway.

  Vic sifted through the mail, dividing it into two groups as I joined her at the box. “Anything?”

  “The usual crap, but there are handwritten letters to Chuck from an address in Sheridan in a spirally script with little hearts dotting the i’s.”

  “So the fiancée exists?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Anything else?”

  She stuffed the lot back into the mailbox. “I swear it’s only guys that get the Victoria’s Secret catalog.”

  Saizarbitoria joined us. “Would someone mind explaining to me what it is that we’re supposed to be doing?”

  Vic growled. “Social call.”

  The Basquo looked at the Cheyenne Nation still standing at the end of the driveway with the scatter gun. “You bet.”

  We all joined the Bear like the Bighorn Mountain Mod Squad. “Reservation warrant?”

  Henry was referring to the old method of planting somebody at the back door to yell “Come in” as you banged on the front. “No, we’ll just knock, and if nobody answers we go in.”

  My undersheriff frowned as she checked her Glock. “Inadmissible; we find a body in there then we need this to be by the book.”

  Sancho interrupted. “A body?”

  I glanced at Henry, knowing well his habit of squirreling away ammunition. “Do you still have some of those extra shells in your pockets?”

  “I do.”

  Saizarbitoria wasn’t going to let it go. “What body?”

  “Didn’t Frymire say something about needing more twelve-gauge ammo?”

  The Bear nodded. “I believe he did.”

  “Whose body?”

  Henry turned and regarded the young man. “What body, whose body—is life really worth so many questions? Let us just go down there and shoot or be shot, shall we?” We watched as he blithely flipped the shotgun onto his shoulder as if it were a parasol in a fancy dress competition and paraded down the grass strip between the two gravel tracks in his worn moccasins as if it were a garden path—Sunday in the Park with Bear.

  The Basquo glanced at me and pulled out his own sidearm as we started after the Cheyenne Nation. “How did we win?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not so sure we have.” I paused at the vehicle and peered inside, but there was nothing out of the ordinary; no blood, not even keys.

  Pushing the door shut, I looked at the house; the storm door which had the glass busted out was open along with the main door—even more disturbing.

  The front porch was a little rickety, and more than a few boards gave way as I took the point position. I stuck to my plan and knocked, loud and clear. I waited, but there was no answer—Henry reached over and gently pushed it the rest of the way open to reveal a living room.

  There was a large, flat-screen television on a stand in front of the curtained front window with a number of devices attached to it with cables and what looked like plastic guns. Vic moved past me and knelt down to look at the stack of cartridge covers. “Looks like the boys are gamers.”

  Henry fanned out to the entryway that appeared as if it led to an abbreviated dining room as Saizarbitoria and his Beretta moved past into the kitchen.

  I started getting the feeling that I should have my sidearm out, too.

  Vic stood and looked around at the art held against the walls with thumbtacks; a few wildlife prints, posters from movies I’d never seen, and a silhouette target with the majority of his eleven-point heart shot out. She shook her head. “Men.”

  I backtracked into the entry and followed the Bear as he stood looking up the steps to what I assumed were the bedrooms. I kept my voice low. “Anything?”

  He shook his head as Vic, also speaking quietly, joined me. “If, and I repeat if, there is no one here, why was Double Tough sleeping at the substation?”

  “Maybe Frymire went to Sheridan and didn’t tell him. I don’t know.”

  Sancho had taken the basement, and Henry nodded toward the stairs and started up with us following. There was a landing at the top with one of those pull-down attic accesses, doors on either side, both of which were closed, and a window that overlooked the backyard. We split the duty as we got to the top, the Bear taking one door and Vic and I taking the other. The door was stuck to the old paint on the molding, but I bumped it open and found a mattress and box springs on the floor, the sheets and pillows looking like they got a regular workout. In an attempt at interior décor, there were a few Wyoming Game & Fish posters on the wall, and a large Turkish rug on the floor that looked out of place. The closet door hung open and clothes and an assortment of hiking and hunting boots were spilling out onto the floor.

  As a token to amour, a small lamp with a pair of red panties hung over the shade was sitting on a cardboard set of drawers; it was still on and cast a pinkish glow on the cracked wall. Vic walked into the room and paused to read the label on the lingerie. “Victoria’s Secret. Of course.”

  I turned to look at the Bear, whose girth blocked most of the other doorway, his face turned toward the ceiling. Vic joined me in returning to the landing behind him, and I moved to his side as he took a step into the room. He slowly raised his hand and finally an index finger, touching one of the stained cracks in the ceiling. He picked at the crack until a chip fell away and something seeped from the plaster.

  He withdrew his hand and rubbed the thick substance between his thumb and forefinger and his dark hair pivoted to reveal the powerful face as he held his fingers out for me to smell.

  No mistake about it.

  I watched as a drop fell onto the narrow-pinewood floor, the drip sounding like the beginning of a soft rain.

  This room was also empty, with the exception of two folding chairs, a sleeping bag, and what appeared to be a broken transistor radio.

  Stepping around Vic and back onto the landing, I reached up and pulled the short cord, lowering the folding stairs, and flipped the bottom section down, placing the spring-loaded rails on the scuffed, worn floor. I put a foot on one of the treads to test if it would hold my weight and then gripped the rails and started up.

  It was dark in the attic, but there was a string hanging within arm’s reach, so I pulled it, immediately illuminating the rafters with no insulation.

  I backed down the steps and looked at the two of them. “Dead raccoon.”

  Vic smiled. “Natural causes?”

  I glanced at Henry, but he was no longer paying attention.

  “I’d wash my hands if I were you.”

  Vic started down the steps, and I spoke in a low voice. “I hope you’re ashamed of yourself.”

  She stopped and turned as Henry continued downward. “Look, it was a perfectly reasonable line of inquiry, all right?”

  “I was just joking.”

  She turned and started off again. “Wasn’t funny.”

  There was a scream from downstairs, and I was
pretty sure it wasn’t the Cheyenne Nation. Vic leapt down the steps Glock-first, and I even found my hand on my sidearm as I half-leapt, half-tumbled down the steps after her. There was a young woman standing in the entryway with a pizza box on the floor at her feet and the Bear with a hand out in an attempt to quiet her. She screamed again when she saw us but then placed a hand on her chest and leaned against the wall in an attempt to catch her breath.

  Vic holstered her weapon and looked back at me. “The fiancée.”

  Figuring it was my party by default and that I should welcome her to it, I stepped past Vic and Henry, and stuck out a hand of my own. “I’m really sorry about this; I’m Walt Longmire, Chuck’s boss.”

  Her hand stayed on her chest, and she breathed deeply, finally pulling some of the blondish-brown hair away from her face. “Grace Salinas.”

  I smiled. “Hi, Grace.” I looked down at the box leaking pepperoni and melted cheese. “Sorry about the pizza.”

  “Oh, it was some promotion they were supposed to be having over at the Sinclair station. They called and said we’d won a free pizza and that we could come over and pick it up, but when I got there, I had to pay for it. Not much of a promotion.” She smiled back but then looked concerned. “You’re here about the shooting?”

  Vic and the Bear glanced at me, and I continued to look at her. “Shooting . . .”

  “This morning—the raccoon?”

  “The dead one in the attic?”

  “I told him not to shoot it, but it was keeping us up at night. He killed it this morning—I figured you were here because of that.”

  “Not precisely, but is Chuck around?”

  She glanced in the living room as if he should have been there. “He’s here somewhere; I just ran out to get the pizza.” She stooped and began scooping the pie back in the box. “If he went back to bed . . .”

  “I don’t think so; we were just up there.”

  She stooped for the box and started past us toward the kitchen. “Well, he’s got to be around here somewhere.”

  Saizarbitoria was standing in front of the closed back door next to a table and chair; he leaned on the facing and smiled a stiff smile. The young woman considered him and then turned back to me. “Boy, the gang’s all here. Really, is there something wrong?”

  Sancho widened his eyes in the brief instant we had before she turned back and looked at him. I, in turn, made strong eye contact with Vic.

  “Excuse me, Grace?”

  Her eyes returned to me. “Yes?”

  “How about you accompany my undersheriff back out front for a moment—I’ve got some things I need to discuss with Sancho.”

  “Sure.” She studied me for a while and then started off as Vic followed her out. “I just can’t figure where he got to.”

  The Basquo waited until he was sure she was gone and then stepped back, opening the door behind him enough so that I could see Frymire, in a pair of boots and a bathrobe, lying in the backyard with a shovel still in his hands.

  14

  Saizarbitoria, the low man on the totem pole, drew the duty, and I sent him to wait with Grace in her car until the Ferg and the Powder River EMTs arrived. Ferg would drive the distraught young woman home to Sheridan, and Sancho would stay with Frymire.

  The rest of us were kneeling beside my deputy’s body and trying to piece together what had happened. “He shot the raccoon, went down to dig a hole in the backyard, and somebody caught him out there?”

  The Cheyenne Nation carefully lifted the flannel bathrobe, saturated with blood. “With a knife, a very large one, in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.” He released the robe, and we watched as it settled back against the dead man’s body. “Between the second and third ribs, up and to the side—professional.”

  I thought about the conversation I had had with Lockhart on the boardwalk in front of The Noose, and about professionalism, but mostly I thought about Bidarte and the knife that he’d stuck in the pole between Henry and me.

  The Bear looked toward the stream, where the assailant would’ve most likely set up observation. “He waited, watched the house, called, and when she went out for the pizza, he went in.”

  Vic continued for him. “And when he wasn’t in the house, caught him digging a hole in the backyard. But why was the door of his truck left open, the front door, the back door . . . and why take the chance and leave her alive?”

  I nodded toward the house. “She was supposed to find him.”

  Henry sighed. “And call you.”

  I watched as Vic’s jaw set, the way it always did before the storm. “This was a delaying tactic?”

  I stood. “They’re counting on this slowing us down enough so that they can clean up and get out of here or at the least get the lawyers between them and us.”

  “They didn’t have a reason to kill Double Tough, but they had one to kill Frymire?” She stood. “What makes you think they’re not already done and gone?”

  I pointed at Frymire’s body. “This.”

  “So, now what?”

  The Cheyenne Nation also stood. “We go after them.”

  The elongated canine tooth trapped part of her lower lip as she smiled at both of us. “Now we’re talking.”

  We piled in my truck, and Vic flipped up the center console in order to sit in the middle to allow the Bear to have her coveted shotgun seat. She stared at the dash as Henry slammed the door behind him, lodging the butt of the shotgun between his feet.

  “Something?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “You’re not suspecting one of us now, are you?”

  She stared at the dash, still distracted. I waited for a moment and then started the truck, spinning around on the other side of the bridge and flipping on my lights and siren as her hand came up. “Why try and kill Double Tough?”

  I rocketed down Powder Junction’s main street, a smattering of traffic darting for the curbs so that I could pass. “We’re not on that again, are we?”

  She made a sound and threatened me with the hand as I waited, glancing at Henry, the two of us at a loss.

  “Something he said.”

  “Who?”

  “Double Tough. What’d he say about last night?”

  I made the turn onto 192 and headed southeast. “Nothing important—he said he didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “Before that, he said something about a traffic stop.” We were just passing the burnt wreckage when she slapped me in the chest. “Stop!”

  I hit the brakes. “What?”

  She gestured toward the ex-station. “Pull in here—pull in!”

  I did as she said and watched as she crawled over Henry, yanked the door open, and ran toward what was left of the structure.

  The Bear turned to look at me. “What is this all about?”

  We watched as she passed the building and continued on toward the Suburban, still parked where we’d left it early this morning. Henry clutched the open door as I spun the wheel and pulled across the parking lot to follow her. When we got to the SUV, she had the passenger-side door open and had dived onto the front seat, her legs sticking straight out of the open door.

  The Cheyenne Nation glanced at me as we got out. “It must be something important.”

  We stood there as she extricated herself from the Suburban with Double Tough’s duty clipboard in her hands, pulling the forms free of the clip and throwing them into the open cab.

  “Vic?”

  She ignored me and opened the inside of the clip where the white copies were usually deposited to be filed. She stood there looking at the top one, finally turning it around and handing it to me.

  The form was a standard ticket written out as a warning to one of the kids Double Tough had mentioned stopping yesterday evening—he was driving an early-seventies C-10 pickup with South Dakota plates, and his name was Edmond Lynear.

  I raised my eyes to hers. “Eddy Lynear, late of Butte County, South Dakota?” I thought about it. “The kids.
” I studied the form. “What the hell were they doing over here last night?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but they were here in that diarrhea-colored truck and somebody got in there and took that bit. Either you were wrong about Lockhart being unconcerned about the damn thing or someone else was interested.

  • • •

  When we reached the entrance to East Spring Ranch, the scours-colored truck was sitting on the other side of the gate with a gaggle of heavily rearmed teenagers in the bed, on the hood, and in the cab.

  I pulled my truck to the side of the road, still a little ways away from the gate, and left the engine running. I shut off the sirens but allowed the blue lights to continue racing across the blockade like an accusation.

  Eddy Lynear was, of course, the first one to speak. “That’s as far as you go.”

  Stepping from my truck, I watched as Henry, having left the shotgun behind, slid out the other side. Vic, who evidently had decided to hold back until this particular group of the youth of America made their move, remained in the Bullet and watched.

  Henry joined me, and we walked toward the fence as I pulled the paper from my pocket and held it up for them all to see. “This is a warrant for admission to this property, and I will now ask you to move this vehicle and unlock this gate to grant us entry.”

  Eddy, who was holding some sort of tactical shotgun with a folding stock and built-in light, called down from the top of the cab, “We were told to kill you if you try and enter.”

  I looked up at the kid. “Hey, Eddy, why don’t you climb down here and talk to us?”

  The other four were now making menacing noises with their weapons like they were starring in an episode of Steadfast Resolution, beside the fact that these modern automatic armaments haven’t had to be cocked since well before they were all born.

  I rolled up the warrant, for all the good it was doing me, and put it away. The light from the shotgun was bright, and I raised my hand to block the beam. “Before you do something stupid, how about we talk?” My only concern at this point was that they might accidently discharge one of their exotic toys, and I knew from experience that accidentally dead was still dead. “I bet I can guess who it is that gave you these weapons.”