by Scott Blade
Widow figured that either Hogan was intentionally showing him that he was following the rule of the road, on purpose, or Hogan was killing time. Widow figured the latter to be more likely. He figured it was to get more time to assess Widow while he was restricted in the back of a police cruiser, behind bulletproof glass.
Five more minutes of silence passed after Officer Hogan had spoken. Then he said, “You know that’s true?”
“What is?”
“What I said. In the olden days, the law could just ask a drifter like you to leave town. They’d take your gun and say stuff like I don’t want to see you in these parts ever again.”
Widow said, “They still do that in some places.”
“Really? How do you know? That happen to you?”
“No but it happened according to Morrell.”
“Who?”
“David Morrell. He wrote First Blood, a book about an Army vet who turned drifter. He was kicked out of town by the local sheriff. Waged war on the entire police department after that. They had to bring in the National Guard to fight the guy in the woods.”
Hogan stared at Widow in the rearview mirror for a moment. They pulled out of a residential area and onto a street lined with small businesses, all closed.
Hogan said, “Are you talking about Rambo?”
“That’s the name of the character.”
Hogan said, “That was a book? I saw the movie. Long time ago. Personally, I liked the second one better.”
Widow said, “In the book, Rambo doesn’t win. So, there is no sequel.”
“What? The hero dies in the book?”
“He’s not really the hero in the book. The sheriff is.”
“I like the sound of that better than the movie.”
Hogan took a moment and reached up and straightened out the rearview mirror. He adjusted it and stared into it so he could get a clear view of Widow’s eyes.
He said, “Is that what you are, Widow?”
“How’s that?”
“Like the book? Rambo? You the bad guy here?”
Widow paused a long beat, looked out the window, and then back at Hogan’s eyes in the mirror. He said, “I guess everything is a matter of perspective.”
“How’s that?”
“The protagonist in the story isn’t always the hero.”
Hogan asked, “Is that how you see yourself? As a protagonist?”
“We’re all the protagonists in our own stories, I guess.”
Hogan didn’t respond to that. He watched the road ahead.
Suddenly a crackle from his dash radio fired to life and a male voice on the radio asked, “Toby? Toby? Can you hear me?”
Toby Hogan? Widow thought. Funny name.
Hogan picked up an old CB receiver and clicked the button and answered the voice. He said, “Harris. Don’t call my first name over the radio. I’ve asked you that before.”
The voice of Harris said, “Sorry, Hogan.”
“Okay. I’m here. What’s up?”
Hogan slowed the cruiser over to the side of the road, kept his foot heavy down on the brake.
“You better head out to the Sossaman farm.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Sossaman is calling about her kid.”
Hogan clicked the button and interrupted. He said, “I got a rider in the back.”
Silence for a short second and then Harris said, “We got a ten-fifty-seven.”
Widow thought about the ten-fifty-seven radio code, which meant missing person, but in this case, the officer named Harris, had said “Mrs. Sossaman’s kid,” which meant missing child or a runaway. That was a different radio code. Widow couldn’t remember which, exactly.
Hogan said, “Okay.”
Then he looked like he was thinking of saying something else, and he did. He said, “Harris?”
“Yeah.”
“Mrs. Sossaman doesn’t have a farm. It’s a ranch. They raise cattle.”
“Right. I know.”
“Okay. Ten-four.”
He clicked off and said, “Widow, I’m afraid you’ll have to ride with me. I hope you don’t mind.”
Hogan hit the light bar and the gas, one after the other.
Widow said, “What choice I got?”
“I can drop you off on the side of the road?”
Widow looked out the window, a split-second hesitation, and he thought about his bank card. It was still dark out and too early, even on the east coast, for him to call his bank. He did have cash on him, but then he thought it made little difference if he was back on the street walking alone or sitting in a diner or riding in the police car. He said, “Nah. Let’s find this kid.”
CHAPTER 12
BLUE LIGHTS WASHED over the closed businesses and the empty brick buildings through the small town of Eureka, Montana. The so-called late-night hours rushed closer to early morning hours, without question.
The first stretch of road entailed the more silent parts of Eureka, and then Hogan drove the old Crown Vic along the main strip, which only lasted about five or six blocks. Widow looked out the window and saw a Super Eight Motel, a couple of fast-food joints. Both were twenty-four hour places, and both were completely empty. Then he saw another gas station, but this one was small, only two pumps, and this one was closed. But it also was attached to an automotive garage with a silent tow truck parked out front.
They passed a bank, two local churches, and a public library that actually looked like it was still in use, which Widow thought was unusual because the internet had killed off a lot of the smaller town libraries. These days, public libraries weren’t quite as useful as they once were and often in small towns they were the first things to get cut during yearly budget meetings.
Widow saw a couple more side streets and street signs and public buildings. He didn’t see the police station, but there was the fire station. It was a small two-story building with two trucks and with the engraving: Ladder 23. It also had the word “volunteer” on its sign.
They drove out of the downtown area and onto 93, headed north, which was the same highway that Widow had started on. It seemed that it looped around the downtown area and came back.
Hogan asked, “How did you know what ten-fifty-seven is?”
Widow looked straight ahead at the back of Hogan’s neck and then past him to the empty, dark blacktop ahead.
Widow said, “Old life.”
Hogan said, “You an ex-con?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Perspective.”
Hogan said, “Don’t cause me any problems here. Got it?”
“Don’t worry. I’m on your side. A kid is missing. I wanna help.”
The town of Eureka had light traffic at this very late hour, but Highway 93 was a different story. It wasn’t what Widow would call heavy traffic, but there were a fair number of trucks and smaller numbers of cars and SUVs. The 93 seemed to be a decent thoroughfare, running through the State of Montana and crossing into Canada.
To the west were large, empty plains.
Outside the town, about halfway to the border, Hogan slowed the cruiser and swiped over into the turning lane that led across the opposite lanes.
Widow stared for a long second in the direction that they were headed, before he even saw the road. It was a dirt road hidden in plain sight.
Hogan pulled onto it, taking it slow. The tires kicked up dust in the darkness for a short while and then Widow figured out why Hogan was driving slowly at first. They bumped and bounced over a short patch of what felt like potholes.
Hogan stared back in the rearview and saw Widow was looking around. He said, “Cattle grid.”
Widow asked, “What’s that?”
“It keeps the animals from going into the road. It’s like an invisible barrier. They hate to step on it. Won’t cross it.”
Widow asked, “All animals?”
“No. Dogs don’t care. It works on animals with hooves only. I think.”
He had never been to Montana before, not that he recalled. Maybe on a layover, but even then, he wasn’t sure. Widow had been flown all over the world in his career.
They drove on for a good five more minutes, which made this a long driveway. The night sky was fading away and Widow could see wisps of daylight off to the east, which highlighted a mountain chain. Widow wondered if it was considered part of the Rockies.
He peered off to the west and saw more mountains. These looked downier and softer, and a little taller, and a lot larger in number. He wondered if those were a part of the Rockies.
Widow saw austere figures lingering in the distance. They stood like statues, posed with heads down. Some were moving. They were steer, he figured. This must’ve been a cattle ranch. Their numbers were small at first, but as they went farther, the numbers grew and grew. He wasn’t familiar with cattle ranches, and didn’t know how many cattle were normal to have. The numbers here seemed small for such a big place.
Widow said, “The land looks beautiful to me.”
Hogan didn’t respond.
Widow asked, “You guys got a lot of cattle ranches around here?”
Hogan peeked in the rearview and said, “Not that many. There used to be a lot, but that’s a slowing economy.”
“People aren’t buying steaks anymore?”
“Sure they are, but much of the cattle business has become mass produced with machinery, and huge ranchers turning into big beef corporations or bought out by them. Smaller ranches like this one are scarce nowadays. At least, in these parts they are.”
Widow nodded, stared back out the window. A lot of traditional farmers and cattle herders and other agriculture industries had been hurt by globalization. Although, that wasn’t entirely true. America still provided something like twelve percent of the world’s beef, but the small family businesses were dying out. And that wasn’t something that was going to stop.
Suddenly, Widow’s current problems of finances seemed trivial. He imagined having been born on a ranch, like this one. He imagined having grown up with it and learning the ins and outs of every square inch of how it was run. He imagined how it must be to take over the family ranch and grow up to be faced with the prospects of a dying business.
Widow stared ahead and saw the trees were becoming thicker and more numerous. They drove underneath a short canopy of overhanging branches and tree leaves until they came out the other side to a massive clearing. Then Widow saw an old-style barn, built from timber, painted white.
It was tall. He presumed it was a horse barn. Next to it was a large ringed-in pen, the kind used for breaking broncos, he figured.
Fresh, thick hay was piled up high next to the western corner of the barn.
They drove past it, about thirty-plus yards, and came to a huge house. It was a grand structure, like somebody’s dream ranch home. It was at least two stories, possibly with a big cellar underneath.
The house must’ve been five thousand square feet, at least. The main entrance was encapsulated in a bricked porch that covered the square center outside of the first floor.
Widow saw at least two chimneystacks. One was ostentatious, built on the front side of the house. It was to the east. The exposed outside part of the stack was built with stones and very wide. Widow figured it was wider than his fingertips stretched out to both sides, as far as he could reach, which was far.
There was a second chimneystack around the backside of the house, of which he could only see the top part sticking out of the roof.
Hogan pulled up onto a cemented driveway that ran a thick horseshoe around a cluster of growing trees. They looked like they had been planted only a few years ago, five at the most. Widow wasn’t certain of the exact growth rate of a tree, but that assumption made sense to him.
Hogan stopped the police cruiser and parked behind a newer Jeep Wrangler. It was one of those that looked more like a civilian Humvee than the old style of Wrangler, which he preferred. And if Widow recalled correctly, the price tag on one of these crew cab Wranglers was in the range of a new Hummer, which was ridiculous to Widow. Nobody needed to pay that much for a Jeep, not when you could purchase an old one for a fraction of the price. He knew because he had had to buy one, as a temporary vehicle, several months earlier.
Next to the Wrangler was an old Ford Explorer, which was more of Widow’s speed.
Both vehicles had Montana plates.
Widow noticed a two-car garage on the western side of the house. The hangar-sized door was wide open. Widow saw no cars parked inside it. There were tracks coming out of it and trailing off into the direction that they had come.
Hogan left the engine running, grabbed the radio receiver, and clicked the speak button. He said, “Come in, Harris.”
The radio crackled and static echoed over the speakers for a long moment. Then Harris’s voice came over the speaker and said, “I’m here, Hogan.”
“I’m outside the Sossaman house right now. I can see the garage is open.”
“Okay?”
“The kid took the old truck.”
“Want me to put an APB out?”
“To who? We’re the only cops.”
Silence fell over the radio and then Harris said, “What about the Stateys?”
Hogan said, “Don’t bother. They’ll be too far away. Better call border patrol.”
Harris asked, “You think he’ll try for the border?”
“Possible. You’d better also call ahead to Rexford and Fortine. Tell them to be on the lookout for a red ‘77 Ford F150.”
Widow recognized the name Fortine. That was the town south of Eureka. He had passed through it on 93. He guessed that Rexford was to the west.
Hogan waited and heard no response. Then he asked, “Harris? You got that?”
“Yeah. I got it. You sure you don’t want me to inform the sheriff’s office?”
Hogan thought for a moment and then he said, “Nah. No reason for that yet.”
“They got the counties in between? They might see him.”
“No. I don’t want them involved. Just do as I ask.”
Harris paused a short breath and then he said, “Yes, sir.”
That was the first time that Widow learned the ranks. Hogan was in charge, but not the chief of police. Widow wondered if they even had a chief, probably not. They probably had supervisory roles at each town and a chief who was over them all. With small towns, this seemed like a logical network of who was the boss.
Hogan turned back in his seat and said, “Widow, I gotta go talk to the mother. I’ll be back.”
Just then, Widow saw the heavy front house door open. Two figures stepped out and the porch light clicked on. They stayed in the doorway. They waited for Hogan to come to the house, instead of coming down to the car.
Widow said, “No way! You’re not leaving me in here.”
“I’ll just be a second.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Hogan thought for a long moment. It was visible on his face. Widow knew that he couldn’t detain him in the back of the car, not for doing nothing. But Hogan appeared to be working out the problem in his head. He said, “I can’t just let you walk back from here.”
Widow said, “This is a free country. I can walk from wherever I please.”
“Come on, Widow. This is a serious situation. Cut me a break here.”
Widow thought for a moment and then he said, “Look. I’m not going to walk off. Just let me get out. I’ll wait by the car.”
Widow would rather be outside standing and stretching his legs over sitting in the back of the car.
Hogan said, “Okay. Fine. Don’t make me regret it.”
How the hell would I do that? Widow thought,
but he didn’t verbalize it. He just nodded.
Hogan hopped out of the car, leaving the light bar on. The red and blue colors washed over the front of the house. He closed his door and sidestepped back to Widow’s and opened it. And that’s when Widow noticed the smell. It wasn’t overwhelming, but a lingering smell of far-off crap. His brain kicked in and he realized that was probably normal on a ranch with cattle.
Widow did his best to ignore the smell and stepped up and out of the car. He stood up and towered over Hogan, which was the first thing that the figures noticed in the doorway. Widow looked over at them. He couldn’t make out their details, just that they seemed to gasp when they saw him. He imagined that they didn’t know what to make of him. He imagined them staring, trying to figure it out. Then he remembered his mother, for no good reason, but she said to him “don’t stare,” from far away in some corner of his childhood memories.
Hogan said, “By the car.”
Widow nodded.
Hogan ambled back around the front end of the car in a kind of hurried stroll, not a run or a jog. He stepped up onto the porch and greeted the figures in the doorway.
Widow looked over at them and saw two young men, maybe in their twenties.
Cowhands. Widow figured. Not very many for a place this size. He wondered if they were the only two left from decreasing in staff?
They each wore an entire Western getup, except for cowboy hats and spurs and gun belts. But they wore the Western-style button-down shirts, both tucked in. They wore blue jeans and cowboy boots. They had belts with big, polished buckles in the front. They appeared to be bigger than Widow’s new belt buckle.
Widow stretched out his limbs, which wasn’t necessary, but always relaxing. He scanned the house. Most of the upstairs lights were off, but more than half of the bottom floor was lit up.
Widow saw Hogan look back at him for a second and nodded like he was reminding him to stay, like a pet. Widow made no motions back. He turned his back to the house and leaned up against the outside of the police car.