Walt Longmire 07 - Hell Is Empty

by Craig Johnson

  She finally looked at me, and I smiled. “Coffee?”

  She took a deep breath, letting it out in a shuddering release that seemed like an exorcism, and the words that came from her were barely audible. “I like tea.”

  I felt like laughing but couldn’t risk the energy. “Would you like me to make you some tea?”

  She nodded, just barely.

  I’m not sure if she really wanted tea or if it was a way of insulating herself for just a little bit longer. I refilled Omar’s coffee with the contents from Beatrice’s cup and, with his help, found a box of Earl Grey bags and submerged one into what was left of the boiling water.

  I lifted the edge of my improvised sling to check the patch job I’d done on the big-game hunter—it looked like the bleeding from his shoulder wound was subsiding. “How are you doing?”

  “Fuzzy, but I’ll get there.” He yawned, which emphasized the leonine aspects of his features. “He was—I tried to . . .” He stopped speaking, and the only noise was the popping of the pine logs in the fire.

  I studied him. “What?”

  He took a deep breath. “Nothing.”

  I clamped my jaws shut to keep from yawning in sympathy, thinking about how much further I had to go, wondering how far that was and what I’d find there. I thought about my plan, or lack of one. They were mobile, and unless Omar assisted me, I was not. They were many and well-armed, I was not. The only thing I had going for me was the topography—the simple fact that they would soon have nowhere to go. They didn’t know it, but they had bottled themselves up, and other than Tyrell Ranger Station, the concrete, not-so-portable potties were the only indoors in all the great outdoors.

  They would have to stay in the Thiokol for the night, so I could grab a few hours of sleep and maybe that would help me clear my head.

  I looked at the shine in my friend’s eyes and thought about how many creatures Omar had killed and in how many exotic locales, only to slay his first human being literally on his own doorstep. I lowered my voice. “There’s a conversation we’re going to have to have, but not in front of her.”

  He nodded and slowly sipped his coffee.

  When I got back to the sofa, Beatrice was still hypnotized by the fire. I stood there feeling the heat radiating against my back, pulling at my sore muscles, and prickling my skin. The waves of exhaustion washed against me like an ebb tide, causing me to waver a little. I forced the air from my lungs and blinked to clear my eyes to find Beatrice’s looking up at me.

  She took the tea and held it in front of her face in clasped hands. “Thank you.”

  I waited, but she didn’t say anything else.

  “Um, I have some questions.”

  “I bet you do.” She looked away from me and back to the fire. “ ‘The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.’ ”

  “Pascal.”

  She looked at me again.

  I tipped my hat back. “I’ve been thinking of moonlighting at the local community college.”

  It took a while, but she did laugh and then laughed again. When the words came out of her, they weren’t the ones I was expecting: “He’s not as bad as you think; he’s not a simple misanthrope.”

  Aware of the Stockholm syndrome, I still wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Excuse me?”

  “I was sure you knew, when I told you I was from Wacouta and you mentioned the Red Wing factory, that there’s a maximum security prison just down the road.”

  “No.”

  “That’s where I met Raynaud, and I guess I was vulnerable, but he’s so, well, I don’t know, charming, kind of, and he loves me, really . . .” She froze for a moment, and I was worried that I’d lost her, but then her lips moved and she began speaking again. “My father had just died, and I was struggling with a thyroid cancer diagnosis and a divorce. I was working at a veterinary clinic, and maybe it was coming to terms with my own mortality when I started feeling sorry for the number of dogs that were exterminated for lack of adoptive owners. A friend of mine suggested I start a cell-dog project with the prison. You know those programs?”

  I figured this was the only way to get her talking, and I was curious about how she’d gotten tangled up with Shade. “I’ve heard of them.”

  “I interviewed Raynaud for the program, and we argued at first about which method produced the best-trained dogs, discipline or positive reinforcement.”

  “Want me to guess which one he believed in?”

  She sighed a laugh. “I asked him which one worked best with him.” She tucked the blanket in a little closer. “He was magnificent with the dogs, had a real talent working with the most vicious animals—they loved him. I think he saw a reflection of himself in them.” A hand crept up and stayed there at the side of her head. “One day he complimented me on my hair.” She looked up at me. “I know I’m not very much to look at, Sheriff, and that’s probably why it struck me the way it did—like water on a dying plant, I guess. Anyway, a few months later we made plans for him to escape so that the two of us could be together. I was going to sneak him out in my van with the dog supplies. We were going to run away to the Northwest Territories, in Canada, where he’s from. I pulled forty-two thousand dollars from my bank account; it was about all I had, but he was worth it.”

  “What happened?”

  “They had a heartbeat monitor at the gate that discovered him. I was charged with aiding and abetting, but my husband—my ex-husband—paid the bail money from what was left from the forty-two thousand. Raynaud was transferred to the prison in Utah but wrote me a letter asking me to forgive him for getting me into all the trouble.” She sipped her tea. “We continued to stay in touch, and he told me there would be one last opportunity for him here, in Wyoming. We had devised a kind of code; he’s brilliant, Sheriff. A genius.”

  I thought about how much planning this entire escapade must’ve taken, which reinforced my thought that Raynaud Shade was more than your usual, garden-variety sociopath. “So, he had all of this planned far in advance.”

  She nodded. “He said there was a body that he had buried here in the mountains and that he knew where that was and could get himself this far. All I had to do was help him get free and provide supplies, and he’d take care of the rest.”

  Indeed. “So you figured out the hairpin trick with the handcuffs?”

  “He taught me.” A quick sob escaped her, and she shook, finally speaking into her mug. “I know everybody wants me to hate him, but I don’t.”

  I waited, thinking about all the things that affected us, things we were aware of and things we weren’t. I recited the rest, hoping I could remember it all: “We must always love something. In those matters seemingly removed from love, the feeling is secretly to be found, and man cannot possibly live for a moment without it.”

  She turned, and I could see the tears shining on her cheeks. “More Pascal?”

  “More Pascal.” It was time to change the subject, and I only hoped she’d stay with me. “I’m going to be honest with you; there are some serious consequences for what you’ve done, but that really doesn’t concern me right now. Right now, I’ve got only one question—do you have any idea where they might be going?”

  “No.” Behind the glasses, her eyes were still full of tears—maybe she was attempting to dampen the flames. “I really don’t know.”

  I waited a little before asking again. “Anything you might’ve overheard?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I leaned back in the sofa, and it was so soft I thought I might die there. I was tired and not sure how to proceed. The choice was to either leave her and Omar here or send them out and back to Meadowlark Lodge, and for me to continue up.

  “There was something about money.”

  I shifted my position on the sofa. “Excuse me?”

  “Raynaud said something about money.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “There was some money that had be
en taken or something and that they would get the money if they helped him—that’s what he told all of them.”

  “Who?”

  She glanced toward the door where I’d duct-taped a piece of cardboard over the broken glass after I had dragged Popp onto the porch—if I had to leave the two of them in the cabin, I wasn’t going to leave them here with a corpse in full view.

  “The other convicts?”

  “Yes, and . . .”

  “What?”

  “He has a package with him, a rubber duffel, and waterproof like you carry in a kayak.”

  This was news. “And you think it’s full of money? ”

  “I don’t know. I could have sworn he didn’t have it with him, and then it was just there suddenly.”

  “You didn’t bring him the bag?”

  “No.”

  Perhaps the story of the money was true after all. “You are sure you don’t know where they’re going?”

  She honestly seemed confused. “I don’t . . . Away—that’s all I know.”

  “Beatrice, there’s no way out where they’re headed.” She continued to look at me blankly. “There are no roads.”

  “Raynaud said there was a road . . . Battle Park.”

  “You’re already past that—it’s about three miles back.” I tried to get her to understand. “There are only a few branch roads off of West Tensleep and you’re already past all of them. The main road goes on for another mile and a half but then it throttles off into trails that are going to be so choked with snow that he won’t even be able to walk out of there, even with snowshoes.”

  “Raynaud said . . .”

  “Beatrice, there are no roads.”

  She was confused by this information. “Maybe they turned back.”

  I shook my head. “No, the tracks went on.”

  I left it at that. There were a few other questions I had and couldn’t risk her shutting down again. “You brought them supplies?”

  She swallowed. “I did.”

  “What’ve they got?”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “Insulated clothing, packs, sleeping bags, food, snowshoes? The things they’d need if they were going to try and hike out of here?”

  “I guess. Yesss . . .” It was a strangled reply, like a tire slowly deflating.

  “What about weapons? I know they took the marshal’s rifle from our van and some sidearms from the federal agents and the two Ameri-Trans guards. Was there anything else?”

  “No.”

  I nodded. “I’ve got to know: are the others, Pfaff and the Ameri-Trans driver, still alive?”

  “Yes, they are.” She nodded with the words—glad to have good news, I suppose. “They were fine—no one had done anything to them the last time I saw them.”

  “Good.”

  She started to say something and then paused for a moment. “There was someone they were going to meet.”

  I didn’t move but then finally pulled in enough air to ask, “What?”

  “Someone. Raynaud said something about meeting somebody who knew the way.”

  “The way out of the mountains?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  The frustration rose in her voice. “I don’t know.” She sat there fingering the edge of the blanket like a child would, and I thought she was through talking, but she wasn’t. “Raynaud, he’s rather . . . Charismatic is the only way I can describe it. He has a power over people . . . not just me.” Her eyes came up to mine. “I’m not crazy, Sheriff. If it wasn’t impressed on me that Raynaud was a killer before, it is now. He left me here to die, and I thought I was the most important person in his life.” She looked at the ceiling, and when she looked at me, there were still tears. “I just don’t want you to underestimate him.”

  “I wasn’t intending to.”

  “If you go after him, he’ll kill you.”

  I nodded and rose. “Drink the rest of your tea.”

  Her face returned to the fireplace, and the reflection of the conflagration again replaced her eyes. I turned and looked at the fire, reveling in its warmth and letting my mind thaw with my face.

  For the first time, I noticed that Omar’s Sharps buffalo rifle was hanging above the mantel. I stepped forward and placed a hand on its elongated barrel; it was the one I’d used to explode a pumpkin in his backyard. It wasn’t like the Cheyenne Rifle of the Dead that was securely ensconced in the gun safe in my closet, but it was close enough to raise the hair on the back of my hand. It was beautiful, a museum piece, really. It hadn’t had the hard wear of the Indian weapon but had a dignity of its own. There were new additions since the last time I’d seen it over a year ago: a period military shoulder strap and a beaded rear stock cover with three .45-70 rounds tucked in the butterlike leather—the father, the son, and the Holy Ghost.

  I fingered the rounds as I thought.

  The hostages were easy to understand; if Shade were cornered he’d need insurance. But why corner yourself and why in the mountains? I was sure the money was bullshit and simply Shade’s way of keeping them all going, but then what was in the duffel? Where and to whom was he attempting to get? Deer Park Campground was ahead, along with West Tensleep Lake proper, but no one in his right mind would be up that high this early in the season.

  I was exhausted. I turned around and looked at Beatrice, who had lowered her head to the arm of the sofa and closed her eyes.

  I left the rifle and carried my mug back to Omar and the butcher-block island. He seemed to be sobering up. “I’ve got to get going.”

  He stood. “What’s a misanthrope?”

  “Somebody who hates all of humanity.”

  He shrugged with his good shoulder and stood. “Workin’ on that myself.” He studied me for a moment. “You should get some sleep; even a little bit would help.”

  “I can’t, I’ve got to . . .”

  “Got to what?” He started to fold his arms but then thought better of it. “They’re not going anywhere. Go back over to the other sofa and stretch out. I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours and you can start. It’ll still be before daybreak.”

  He was right, of course.

  “And I’ll go with you.”

  The absurdity of that statement played across my face. “No, you’re not.”

  “How many of them, with hostages, and only one of you?”

  “You’re in no shape.” I gestured with my chin toward Beatrice. “And I can’t leave her here alone. I’ve got people back at Meadowlark, and you can wait and see what the weather does before you make up your mind to stay here or go there.” I glanced around at the comforts of the cabin I would soon be leaving. “Personally, I’d have groceries delivered and just hole up till the cavalry shows.”

  He took a breath and cultivated it into a sigh. “I’ll make you a deal; you sleep for a couple of hours and I’ll let you go on your own.” He glanced back at the sofa and shook his head. “What we do when we think we’re in love.” He looked at me. “Deal?”

  I settled into the Indian blanket chair opposite the sofa where Beatrice was sleeping, pulled my hat over my face, and listened to the logs spitting in the fireplace. Omar brought my sheepskin coat and threw it over me.

  “I’m still not going to help you with the horny thing.”

  “Shut up and go to sleep.” There was a pause, and then he added, “How are you going to follow them?”

  I could already feel myself drifting away. “I’ve got snowshoes.”

  Somewhere in the distance I could hear his voice: “Oh, I think we can do better than that.”

  There is a familiar odor to old trucks; it is a comforting smell and it is what he smells now. The knobs on the dash are large and chrome metal and he pushes one in where it stays for a moment and then pops back at him. He blinks and then pulls the knob the rest of the way out, turning it and looking into the red-hot coils inside.

  He doesn’t know why they have to fish; he doesn’t like fish, doesn’t like
picking bones out of his mouth.

  He points a finger into the lip of the cigarette lighter where the burning coil is cooling, but he can still feel the heat.

  “Stay here while I go get more worms and some beer.”

  So he stays, and he waits.

  He puts the lighter back in the dashboard and listens to the breeze shimmering the yellow and stiff leaves of the cottonwoods alongside the Big Horn River. It’s warm and he becomes drowsy, having a dream of his own. A dream within a dream, but this one was real—where his father, eyes wide with whiskey, broke up the furniture and burned it one night.

  He has that ability, they say, to blend dreams with life. In the murmuring voices in the next room he overhears the old woman saying it will lead to tragedy.

  He unwraps the candy bar the big man left for him, a Mallo Cup in the bright yellow wrapper that feels slick in his hands, wondering who the Boyer Brothers are or where Altoona, Pennsylvania, is.

  He starts at the knock on the window of the truck and looks up to see a smiling face with lots of teeth but no warmth. “Unlock the door.”

  Snow machines scare me, and this one scared me more than any I’d ever seen before. It was red, blood red, and huge, with some sort of track system all its own. I guess it started out as a four-wheeler, but with all the modifications I really couldn’t tell.

  There were lots of other sleds there in Omar’s garage, but it was easy to see why he’d chosen this one for me. A regular snowmobile would have skis on the front and those would take me only so far; with treads on the front and rear, this monster would be able to follow the narrow trails and, more important, be able to climb the rocks that were buried in the snow as well.

  It was early morning, about six thirty, and the big-game hunter had returned three times with supplies stuffed under his one arm, including my backpack, my snowshoes, and a leather rifle scabbard. He gestured toward one of the snowmobiles. “This one over here is the fastest, but without experience on these things, especially this one, you’ll end up piled into a tree or off a cliff.” He looked down at the machine where he’d stacked my supplies. “Not that this one’s for the faint of heart—more than a thousand cc’s. I had it special-made in Minnesota. The suspension is custom-reinforced, and the Trax-System will not fail.”