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by Dustin Stevens

  Through his best efforts, Drake managed to extend the twelve minute drive to an even twenty. Simple fact was though, it was still Missoula.

  On Christmas Eve.

  There was only so much stalling one could do.

  He said goodbye to a grumbling Ajax on the curb by the front door of the airport. Pulled away from the same spot he’d used two days before with Ava and headed back into town.

  Just minutes after eleven, Drake came to a stop in front of the apartment the Keuhl’s shared. Found Sage standing on the front steps.

  Duffel bag on the ground to her left. Oversized paper bag of gifts to her right.

  She bent at the waist as he climbed out. Lifted as much as she could from the ground. Left the rest behind for him.

  “You’re late.”

  “Blame Ajax,” Drake said. Lifted Sage’s duffel. Grunted. “You realize this is just for a couple days, right?”

  “You realize I’m a girl, right?” Sage replied over her shoulder.

  “What? Really? You?”

  Sage ignored the retort. Loaded her bags into the truck. Stood by the passenger door as Drake circled to the opposite side.

  Together they climbed in. Drake goosed the heat a little higher as Q greeted Sage with hot breath and sloppy kisses.

  Sage was long past trying to fight it.

  “So how’d it go this morning?”

  “Can’t you feel his hostility still lingering in here?”

  “Now that you mention it, this spot does feel abnormally warm. That’s not what I meant though.”

  Drake nodded. He knew what she meant. Was hoping to dodge it until he’d had some more time to sort things out.

  The hour long ride from Hamilton had barely made a dent in the tangle in his head. He was a long way from making sense of everything still.

  “Well?” Sage pressed.

  Drake exhaled through his nose. Smiled. Turned the truck onto the highway and headed west.

  “I’m still processing.”

  “Process out loud.”

  The words weren’t a command. More like a statement of the obvious.

  Sage wanted to help. Drake often needed it.

  “Lot of moving parts,” Drake said. “The things that add up don’t equal enough to explain what happened. The parts that don’t fit are too big to be ignored.”

  “Start at the beginning,” Sage said. Settled her hand down behind Q’s ears. Kneaded the folds of skin there in concentric circles.

  A low, guttural moan rumbled from within Q, voicing her approval.

  “Guy with a glowing service record finds out his father is dying and gets a special discharge to come home. Gets here, has less than a week, has to bury him.”

  “Oof,” Sage said. Cringed.

  “The funeral is small. Few old-timers, couple random friends. No problems or altercations. No trouble of any kind.

  “Couple of days pass, he goes to the monthly Agriculture Commission meeting. Sits in for a while, apparently hears something he doesn’t like, gets up and walks out.

  “Nobody thinks much of it until he walks back in with a rifle.”

  “Just like the news said, huh?” Sage asked.

  “Best I can tell,” Drake said. “I haven’t talked to any witnesses yet or anything. Just his sister, who wasn’t there.”

  “Not quite an unbiased source.”

  “Looking at maybe losing her brother and father in a two week stretch? Definitely not.”

  Silence fell for a moment. Drake stared out through the windshield at a slate colored sky. Just one more in an unending string of The Greys.

  Beside him Sage sat with her face deep in thought. Chewed over what she’d just learned. Tried to fit some pieces together.

  “Okay, so walk me through this. What does and doesn’t fit?”

  Drake rested his wrists atop the wheel. Brought his thumb and pinkie together to count things off.

  “First, his service record. According to his sister he was a model soldier. Perfect record. So much so they let him walk mid-tour.

  “Within a week of returning, he opens fire in a public place?”

  “Post-traumatic stress? Traumatic brain injury?” Sage proffered.

  “I don’t know,” Drake said. “He’s required to meet with an Army shrink for the next few months. Rink is supposed to get back to me with who he was seeing.”

  “You going to go talk to them?”

  “Hopefully on Tuesday, right after leaving your place.”

  Sage nodded. “Okay, so what doesn’t make sense?”

  Drake twisted his face. Pushed out a loud breath. “The guy was a sniper. Grew up hunting deer. You mean to tell me he walked into a crowded meeting hall, opened fire, and didn’t hit anybody?”

  The information brought a look of surprise to Sage’s face. She leaned back. Raised her eyebrows. Stared at two young girls decorating a pine tree in their front yard outside.

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound right.”

  “And on the other side,” Drake continued. “The opening fire itself.

  “What were they talking about at the meeting? What had him so pissed off?”

  “Pissed enough to walk outside, get a gun, and come back in firing.”

  “Exactly. This is a local Agriculture Commission meeting. It’s not like it was a Senate budget hearing.”

  The corner of Sage’s mouth turned up into a half smile. She lowered her face down to the top of Q’s head. Felt the soft fur against her lips.

  Thought about what they’d just discussed.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Some of the ranchers can get pretty worked up about things.”

  Drake slowed the truck. Turned north off the highway at Frenchtown. Headed along 83 towards Arlee and the rez.

  “But he’s been gone eight years. What could they be talking about that would have him that mad, that fast?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Delmonico.

  Inch thick bone-in rib-eye steaks.

  Beef raised right on the Bar-T ranch. Free range, grass fed.

  Most families have ham on Christmas. Perhaps a turkey.

  Not the Tierney’s. Every year they slaughtered a prize steer for the occasion, removing ten Delmonico cuts.

  One for Holt and his wife Bernice. One for each of the four sons and their wives.

  In addition they hand ground the remaining rib-eye meat into burgers for the six grandchildren.

  All told it came out to almost twenty pounds of beef for the family.

  Taken together with all the trimmings Bernice insisted on each year, it was enough to feed a small village. A veritable feast.

  At the moment, that feast sat growing cold.

  Its smell permeated the house. Filled every last nook and cranny. Had the children whining on the front couch. Left their parents casting angry glances into the study.

  Holt Tierney paid all of it no attention. Not even the delectable aroma of his favorite cut of meat in the entire world.

  Instead he sat perched on the edge of his desk. Inspected the pointed toe of his Roper. Ran his thumb and forefinger across his moustache one time after another.

  Seated in front of him in the same chair that Johnson and McIlvaine had both used the afternoon before was his daughter-in-law Jessica.

  To everyone else in the world, she was Jess.

  To Holt, hell-bent on formality, it was always Jessica.

  She sat leaning forward in the chair, her legs crossed. A spiral bound Steno notepad was balanced on her knee. A tape recorder was active on the arm of the chair.

  “Tell me, Mr. Tierney, what went through your mind as you saw the perpetrator enter the room, brandishing a weapon?”

  Holt drew in a deep breath through his nose. Used the expansion of his lungs to lift his squared shoulders several inches higher. Held the pose a full moment.

  Pushed it out in a slow, even pace.

  “To be honest, I don’t know that anything entered my mind. It all happened so fast, I didn’t
have a chance.”

  Jessica scribbled down his response.

  As a contributing writer for The Missoulian, Jess covered the odd story from Hamilton. Holt had approached her three days earlier with an idea for the piece.

  Told her that several people around had asked for his story and he wanted her to have it.

  Truth was, he wanted to get his side of things out while Webb was still in a coma. Solidify the version he and McIlvaine had agreed to before anybody could say otherwise.

  The only reason he chose Jess as his vessel was he knew she was scared to death of him. Wouldn’t dream of challenging his telling.

  Holt had never thought much of her work as a writer. The only one of his four daughter-in-laws that was gainfully employed, he tolerated it at best.

  Loathed it at worst.

  Nothing against her or her writing, more the idea of women working in general.

  It was the man’s job to provide, just as he had for Bernice over the years.

  “Would you say his actions were in any way provoked?”

  “Certainly not,” Holt replied. Continued stroking his moustache. Shook his head for emphasis.

  “In fact, it was the first time I had even seen the young man in, well, must be close to a decade.”

  “I understand he just returned from serving in the Army?”

  “That is my understanding as well, a most noble service that we are all thankful for.”

  Jessica continued to transcribe his words. Paused to turn the page. Wrote some more.

  “Were you familiar with the young man’s father that passed recently?”

  “Of course,” Holt said. Nodded. “Everybody in Hamilton knew Mitch Webb. A true genuine article rancher. A great loss to the community.”

  “Ever any hostility between Mr. Webb and yourself? Or anybody on the commission?”

  Holt leaned back. Paused. Ran a hand over his wiry grey hair.

  “You know, I can’t say that I ever knew Mitch to have hostility with anybody, about anything.”

  “So this really was just an isolated incident? Out of blue?”

  “It certainly seems that way,” Holt said. “I’ve replayed those events in my mind a dozen times, cannot think of a single reason why he acted the way he did.”

  Jessica nodded, her straight brown hair falling on either side of her shoulders. She sat with her mouth pursed, writing as fast as her hand would allow.

  “Now, the man that was able to stop Mr. Webb’s rampage is an employee of yours, is that correct?”

  “Yes, he is,” Holt said. “Hank McIlvaine was recently hired on here as a consultant. He was sitting in on the meeting at my request.”

  “And when the shooting started...?” Jessica asked. Let her voice trail off.

  “Mr. McIlvaine is retired from the United States Marine Corps and has had a concealed carry permit since his discharge thirteen years ago. All of us there that night were very fortunate he was present and acted so quickly.”

  “Have you reached out to the Webb family at all since the incident?”

  Holt pulled his chin back towards his chest. Folded his arms. Peered down his nose at his daughter-in-law.

  “I have wanted to do so, but was requested by local law enforcement not to until after their investigation.”

  Jessica nodded. Finished the sentence she was writing.

  “And one last question, has this incident affected anything for the local ranching community moving forward?”

  “Certainly not,” Holt said. Forced a smile onto his face so large it hurt. “In fact, as a gesture to prove as much, I would like to remind everyone that our annual Winter Ball is still planned for next weekend here at the ranch. The entire community is invited for a night of dining and dancing.”

  Jessica smiled as she wrote. Nodded her head in agreement at the statement.

  Once she was done, she raised her eyes to him. Flipped the notepad closed.

  “I think that’s everything. Was there anything else you wanted to add?”

  “No, that about covers it,” Holt said. Beamed at her. Leaned forward and clasped her hands in his. “Thank you so much for doing this. You were perfect.”

  “My pleasure. I talked to my editor this morning, he said it should run Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest,” Jessica responded. Stood. “Now, should we get in there? It sounds like the crowd might be getting a bit restless.”

  Holt kept the smile in place.

  “You go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you in just a minute.”

  Jessica nodded and turned for the door. Headed out, nudging it almost closed behind her.

  Holt waited until the back of her black dress was gone from sight before circling around the desk. Lifting the phone receiver. Pressing it to his face.

  Taking it off of speakerphone.

  “You get all that?”

  “Consultant, huh?” McIlvaine asked. A trace of sarcasm in his voice. A bit of bemusement as well.

  “What the hell would you like me to call you? Hired gun?” Holt spat.

  “Naw, consultant works.”

  “Good, because until this thing blows over, that’s what your job title is going to be. I’m even having business cards printed up that say just that.”

  “You really think all this is necessary?” McIlvaine asked. “Staged interviews? Fake business cards?”

  “Yes it is necessary you idiot,” Holt snapped. “Paula Goslin herself told you last night that the Webb’s have hired an attorney. That means they’re looking into things.”

  Silence fell for a moment. Stayed long enough that Holt pulled the phone away to make sure the connection hadn’t been lost.

  “McIlvaine? You there?”

  “There are easier ways to make sure they don’t find anything you know.”

  Holt sighed. Raised his gaze to the six by six elk on the wall he harvested two winters before. Shook his head.

  “And you know why that bastard started shooting in the first place, don’t you? This is a lot bigger than just some lawyer snooping around or a couple of shots fired in a meeting.

  “We need to make sure people keep looking everywhere but at us.”

  “And if they do?”

  “We need to make sure they don’t.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” McIlvaine asked.

  There was a pause as Holt lowered his head back to eye level. Shook it from side to side.

  “Nothing. Yet.”

  “Alright,” McIlvaine said. “You’re the boss.”

  Holt grunted in agreement.

  “Merry Christmas,” McIlvaine said. Cut the call off without another word.

  Holt held the phone in his hand a moment. Lowered it back to its cradle.

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Drake was miserable.

  Painfully, woefully, miserably, full.

  There was no possible way his body could hold even one more bite.

  Kristina Keuhl, matron saint of the Keuhl family, didn’t seem to care. She brushed off his repeated requests for reprieve. Brought him one plate after another from the kitchen.

  Smiled each time he implored her to stop. Told him to quit being polite.

  It was Christmas. He was family.

  Technically, this wasn’t even the holiday feast. That would come on Christmas Day. This was a mother happy to have hungry mouths around to feed.

  She wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass her by, even long after they ceased being hungry.

  Drake sat sprawled across an overstuffed arm chair in the corner, his stomach bulged in front of him. Suzy Q sat belly-side-up on the floor at his feet.

  Kristina’s force feeding didn’t differentiate between man and beast.

  Across from him Sage and Kade were on either end of the couch, both slouched towards their respective corners.

  Each looked even more miserable than he did.

  Perched at the far end of the room in his recliner was Wes Keuhl
, patriarch of the clan. The Sunday paper was folded into quarters and rested on his knee, the crossword puzzle staring up at him.

  In his late fifties, he had the look of an athlete gone to seed. Thick arms and shoulders. Square jaw. A growing paunch. Thinning auburn hair.

  A pair of bifocals rested on the tip of his nose as he stared down at the paper. Seemed to ignore the ritual gluttony occurring around him.

  To Drake’s immediate left was a brick fireplace. The cast iron doors on it stood open, a metal mesh screen pulled across the front. The smell of hickory wood filled the air.

  Warmth spilled out in a wide arc.

  Above it, a college football game that nobody was watching played on.

  In the corner, a faux pine tree was covered in gaudy decorations. Oversized bulbs bathed the room in hues of red and green.

  “Well now, how about some dessert?” Katrina asked. Swept into the room. Wrung her hands on her apron. Stood with fists resting on her hips.

  The question brought a smile to Drake’s lips. He raised his arm to his face. Used the crook of his elbow to shield his eyes.

  Shook his head.

  “Mom, I don’t think any of us could even consider eating more right now,” Sage said. Made no attempt to hide her discomfort.

  “What, you guys didn’t like it?” Katrina asked, voice tinged with sadness.

  Drake dropped the arm from his face. Kept the smile and the head shake. Looked over at Kade, making the same expression.

  “Yes, mom, that’s what we’re saying,” Kade said. “Not that we’re all so full we might puke at any moment. We didn’t like it.”

  Katrina made a face. Stood in place and looked at each of them.

  Unlike her husband, who was of Germanic descent, Katrina was a local product. Full-blooded Salish Indian. Long blue-black hair. Pointed chin and cheekbones. Dark complexion.

  One at a time she looked to her children and Drake, hoping someone would take her up on dessert.

  Nobody did.

  Pouting, she turned and huffed towards the kitchen. No doubt on a mission to prepare for the next day.

  “You’re getting soft,” Sage said. Aimed her gaze at Drake. “Wasn’t that long ago you would have eaten at least two, three more plates without blinking.”

  “You see how many meatballs I took down?” Drake countered. “I lost track somewhere in the twenties.”