The train finally passed, and I rose up from the street like a derelict and carefully looked both ways. The barriers lifted, and I trudged across, turning right and walking along the embankment that led toward the large red light at the rear of the caboose.
I didn’t want to wake anyone up if I didn’t have to, so I decided not to climb up the ladder into the passenger cars, and instead continued trudging along until I got to a group of men who were smoking cigarettes and talking. I stopped behind the nearest one. “Hey, you guys been missing anybody since Medicine Bow?”
Joe Holland whirled around, and, looking more than a little surprised to see me, grabbed me, twisted me, and threw me on the ground. Two more men held me down, but I pushed and started to get up—at least until somebody expertly sapped me on the back of my already sore head.
My face hit the ground, and I lay there listening to their voices, feeling like my battered brains were leaking out through my eyes.
“Is that the son of a bitch?”
6
Lucian rested his elbows on the counter of the Luxury Diner and watched as I took an oversize bite of my cheeseburger, my granddaughter strapped in her car seat on the stool between us.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be feeding that child French fries.”
I ignored him and gave her another. “She likes them.”
He shook his head and turning back to the mirror over the milk-shake machine, puzzled over this morning’s meeting. “What the hell would they hope to gain by all this rigmarole?”
I thought about it as I chewed, thankful for the extra time it took to swallow so I could think it over. “I just sat through a two-hour meeting, and I have no idea.”
He took a bite of his BLT and joined me in chewing more than lunch as we stared at ourselves in the mirror. “They can’t win a case like this.”
Lola reached for my cheeseburger, so I took another French fry from my plate and gave it to her. “No, they can’t.”
“So, are they just stupid?”
All three of us chewed some more.
After a while, Lucian raised his coffee mug; the waitress hurried over, the old sheriff’s feelings about jiffy service being pretty well known statewide. As she filled his cup, he turned back to me. “Well, if they aren’t stupid, then they know something we don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Well, if I knew that, then we’d know, now wouldn’t we?” He leaned down and spoke to Lola in a confidential tone. “Your grandfather isn’t so smart, sweet pea.”
“The lawyer they had with them . . .”
Lucian stared at me, his dark eyes unblinking over the brim of his mug. “The one who smirked all the way through the meeting?”
“Yep, that one. Where was he from?”
“Hell if I can remember.”
I chewed and finally came up with it. “Cody.”
“That was it.”
Shrugging, I fed Lola another fry. “Well, then, you would think he wouldn’t know any more than we do.”
He sipped his coffee. “Sure acted like he did.”
The front door jangled and two of the three of us turned and watched as Henry, who was so covered with spatters he looked as if he might’ve stepped out of a Jackson Pollock painting, sat down beside me. “How’s the job going?”
He plucked a menu from the holder and studied it. “On the ceiling or me?”
I studied him. “You look a little uneven.”
He nodded. “The ceiling is much better.”
I daubed a little paint off the sleeve of his sweatshirt and considered it. “Avocado?”
“Silver Blue Sage.” He lowered the menu as the waitress approached and smiled at her. “Hello.”
She was young, and she melted from his direct look, hardly able to get the word out. “Hi.”
“Would it be possible to get a glass of water, please?”
She recovered a little confidence and flipped her blond hair, her eyes still lingering on him. “If I have to swim for it.”
He glanced at the three of us in the mirror and spoke to the image. “Vic elected to take a shower and will join us later.”
“Did Cady finally go to work?”
“Yes, but not before we all had a long discussion about the different forms of compassionate release.”
“Well now, why do I not like the sound of that?”
“There is good and bad.” The girl returned with the water and set it in front of him. “I will have the Caesar salad with chicken, please—balsamic vinaigrette on the side, if you would, and no bread.”
Lucian snorted, and I glanced at him. “That’s the reason he looks the way he does.” I took another bite of my cheeseburger and spoke as I chewed. “And why we look the way we do.”
Henry sipped his water. “Many states have expanded their criteria for compassionate release to include terminally and chronically ill inmates.”
“And Wyoming is one of them.”
“Not yet, but it is a pet project of the governor’s wife.”
I turned very slowly and looked at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were, but the good news is that this expansion has not significantly increased the number of inmates released anywhere. The current statistics indicate that the life expectancy of a prisoner up for compassionate release varies from six to twelve months, but that since the petition can take sixty-five days in court, most die in prison before their cases are even processed.” He sipped his water again, obviously parched from painting my daughter’s ceilings. “Cady tells me you went to the hospital last night.”
“I did.”
“You do know they have technology in this town that can tell if a victim has been suffocated with his own pillow.” I sipped my tea and fed Lola another fry. “I do not think your daughter would like you feeding your granddaughter French fries.”
I turned and looked at him. “She likes them.”
He shrugged and continued. “Grounds can also be familial, but since the convicted has no living family members, that is precluded.”
I turned to Lucian. “Do we know that?”
He continued eating. “Know what?”
“Does he have any family?”
“Not that I know of, but I ain’t no expert on the son of a bitch.”
I sighed. “I guess we need to find that out.”
“Let the state do that.”
I shook my head. “The governor’s wife?”
The waitress brought Henry’s lunch, and he started to eat. “She is concerned with budget overages, and the Bureau of Prisons, with the release of one hundred prisoners by compassionate release, could save the system $5.8 million—not to mention relieve some overcrowding.”
“The governor’s wife.”
“Yes.” He paused, his fork suspended above the romaine. “Releasing a prisoner all relies on good faith, which is a rare commodity these days.” Henry took a bite and chewed for a while longer. “The entire process really relies on the opinion of the physician in a highly subjective, case-by-case basis—near death or terminally ill are idiosyncratic terms.” He ate some more. “I do not suppose you spoke with the prisoner’s doctor?”
“I didn’t think he would be at the hospital after midnight.”
The Bear nodded. “You might want to start there; it may help ease your mind to know how much longer he thinks the prisoner will live.”
“I’ll track down the attending physician and find out who his counterpart is in Rawlins.” I thought back to the meeting this morning and to our puzzlement as to what the lawyers thought they were going to be able to do.
“Publicity.”
I turned to the Cheyenne Nation—he had, as usual, read my mind. “What?”
“I am betting that you are trying to discern what the defense is venturing
to gain by this ill-warranted attempt to go to court. People in high places have agendas, Walt, like the rest of us, and they need the press to help them get attention for these agendas; along with the Board of Parole, the governor has plans and more important, the wife of the governor has them as well.”
—
I pulled at the stainless steel handcuffs that were attached to the caboose railing and rattling like the wheels on the rails underneath us. They’d at least been kind enough to allow me to keep the gifted blanket, which was good, considering that as near as I could tell there wasn’t any heat in the tail end of the train.
If I leaned my head forward, I could use my free hand to massage the back of it, where the railroad special agent had delivered the second blow in a matter of a couple of hours. I blinked a bunch of times, trying to get my eyes to stop seeing two of everything, the dim light in the caboose not helping, the bare lightbulb overhead having a ghostly flare around it.
“I brought you some water, sir.”
Gibbs kneeled in front of me with a couple of paper cups. I took one hand and sipped the water, trying not to gulp it, then gave him back the cup and took the other.
He tipped his white chef’s hat back. “They hit you pretty hard, didn’ they, Mr. Longmire?”
I handed him back the second cup. “Can I get another, please?”
He stood and went to pour me some more.
I stretched my eyes. “What’s going on, Mr. Gibbs?”
He glanced around to make sure we were indeed alone in the caboose. “I’m really not at liberty to repeat what I heard, sir.”
“C’mon, Gibbs. Whatever they say, I didn’t do it.”
His red-rimmed dark eyes focused on mine. “They say there’s a man dead.”
I leaned back against the batten boards of the caboose and took a deep breath as the rails clicked below us. “What?”
“They found a man on the tracks, dead, with his head stove in.”
“That was me, but I wasn’t dead—just knocked out.”
He glanced around again. “They said it was one of you sheriffs, but they didn’t say who, at least not to me.”
“Where?”
“Near Fort Fred Steele, about halfway between Walcott and Rawlins.”
“No, it was in Medicine Bow—somebody hit me and, to make a long story short, I was lying by the tracks for a while and then I got a ride.” I rubbed the back of my head again, trying hard not to feel like a bongo. “And then I attempted to get back on the train till I got hit in the head again.” Flexing my jaw, I smiled and concentrated on seeing just one of him, finally bringing his face into singular focus. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Gibbs. I’ll be fine. It’s all just a big mix-up.”
There was a noise behind the old chef, and I looked up to see my boss, a couple of the other sheriffs—Otis Phelps and Bo Brown, to be exact—and the railroad security man. They had entered the car and stood over the two of us, Holland the first to speak. “What’re you doing there, Gibbs?”
“I was just giving him some water, Mr. Holland.”
“Well, that’s enough. Get out of here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The older man stood slowly and walked around them, leaving us alone in the caboose as I discreetly rattled the cuffs on the steel railing, giving more than a little scrutiny to the two rusted screws that held the thing in place. “Somebody mind telling me what’s going on?”
“You were kind of MIA here for a few hours; how about you tell me where you’ve been?”
I ignored Holland and spoke to my boss. “Sheriff Connelly, do you mind telling me what’s going on?”
His eyes didn’t meet mine. “Maybe you need to answer the question.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Just answer the question.”
I slumped back against the wall. “Look, I understand there was somebody lying by the tracks, but I think that must’ve been me. I woke up in Medicine Bow, the train had already left, and so I hitched a ride till I got to Wamsutter, where they were refueling. When I tried to get back on, the rail bull here knocked me out with that damn sap, and cuffed me to this railing. Now, will somebody please tell me what’s going on?”
“Marv Leeland is dead.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “What?”
“They found a man missing an arm is what they said. Marv Leeland was found on the tracks at Fort Fred Steele, shot.” When I didn’t say anything, Lucian continued. “Now, where have you been for the last few hours?”
Laughing, I shook my head. “Wait.” I looked around at the four of them. “You think I killed him?”
They didn’t say anything, just stood there looking down at me.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I yanked on the cuffs, grabbed the rail, and tried to stand tall. “Where’s George McKay?”
“What’s McKay got to do with this?”
“He’s the one who saw me get off the train, and I’m pretty sure he’s the one who hit me with a piece of railroad tie and left me for dead on the ground back in Medicine Bow; whatever happened on this train after that, I had nothing to do with.”
“Have you got anybody else who can vouch for you?”
“A whole bar full of people back at the Shiloh Saloon who helped clean me up and get me a ride west so that I could catch up with the train. I was just walking up when Holland here sapped me—and I’m gonna tell you that I’m pretty damn fed up with people hitting me from behind.” With that, I gave one strong heave and yanked the railing from the wall, allowing it to slip from the cuffs and land in my hand—I swung it up onto my shoulder with both hands like a baseball bat. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have my weapon. Did anybody think to check our berth and see if it was there?”
They glanced at one another.
I glared at them and stuck my cuffed wrist out to the railroad man. “Do you want these back?” Uncuffed, I started for the dining car. “Let’s go to our suite and then have a word with McKay.”
Finally getting to our rooms, I stepped in and reached up to collect our weapons from the upper cabinet. As I handed them to my boss, I thought I caught a whiff of a familiar scent and was now more than a little worried.
He flipped loose the leather strap on my Colt and pulled it from the holster. Dropping the magazine, he sniffed the barrel before turning and looking at the others. “Hasn’t been fired.”
Holland mumbled, “Doesn’t mean a damn thing. We don’t know what kind of weapon was used.”
“Well, it wasn’t mine.” I grabbed my horsehide coat, slipped it on, and then knocked on the door of the compartment adjacent. We stood there waiting, and as I started to knock again Kim LeClerc opened the door. She had a sleeping mask on her forehead and was dressed in a full-length bathrobe, which I was surprised did nothing to showcase her impressive bosom.
“You lose your key?” She pushed the mask back a little more and looked at us for a moment before shutting the door in our faces, her voice sounding through the wood panels. “What the hell do you people want?”
“We’re looking for Sheriff McKay.”
“Well, if you find him tell him to sleep somewhere else—he’s not welcome here.”
I leaned against the door. “So he’s not in there with you?”
“No, he most certainly is not.”
“When did you see him last?”
There was noise from inside the berth, and I thought for a moment she might be covering for him. “How the hell should I know?”
“Miss LeClerc, were you awake when we stopped in Medicine Bow?”
She leaned against the jamb and opened the door wide—now with the bedspread wrapped around her—so that we could see that there was no one else inside. “Was that the last stop?”
“Actually, the one before that.”
She produ
ced a cigarette from who knew where. Placing it between her lips, she continued to talk, her tobacco- and whiskey-darkened voice reminding me of nightclubs and questionable times. “Who the hell can tell where we are? This train seems to stop every twenty minutes.”
“So you haven’t seen him since Medicine Bow?”
“I suppose.”
“Four hours ago.”
“Like I said, I suppose. I’ve been asleep, you know? It’s a thing most normal people do this time of night, Deputy.” With that, she closed the door.
I turned to the assembled posse. “After our altercation in the parlor car earlier this evening, I met Sheriff McKay trackside in Medicine Bow when I got off to get some air. The conversation we had led me to believe he was not quite ready to let bygones be bygones. Later, as I was attempting to reenter the train, someone struck me from behind and left me there on the tracks. For obvious reasons, I’m assuming it was Sheriff McKay, and now that he doesn’t seem to be around, I am even more assured of that theory.”
Holland looked at the others. “Is there anyone that can confirm what you’re saying?”
I threw a thumb toward the front of the train. “The engineer and his brakeman up in the locomotive; I went and talked with them.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and I was curious—I’m funny that way.” I leaned in a little, pretty sure that if I put my mind to it I could throw the railroad man through the nearest window in one try. “Look, Holland, if you’ve got something more to say, then just say it, because we’re going to have to search this train from one end to the other, find George McKay, and get some answers.”
He stared at me for a moment and then turned and gestured for Phelps and Brown to follow him. “We’ll start at the front; the two of you start at the rear and we’ll meet back here, but don’t you think I’m not going to radio up to the engineer and check your story.”
“Knock yourself out—unless you need my help.”
—
“It started with a heart attack, but then we discovered cancer of the pancreas, which is much worse, being one of the more belligerent carcinomas. And this one is one of the more aggressive varieties.” The prison doctor, Robertson, crossed his leg, resting a powder-blue-stockinged ankle on his knee and bobbing a loafer. “I don’t know how familiar you are with human anatomy. . . .”
The Western Star Page 9