The Western Star

by Craig Johnson

  Why would McKay kill Leeland? There wasn’t any rational motivation unless he was involved in the sheriffs’ cabal, and who knew if there was anything to that?

  In the short amount of time I’d spent with McKay, he’d struck me as a party-line guy unlikely to break ranks, so why would anyone kill him? It was even harder to come up with a motivation for murdering Marv Leeland—everyone loved the man. But maybe he was coming too close to breaking up the cabal, as he had called it. In a matter of hours we’d be stopping to pick up his body, and if I could talk the majority of the sheriffs into it, maybe they would allow me to examine it to see if I could glean any clues.

  Looking up through the glass in the forward end of the accordion-like passageway, I could see that the next car was the tender for the engine, and I had to smile at the thought that Tillman and Brown had watched me attempt to leave this way.

  Then another thought crossed my mind as I felt the cold through the grimy window’s thick glass: if there was nothing except the tender and the engine ahead, why had the two of them come from that direction?

  14

  “I called the commandant, and we’ve got Highway Patrolmen in Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, and Florida watching out for Mrs. Delahunt; if we were guarding her any closer she’d have a police escort.”

  I leaned on the counter of the rental car company. “Thanks, Jim.” He hung up, and I handed the receiver back to the nice, clean-cut young man.

  “Umm . . .” He hung it up and looked at me. “I don’t think I can rent you another car until I talk with my supervisor.”

  I shifted my weight. “And where’s your supervisor?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Then can somebody give us a ride over to the windshield repair place on Old Lincoln Highway?”

  “That’s against company policy; besides, I’m the only one here.”

  “So, that’s a no.” He smiled and nodded, and I gave up and joined Vic, Henry, and Dog in the lot.

  The man who had towed the Mitsubishi wiped his hands off on a red cotton rag that he’d pulled from his back pocket and handed me a clipboard. “I don’t suppose you’d like to give us a ride over to Old Lincoln Highway?”

  He shrugged. “It’s against company policy.”

  “Right.” I turned to the Bear. “You wanna call us a cab?”

  “I already did.” He gestured toward the red four-door Jeep pulling up beside us, which missed my foot by inches. She stopped and rolled the window down. “What did you do?”

  I glanced at the Terror, the Cheyenne Nation, and then back to the Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time. “What makes you think it was us?”

  Dog, knowing a good deal when he saw one, jumped up in her window, and she massaged his ears. “It’s always you, Dad.” She had a point—she always did. It was something she got from her mother, along with an unerring bullshit meter.

  We circled around. Dog climbed into the space behind the rear seats, and Vic and I climbed into the back, which meant Henry got the front, along with the third degree. “The Bear will explain.”

  “It is a long story.”

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to work, so just tell me what I need to know.” Tossing today’s Tribune-Eagle in Henry’s lap, she wheeled out of the parking lot. “But before you get started, you’d better take a look at this.”

  The Cheyenne Nation unfolded the paper and grunted.

  I sat up straighter. “What now?”

  He glanced back at me. “It would appear that we are not alone in our responsibility for Pamela Leeland-Delahunt’s difficulties. She apparently wrote a letter—an open letter—to the court, the world at large, and, more important, Governor and Carol Fisk, in favor of keeping the prisoner incarcerated no matter what his physical condition.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It is a very convincing letter.” He held it away and began reading aloud. “‘I never met my grandfather, but there is a piece of music that reminds me of the loss of him every day. . . .’”

  —

  I slid a hand across the sooty condensate on the surface of the window and looked out of the spot I had cleared before it could ice up again; the only way I saw to go forward was a ladder on the left that led up and over the tender car toward the locomotive; at least that’s where I hoped it led.

  Cranking my hat down, I flipped up the collar on my jacket and pulled on my gloves, even going so far as to take the gold buckaroo scarf that my mother had given to me from an inside pocket. I tied it around the lower part of my face, looking for all the world like a train robber. It was well below freezing outside and, with the train moving, it was going to feel a lot colder than that.

  Once I was prepared, I pushed the door open and stepped onto the grating that divided the two cars, but there was nothing I could see that was of interest.

  Reaching out to grasp the ladder’s rail, I hoisted myself up and climbed until the hurricane rush of air struck me at the top and I started seriously wondering what the heck I was doing.

  Starting over the top, I was glad to see that the handrails continued the whole way, even if there appeared to be a large box in the middle that I was going to have to scramble over.

  Crawling on my hands and knees, I held my head down in an attempt to prevent both my hat and myself from disappearing over the side as the high plains rushed by. The topography wouldn’t change much until we got to the bluffs of the Green River near Rock Springs; here, the partially snow-covered landscape looked like the beginnings of the Arctic Circle.

  By the time I got to the engine, I was covered in a fine sheet of ice that crackled and fell off as I dropped my legs over the side of the tender and climbed down. I was just feeling pretty good about the whole thing when I felt someone pull my .45 from the back of my jeans and place a hand on my shoulder. He shouted over the thunder of the locomotive and the rattle of the rails. “Stick ’em up!”

  When I got to the steel grating I turned with my hands up, only to find John Saunders with a smile and my sidearm.

  “This was about to fall out of your pants, so I grabbed it!” He studied me, taking in the scarf over my face, and then motioned toward the naturally heated cab. “C’mon!”

  I followed him into the nerve center of the big steam locomotive where it must’ve been ninety degrees. I pulled my collar down along with the scarf and looked at both of them.

  Roback stared at me. “Jesus, where’d he come from?”

  “Over the top—can you believe it?”

  “What the hell for?”

  I turned toward the engineer. “Were there two sheriffs up here recently?”

  Saunders glanced at his buddy and then back to me. “There hasn’t been anybody here but us since we left Evanston. Why?”

  I thought about where the two men could’ve gone but couldn’t come up with anywhere else; maybe they had only stepped forward to talk privately in the space between cars. “I saw two men coming from this direction and made an assumption, something I shouldn’t have done.” I’d started to step forward when my boot landed on something and my foot skittered out from under me.

  Saunders bent and picked up a very large box-end wrench and handed it to Roback. “You don’t secure that thing, we’re going to lose it or worse.”

  The brakeman slipped the two-foot wrench under his bench seat. “That prevalve keeps loosening, and I get tired of dragging the toolbox out. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it under here.”

  Saunders turned back to me. “Well, it must’ve been something mighty important for you to make the trip like you did.” He studied me. “If you don’t mind my askin’, and even if you do, Deputy, what’s goin’ on back there?”

  “We’ve got one man murdered and another missing.”

  “I know we’re supposed to stop somewhere near Fort Fred Steele to pick up a body, but nobody said anyth
ing about him being murdered.”

  “Well, it’s yet to be verified.”

  “And one missing?”

  “Yep.”

  He glanced at the frozen terrain screaming by. “You got a man missing—he’s not on this train.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  He eyed me. “That’s a hell of a state of things on a train full of sheriffs.”

  I peeled my gloves off and thrust them toward the engine’s gigantic boiler. “Have you guys heard or seen anything out of the ordinary on the trip?”

  “You mean other than what you’ve already mentioned? Nope.” Saunders glanced at Roback. “You?”

  “Nope. How could I? I’ve been here with you the whole time.”

  The engineer turned back to me. “I’ll be just as happy when this little excursion is over, though, I’ll tell ya.”

  I nodded. “Only a couple of hours to go, huh?”

  “Maybe.”

  I pulled my hands back and flexed some movement into them. “Oh, now why do I not like the sound of that?”

  He shrugged and stuck his hand out the window like a kid in a car. “The snow is already pilin’ up on Elk Mountain, and if we don’t get through there before the rails fill up, we might be there till spring.”

  “Great.” I studied the rear of the cab and the tender, which was already coated with ice. “Is there any other way back?”

  “Nope.”

  I slipped my gloves on and tugged my hat down again. “So, you guys have to climb over that thing every time you want to get in touch with the rest of the train?”

  “No.” He reached over and plucked a mic from a radio set above. “We’ve got a radio system that runs to every car.”

  “Of course you do.” I pulled the scarf up over my face. “Well, keep up the speed, I’d just as soon not spend the night on Elk Mountain.”

  “We’re doing a strong eighty—any faster than that in this weather and we’re liable to derail.”

  “Don’t do that, either.” Checking to make sure I shoved the Colt deep in the back of my jeans, I hoisted myself onto the ladder and started up, comforted by the fact that I wasn’t bucking a headwind this time around.

  At the top of the tender, I looked down at the segmented Pullman cars and felt like I was looking at the different parts of my life. I wasn’t sure of what I was doing, but I was pretty sure I knew why, and the cupola of the caboose looked to be a long way away.

  —

  Vic crossed her arms and leaned back on Cady’s kitchen counter. “You seem restless.”

  “I am.”

  She nodded to herself. “Let’s go shoot somebody.”

  “You think that’ll make me feel better?”

  “Works for me.”

  I turned and glanced at my mentor, granddaughter, and guardian, all asleep in the living room. “Those three seem to be hitting it off.”

  “That’s because they all share napping as a favorite hobby. Personally, I like a little more action.”

  Henry came in from the porch and pulled out a chair. “What are you two plotting?”

  “Muscular with blond hair.”

  Vic turned to look at me. “What?”

  “Our homeless friend, he said the guy who threw the rock through my window was muscular and blond. Who have we met that matches that description?” They both looked at me blankly. “Would you describe that Coulter fellow who was with Alexia’s nephew as muscular and blond?” I looked around. “Speaking of Alexia, where is she?”

  “Cady says she did not show up today, but that yesterday she had mentioned something about her nephew.” He studied Vic and then me. “You are circling the wagons?”

  I stared at the big Indian. “That phrase, coming from you, is inordinately unsettling.”

  “Would you like to call her?” Vic pointed at the utility. “There’s a phone with a cord but it is nonrotary—do you need me to push the buttons for you?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” Just to show her, I dialed the number from the address book on the counter; it rang, but there was no answer. I hung up, noted the Mendez address, and decided to go for a drive. “I’m making a house call.”

  “You want company?”

  “Well, I usually prefer to do my wild-goose chasing solo.”

  She ignored me and started toward the door. “I’m going with you.”

  “You coming, Henry?”

  He looked at me, dark eyes sparking. “If you are right and something is on, I will do better to stay here.”

  I nodded and headed down to the Bullet. I looked for Peter Lowery, but he didn’t seem to be around.

  Vic leaned forward. “Nice windshield.”

  “It’s remarkably clean, isn’t it?”

  Vic put the address into her magic phone, and we discussed the case as I headed south on Business 25, then looped over the railroad tracks and under the interstate. Taking a right onto Fox Farm Road just before it turned, I drove into a quasi-residential neighborhood where there were a few rundown houses overlooking the highway.

  “So, if I get on that road it’ll take me to Philadelphia?”

  “In twenty-four hours.” I cast an eye her way. “Missing home?”

  She made a face. “That patrolman in Pine Bluffs, Mittenbueller . . . he reminded me of Michael in some odd way.”

  My breath caught a little in my throat as I thought about her murdered brother, and how gentle she’d been with the Pine Bluffs patrolman who’d almost killed me. I reached out and squeezed her hand, but she turned away.

  There were no numbers on the small houses, but I recognized Alexia’s white Chevrolet in one of the driveways, so I parked behind it and we got out. There was a low chain-link fence, but I didn’t see any dogs, so I let us in. As I passed the Chevy, I placed a hand on the hood out of habit, but it held no trace of warmth.

  Marching up to the door like a census taker, with Vic close behind, I gave a smart rap on the storm door, and we stood there and waited.

  I knocked a few more times and then wished I’d brought Henry along so that we could’ve done a proper Reservation search warrant. Glancing up and down the road, I turned to Vic and was about to open the door when a Cheyenne Police unit turned the corner and slowed upon seeing my truck, emblazoned with the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department stars.

  Attempting to seem nonchalant, I waved, but he stopped and his window went down. He was young, with the ubiquitous aviator sunglasses. “How you doin’, Sheriff?”

  “I’m good, how ’bout you?”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Breaking into this house,” I said, following the best, if not the official, policy.

  He nodded. “Can I help?”

  I smiled. “Might lend some credibility to the act.”

  He parked, and the smartly uniformed officer joined us on the small porch. “Nico Severini.”

  “Walt Longmire, and this is my undersheriff, Victoria Moretti.”

  He nodded to her and then looked back at me. “You’ve been in the papers a lot lately.” He then added in a loud voice, “We got a call about some noise.”

  “Really?”

  He looked at me with more than a note of incredulity and then lowered his voice for a response. “No.” He reached past me and knocked on the interior door. “Cheyenne Police Department—hello?” I watched him turn the knob, the door opening just a bit. “Hmm . . .” He spoke loudly again. “The door seems to be ajar, which I find suspicious; how ’bout you?”

  Vic answered loudly. “Absolutely, Officer.”

  I pushed open the door.

  “You going in?”

  “Anything to get out of the Campbell Soup Playhouse.” We all unsnapped and withdrew our weapons as I pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Hello?”

  There was no a
nswer. I glanced around the front room, where nothing seemed amiss. “Alexia?” There was still no answer, so I stepped inside, sweeping the corners and advancing toward the narrow hallway that I guessed would lead past the kitchen and through the house, shotgun style. It was also empty, as were the bathroom and two bedrooms. The storm door in the back was closed, but I moved down the hall and looked through the glass toward the edge of the hillside and the highway beyond. I turned to Vic and Severini and stated the more than obvious. “There’s no one here.”

  Vic glanced around. “But her car’s out front.”

  Severini rested his hand on his sidearm. “Who lives here?”

  “My granddaughter’s nanny.”

  “Well, I can see how that would be an emergency. . . .”

  “She didn’t show up for work and didn’t call—she always calls.”

  “Anywhere else she might be, any other numbers we can phone—friends, relatives?”

  “She’s got a nephew, a Ricardo Mendez, who lives here, but I don’t know his cell number or even where he works. She also mentioned a David Coulter, a friend of his, but I know even less about him.”

  “Do you have somebody you can call?”

  “I can call my daughter—she works with the attorney general.”

  He smirked. “Well, might lend some credibility to the act.”

  —

  “They’re slowing the train to pick up Marv Leeland’s body.”

  Attempting to clear my head, I sat up in my bunk and looked at Lucian, standing in the doorway of our compartment in his battered B-3 flight jacket. “How long have I been out?”

  “Couple of hours.”

  I swung my legs onto the floor and scrubbed my face with my hands. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I just did.”

  “I mean earlier.”

  He gestured toward the darkening landscape through the window. “What, you wanted to see the scenery? The damn train’s been runnin’ at a good eighty miles an hour, so there hasn’t been anybody getting on or off—and there haven’t been any big breaks in the case, as near as I can tell.”