by C. J. Box
The cowboy took their beer glasses, one in each hand. He tasted the IPA, then the Huckleberry Honey. He seemed to be considering which one to order for a moment, then he turned both mugs upside down and emptied them on the floor.
“Fucking swill,” he said. “Fucking hipster beer.”
“Hey,” the third fisherman said, “that was completely unnecessary.”
The cowboy slammed the empty mugs on the counter so hard it sounded like gunshots.
“Get the fuck out of here,” the cowboy said. “Go back to Missoula or wherever the hell it is you’re staying. Go back to your god-damned little bubbles.”
The two fishermen exchanged looks. It was obvious they didn’t know what to do.
“We can take this outside if you want,” the cowboy said. “I’d like nothing better than to fuck up some Colorado fly fishermen.”
Cassie beheld the three men. The cowboy was much smaller than both of them, but he seemed tightly coiled and ready to explode. The body language of the two larger fishermen was of defeat: slumped shoulders, awkward movements, no attempts to engage the cowboy.
One turned toward the door, then the other followed. The cowboy stood at the bar until they were gone. Then he dug a roll of cash out of his jeans pocket and threw several bills on the bar.
The bartender didn’t reach for the money until the cowboy was gone. As he did he glanced into the dining room and his eyes locked with Cassie’s for a moment. Then he quickly looked away.
*
Cassie sat back when the waitress placed her bill on the table.
“Sorry about that,” the waitress said as much to Cassie as to herself. “That’s one of the reasons I just want to get the hell out of this town.”
“Who was that?” Cassie asked.
“Ah, he’s a pain in the ass,” she said. “Rand’s always spoiling for a fight.”
“Rand?” Cassie asked. “Rand Kleinsasser?”
The waitress looked surprised. “You know him?”
“Not really. But Rand is an odd name.”
“Rand is a hothead as you can see. His family has been here since forever. I went to high school with him before he got expelled for fighting. Now I just sort of see him around.”
Cassie dug out her credit card. Before she handed it over she asked, “What’s your impression of the family?”
The waitress drew back as if stung. “Oh, no,” she said. “Honey, I don’t know you well enough to say anything. I’m not going there.”
She took Cassie’s card and spun away on her heel.
*
Cassie could see narrow yellow lines of fire on the sides of the mountains in three directions as she walked back to the Whispering Pines from Stumpy’s. Illuminated smoke formed wispy orbs around the streetlights.
She considered what she’d witnessed at the restaurant. She also kept a look out for Rand Kleinsasser’s F-250 and wondered if she’d see it on the street.
“Spoiling for a fight,” as the waitress had put it in regard to Rand’s behavior only partially described what she’d seen. There were also equal parts entitlement and recklessness. Rand was a loose cannon, and he didn’t seem to fear any kind of law enforcement intervention. And certainly not from the bartender, who cowardly stayed out of the situation while Rand chased his customers out the door.
The waitress sold her a bottle of wine to go but didn’t speak beyond saying, “Thank you for coming in.”
She walked past the Lochsa County Sheriff’s Department. It was a modest concrete structure set back from the curb. Next to it was an ancient jail constructed of heavy logs. The plaque on the exterior wall said it was the original jail that had been constructed in 1864 and that it was still in use today. Notorious local outlaws Henry Plummer and Kid Curry had spent time there. Rough iron bars covered the windows.
So that’s where Blake had been held, she thought. What a journey—from Wall Street to a historic jail cell in a structure older than the state itself.
*
As she rounded the corner and walked through the motel parking lot she stopped cold.
The lights were on in room number eleven and the drapes had been pulled back. The front door was wide open.
Cassie paused and reached into her bag for her handgun. She kept it there as she closed the distance to the open door.
That’s when she noticed the utility cart parked to the left of the door frame and Glen Steele’s hulking frame inside with his back to her. He was unmistakable.
She sidled up to the side of the door and peered inside keeping her bag and weapon out of his view.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He jumped, obviously startled. When he turned around she observed a heavy white cloth in one of his hands and a spray bottle of cleaner in the other.
“You scared me,” he said. “I thought you were out for the night.”
“I’m back.”
“I see that,” he said. Then he explained, “I got to thinking after you checked in that it’s been a while since I inspected this room. The cops had it sealed off for a long time after Blake’s arrest because his stuff was still in it, and we just recently put it back on line. I’ve been having trouble keeping reliable housekeepers because nobody wants to work around here anymore. So I thought since you’re staying here a few nights that I’d make sure it was clean for you and there were fresh towels.”
That was a lot of information, she thought. She looked around and saw that the dingy towels on the rods near the bathroom had been replaced with higher quality versions. The floor gleamed from the mopping he’d obviously just done.
She glanced at her gear bag on the dresser. It was packed with weapons, electronics, and other tools of the trade. It didn’t look disturbed. Her clothes were where she’d hung them in the closet, and her overnight bag was still on the side of the basin.
“Well,” she said, “it’s just that you startled me.”
“You startled me,” he said with a heavy laugh.
“Do you want me to come back?” she asked.
“Oh, no. I’m done. But I hope you let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your stay a pleasant one.”
“Thank you,” she said.
She stepped aside as he lumbered out.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night.”
When he was gone and she could hear the utility cart being pushed down the sidewalk toward the office, she closed the drapes again and bolted the door. Cassie also attached the chain lock. The room smelled sharply of disinfectant.
She double-checked to make sure nothing had been moved or taken from her belongings. Everything seemed to be exactly how she’d left it. Her briefcase with the Blake Kleinsasser file was still locked on the small worktable.
She wanted to believe that Steele was sincere, that he was in her room to ensure its cleanliness.
Cassie opened the bottle and poured wine into a plastic water cup. She wished she would have thought to bring a proper glass.
Then, before changing into the oversized T-shirt she wore for sleeping, she once again got on her hands and knees and looked under the bed. The dust, the sock, and the condom wrapper were gone.
She placed the Glock on her bedside table and opened up the novel.
She wasn’t tired although it had been a long day and she’d been awake most of the night before. She poured another cup of wine with the hope that it would relax her. She hoped sleep would come.
It didn’t for a long time.
*
Several hours later, Cassie sat up straight in bed and tried to catch her breath. Her heart raced and there was a sheen of sweat across her breasts.
It took her a few panic-filled moments to figure out what had happened.
She’d had a dream. An extremely vivid dream.
In it, she was in her Jeep along the side of the state highway in heavy timber. An afternoon shadow from the timber cast a dark pall. Her location was somewhere along the road south of
Horston— the road she’d taken to get there. Apparently, her vehicle had broken down and she’d just pulled over.
It was hot out and the evening cool had yet to enter the forest. She wished she knew more about cars so she could attempt to fix the problem. Nevertheless, she prepared to pop the hood, open the door, and check the engine to see if she could discern why it had quit on her.
As she reached for the door handle, a massive tractor-trailer rounded the bend behind her and filled her rearview mirror. The semi was matte black, and every bit of chrome on it except the front grille was blacked out as well.
The truck slowed and inched over onto her side of the road with the shrill whistle of pneumatic brakes. The grille filled her back window. It stopped behind her so close that she could see the red Peterbilt logo on the snout in her rearview mirror. Its rumbling diesel engine shook the ground itself. Even the steering wheel of her Jeep vibrated with it.
She tried in vain to start her Jeep, hoping against hope that the engine would start.
No response.
Cassie checked her side mirrors and saw both the driver’s-side and passenger door open on the truck. Two men swung out and dropped to the gravel.
For some reason, her gear bag and weapons weren’t on the passenger seat where they should be. Her Glock wasn’t in her handbag, either. She couldn’t explain why her shoes and socks were missing. She never drove barefoot.
Two men approached her Jeep from either side and she froze. She dismissed the idea of leaping outside and running away because she had no shoes.
Where were her shoes? Her weapons?
The driver was the Lizard King, Ronald Pergram himself, although he looked different. His hair was wispy and white, and rolls of skin hung down from his jaws. There were gaping holes where his eyes should have been. He looked partially decomposed.
But his gait was strong and he strode toward her.
On the other side was a young rooster of a man wearing a curled-up cowboy hat. She recognized him as Rand Kleinsasser.
He was grinning. He had a stiff coil of rope in his right hand and he thumped it against his thigh in a jaunty way.
That’s when she woke up in a sweat.
*
But all was quiet and dark in her room. There was no rumbling semi outside, and the only light was a dim beige frame of it on the borders of her drawn curtains from the streetlight in the parking lot.
She realized in her panic she’d reached for her weapon but had mishandled it and knocked it to the floor. Cassie was grateful it hadn’t gone off.
When she stopped shaking, she slipped out from under the covers and padded to the window. There was nothing to see.
She counted out four ibuprofens from her travel kit and swallowed them with a cup of brackish water from the tap. She hoped they would relax her back to sleep.
Cassie ran her fingers through her hair and looked around the dark room. She tried to analyze the nightmare for clues but she gave up.
It was four thirty. Her alarm was set for six.
She stared at the ceiling and memorized the pattern of the ceiling tile. There was still a half a bottle of wine but she knew drinking more would be a bad idea.
It was nights like this when she longed for a man in bed beside her. Even if he was a knucklehead she met at a bar, his presence would be welcome. It would be easier and less messy to make that scenario happen in a strange town away from Ben and Isabel, she thought.
She tried to conjure up men who’d been in her life and will them beside her. The first was Jim, her dead husband and Ben’s father. Jim was young, taut and firm, the age he’d been when he went to war. She could smell beer and chewing tobacco on his breath.
The second was Ian, her ex-fiancé from North Dakota. Poor Ian. He lay on his back and his breathing whistled softly through his nose. He had long eyelashes and his profile in the dark was delicate.
The third was Bryan Pederson. He lay on his side with his naked back to her. His skin was white and there was a wash of freckles across the top on his shoulders. He was no doubt dreaming about his ex-wife.
She fell back asleep fifteen minutes before she had to get up.
nine
When Cassie saw Lochsa County Sheriff Ben Wagy arrive at the county building the next morning she threw down the last of her bitterly bad motel-room coffee and tossed the cup to the floorboard. She identified Wagy by where he parked his county SUV: under a sign that said the space was reserved for him.
She caught up with him as he reached for the door handle on the side of the building next to A COUNTY EMPLOYEES ONLY header stenciled on the exterior block wall.
“Sheriff Wagy?”
He paused and turned and his eyes narrowed. He was short but broad-shouldered and his beige and brown uniform was already rumpled. He had wide-set blue eyes, a heavy jaw, and a thick auburn mustache that bristled over his top lip.
“That’s me,” he said without warmth. Cassie recognized the instant protective shell that went up around him. It was a shield that hardened with every year in law enforcement to fend off attacks from defense lawyers, county commissioners, potential rivals, the press … and private investigators.
Cassie held out her hand. “I’m Cassie Dewell. I’m doing some work on behalf of the law firm hired to defend Blake Kleinsasser. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about the investigation.”
“Blake?” Wagy said, arching his eyebrows. “You’re working for Blake?”
“Kind of,” she said. She did so in a way that suggested she wasn’t very enthusiastic about it, and she hoped he picked up on that.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, sir. I tried to make one but I didn’t receive a reply.”
“You did?”
“I sent your office an email from Bozeman,” she said.
“I’ve got about four hundred emails on my computer. I can’t get to them all.”
She smiled. “I worked for a sheriff over in Bakkan County, North Dakota, who was the same way. He had over two thousand unanswered emails in his inbox. He told me he was shooting for three thousand by the time he retired.”
“Did he make it?” Wagy asked, amused.
“I believe he did, sir.”
“Man after my own heart. Do I know him?”
“His name was Sheriff Jon Kirkbride. He was my mentor.”
Wagy nodded his head and his eyes softened. “I remember Jon. He was one of the good ones.”
“I agree.”
“Those bastards forced him out, if I recall correctly.”
“Something like that. It was very nasty and political.”
“It always is.”
“So …”
Wagy shot out his sleeve and checked his wristwatch. “I’ve got a meeting with the county commissioners at eight thirty. I’ll give you a half hour so I hope you’re prepared.”
“I am.”
“Follow me,” Wagy said while punching in a code on a keypad near the steel door frame. “I hope you like bad coffee.”
“I’m used to it,” she said.
“So you’re a private investigator?” he asked over his shoulder as he led her down a dark hallway.
“I am. Dewell Investigations.”
“I have to admit I don’t think a whole lot of PIs,” Wagy said. She sensed that his shield, which had been down for a minute due to his acquaintance with Sheriff Kirkbride, was now back up in full.
“I’m used to that, too,” she said.
*
On the way to his office, Wagy nodded good morning to an administrative assistant about Cassie’s age. She was seated behind the front counter. A plaque on the counter said her name was Linda Sue Murdock.
He asked, “Any urgent messages?”
Murdock shook her head. “No, but I wanted to remind you about that county commission meeting at ten.”
“I didn’t forget,” Wagy said. “Bring us a couple of coffees when you get a minute.”
“Yes, sir,” Murdoc
k said after shooting Cassie a sidelong glance.
Cassie got the message. Murdock didn’t like being treated like a secretary in the 1960s asked to bring coffee to the boss in the morning. Cassie didn’t blame her.
Plus, she noted that Murdock said the meeting was two hours away. Either Sheriff Wagy had been confused about the time or he’d lied to Cassie so their interview would be short.
“Have a seat,” Wagy said when they entered his office. He didn’t acknowledge or address the time discrepancy. Cassie took a hard chair across from the sheriff’s desk and placed a file on her lap.
His office was spartan. There were pronghorn antlers, a dusty mounted rainbow trout, and a few photos of the sheriff posing with Governor Monte Schreiner and other politicians.
He said nothing until Murdock brought the two coffees and placed them on his desk.
“Will that be all?” she asked.
“For now,” Wagy said to her. “Please close the door on your way out.”
Murdock turned and shared another burning look with Cassie.
“Thank you,” Cassie said to her as she reached for her cup.
“You’re welcome,” Murdock said.
No thank-you from the sheriff.
Oblivious to the exchange, Wagy said, “I’ll tell you straight out. I’m not in the business of undermining my team, our investigation, or my office. If you’re here to screw with me you’ll find your time in Lochsa County pretty unpleasant.”
Cassie ignored the threat and tried to get in front of the conversation.
“Sheriff Wagy, I’m not your adversary. I approach every case I take from the side of law enforcement. I’m not here to punch holes in your case in regard to Blake Kleinsasser. I’m here to confirm all of the facts so that my employer can make a convincing argument to the accused that he should take a plea deal if one is offered.”
Wagy took a sip of his coffee, cringed, and raised his eyebrows. “Forgive me if I’m a little skeptical about that.”
“I understand,” Cassie said. “I’ve been where you are many times. I know how defense attorneys can be and I can’t guarantee you my employer won’t try some of those tactics if this case goes to trial. I can’t speak for her.