“Oh, the usual stuff. Some said drugs, some said the mob, and others figured he was in the witness relocation program.”
“Really?”
“Wouldn’t be the first one who showed up out here.” He finished taping the last box and put it with the others on the linoleum floor. “He got sued about a half-dozen times, once by the hospital in Gillette, once by the propane delivery people, once by Mike Niall, once by Pat down at the bar, and twice by me.”
“What was the hospital one about?”
He picked up the bottle of rye and refilled the tumbler, which was four times, by my count. “That was tied in with Niall, who ’bout kicked his ass over some cattle Wade sold him. There was a fight, and Wade went and got a rifle out of his truck and Mike broke his hand takin’ it away from him.”
“That would be the rifle that his wife Mary used to allegedly kill him?”
His eyes avoided mine as he picked up the glass. “I’d rather not comment about that.”
“What about Pat at the bar?”
He leaned against the counter and propped an elbow on a folded arm, glass by his head. He was still staring at the floor. “Pat owed Wade a small fortune and rather than pay him money, he just gave him half the bar.”
“You?”
He opened the closest drawer and gazed at the mismatched utensils. “You need any silverware?” I didn’t say anything, and he closed it with the extra care that an almost drunk man would. “We had a little right-of-way problem, but I want to go back to something you mentioned about Mary.”
I waited, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m listening.” He didn’t move for a long time, and I was almost sad the greasy, old clock was unplugged; at least it would have given us something to listen to.
He finally spoke again. “You wanna take a little ride with me?”
“Excuse me?” I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “I don’t think I’m following you.”
He put the tumbler down but picked up the almost half-full bottle. “I need to run up the road a minute, and I was hoping that you’d come along.”
“Now?”
“Yep, if you don’t mind drivin’, ’cause I’m about three sheets to the wind.” He pushed off the counter, the rye in his left hand, and stood there staring at the concrete pad of the porch with the propped-open screen door in his hand. “One thing I’m gonna miss.”
“What’s that?”
He gestured with the bottle. “Somebody’s been leavin’ me a fifth of whiskey every couple of days.” He smiled. “I guess I’ve got a secret admirer.” He called back to me as he continued out the door, and I got up from the stool. “Hey, don’t forget your clock.”
October 22: six days earlier, afternoon.
I had looked at her eyes, washed out like an old pair of Wranglers, and it seemed to me that the color there had gone through the wringer.
“I have these dreams.”
I already knew what the dreams were about, but there were other things I wanted to tackle, and I thought a little backstory might help with the context, so I asked her. “About?”
“Horses.”
I nibbled on a triangular portion of the grilled cheese sandwich that we were sharing. I’d already eaten lunch, but a deal was a deal. This was the first real response I’d gotten from her, and I knew I had to go slowly. “What horses?”
She brought her part of the sandwich up to her mouth but just held it there without eating. “Everything is orange, and there are these flares of circular light that keep expanding toward me-it’s hot, but I can see them in the distance, looking back at me.” She took a deep breath, and it was like she was still in a trance. “They’re all dead.”
I didn’t say anything.
“That night… I’d been at a friend’s house; he’d been sick. When I got home, he wasn’t there.”
“Your friend?”
“No, Wade.”
I paused. “This was the night of the fire?”
“No, before.” I waited. I was confused but didn’t want to disturb the flow. “When I got home, he wasn’t there. Neither was my horse.”
“Wahoo Sue?”
She stared at the floor and still held the sandwich at her lips. “He said he killed her, but he didn’t. I know him better than that; know how he liked to torture things.” Her eyes came up again, and she smiled. There was no happiness in it. “Look at me.”
“Who was the friend you went to visit?”
She stopped smiling. “I don’t think I want to tell you that.”
I waited as she took a bite of her sandwich-the first-and chewed without enthusiasm. “Why?”
She handed the rest of her portion of the grilled cheese to Dog through the bars. “Don’t you think enough people are in trouble with all this?” I watched as Dog carefully extended his muzzle and took the bite from her tapered fingers.
“No, I don’t.” I looked out Virgil White Buffalo’s window. He had been our lodger for a week or so in the summer and while here was intent on watching the children at day care play in the school yard. “See, here’s the thing.” I looked back at Mary. “I don’t think you did it, and that means somebody else did. And in a roundabout way, it’s become my responsibility to find out who that is.” I took a deep breath and figured if I laid all my cards on the table, maybe she would see them, too. “I’ve got a killer out there, somewhere, and I have no intention of letting them get away with it. Now, who’s your friend?”
October 28, 3:30 P.M.
Small-man-big-truck syndrome was what Lucian called it.
There, sitting in the now-empty arena, sat a sparkling red Dodge duellie. I stopped as Dog moved ahead of us and sniffed the tires and then turned around and looked at Bill and me. I glanced at the ex-rancher, and he smiled as he took another slug from the whiskey bottle. “Ain’t she a beauty?”
I only nodded and said nothing, wondering what he hoped to gain from introducing me to a vehicle I’d already met twice, once at the Barton Road Corrals and again early this morning, when I’d attempted to shoot out the radiator with an empty shotgun. It had plates now, but it assuredly looked like the same truck.
“A lifetime of ranching and this is the first brand-new pickup I ever bought.”
I gauged the size of the thing. “It’s going to be kind of hard to parallel park this at Larimer Square.”
He shrugged, and it honestly appeared that he didn’t have an underlying motive in showing me the truck. “You can take the boy out of the big-sky country, but you can’t take the big-sky country out of the boy.”
I noticed he walked to the driver’s side, before remembering that he had asked me to drive. “Sorry, the last thing I want to do is pilot this thing after too much ‘who-hit-john.’ ”
I circled around and peered in the tinted windows-the same Winchester was still leaning against the passenger seat.
Same vehicle. Had to be.
Bill was watching me when I looked up. “New truck-are you sure you want my dog in there?”
He studied me for a second more and then shrugged as he pulled the passenger-side door open. “It’s a truck.”
I opened the door on my side and listened to the buzz indicating that the keys were in the ignition, then opened the back door and watched as Dog leapt onto the pristine, slate-gray seat and set up sentinel at the middle. The thing was a showcase for modern electronics, with a GPS navigation system, a DVD player, and a satellite radio. The furry beast gave me a quick look that said, How come we don’t have a truck like this? It was not the first of Dog’s disenchantments with a life of public service.
I glanced around the interior again and didn’t see the 9 mm pistol, but just because I couldn’t see the semiautomatic, that didn’t mean it wasn’t there, either in the door compartment, the center console, or the escarpment of the dash glove box.
Bill climbed in and centered the. 30–30 between his legs along with the booze. He looked puzzled and made a
