Winterkill

probably comfortable in his own skin wherever he was. He was cool, confident—and intriguing. And charged with murder, Joe reminded himself.

“Why’d you clean Deputy McLanahan’s clock?” Joe asked.

Romanowski snorted and pulled down the collar of his jail overalls. Joe could see two small burn marks, like snakebites, on Romanowski’s neck. Joe recognized the marks as the aftereffects of the Taser stun-gun that McLanahan carried on his belt. McLanahan, Joe guessed, hadn’t been checking up on Romanowski as he’d claimed. He had been harassing him, probably trying to elicit a confession.

“I’ll get right to it,” Romanowski said. “I want to ask you two favors. If you can do either one of them I’ll be in your debt. If you can do ’em both, I’ll owe you a life. Mine, I mean.”

Joe shook his head. What was this?

“First, you should try to get me out of here.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because,” Romanowski said, displaying either a smirk or a smile—Joe was unsure which—“I didn’t kill Lamar Gardiner. Not that I might not have if I was given the chance and considering the circumstances. I heard about those dead elk. Any asshole that shoots seven elk deserves a couple of arrows in his heart. But I’m innocent on this one.”

“Why aren’t you telling your lawyer this?”

Romanowski fixed his gaze on Joe. “My public defender is a twenty-six-year-old named Jason. He still has notes from college classes in the same legal pad he brought with him to see me. I’m his second client ever. When he was making conversation, he asked me if I listened to hip-hop.”

Joe listened blankly.

“My lawyer is a twenty-six-year-old named Jason,” Romanowski repeated, his voice rising for the first time.

It was if Romanowski had said all he was going to say about this subject, and Joe should readily agree. But Joe didn’t.

“Maybe you ought to be calling a real private-practice criminal lawyer instead of me.”

Romanowski shifted slightly, and closed one eye as if to see Joe Pickett from a different angle.

“But I didn’t. I called you.”

Joe shifted in his chair, uncomfortable.

“How can I prove you didn’t murder Lamar Gardiner?” Joe asked. “They’ve got your bow and the arrows, you were seen coming down from the mountain that afternoon, and you’ve got a motive. You’ve got to give me something to go on.”

Romanowski snorted. “I was coming down that road. I was coming from the Longbrake ranch, where I had returned a certain item of clothing to Mrs. Longbrake.”

“A certain item of clothing?” Joe asked.

“Her black thong underwear. I found it under a juniper bush at my house. I guess it had been there since the summer.” Romanowski paused. “Mary Longbrake and I had a certain thing together. She would come out to my place when Bud was out of town. I’d wait for her naked in my tree. When she got out of her truck, I’d come down and get her. We would do it outside. Sometimes on my picnic table, sometimes on the bank of the river, sometimes in the river. She was a lonely woman, and I helped. Hell, I made her whoop!”

Joe didn’t know whether to laugh or call for Reed to let him out.

“So did you tell the sheriff?”

“I did,” Romanowski sneered. “He said he called Mary and she swore she’s never heard of me. When she talked to Barnum she was packing for an around-the-world cruise and planned to be gone for a few months. She’s lying about me, I understand that. Not about the cruise, though. Besides, Bud would pound her into jelly if she came clean.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “What about the bow and the Bonebuster arrows?”

Romanowski nodded. “I’ve hunted with a bow, and I own that brand of arrows. But it’s not my weapon of choice. Even for a lowlife like Gardiner, I would use my weapon of choice.”

“Which is?”

“My .454 Casull,” Romanowski said, smiling. “A five-shot revolver made by Freedom Arms in Freedom, Wyoming. It’s the most powerful handgun in the world. It’s four times more powerful than a .44 Magnum.”

Joe remembered hearing about it, and seeing the butt of the revolver in a holster at Romanowski’s home.

“And the motive?” Joe asked, as if playing the game through.

“I already told you, I would have likely popped Gardiner given the circumstances, but I wasn’t there. He was a bureaucratic little turd, floating in a bowl. He shut off the roads to where I trap falcons, and imposed policies and restrictions on the citizens of this county that were heavy-handed and dictatorial. I sincerely disliked the son-of-a- bitch, but somebody got to him first. And good for them.”

Joe thought: That ought to convince a jury. The cadence of Nate’s words was odd as well—a series of short, edgy pulses. Joe couldn’t decide if he was credible or not.

“When we came to your place,” Joe said, “You seemed to be expecting us.”

Romanowski nodded.

“But when Barnum and Melinda Strickland started accusing you of Lamar Gardiner’s murder, you looked confused. Did I read that right?”