Joe said, “I wanted to talk with him because he claims he has the goods on Missy murdering her husband. That’s why
“You could have shot me,” Nate said, looking at Joe’s Remington Wingmaster.
“Yup,” Joe said. “Sorry about that. You scared me.”
“So where’s Bud?”
“He’s not here, but he hasn’t been gone long. His truck is in the garage, so either he caught a ride or someone got here just ahead of us and took him.”
“Too bad,” Nate said. “Who could have taken him?”
Joe said, “I’ve got so many suspects in this case, my mind is boggled. I’ll fill you in if you want to hear it all. How long have you been here?”
“Two minutes,” Nate said. “I just came in the back door and heard your voice. A minute before, I nearly shot you in the head.”
He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that it took Joe a second or two to grasp the import.
Nate shrugged. “Wouldn’t it have been something if we’d drawn down on each other by mistake? That would be a hell of a thing.”
Joe stifled a smile. It wasn’t funny what they’d almost done to each other, but the way Nate said it was.
Joe said, “It’s good to see you, Nate.”
“Likewise.”
“I’m sorry about what happened in the canyon. I found the scaffold.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Marybeth and Alice Thunder. Both have kept it to themselves.”
Nate nodded, grateful. He said, “I found the guys who did it, and the woman who put them up to it. I put the guys down, but I let the woman off . . .”
“No details,” Joe said, putting his hand up to stop Nate from saying more.
Silence hung in the air.
Joe said, “Nate, can we get past what happened last year?”
Nate nodded. He said, “I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, as I’m sure you have. It boils down to this: You were wrong, but you had no choice.”
Joe said, “I think I agree.”
“Then we don’t need to talk about it anymore,” Nate said.
Joe liked that.
“So,” Nate said, “where did that son-of-a-bitch Bud Longbrake go?”
Before Joe could speculate on an answer, he heard the sound of motors outside and the quick whoop of a siren that blew open the quiet night. Flashing red and blue lights filled the window and danced across the walls and made the living room seem like an unlikely party scene.
Joe stepped over and parted the curtains with the back of his hand. “The sheriff is here,” he said. Two department vehicles: Sollis’ SUV and McLanahan’s pickup. There were two heads in Sollis’ unit, but the sheriff was alone in his.
“You want me to take them out?” Nate asked, reaching for his .500.
“I’ll catch you later then,” Nate said, retreating toward the mudroom. Joe watched him. He doubted the sheriff had sent anyone around the back to block the back door since he’d arrived with such fanfare at the front.
“My house,” Joe called after him, and Nate was gone.
Joe laid the shotgun on the couch and cautiously opened the door before McLanahan could bang on it. He wanted to show himself in the open, and that he offered no threat.
The sheriff looked purposeful and self-satisfied in the flashing lights of the vehicles. Sollis stood smugly behind him and to the left, with his hand on his holstered weapon. Deputy Reed was farther back, looking solemn.
“Hello, Joe,” McLanahan said. Then to Sollis, over his shoulder, “Arrest this man for breaking and entering and attempting to tamper with a witness. Maybe trespassing as well, if the club wants to charge him.”
Joe sighed. “Except I didn’t do any of those things.” He pointed out the boot on the floor, the reason he had probable cause for entering without a warrant or notice.
“I’ve got photos of what I saw,” Joe said. “I really did think Bud Longbrake was dead or hurt, so I entered. The garage door was unlocked.”
“Anybody with you?” McLanahan asked, peering over Joe’s shoulder.
“No.” Thinking: Nate should be sprinting across the lawn out back toward the edge of the property. Still, he felt guilty for misleading the sheriff.
McLanahan rocked back on his heels and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops so he could lean back and look down his nose at Joe. McLanahan twitched his mustache from side to side, and said, “Not sure I’m buying it.”
