Back of Beyond

was wearing a holster.

Skeeter Caldwell was tall, slim, and gaunt with deep-set eyes and a long bladelike nose and he’d recently had his teeth capped so he wouldn’t look quite so much like a ghoul. But, Cody thought, he still looked like a ghoul.

“Sheriff,” Skeeter said in greeting, nodding toward Tubman.

“Skeeter,” the sheriff said, unenthusiastic.

“Where’s the body?”

Four vehicles were lined up shoulder to shoulder with all of their headlights aimed at the burned cabin. Tubman said, “Guess.”

“Can we be professional here?” Skeeter asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Then please have your men show me the victim.”

Tubman turned to Larry. “Perhaps you could escort the county coroner to the scene.”

Larry grunted.

“So what is your first impression?” Skeeter asked.

“Accident.”

“We shall see.”

Tubman rolled his eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind if a reporter from the Independent Record comes along,” Skeeter said. “Carrie Lowry. I guess she heard the report over the radio.”

“I bet,” Tubman said sourly. “And I do mind. We haven’t even secured the scene yet.” He turned to Cody. “Put up some crime tape. Make her keep her distance. I don’t want her at the cabin taking pictures or getting in the way. Tell her we’ll talk to her when we’ve got something to say.”

Cody saluted and said, “Yes, sir!”

Before Tubman turned to follow Skeeter, Bodean, and Larry toward the cabin, he said to Cody, “That’ll be more than enough of that shit, mister.”

* * *

Another set of headlights fanned through the lodgepole pine trunks. Unlike Skeeter, the driver was going slowly, picking through the forest, as if unsure that the road was the correct one. Cody had a six- inch roll of yellow plastic tape that read DO NOT CROSS DO NOT CROSS. He’d tied one end to a tree trunk near the entrance to the parking area and was letting it unwind as he walked toward the other side. He shot glances over his shoulder at the cabin as he unwound the tape. Skeeter was bending over the body while Larry provided the light. Tubman and Bodean stood behind them in the rain looking useless.

The vehicle made the last turn and headlights blinded him. Again. He held up his free forearm to block the light and the vehicle braked to a stop with a squeal.

A woman’s voice said, “Oh, come on. You’re telling me I can’t get any closer than that?”

“Sheriff’s orders,” Cody said.

“You’ve gotta let me through.”

“Sorry.”

“Cody,” she said, “you are such an asshole.”

“Hi, Carrie,” he said. “How are you tonight?”

“I thought I was lost,” she said. “Then I finally find it and… it’s you.”

He shrugged. “Did you bring a poncho or something? It’s raining.”

“Oh, really?”

He nodded, then continued stripping the tape across the road. She killed the engine and he heard a door slam. He looked over and saw her raise the tape up over her head and start to stride toward the cabin.

“Whoa,” he said. “I don’t want to have to arrest you and/or torture you until you confess.”

She turned toward him, hands on hips. She wore a battered raincoat that bulged near her waistline and a slouch cap that looked like it had been in her trunk for ten years. Her red hair fell on the shoulders of the raincoat and stuck to the wet fabric.

“Nice look,” he said. “I hope you didn’t dress up just for me.”

“Fuck you, Cody,” she said.

“Language,” he said. “God is listening.”

“Fuck You, Cody.” Then added, “And the horse you rode in on. Skeeter told me I’d have access.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said, “once the scene is released to him. But that hasn’t happened yet. Right now, this is a crime scene under investigation by the sheriff’s department. When it gets turned over to the coroner, you’ll be the first to know, I’m sure.”

She huffed, “What am I supposed to do in the meanwhile?”

“You could help me string this crime-scene tape,” he said. “I could use a hand.”

“You are such an asshole.”

“Get back before I shoot you,” he said, shining his flashlight on her face so she flinched. But before she did, he got a glimpse of her green eyes, the constellation of freckles across her cheeks and nose, that nice mouth.

“Bastard,” she said, wheeling around and stomping back toward her fifteen-year-old Subaru. She climbed back in and slammed the door and he watched her fume until the interior light went out.

He’d met Carrie the year before, shortly after he returned to Montana from Denver. He’d been with the department less than a month, and he sidled up to her bar stool at the Windbag Bar and Grill. He’d watched her fend off rural legislators in town for the session like swatting flies and told her he admired her high opinion of herself. When she didn’t swat him away, he bought her another Jack and Coke, even though he explained that by drinking the concoction she was ruining two good drinks.

Over the next three hours he bought her four more. He kept up with her. She told him about growing up in Havre, going to J-school, marrying twice to losers, landing at the Independent Record. She covered the police beat, she said. She asked him if he’d be a source. He said sure, if she’d quit talking shop and go home with him.

Somehow, he drove her to his apartment without being picked up by the Helena police, even though he cruised through at least two red lights, maybe more. She never noticed because she was pawing at his belt, fumbling at it, pulling the wrong way on the tongue of his belt but with surprising strength. When he threw her over his shoulder and carried her into his place, she laughed and hit at him until he tossed her on his bed. She was a crazy back- scratching wildcat for ten minutes before he, or she, passed out the first time. He recalled little after that, but he had a vague memory involving him trying to connect the dots of her freckles with a felt-tipped pen, which they both found hilarious at the time.

When she came by the station a week later to interview the sheriff after a Marysville outfitter who had shot his wife twelve times (pausing twice to reload) with a.30-06, their eyes locked for a moment and she tossed her red hair, said, “It was hell getting that ink off of my face,” and turned on her heel and clicked away down the hallway.

* * *

He knew he wasn’t wanted or needed at the cabin so he returned to his Ford and climbed in. The windows steamed again, but it was good to be somewhere dry.

Through the fogged windshield he saw flashlights dancing in the dark at the cabin and figures moving slowly through the black muck. He thought about Hank and something gripped him hard inside like a talon and suddenly he was tearing up. He couldn’t believe it. Cody hadn’t cried since his dog died when he was twelve. Funerals for his father and mother had been uneventful. But Hank was different. Hank was a tough old bird who wanted to help him solely because he was a kind and good man. Hank was willing to help a fucked-up stranger and show him goodness existed. And Hank was gone.