Jack entered and waited while Dr. Bellinger locked the door again. He gave Jack a shrug. “We’re closed, and I don’t want anyone wandering in.”
“Understood. Thanks for opening up for me. After hours is probably the best time for me to be here though.”
The man adjusted his spectacles as if waiting for Jack to go first.
Jack remained by the door and glanced around the museum featuring the history of the town and the state of Montana. Photos of settlers and farmers and Native American images covered the walls, and glass curio cases displayed artifacts.
Maybe Jack should have talked to Terra about meeting with Dr. Bellinger—this archaeological business was more her expertise.
Still, Jack had his own questions. “You’re working late tonight.”
“Yes. I’m working late. We’re busiest this time of year when the tourists who are late to the party have their last big hooray before the school year begins.”
Jack thought the school year had already started. “Mind if I have a look around?”
The man sighed heavily. “Detective, is there some reason you need to look around at this hour? I was just getting ready to head home. During the day, we have volunteers and college interns who could help.”
“Good thing I caught you then. Why don’t you give me the quick tour?”
“It would help if you could tell me what this is about.”
“Let’s make a deal. Give me the quick tour, and I’ll tell you what it’s about.”
“Very well.”
“Lead on.”
Dr. Bellinger walked slowly through each room and gave a short review of the contents. Jack soaked in all this history, which he’d never much cared about before today. When they were done with the tour, Dr. Bellinger tried to usher Jack to the exit.
“What about in the back? Do you have artifacts stored there or in a secure location that you then move to the main displays when they’re exhibited?”
Dr. Bellinger pursed his lips as if deciding if he would tell Jack he’d have to come back tomorrow, and maybe even with a warrant. Jack wasn’t accusing Dr. Bellinger or the museum of anything. “Look, if you have any weaponry, let’s say, knives, for example. I’d like to see those.”
The curator cleared his throat. “Very well. Follow me.”
Jack followed him through the museum and down a dark hallway, where he unlocked another set of doors. “These are climate-controlled rooms to better preserve our artifacts.”
Dr. Bellinger ushered Jack through the door. “You’ll find a display case of weapons over there. I still don’t understand why you would want to see them.”
“Could you turn on more light, please?”
Dr. Bellinger continued to dramatize his displeasure but flipped on all the lights, including the case lights.
Jack perused the display of old weapons—tomahawks and spearheads and knives—some not necessarily what he would consider ancient. But they were artifacts, the museum claimed.
“This one.” Jack pointed at one of the knives.
Dr. Bellinger pursed his lips as he cleared his throat. Then he adjusted his spectacles and leaned in for a closer look. “What about it?”
Jack pulled out a folded piece of paper—the picture the deputy coroner had printed off for him. He lowered it closer to the knife. “Does this broken-off tip look like it would complete this knife?”
SIXTEEN
Chance stood under a dark canopy that protected him from the rain and watched the bar across the street.
After the cab left him, he’d limped along until he found one of the motels with individual cabins at the edge of the forest. His leg needed rest after that, but his mind needed rest too.
So he waited.
All the pain and hard work it had taken to start over and become a new person had brought him back to this one small county that he’d left behind. Had been forced to leave years ago—what seemed like a lifetime now.
Blevins strolled across the street and entered the bar.
Showtime.
Chance shoved from the wall, yanked his cap a little lower, and crossed the street for his impromptu meeting. Just a couple of guys having a few drinks in the dark corner of a western honky-tonk. No, wait. Not anymore. Now it featured Star Wars stuff. Maybe one of the old Star Wars actors had bought a ranch near town. Chance didn’t know and didn’t care, but he was surprised to see the bar was crowded. And glad too. Nobody would pay them any attention.
Today, he called the number on that strip of paper he’d found, and the guy answered. Didn’t give his name. The instant the man said hello, Chance knew who he was. That face he’d wished for earlier in the day when he’d stood in the building at the small airstrip had finally popped into his head.
Chance had taken up residence under the awning two hours ago, mostly because it had taken him all day to walk back and rest his aching leg. And then he’d had to work up the fortitude to walk into town. No more cabs for him on this side of his nightmare.
Chance was taking a huge risk by showing his face, but on a dark and rainy night, along with the fact he was much older and stockier, and had a scraggly beard, he would wager that no one would recognize him.
Except for an old acquaintance who wasn’t expecting him.
Blevins had been a creature of habit for far too many years. Chance could hardly believe the man was actually sitting in the same booth where he’d sat years before. Like church pews were often claimed by the same parishioners, Blevins had claimed his booth in the bar, and everyone knew not to take it.
Chance slid in across from Blevins and peered at him from under his cap.
“Buddy, you’re taking a big risk. This is my booth. My private booth.” The man’s slurred words told Chance he’d already had plenty of beers before he even showed up to the bar.
Peering at his old connection, Chance said nothing. Would Blevins recognize him? Did
