“Hector, do you know who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”
“Nope.”
Saizarbitoria went back to his Penguin Classic. “Didn’t think so. Just be glad we’re letting you eat at the big- person table.”
Otero, aware that he was being made the butt of a joke, clicked his eyes to me so I’d know that he wasn’t up to anything and then raised in his chair just enough to see the other titles in Saizarbitoria’s pile. “Yeah, well, at least I’m not reading a book by Alexander Dumb-ass.”
Hector was grinning when Raynaud Shade sucked the air out of the room.
“Shut up, Hector.”
If anybody had ever said that to Hector Otero in the outside world, they might’ve gotten more than a couple of ounces of lead in response, but not Shade. The smaller man looked at the Indian but said nothing.
When I looked at Shade, he was staring at me again.
His features were flat, his nose spread across his face like a battering ram had been used one time too many, the bones of his brow and cheeks prominent. He was an average height, but his chest, shoulders, and bull neck let you know that if something were to start, Raynaud Shade would get his share. You wouldn’t have thought him capable at twenty-seven of the rap sheet he carried-but when you looked into his outlandish eyes, it was all there. His irises were the same washed-out blue as the winter Wyoming sky and just as cold.
At least one was. Raynaud’s left eye was a replacement, and whoever had done the work had failed to capture the exact color. The shade, no pun intended, was an elusive one reflecting an altitude where humanity could not survive.
I’d read about him-he must have been the one the Feds were really interested in. He was on the express back to Draper, Utah, to either a lethal injection or a firing squad, which meant that he was a dead man walking and, as long as he walked in my county, he would walk in chains.
He looked at me through the hood his dark hair formed and spoke in an empty, halting voice. “Thank you.”
It was the sixth time he’d communicated since we’d been responsible for him, coming up on seventy-two hours. “For?”
His eye stayed with mine for a second-it was as if he was half paying attention-then panned around the cafe like a searchlight. “For allowing us to eat in a restaurant.” He smiled as though he didn’t know how, and I figured it was the only one he had-the one with a lot of teeth and no warmth. “I imagine this will be my last time to do something normal.”
He spoke in the cadence of the Yukon Territory where he’d been born, and his voice carried-one of those you could hear from a hundred feet away even when he was whispering. His eye went back to his plate, and his hair fell forward, again covering his face. “I gotta go to the john.”
I studied him. “In a minute.”
He nodded and raised his cuffed hands, putting the fingertips on the table at its edge, his thumbs underneath. I watched as the fingers bent backward with the pressure of his grip.
“Me too, I gotta take a fucking piss.”
Popp made a clicking noise as he spoke, and I could tell he was thinking of spitting again. He’d spit on Sancho as we were unloading him, at which point I’d grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled his face in close to mine, making it clear that if he spat again he’d go without lunch. My fingerprints were still on his neck; I was feeling bad about that.
“I’ve been here before.”
I turned back to Shade. “Excuse me?”
“First kill outside of my family.”
He said it like they didn’t count.
“I gave one of his bones to two other men who sent it back to me in the mail in an attempt to get some money I have put away-that’s why they’re meeting us.”
He had finished his meal and carefully pushed his plate back a couple of inches, his thumbs still under the table, his hair still covering his face. “There is an FBI psychologist that I’ve been seeing; her name is Pfaff. I told her about where the body is buried.” He was suddenly silent, aware that everyone had been listening to him, but then stared directly at me. “I just thought you might be curious.”
The waitress interrupted the little breakthrough and squelched my hopes of extending Shade’s confession. “Would you like some more coffee, Sheriff?”
It took me a second to come back; Shade’s dead eye was like that-it drew you into the cold.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I caught her looking at the convicts and figured it was to be expected. If they’re lucky, most people in the private sector never get to meet someone like Marcel Popp, Hector Otero, or especially Raynaud Shade, but with our little road show of recidivism, prurient curiosity was to be expected.
She poured in a distracted manner. “Do you get the check?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I looked at her. “I don’t know you, do I?”
Her eyes slid away. “No, I’m new.”
“Hi, New. I’m Walt Longmire.”
I held out my hand, and she took it as she held the coffee urn out of the way. “Beatrice, Beatrice Linwood.”
I listened to the way she rounded her vowels. “Minnesota?”
She nodded without enthusiasm and took a second to respond. “Yah, Wacouta.”
I smiled. “Well, you don’t have to be ashamed about it. What’s that near?”
“Red Wing.”
“Where they make the work boots?”
“Yah.”
I sipped my coffee in appreciation and studied her for a moment; midforties, she was too thin and a little mousy, but it was a nice smile. Something else there, though, something that reminded me of my late wife. Her hair was thin, and she looked like she might’ve undergone some form of chemotherapy recently.
“What brings you out this way this time of year?”
She shrugged and pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, and I noticed her rubbing her finger where a wedding ring might’ve once been.
“Snowmobiles.”
I should’ve figured. Most of the flatlanders got tired of doing a hundred miles an hour on the ice of the ten thousand lakes and eventually wanted to try their hand at the mountain trails. A lot of them ended up buried in the snow or running into trees. I’d tried the power sport once with the Ferg, my part-time deputy, but didn’t like the noise or the sensation that my crotch was on fire.
“Holli and Wayne treating you well?”
She glanced toward the opening where the smiling head of flamboyant chef Alfredo Coda had appeared from the kitchen, and then turned back to me. “Yah, they’ve all been great.”
“I don’t mean to break up old home week, but could I get something to fucking eat and drink?”
I tipped my fawn-colored hat back and looked at Marcel, but Saizarbitoria was faster. Holding a portion of The Divine Comedy in one hand and picking up the remainder of the prisoner’s burger in the other, he gave him the last bite. I noticed Sancho was even less gentle than I’d been, and his voice was a little irritated. “Anything to shut you up.”
I reached over to take the coffeepot from Beatrice so that she wouldn’t have to get in arm’s reach of the prisoners. “Here, I’ll take that.”
She pulled away, just slightly. “No, I’ll get it.”
I took the coffeepot anyway and tested the temperature. “That’s all right.” To a desperate man, anything was a weapon. I poured a round for the chain gang and one for the Basquo. “Can’t be too careful.”
She smiled up at me. “They don’t look all that dangerous.”
“Well.” I stood and returned the pot to her. “I’ll take that check now.”
She put it facedown alongside my empty plate.
“Shade? Let’s go.” I glanced at Sancho, making sure we made eye contact, and left him with the other
