I shook my head. “No, the tracks went on.”
I left it at that. There were a few other questions I had and couldn’t risk her shutting down again. “You brought them supplies?”
She swallowed. “I did.”
“What’ve they got?”
“I don’t…”
“Insulated clothing, packs, sleeping bags, food, snowshoes? The things they’d need if they were going to try and hike out of here?”
“I guess. Yesss…” It was a strangled reply, like a tire slowly deflating.
“What about weapons? I know they took the marshal’s rifle from our van and some sidearms from the federal agents and the two Ameri-Trans guards. Was there anything else?”
“No.”
I nodded. “I’ve got to know: are the others, Pfaff and the Ameri-Trans driver, still alive?”
“Yes, they are.” She nodded with the words-glad to have good news, I suppose. “They were fine-no one had done anything to them the last time I saw them.”
“Good.”
She started to say something and then paused for a moment. “There was someone they were going to meet.”
I didn’t move but then finally pulled in enough air to ask, “What?”
“Someone. Raynaud said something about meeting somebody who knew the way.”
“The way out of the mountains?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Who?”
The frustration rose in her voice. “I don’t know.” She sat there fingering the edge of the blanket like a child would, and I thought she was through talking, but she wasn’t. “Raynaud, he’s rather… Charismatic is the only way I can describe it. He has a power over people… not just me.” Her eyes came up to mine. “I’m not crazy, Sheriff. If it wasn’t impressed on me that Raynaud was a killer before, it is now. He left me here to die, and I thought I was the most important person in his life.” She looked at the ceiling, and when she looked at me, there were still tears. “I just don’t want you to underestimate him.”
“I wasn’t intending to.”
“If you go after him, he’ll kill you.”
I nodded and rose. “Drink the rest of your tea.”
Her face returned to the fireplace, and the reflection of the conflagration again replaced her eyes. I turned and looked at the fire, reveling in its warmth and letting my mind thaw with my face.
For the first time, I noticed that Omar’s Sharps buffalo rifle was hanging above the mantel. I stepped forward and placed a hand on its elongated barrel; it was the one I’d used to explode a pumpkin in his backyard. It wasn’t like the Cheyenne Rifle of the Dead that was securely ensconced in the gun safe in my closet, but it was close enough to raise the hair on the back of my hand. It was beautiful, a museum piece, really. It hadn’t had the hard wear of the Indian weapon but had a dignity of its own. There were new additions since the last time I’d seen it over a year ago: a period military shoulder strap and a beaded rear stock cover with three. 45-70 rounds tucked in the butterlike leather-the father, the son, and the Holy Ghost.
I fingered the rounds as I thought.
The hostages were easy to understand; if Shade were cornered he’d need insurance. But why corner yourself and why in the mountains? I was sure the money was bullshit and simply Shade’s way of keeping them all going, but then what was in the duffel? Where and to whom was he attempting to get? Deer Park Campground was ahead, along with West Tensleep Lake proper, but no one in his right mind would be up that high this early in the season.
I was exhausted. I turned around and looked at Beatrice, who had lowered her head to the arm of the sofa and closed her eyes.
I left the rifle and carried my mug back to Omar and the butcher-block island. He seemed to be sobering up. “I’ve got to get going.”
He stood. “What’s a misanthrope?”
“Somebody who hates all of humanity.”
He shrugged with his good shoulder and stood. “Workin’ on that myself.” He studied me for a moment. “You should get some sleep; even a little bit would help.”
“I can’t, I’ve got to…”
“Got to what?” He started to fold his arms but then thought better of it. “They’re not going anywhere. Go back over to the other sofa and stretch out. I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours and you can start. It’ll still be before daybreak.”
He was right, of course.
“And I’ll go with you.”
The absurdity of that statement played across my face. “No, you’re not.”
“How many of them, with hostages, and only one of you?”
“You’re in no shape.” I gestured with my chin toward Beatrice. “And I can’t leave her here alone. I’ve got people back at Meadowlark, and you can wait and see what the weather does before you make up your mind to stay here or go there.” I glanced around at the comforts of the cabin I would soon be leaving. “Personally, I’d have groceries delivered and just hole up till the cavalry shows.”
He took a breath and cultivated it into a sigh. “I’ll make you a deal; you sleep for a couple of hours and I’ll let you go on your own.” He glanced back at the sofa and shook his head. “What we do when we think we’re in love.” He looked at me. “Deal?”
I settled into the Indian blanket chair opposite the sofa where Beatrice was sleeping, pulled my hat over my face, and listened to the logs spitting in the fireplace. Omar brought my sheepskin coat and threw it over me.
“I’m still not going to help you with the horny thing.”
“Shut up and go to sleep.” There was a pause, and then he added, “How are you going to follow them?”
I could already feel myself drifting away. “I’ve got snowshoes.”
Somewhere in the distance I could hear his voice: “Oh, I think we can do better than that.”
There is a familiar odor to old trucks; it is a comforting smell and it is what he smells now. The knobs on the dash are large and chrome metal and he pushes one in where it stays for a moment and then pops back at him. He blinks and then pulls the knob the rest of the way out, turning it and looking into the red-hot coils inside.
He doesn’t know why they have to fish; he doesn’t like fish, doesn’t like picking bones out of his mouth.
He points a finger into the lip of the cigarette lighter where the burning coil is cooling, but he can still feel the heat.
“Stay here while I go get more worms and some beer.”
So he stays, and he waits.
He puts the lighter back in the dashboard and listens to the breeze shimmering the yellow and stiff leaves of the cottonwoods alongside the Big Horn River. It’s warm and he becomes drowsy, having a dream of his own. A dream within a dream, but this one was real-where his father, eyes wide with whiskey, broke up the furniture and burned it one night.
He has that ability, they say, to blend dreams with life. In the murmuring voices in the next room he overhears the old woman saying it will lead to tragedy.
He unwraps the candy bar the big man left for him, a Mallo Cup in the bright yellow wrapper that feels slick in his hands, wondering who the Boyer Brothers are or where Altoona, Pennsylvania, is.
He starts at the knock on the window of the truck and looks up to see a smiling face with lots of teeth but no warmth. “Unlock the door.”
Snow machines scare me, and this one scared me more than any I’d ever seen before. It was red, blood red, and huge, with some sort of track system all its own. I guess it started out as a four-wheeler, but with all the modifications I really couldn’t tell.
There were lots of other sleds there in Omar’s garage, but it was easy to see why he’d chosen this one for me. A regular snowmobile would have skis on the front and those would take me only so far; with treads on the
