and I’m leaving next week.”
I looked at the white fringe on the silk yoke of the western shirt-dress she wore. She always had on flamboyant western clothes when she competed in the tournaments. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair. She looked back toward the bar. “What’s he doing in there?”
“Getting some wine for me.”
“Wine… for you?”
“What, I don’t look like a wine guy to you?”
She reached in and felt the feathers on the rifle with her fingertips. “Owl.” She looked closer and her hand froze. “Ohohyaa.. ”
“That mean owl?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, it means… terrible. Sehan.. ” Her eyes narrowed, and her hand came away from the gun as though the rifle might bite. “This is a weapon from the Camp of the Dead.”
“Actually, it’s from Lonnie Little Bird.” Her hands went to her hair, and I could tell she was unbraiding it for a reason. “It’s for a ballistics test.”
Her eyes met mine, and she continued to undo her long braid. “This is a ghost weapon, a weapon sent from the dead to retrieve.”
“Retrieve what?”
“Not what… who.”
“What, they need a fourth for bridge?”
Her eyes sharpened to slits of flint. “This is not funny. It’s big medicine.”
“Big medicine.” I started to make another smart-aleck remark but thought better of it. “I was just…”
“Lonnie Little Bird gave this to you?”
“For ballistics, we’ve got to check it against the one that killed Cody Pritchard.”
She finished unbraiding and shook her head, the dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. “Give it back to him.”
“I will, after we shoot it.” I reached out to touch her arm, but she shifted away. “What’s the story with the hair?”
“It is a sign of respect and protection. There are spirits that linger near that weapon, and they can easily take away the soul of someone still living for the enjoyment of their society.”
The hand that held the rifle suddenly felt cold, so I shifted to the other one. “I’ll get it right back to him, just as soon as we get a test fire.” Henry had exited the bar with the two bottles of wine and opened the door of the truck, his eyes meeting Dena’s.
“What is up, Toots?” He climbed in, but her eyes stayed on him as he concerned himself with the shifter and with shutting the door. Finally, he cocked his head and looked at her again. “What?”
“You let Lonnie give him this?”
His voice growled, low and steady. “It is his job.” A full fifteen seconds passed before she exhaled, turned, and walked into the Red Pony without looking back; the fringe on her dress matched the sway of her hair. I turned to look at him. “Women.” He put the truck in gear and backed away from the bar, hitting the tired brakes, shifting into first, and pulling out toward my place. I continued to look at him. “What?”
“What? I’ve got ‘the’ Cheyenne death rifle here?”
He shook his head. “So to speak.” He glanced over. “Bother you?”
“Only if ghosts are going to fly out of the barrel and carry me off to the Camp of the Dead.” He laughed a hearty, honest laugh. “What?”
He laughed some more. “Your company is not that good.”
The rifle, Henry, the ghosts, and me drove up the road and deposited me at my cabin. The rifle and I went in, Henry went back down the road, and where the ghosts went was anybody’s guess. I carefully sat the rifle on the arms of my easy chair and looked at it.
Retriever of the Dead. The thing was worth a million dollars-was priceless probably-and leaving it lying around my little house that had no locks didn’t seem like a good idea. I was going to have to take it with me over to Vonnie’s, but I could always leave it in the Bullet. I wrestled a shower out of the bathroom and put on clean clothes. The phone machine in my bedroom was blinking, but I ignored it. The rifle was still there when I got back to the living room, so I looked around the place for any apparitions and was a little disappointed when none appeared. Maybe Henry was right; maybe I was lousy company, even at a dead man’s party. I walked back into my bedroom and stared at the answering machine. I hoped that Cady had called, but the little blinking red light was looking angry. Maybe the ghosts had left a message, so I pushed the button.
“Okay, we had three mailboxes at Rock Creek reportedly hit, got a call on some kid chasing horses with his snow machine, turns out the kid owned the horses and there’s no law saying you can’t herd livestock with a snow machine… that from the eleven-year-old perpetrator. Earl Walters slid off the road at Klondike and Upper Clear Creek and took out a yield sign; I always knew the ancient fucker couldn’t read. And our crime of the day, Old Lady Grossman reported somebody stealing the snowman out of her yard and driving off with it. Ferg stopped the suspect, who turned out to be her nephew who had taken it as a joke.”
We weren’t likely to make America’s Most Wanted with a selection of crimes such as these, but it was premium Roundup material.
“So, out of our list, the only ones that have reloading equipment are Mike Rubin and Stanley Fogel.”
The dentist.
“The dentist.” There was a pause, as the machine recorded her thinking. “Wouldn’t it be a pisser if it turned out to be the dentist? I know it doesn’t have the ring that the butler does, but wouldn’t people be surprised?”
I nodded my head in agreement.
“Anyway, I went over and checked on him. He’s cute. I think I’m going to change dentists.”
Jesus. There was a rustling of papers, and she continued.
“I also went out to Mike Rubin’s shop while you were out joyriding on the Rez. Is that fucker goofy or what?”
I nodded.
“I don’t know if he was more rattled by having a sheriff’s deputy there or a woman. He doesn’t get out much, does he?”
I shook my head this time.
“I got samples from both, and neither match up with what we think we’ve got. The Ferg finally got around to checking on the Esper place, and he says that there weren’t any tracks in the snow leading up to the house. I called the post office and, sure enough, they put a hold on their mail that goes off tomorrow. I called the mine and asked them. They said he was down in Colorado, visiting his sister, no number left. The sister is married, and nobody here seems to know the name or where in Colorado they live, so here we are at the beginning. I’ll swing around there tonight and see if they’ve gotten back from the other square state.”
There was a pause, then the machine beeped, and she spoke again, “Okay, so I swung by the Espers and left a note behind the storm door telling them to contact us as soon as they get in. Ferg’s right, there hasn’t been anybody there for days. If they call, I’ll call you. I’ll be here tonight, if you need me. All night. Glen and I are fighting, so I’m sleeping here.”
I stared at the machine.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing big, just the usual shit. Don’t call to check on me and don’t come in here. I’m fine. Oh, and by the way, Phil La Vante died about three months ago, so should I take him off our short list?”
I nodded, and the machine clicked off. I hated marital discord; I hated it when I was married. I often wondered about Vic’s marriage. There were times when she and Glen appeared to get along, but most of the time it seemed like they led separate but unequal lives. This wasn’t the first night she’d spent at the jail. She wasn’t the frequent lodger I was but, only a month ago, I’d been in my office one night catching up on paperwork when I heard somebody open the front door. As she walked into her office opposite mine, all she said was “Don’t ask” and slammed her door behind her. After a few moments though, she reappeared with her Philadelphia Police mug and a bottle of tequila, had sat down in the chair by my door, threw her feet up on my desk, poured herself a drink and hissed, “All men are assholes, right?” I nodded vigorously, quietly finished my reports as she drank, and then crept out, my back to the wall.
I fought the urge to call her and went back to the front of the house to collect the two bottles of wine and the
