“Just over a week ago.”
“Right before the murders?”
“Have you ever looked down the barrel of one of those things after they’ve been shot?”
I thought back to Omar’s. “Yep, once.”
“They lead up real bad. You throw twenty rounds through one of those things without cleaning it, you’re looking to get it blown up in your face.” Her hands rested on her lap. “I looked down the barrel, and you could hardly see daylight.”
My ear itched, but I figured it was a good sign. “So why would somebody do that?”
“Practice?” We looked at each other.
“That lets your friend Henry off. He doesn’t need practice.”
I leaned back in my chair. “When we were up on the mountain, he took the shotgun and gave me the rifle. He said something about not being as good a shot as me.” I stood up. “I better go get that damn thing out of my truck and bring it in here. It turns up missing, I’m gonna be even more cursed than I am now.”
“It’s still in your truck?”
I started around the desk and looked down at the top of her head as she studied her notes. “I forgot about it.” She shook her head, and I reached over and touched her shoulder. “By the way, thanks for the shells.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That old box of shells in my truck, the ones that look about a hundred and fifty years old?” She didn’t move, but the tarnished gold came up slow. “Please tell me you left an aged box of. 45–70 ammunition on the seat of my truck?” I waited. “Next to the rifle?”
She didn’t say anything, just sat there looking at me. I think she was checking to see if I was really there. I wasn’t sure myself.
15
When we got to the truck, I was relieved to look through the passenger side window and see the cartridge box there. I was beginning to think that I was having some sort of mental breakdown and that the box lying beside the rifle on my seat was another phantom apparition. “Do you see that box on the seat?”
She peeked past my shoulder and turned her face to look at me. “What box?”
I nodded my head, ever so slightly. “Very funny.” I unlocked the door and opened it; the barrel of the Cheyenne Rifle of the Dead was pointed directly at us. The box was on the seat in the exact spot where I had placed it after my brief examination. Using the inside liner of the pocket of my jacket, I reached in and showed it to Vic. “Was this in here when you put the rifle on the seat and locked the truck?”
“No.”
I looked at the box. “Anybody drive my truck while I was gone?”
“Nobody. Did you leave your keys?”
“On the rack, in case somebody had to move it.”
“This is getting exciting.”
I placed the small cardboard container on my desk along with the rifle and sat in my chair as Vic leaned against the desk with her thighs flattened on the edge and her arms crossed. We were both looking at the damn thing like it might jump up, do back flips, and run away. It was a battered little box with the corners dented in and the edges fuzzy. The black printing was faded and scuffed, but you could still make it out. The print was in assorted fonts and at least as ornate as the handwritten addition. There was a floral pattern and a series of lines on each side that encapsulated the words “This Box Contains 20 Metallic Cartridges, Manufactured by Sharps’ Rifle Mf ’g Co., Hart-ford, Conn.” There was a large hole, exactly the size of a. 45 caliber slightly low and left of center with “400 yards” scribbled in pencil beside it. The writing was old, with a flourishing hand and detailed penmanship. It looked like the writing in the old sheriff’s logbook. There was something familiar about it and, if the distance was true, it was scary shooting.
When I looked up again, Vic was staring at me. “Well, are we waiting till Christmas?”
I took two pens from my broken Denver Broncos mug and carefully held the box down with one and worked the flap open with the other. No sense in getting even more fingerprints on the thing. I slumped a little and rested my chin on my arm as I continued to look in the box. “If you were cartridges over a hundred years old, wouldn’t you be tarnished?”
“Yes.”
“They’re not.”
She leaned around the corner and peered into the box like something might come out. “Look like they were loaded yesterday.”
I flattened one of the pens on the cardboard divider and slowly coaxed the box back, allowing two of the cartridges to roll out onto the blotter; they were both empties that had been fired. I spun one of the cartridges around with the pen so I could see the indentation at the primer. I turned the other one, and it was identical. “Two down.” I pinned the divider to the blotter again and nudged the box back, allowing two more shells to roll out. These were live, with lead and primers intact, as were those in the rest of the box. “Does it worry you that there are two of these shells spent?”
“You mean how it matches up with our current body count?”
“Something like that.” I looked along the shiny lines of reflection on the surface of the casing nearest me and clearly made out discolored spots whirling in the pattern of fingerprints. Whoever had handled these cartridges had not done it with any great care and, as I glanced at the other shells, I began to see more prints. With my luck, the individual who made them had been dead for seventy years. “Do you still have that shell of Omar’s that I gave you?”
“Yeah.” She retreated into her office and returned with the cartridge. While she was gone, I flipped the box over. On the other side was another hole where the shot had passed through: impressive to the point of being mythic. I looked at the handwriting and was sure I had seen it before. When she returned and handed Omar’s bullet to me, she leaned over to peruse the shells on the blotter. “These are different.”
His shell had a rounded line at the butt end that ended with two small stars and writing on the other side of the primer that read. 45–70 GOVT.; on the mystery shells, there was nothing. The edges at the butt plate weren’t as sharp either, as if the machining had been done in a hurry with devices under pressure to produce in difficult times. I scooped up one of the spent shells at the open end with the tip of the pen and held it up to my nose and sniffed. There was no quartzite, but traces of black powder were evident.
“They are originals.” I wasn’t surprised when the baritone rumble of his voice interrupted our conversation. I had seen Henry walk up and lean against the doorway, but Vic hadn’t, and it was just a tiny bit amusing when her back stiffened.
“What’re you doing out of the hospital?”
He crossed over and eased himself into the chair opposite my desk. “I see you still have your ear.”
I laid the cartridge down on the blotter and tossed the pen back in the mug. “Yep, I’ve removed all the scissors from the office, and I’m just not going to take any naps when Lucian’s around.” I nodded toward the scattered shells on my desk. “What do you know about these?”
Vic refolded her arms and looked at him, and her glance seemed to carry a little more professional interest than I would have found comforting. Henry simply smiled at her. “Hi.”
She smiled back. “Hi.”
I looked at the two of them for a moment. “Okay, before the two of you get into a pissing contest, how about you tell me what you know about these?”
His eyes continued smiling at Vic for longer than they should have, then he turned to me. “Where did you get them?”
“They were on the seat of my locked truck this morning, alongside the rifle.”
“Interesting.” He waited a moment. “They are originals.”
“How do you know that?”
“I am the one who polished and reloaded them, but I did not reload them for myself.” He took a deep breath
