Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery (20 page)

She turned back to look at me and handed me her cell phone. “Take this. I gave the number to Dougherty so that if he found anything, he could get in touch with you.”

I knew better than to fight. “Okay.”

She studied me until I started to squirm. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Define stupid.”

“Getting shot.”

I popped the phone in my coat pocket and reached over and adjusted my arm sling. “Done that.”

“Getting stabbed, getting punched, getting run over—or anything that might physically impair you any further.”

“Right.”

“Where the hell is Lucian?”

“Last I heard he was playing chess at the Wrangler Motel, but that was hours ago.”

“You might want to find him and have him give you a ride back here to the airport.”

“Right.”

She reached over and pulled my face toward hers, the tarnished gold enveloping the world. “Walt, let’s be clear about this. You are on somebody’s hit list.”

“We don’t know—”

Her grip drew tighter. “A professional killer’s list; just remember that.”

“I will.”

“And be on that plane at eleven forty-two or you won’t have to worry about who’s got a contract out on you.”

“I promise.”

“And make sure you don’t stick your dick in a hornet’s nest.”

I nodded. “Something, I can assure you, I will endeavor to never do.”

“Good, because I have plans for it.” Her fingers dug into the back of my neck as she kissed me, her lips against mine as I gasped, breathing in her scent for the road. “By the way, happy New Year’s.”

I watched her walk into the airport with the two bags after Henry and Dog, and sat there, feeling like the loneliest man in the world. I thought about just parking my damn truck and running after them, but instead, I did what my daughter accused me of doing and put it on autopilot—I tugged the truck down into gear and pulled out.

—

The quickest way back to Arrosa was the interstate highway, but when I got to the on-ramp, the gate was down and an HP was
sitting crossways, blocking the road. I peeled to the side and lowered my window, squinting into the stinging flakes. “What’s up?”

The older trooper smiled at me. “Closed for business. How you doin’, Walt?”

“Hey, Don. What’s the weather report?”

“Shitty, with scattered shitty and more shittiness till sometime tonight.”

“I’ve got to get a plane at midnight but first have to get over to Arrosa; any way you’d let me up on the big road?”

He shook his head. “Can’t do it. They’re plowing in tandem up there and they might push you into the guardrails.”

I started rolling up my window. “Thanks anyway.”

“Be careful with your radio, those old transponders down near there gave out; they’re working on getting them going again, but I wouldn’t count on my radio or cell phone if I was you.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, I heard your daughter was having a baby?”

“That’s it; rub it in.” He gave me a quizzical look as I backed up and spun around one-handed, taking the surface roads to Boxelder and heading east, hoping that he and Henry were right that the weather would break before midnight—like eighteen minutes before midnight, to be exact.

There weren’t very many cars on the road, and I made a little more time by cheating and jumping on the highway for the last few miles. As I slipped off the interstate, I thought about how I wouldn’t make it to Philadelphia by tomorrow morning if I kept driving east and about all the players in this case and about how hard it was to keep a secret in a small town.

My shortcut turned out not to be such a great idea as I sat there watching another coal train pass by.

It can take three to four minutes for the average train, which weighs more than three thousand tons, to pass through a crossing. It takes a full mile or more for a train to stop; that’s sixteen football fields; that’s even after it’s struck something. According to the Department of Transportation, the drivers of automobiles cause 94 percent of all grade-crossing accidents, and approximately every two hours in this country, a collision occurs between a train and either a pedestrian or a vehicle—that’s twelve incidents a day. More people die in highway-rail crossings in the United States each year than in all commercial and general aviation crashes combined.

There was a honk from a horn behind me, and I glanced back to find a blue Volvo in my rearview—when I looked ahead, the train was long gone.

I pulled across the road into the parking lot of the Sixteen Tons with the Volvo staying close and was surprised to find a Campbell County Sheriff’s undercover car sitting near the door.

Parking the Bullet, I watched as Connie Holman got out of the Volvo and jumped in the passenger side of my truck. “Sheriff.”

“Ms. Holman.”

“What are you doing?”

I glanced around. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“I asked you to stop this investigation.”

I cleared my throat and turned in the seat, the belt scraping my neck, the charge of pain making me wince. “Well, it’s gotten a little more complicated.”

She clutched her hands together, and I don’t think it was the cold that caused her to do it. “You’ve got to stop this; you’re destroying my family.”

“In what way?”

She stared at me, her mouth opening to speak, but then she
shut it and climbed out of my truck, slamming the door behind her and climbing back in her car and driving away.

I cranked my hat down, started to zip up my faux Carhartt coat, but then stopped and draped it over my sling. I’m not quite sure why, maybe it was in light of the recent activities, but I thought about the big Colt Walker I had put back in the center console, hefted it from the holster, and slid it conveniently into the sling.

I sat there for a moment, looking at the brief shelter of the pay phone and the receiver hanging against the side of the steel building. There really wasn’t anything tangible to tell me who it was that might’ve been involved, but I had some hunches—the kinds of things you couldn’t really define but could most certainly feel.

I was about to get out of the truck when I felt something vibrating in my pocket along with some blaring rap tune that Vic had told me the name of along with the artist, but nothing I had committed to memory. I fished it out and answered it as quickly as I could, thankful I was alone. “Hello?”

“Sheriff, it’s me, Corbin?”

“Hey, troop.”

“I’m still working on the computer, but while I was doing it I did some research on that group you mentioned, Asociación Punto Muerto?”

“Yep?”

“Well, the information I got is sketchy, but it translates pretty much word for word and stands for the Dead Center Association; it’s kind of an unofficial union for assassins and was started in South American prisons as a way for drug consortiums to get their contracts fulfilled, even if the hit man assigned to the job was killed or imprisoned. Once they assign a hitter for a job,
there’s a pecking order of associates that are responsible for fulfilling the hit if that individual should fail.”

I sighed, thinking about the series of texts I’d received from the unknown person. “Oh, brother.”

“It allows these hit men to charge more for their services, because the contracts are guaranteed.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “Do you think this guy that you killed was one of them? Because if he was, that means there’s probably somebody else coming for you, Sheriff.”

I was tired, and this news didn’t exactly pick me up. “Who knows? A lot of these types of associations from the prison systems tend to break down once the guys get back out into the real world. Anyway, it’s not something that’s going to keep me up nights.”

“One of the signifying factors is a skull tattoo with roses in its eye sockets on a member’s body, so you might want to get the authorities over in South Dakota to look for that on the decedent.” I could hear him nodding on the other end of the phone. “I just thought it was something you should know.” He paused. “And there’s something else. When I was comparing the files between Holman and Harvey, there seem to be some discrepancies.”

“Like what?”

“There’s a Connie Holman—”

“The investigator’s daughter?”

“Yeah, well, she’s mentioned in one of the interviews, but Harvey appears to have omitted it.”

I thought about that for a long time. “Thanks, troop.” And then changed the subject. “How’s your dog?”

His tone brightened. “She’s better but tried to eat one of the corrections officers who came down here looking for payroll files.”

“She’s a little protective of her turf.” I cracked open the door. “Call me if anything else pops up.” I punched a button on the
phone screen and looked at the image of my undersheriff in a bikini on a beach in what I assumed was Belize; I figured she’d left the selfie just for me.

I slid out of the truck and walked over to the phone, scooping up the handset and putting it to my ear where the operator advised me that if I’d like to make a call, I should hang up and try again. “The story of my life.” I started to hang the thing up, but despite the cold or maybe because of it, there was a lingering scent in the plastic.

I headed for the door.

When I opened it I could sense a tension in the dim, smoky air and could see Lucian and Richard Harvey, of all people, seated at a table near the center of the room. I stood at the door, after having closed it behind me, and noticed the postman and the bartender having lunch—the gang being all here.

I cleared the cold from my voice and spoke. “Lucian?”

He turned his head a little but didn’t take his eyes off the inspector. “Good thing you’re here—I’m about to shoot this New Mexican.”

My shoulders lost a little of the tension that had accumulated there. “Inspector?”

He stood. “I am truly pleased that you are here and that I don’t have to babysit this cantankerous son of a bitch anymore.”

“Who asked you to?” Lucian pointedly looked at me. “I got tired of playing chess with Haji and Sandy Sandburg sent this asshole over to give me a ride and we ended up here.”

I pulled out a chair and sat, taking off my hat and motioning to the bartender for a cup of coffee, the wear and tear of the last couple of days finally settling on me.

Lucian stared at my sling, and I wondered if he noticed the
Colt Walker snuggled away in there. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Got shot by a fellow over in South Dakota.”

“You shoot him back?”

“I did.”

“You do a better job of it?”

The bartender, Pilano, arrived with my coffee, and I thought about sticking my face in it but settled for a sip. “Yep.”

The old sheriff glanced at Harvey, just to let him know that some real Wyoming lawmen were on the case. “Have to do with Gerald Holman?”

“Maybe.” I cut to the chase. “We discovered one of the missing women in Deadwood, but she was with this hit man, Deke Delgatos.”

“Hit man?”

I nodded.

“Was?”

“He’s dead, she’s dead—he shot her and I, in turn, shot him.”

“Lotta shootin’ goin’ on.”

“Yep.”

He studied my arm, my neck, and the lump at the side of my head. “You look like hell.”

I sipped some more coffee. “I feel worse.”

“What happened?”

“Buffalo and a few other assorted adventures.”

Lucian raised an eyebrow, but Harvey interrupted the interrogation. “You think this Delgatos had something to do with why Gerald Holman killed himself?”

“Possibly. It appears he had control of the Payne woman.”

Inspector Harvey’s mouth hung open under his prodigious mustache. “How did you find that out?”

“Tracked the bank records in Roberta’s name that had money being withdrawn from an ATM in Deadwood. Went over there and discovered a ménage à trois and a cell phone.”

“What was the connection?”

I sipped my coffee. “You ever heard of the Dead Center Association?”

He stared at me, in a way I thought a little strange. “No.”

I finished my coffee and noticed the bartender was quick to come over with the pot but that the postman stayed near the bar. “Me neither, but I’ll tell you something I do know.” I threw a thumb toward the door. “The only other recently dialed number on this killer’s cell is the pay phone outside.” I watched the bartender’s hand shake as he refilled my mug, and then I raised my eyes to Lucian. “Hey old man, I was wondering if you could do me a favor and drop me off at the airport tonight around eleven?”

He nodded, studying me. “Are you planning on breaking this case before the New Year?”

I sipped my coffee and looked at the other three men in the room as I sat the mug on top of the ring it had made on the stained worn surface of the table, thereby freeing my hand. “Yep, I am.”

Harvey’s hand slowly dropped to his side as I skimmed my words across the surface of the table like the card that had floated on the cushion of air at the casino. “Hey, Richard . . . You don’t have any tattoos, do you?”

He smiled a grin that was high and tight as he yanked the big .357 from his shoulder holster and pointed it at me precisely at the same time I leveled the long barrel of the Colt Walker across the table at him, both of us cocked and ready to shoot. We were both tall men with wide arm spreads, so the two revolvers stretched past each other. He looked down the barrel of the .44 and whistled. “Damn, did you find the grave of Wild Bill Hickok over there in Deadwood and dig up his gun?”

“South Dakota DCI’s got my regular accompaniment.”

He continued to smile. “Because of the dead guy?”

“Because of the dead guy.”

Lucian leaned forward and looked back and forth between the two of us, finally resting his eyes on me. “What the hell are you two idiots doing?”

Harvey breathed a short laugh but kept his eyes on mine. “Seems to me you’re kinda on a rampage, Sheriff.”

I gestured, ever so slightly, with the Colt. “Gee, you think I’m done?”

His eyes stayed even with mine. “Not by a long shot.”

“If you were actually a corrections officer in New Mexico, I find it hard to believe you never heard of Asociación Punto Muerto.”

His eyebrows slowly crouched over the bridge of his substantial nose. “APM, the killers’ union?”

“Yep.”

“Well hell, I never heard of it in English.”

Lucian swiveled his head, finally resting his attention on Harvey, and smoothly pulled his .38 out, shoving the barrel into the detective’s ribs. “Buster, you better start coming forward with some of the correct answers, and that right soon.”

I was mildly surprised and relieved at the New Mexican’s response, mostly because it was what I would’ve said in like situation. “Why the hell is everyone in this room pointing a gun at me?”

“I think you know more about this subject than you’ve been letting on.”

His eyes flicked to Lucian and then back to me. “You got any evidence along those lines?”

I nodded toward the big handgun he was still pointing at me. “Three hundred and fifty-seven thousandths of them.”

He glanced at the pistol in his hand, slowly directed it away from me toward the ceiling, and then thumbed the hammer down, carefully resting it on the table. “Look, why don’t we all calm down here?”

“Talk.”

He aligned his mustache with a forefinger. “I might’ve got personally involved with the case.”

I kept the Colt on him. “Do tell.”

He made a pointed glance at my weapon and then Lucian’s. “You fellows mind puttin’ those damn things away?” He gestured toward the Walker in my hand. “Especially that one, since they have a tendency to go off kind of unexpected like.”

I rolled the long barrel of the Walker up beside my face and lowered the hammer, setting it on the table in front of me. “There.”

The detective glanced at Lucian’s .38 still in his ribs, but the old sheriff’s hand didn’t waver. “The hell with you, mine goes off when I tell it to and you haven’t said anything yet to convince me that it shouldn’t.” Lucian nudged him with the muzzle. “Gerald Holman was a friend of mine.”

Harvey sighed in exasperation. “He was a friend of mine, too.”

“Prove it.”

Harvey laced his fingers and rested them in his lap. “The person I’m trying to protect is not involved with this.”

“Okay.”

“I did some things I maybe shouldn’t have done—covered up some evidence and cleaned up a few files . . .”

Lucian nudged him again. “Hurry it up, you son of a bitch.”

Harvey’s head snapped around to the old sheriff. “Your buddy, your friend Gerald Holman, was dirty, you crotchety old bastard.”

Lucian’s face hardly moved when he replied. “The hell you say.”

“He was cleaning up his messes, and things were starting to pile up against him so that he finally didn’t have anywhere else to go but blow his brains out.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s the truth. He was suppressing evidence and rerouting the investigation so as to not draw attention to himself. I’ve got the files hidden away, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to take the fall on this just because I’m trying to protect his name.”

I interrupted. “Where are the files?”

“Back at the office.”

I thumbed Vic’s cell phone from my pocket. “Where in the office?”

Richard Harvey stared at me.

“Where in the office.”

“In the bottom pizza box on the shelves as you come in from the stairwell.”

—

Dougherty picked up on the first ring, and I told him where to look; he did and reported back. “It’s the interviews all right—looks like much longer than the ones transcribed into the computer files.”

“Read ’em and call me back.” I tucked the phone in my pocket, gesturing for Lucian to lower his weapon. “It’s all right, Dougherty’s got the files.”

The old sheriff didn’t move. “Who’s Dougherty?”

“The patrolman I borrowed from the Gillette PD.” I glanced at the detective, his eyes widening just a touch. “You know him?”

“Yeah, isn’t he the one that was fixated on Linda Schaffer?”

“Maybe.” I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I’ve got just one question.”

“There’s a woman involved.”

I sighed. “There usually is.”

“But she doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“If that’s the case then why are you sitting here with my old boss’s revolver in your side?”

He leaned back in his chair. “She—”

The sound of the weapon going off within the confines of the Sixteen Tons Bar was enough to turn your head and make you duck, which I did, and then immediately grabbed Lucian’s gun hand and pulled it into the air along with him. “What the—”

“It wasn’t me, damn it!”

We both looked at the detective as he clutched the lower part of his face, blood, tissue, and teeth scattering across the front of his shirt onto the table. He fell off his chair as another shot whizzed between us. I released my grip on Lucian, and he turned his .38 toward the bar.

I grabbed the Walker just as another round struck the table, sending splinters into the air, and I whirled in time to see the bartender attempting to take better aim. Lucian fired and hit the man in the upper right-hand quarter of his chest, spinning him around and throwing him into the bar-back with a crescendo of shattered glass before he slid to the floor.

Figuring I could count on the old sheriff to check his shot, I shoved the big Colt in my belt at my back and kneeled down by the wounded detective—the round had shattered his jaw but had exited through the other side. He was still clutching at the ghastly wound as I yanked a bandana from my back pocket and attempted to slide it beneath his fingers, the blood going everywhere.

He tried to speak as his eyes glazed over, and with the amount of blood in his mouth, I was afraid he might choke. “Don’t try and talk; it didn’t get your throat, so you’re not going to bleed to death.” I held the material against the side of his face.
“Hold on to this; he got your jaw. Keep your mouth shut and just lay there and try to not go into shock.”

He blinked once, and then his eyes sharpened, followed by a curt nod.

I yanked my head up to look at Lucian, who had crossed to check on the man behind the bar. “Dead?”

The old sheriff nodded. “Or doin’ a damned fine impersonation of it. How’s the New Mexican?”

“Alive, but he’s going to need some dental work. Take some of these bar towels and go over there and sit with him and keep him from going into shock. I’ll get on the radio in his car and call in the troops.”

I could’ve used the cell phone or the phone in the bar, but I figured by the time they got me patched through a 911 operator, I might as well have gone out and gotten on the detective’s two-way. The snow which had covered the vehicles had just about stopped, but now there was a ground fog that obscured the landscape.

Whiteout. Like South Dakota. “Well, hell.”

I stood there for a moment, feeling something out there in the blank, white parking lot—almost as if something was watching me. Ignoring the feeling, I walked over to the detective’s cruiser and yanked the door open—it sounded like a glacier cleaving. I threw myself inside and turned the key, thanking the heavens that Harvey, like most Wyoming residents, had left it in the ignition.

I punched the mic and reported shots fired and an officer down at the Sixteen Tons Bar, whereupon the dispatcher asked me the location. “It’s in Arrosa, about fifteen miles east of Gillette . . .” So much for speeding the process.

Static. “There are a number of communication towers down
in that area and with the weather conditions and the amount of responses we’ve got out it might be a while before they get there.”

I keyed the mic again. “The officer is stabilized, but in pretty rough condition, so get us an EMT van and a couple of units as quickly as you can.”

Static. “And who is this again?”

“Sheriff Walt Longmire of Absaroka County.”

Static. “So you’re not Campbell County personnel?”

“No, but Detective Richard Harvey is, and he’s lying on the floor bleeding, hopefully not to death.” I threw the mic against the dash and clumsily cut the ignition, figuring if I was hauling the detective into town I was going to do it in my truck, which had four-wheel drive.

Climbing out of the cruiser, I pushed at the bandage on my neck where I’d irritated it and stood there in the fog with the feeling of being watched overtaking me again. There was a breath of a breeze, and I looked across the parking lot where the fog had parted like a curtain and at the concrete-block building and the American flag that flapped feebly against its own pole, attempting to get my attention. I stood there for a moment longer and then charged into the bar.

Lucian was with the detective and was holding the side of his face with the towels. “Bartender’s still dead, in case you were wondering.”

“Lucian, wasn’t the guy from the post office sitting on one of these stools before the shooting started?”

The old sheriff glanced around. “The horse’s ass with the ponytail?”

“Yep.”

He gave it a quick thought. “He was there earlier, but I don’t
remember him being in the place when the bartender shot Harvey here.” He sighed. “You think he ran out before or when the shooting started?”

I stopped to pick up the detective’s .357, undeterred by the bloody molar and chunk of jawbone lying beside it, and then moved toward the back door. “I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”

“What the hell do you want from me then?”

I gestured toward the wounded man. “How’s he doing?”

Lucian looked down at the steady eyes peering up from the gory mess of a face. “He was trying to talk, but I told him to shut the hell up and wrapped those towels around his face along with a couple of sponges from the counter over there.” He looked up at me. “You gotta hand it to these New Mexicans; they can bleed with the best of ’em.”

I placed a hand on the door. “Help’s on the way, but it may take a while with the ground fog out there. So collect as many teeth as you can and just try and keep him from bleeding to death.”

“You goin’ out there into the rain, sleet, and snow and gloom of night?”

“Late afternoon.” I nodded. “The postman’s the only one who can still talk, and he’s not here and that speaks volumes.”

“What do you want me to do when the troops arrive?”

I pushed the door open and stood there, waves of cold and bad feelings enveloping my exposed flesh. “Find me.” I stepped out into the monochromatic landscape.

—

The postman’s tracks traced to the left around his doomed office, the divots partially filled in but still visible. You couldn’t even see the road for the frozen fog and the snow had started
softly falling again—it was like walking into cotton batting, the flakes swallowing all sound.

I went around the building, almost tripping when I stubbed my boots on one of the covered parking curbs, and looked down at the area where the postman had evidently paused to watch me as I’d called in backup. That must’ve been the feeling I’d had.

It was possible that Rowan had just wanted to make himself scarce in a room full of flying bullets, but then why hadn’t he returned? And why had he stood out here and studied me as I’d called in? I pulled the big Colt from the back of my pants and stuck it in my sling again, one gun possibly proving to not be enough.

The footprints led to the rear of the post office, where the back door hung open about eight inches.

I glanced at the only vehicle parked behind the building—a battered CJ 7 Jeep without a straight piece of sheet metal on it sat with a good eight inches of snow on the hood. I thought about checking for the keys or pulling the coil wire but figured the thing was derelict. I sidled up beside the back door of the building and gently swung it open with the barrel of the detective’s .357—the storage room was empty.

Stepping inside, I made a quick sweep of the area, and then, dipping the Colt into the narrow aisleways and following the prints, worked my way down a couple of rows of eight-foot metal shelves.

There was a basket half overturned on the floor not unlike the one that the postman had given to me containing the collective mail of Jone Urrecha, so I nudged it over the rest of the way. It was empty, except for a sticker that had rolled up and was half stuck to its side. I stooped down and plucked it from the basket
and read the typed address, a label redirecting mail for Linda Schaffer, the clerk from Kmart, to a box at this post office.

I stood and looked around at the mountains of paper ready to avalanche on me should I decide to start digging and wished I had Dougherty with me. It was just as I’d had that thought that the cell phone in my pocket started buzzing and I pulled the thing out and looked at it; Dougherty. I punched the button. “Hey, troop. I was just thinking about you . . .” There was no reply. “Dougherty?” There was still nothing. Evidently the reception was good enough to allow a call to go through, but not enough to retain it. I glanced around the post office, finally spotting a phone on a nearby desk. I picked up the receiver, satisfied with the dial tone, and punched in Corbin’s cell number.