Dry Bones: A Walt Longmire Mystery (8 page)

She smiled, the kind of smile cats reserve for their dealings with mice, and didn’t move for what seemed like a long time. Her head dropped and her fingers threaded into her thick hair, her voice echoing off the sixty-seven-million-year-old female skull. “I’m joking, you asshole. Who else would I want to fuck around here, anyway; it’s not like the bench is deep.”

I stood there, attempting to reacquire the power of speech.

Her face rose, and she shook her head at me. “What in the world makes you think that Isaac didn’t tell me that he told you?”

I stumbled over the words. “He swore me to silence.”

She laughed, but it was a nice laugh and she looked at me with nothing but pity in her tarnished eyes. “Yeah, but it isn’t like you swore him, right?” She leaned her elbows on the crate we’d used most exclusively the previous night. “Isaac is always going to be on the lady’s side, Walt.”

“When did he tell you?”

“As soon as I woke up.” She propped an elbow and rested her chin in her palm, attempting to look pixyish and succeeding in spades. “Besides, he’s Jewish; along with the Irish and us Italians, they pretty much corner the market in guilt. There was no way he was going to let something like that slip to you and then not tell me about it.”

“So, how long were you going to let me tread water?”

She stood up straight and sipped her coffee again. “I knew you wouldn’t last; deception is not one of your strong suits.”

“Are you okay?”

She looked at the floor and wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

I took a deep breath and asked, unsure if I wanted to know the answer, “Was it a boy or a girl?”

She stared at the crate. “I didn’t ask; it just would’ve made it harder, you know?” Her eyes were wet with tears and reflected the light in the room. “I have to admit that I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I want that Bidarte character’s head on a plate.”

I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Yep.”

“I shot him close to a dozen times, and I would like to think that his remains are scattered all over the southern part of the county.” She pushed off, wiped her eyes with the butt of her palm, and looked at me again. “But right now I’ve got a job to do, and life goes on. You know?”

“I know.” Grabbing the bottle of whiskey, I squeezed around Jen and steered Vic toward the hallway by her shoulders. “You know something else?”

“Hmm?”

I turned her around and hugged her in close. “You are the toughest person I know.”

She pushed her face into my chest, her voice muffled. “Tougher than you?”

“You bet.”

“Tougher than Henry?”

“Yep.”

“Tougher than Dog?”

I paused. “Maybe not tougher than Dog—nobody’s tougher than Dog.”

She punched me and smiled. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

I pulled out my pocket watch. “Well, I’ve got an appointment with Isaac to see what else he might’ve learned from the whiskey sample. Then the acting deputy attorney is making his big speech in front of the courthouse, where I am supposed to be part of the set dressing as third spear holder from the right.”

She pulled back and looked up at me. “And then you’re driving out to the Lone Elk place?”

I sighed. “Yep, to talk to whomever it was that packed Danny’s lunch and flask for him the other morning.”

“Aw, hell . . . Let’s just talk to everyone, shall we?”

“Then, sometime later today I’d like to go get my daughter and your niece at the airport.”

“I thought Sancho was going to do that.”

“He’s on standby, and besides, he has to assemble the Pack ’n Play.”

“What the hell is a Pack ’n Play again?”

I slipped an arm over her shoulder and steered her down the hallway. “See the kinds of things you don’t have to cloud your mind with when you don’t have children?”

As we passed Saizarbitoria’s office, the Basquo called out to us, “Hey guys, we need another aesthetic opinion.”

We looked in and could see that Double Tough was leaning on Sancho’s desk again. Vic shook her head. “Is it another eyeball?”

DT smiled and nodded. “I got a collection, and I’m trying one out each day.”

Always an audience for the macabre, Vic moved into position and stared up in his face, “Too green.”

He seemed disappointed. “Too green?”

She pulled back. “Too fucking green. Jesus, Double Tough, it’s fucking Lucky Charms green!” She pulled me closer, forcing an opinion. “Well?”

I leaned in and could see that it was, indeed, kelly green. “Um, it’s a little on the bright side.”

“It looks like the Phillies’ uniforms on St. Patrick’s Day!” She whirled on the Basquo. “What’d you tell him?”

Sancho raised both hands. “I said we needed a second and likely a third opinion.”

She turned back to Double Tough. “Not green greener—hazel greener.”

He mumbled. “Yeah, okay, got it.”

She stormed out as I glanced after her and leaned in to look at his replacement orb. “She’s had a rough night . . .” The thing was the color of a shamrock and a thought traveled lightly across my mind. “Hey, DT . . . No offense, but . . . um, are you color-blind?”

He smiled and then came clean. “Half.”

I glanced at Saizarbitoria. “Help him out with this, will you?”

The Basquo nodded, and I glanced back at Double Tough. “Less green green, more hazel.”

As I turned the corner into the main reception area, I became aware of a lot more noise than I was used to and was treated to a mob of television news people from all over the region—K2TV and KCWY out of Casper, KGWN from Cheyenne, KOTA Territory News from over in Rapid City, and KULR and KTVQ from up in Billings.

In the frenzy of arguing with Ruby, they didn’t notice me or the bottle of rye in my hand. The only one who did was Dog, who crept away from the melee with all the dignity of a lion from hyenas and joined me as I backed down the hallway before the fourth estate could catch us.

Pushing open the back door, I held it for Dog and then turned the corner to find Ernie “Man About Town”
Brown of
Durant Courant
fame sitting on the tailgate of my truck. Busted. “Hi, Ernie. How come you’re not inside with all the other riffraff?”

“I’m afraid it’s too crowded in there.” He patted the bed of the truck and Dog jumped in, sitting at Ernie’s side as the newsman produced a biscuit from his shirt pocket.

“How can I help you, Ernie?”

He fed Dog the treat and glanced at the bottle of rye, still hanging from my hand. “Where are you off to?”

“Going to see Isaac Bloomfield, give him this bottle, and find out about the preliminary autopsy on—”

“Danny Lone Elk.” He nodded and pulled out a small spiral notebook with a stubby golf pencil shoved in the wire. “I’ve got his obituary in the paper this morning. You know, his wife died about ten years ago, but he is survived by one son and one daughter.” He smiled and adjusted his trifocal glasses. “You should read the paper, Walter. You’d discover all kinds of things.”

Figuring there was no way out of talking to him, I leaned against my truck. “Yep, well, I figure my copy is lying in there at the reception desk, and I’m not going anywhere near that place.”

He gestured around him. “Just as I figured.” He licked the point of his pencil. “Now, about this announcement that the acting deputy attorney will be making . . .”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Skip Trost?” He nodded. “Colorado Springs kid, born and bred; worked on a number of elections down that way and was picked up by Tom Wheeler to head his campaign when he ran for the senate here in Wyoming.”

“I’ve heard Trost doesn’t have any trial experience.”

He fed Dog another cookie. “He doesn’t.”

I edged a half seat on the tailgate and folded my arms around the bottle so as to not drop it. “A lot of interaction with the media, though?”

He paused over the pad, the tip of his pencil like a wasp’s stinger. “I just need an official statement from you, Walter.”

All the while thinking that this whole shit storm of a witch hunt was being manufactured by some unconfirmed peon trying to make a name for himself, I switched into publicspeak. “The theft of artifacts is an extremely sensitive issue, and we’re just glad to have the cooperation of the U.S. Attorney’s office and the Justice Department in this complex situation.”

“Anything to say about the High Plains Dinosaur Museum?”

“The HPDM is a fixture within the community, and I’m sure that anything that might be construed as an illegal act will be scrutinized to the fullest and everyone within the organization will assist us in any way possible.”

“Anything to say about the Cheyenne tribe’s involvement or the passing of Danny Lone Elk?”

Given the fact that I had one dead man and another half-dead one, both of whom had sampled whiskey out of the same flask, I dissembled: “That’s an ongoing investigation and unavailable for comment at this time.”

He lowered his pencil, and it was not the first time I’d felt he might be reading my mind.

“How’s Lucian?”

The more formal portion of the interview over, I packed up my publicspeak and deposited it. “He’s okay. I’m on my way over there now to check on him and talk to Isaac.”

“Not to change the subject, but do you have any photographs of the
T. rex
’s head?”

“No, but I’m sure Dave Baumann does. I’m sure the FBI does, too, but I’d ask Dave.”

“Thank you, Walter.”

“You bet.”

He nodded, placed his notebook and pencil in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and raised a fist. “Save Jen.”

 • • • 

“You look fit—for a guy who died last night.”

His hands frittered over the sheets on the hospital bed. “Well, that’s good, because I feel like living hell.”

“I guess whatever you drank gave you a pretty good hangover.”

He ironed a hand across his wrinkled face and discovered an IV connected to his arm. “How did I get here?”

“Saizarbitoria and I loaded you onto a gurney.” I placed the bottle of whiskey on the floor beside my chair and got up, walking over and putting his arm back down before he got the idea of pulling the needle from his vein. I stood back with my hands on my hips, satisfied the hospital equipment was safe for the moment. “What do you remember about yesterday?”

“Got sick.” He thought about it. “Had a ham sandwich for lunch and figured it might’ve been that, but then I started thinking it was the flu.”

“Did you drink all the whiskey that was in Danny Lone Elk’s flask?”

He smirked his defiance at me. “What if I did.”

It was about then that Isaac and David Nickerson, who had just been appointed the head of Durant Memorial Hospital’s newly renovated ER, came in the room, both of them holding overloaded clipboards.

I walked back to my chair, reached down, and offered the bottle to the docs, which did not go unnoticed by the old sheriff in the bed.

“What the hell are you doin’ with my whiskey?”

“I pulled it from your bar; don’t worry, it’s not your best stuff.” Isaac took the bottle, and I turned back to Lucian. “They need to test it against the stuff you drank from the flask.”

“Be careful with that bottle; that straight rye is mighty dear.”

David quieted him. “It’s all right; all we need is a test-tube full—I’m a light drinker.”

The doc gestured toward his younger associate. “He’s been able to use our lab to examine the contents of the tumbler, and even though the results aren’t going to be as conclusive as those from DCI, we think we’ve discovered something.”

“What?”

The ER doctor cleared his throat. “Mercury.”

I glanced at the old sheriff. “You said it tasted metallic.”

Nickerson came around the bed and looked across at me. “I’m betting that if we did an autopsy on Danny Lone Elk, we would find he died of mercury poisoning.”

“Why didn’t it kill Lucian?”

“Because this particular form of mercury absorbs into the victim’s system more in an acidic environment, and with Danny’s ulcers, his stomach was chronically acidic.”

“So, both Danny and Lucian were most likely poisoned?”

Isaac put his clipboard at Lucian’s blanketed feet and then came over and took his wrist and checked his pulse. “Possibly, but it could be that the mercury was absorbed from the flask. We have no idea of its age or how long the whiskey had been in there.”

“Can a press conference be considered impromptu if you’re wearing pancake makeup?”

Looking at the crowds of people in green and white
SAVE JEN
T-shirts, who were protesting the perceived jackboot actions of the feds by holding signs that read
SAY BYE, FBI!
, I leaned against the red brick of the courthouse and sighed. It appeared to me that Skip Trost was facing an uphill battle.

I studied the side of his face. “You’re kidding.”

Vic smiled. “And just a touch of rouge to give him that ruddy, cross-dresser-of-the-people look.”

I glanced at the hundred or so trampling the newly sown grass on the hill leading to my office and spoke out of the side of my mouth: “Hush, this is bad enough without a running commentary.”

“Thank you for being here today for this off-the-cuff announcement, and thank you for the pleasure of being here with all of you this morning.” The acting deputy attorney continued talking over the shouts of the crowd. “It is a privilege to see my friends, colleagues, and local leaders assembled here today for this momentous event—it is a wonderful opportunity to thank them for their dedication in serving as faithful stewards to the people and the wonderful place we call home, Wyoming.”

“Do you think he thinks they don’t know what state they live in?”

Trost adjusted the microphone on the podium and studied the onlookers. “From its earliest days, this state has been bound together by a set of laws and values that define it—equality, opportunity, and justice.”

“For all.”

“Shhhh . . .”

“When is he going to start talking about the dinosaur?”

“Shhhh . . .”

“These traits are codified in our great state, and there are those of us who are called upon to settle disputes but also to hold accountable those who have done wrong. I have long held the opinion that I am a custodian of the law.” He turned around and looked at the courthouse to validate his worth.

“How long has he been in office?”

I mumbled under my breath, “He hasn’t been confirmed yet.”

He gained momentum. “I hope to give a clear and focused message to those who would take advantage of our great state’s magnificent bounty.”

She bounced the back of her head against the wall. “Oh, brother.”

“Yes, a treasure trove of state antiquities that should not be allowed to fall into any single individual’s hands but should be shared by all the people of Wyoming in a communal dedication to the cause of justice and the common good.”

“Coming off kind of William Jennings Bryan, isn’t he?”

Feeling he’d captured the throng, Trost decided to get literary. “
Salus populi suprema lex esto.
”

She looked at me. “What the fuck was that?”

“Cicero—the welfare of the people is the ultimate law.”

Vic studied the telejournalists, all of them looking a little perplexed. “Think they’ll subtitle him?”

Warming to the subject, Trost nodded his head. “It is time; in fact it’s well past time to address the persistent needs and unwarranted disparities by considering a fundamentally new approach toward the federal Antiquities Act of 1906, which includes a clear prohibition against removing fossils from any land owned or controlled by the United States.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I myself would prefer to see Jen remain, if not here in Absaroka County, then within the confines of the state.” He raised a fist. “Save Jen!”

There were cheers on that one.

“This is our solemn obligation as stewards of the land so that these antiquities might be preserved for our children . . .”

Vic mumbled, “And our children’s children.”

“And our children’s children.” He glanced at us and gestured toward me, and I thought that he might’ve overheard Vic. “I’d like to ask a man that’s well-known and respected by all of you, Sheriff Walt Longmire, to join me here at the podium.”

I pushed off the wall and started forward, speaking under my breath as I passed her, “What, no smart-ass remark on that?”

She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Just waiting till you’re out of earshot.”

Trost pumped my hand as I joined him; he was, indeed, wearing makeup. He had stopped me on the top step to try and keep his height opportunity, but even with the six-inch advantage, I was still a couple of inches taller. He smiled brightly for the cameras and held on to my hand. “Are there any questions?”

“Sheriff, have any criminal charges been brought against the High Plains Dinosaur Museum?”

“Um, not at this time. We’re hoping that—”

Trost reached over and brought the mic closer to his face. “Actually, our office has been planning an intervention to discourage this type of behavior.”

A Billings reporter called out to me, “Sheriff, is it true that the Jen was found on Native American land?”

“Well, it was discovered on the Lone Elk Ranch, and Danny was an enrolled member—”

Trost leapt in again. “The Cheyenne tribe has filed an order to desist under the federal Antiquities Act of 1906 prohibiting the removal of fossils from any land owned or controlled by the United States without permit.”

The redhead from the Casper station yelled at me, “Does the museum have a permit, Walt?”

I shrugged again. “My understanding is—”

The deputy attorney spoke into the microphone. “No, they do not.” He glanced around. “I’m afraid that the sheriff has other duties to attend to, but I’m glad to stay here and answer anything more you might want to know.”

As another flurry of questions exploded, I took my leave and collected Vic, shortcutting to our office through the courthouse. I held the glass door open and ushered her in. “So, how did I do?”

“You were a perfect little meat puppet.” She glanced back with mock concern. “You didn’t mess up his lipstick, did you?”

 • • • 

There are signs on the Lone Elk place, but you have to find them.

Kicking at the boards lying at the base of a post and trying to figure out if any of them might be pointing the right way, I kneeled down and turned a few over, reading the names of owners long past.

“Are we lost?”

I lifted my face, narrowing my eyes in the wind that had picked up, and looked at the rolling hills of the eastern part of my jurisdiction. “Never lost, just mightily confused.”

She stood at the fork of the gravel roads and turned around as Dog took a leak on his forty-third piece of sagebrush. “How big is our county again?”

“In square miles?”

“Yeah.”

“Just over nine thousand—about the size of New Hampshire.” I glanced around some more, making some calculations. “If I were to guess, I’d say we were near Hakert Draw at the Wallows, maybe near Dead Swede Mine.”

She walked past me to the edge of the road, Dog following, and looked at the Powder River country, at the vastness of the high plains that seemed to draw your eyes further than you thought possible. “Question number one.” She turned to look at me, scratching behind Dog’s ear as he sat on her foot. “What is Hakert Draw?”

“Well, a draw is formed by two parallel ridges or spurs with low ground in between them; the area of low ground, where we happen to be standing, is the actual draw. Hakert is the name of the rancher who used to own the land.”

She pushed Dog off her foot, walked over, and leaned against the pole. “The Wallows?”

“A few small lakes out here, fed by a number of creeks.”

“Like the killer-turtle pond?”

“Yep.”

“Dead Swede Mine?”

“That one is a little complicated.”

“What, there’s a dead Swede at the bottom of a shaft?”

I picked up one of the boards and stood. “There’s a legend . . .”

She laughed. “What is it with you westerners? There’s always a legend.”

“Supposedly there were three prospectors who snuck into this area after it had been cordoned off by the military as Indian territory. As the tale goes, they found gold, a lot of it, but as is human nature, they then fell in on each other. After the altercation, the only one left was a Swede by the name of Jonus Johanson.”

“He would be the dead one?”

I examined the board in my hands, running my thumb across the ridges made by the engraved letters. “Nobody knows what happened to him, but a man traveling alone, supposedly with a lot of gold, surrounded by scoundrels and profiteers of every stripe . . . I wouldn’t think his odds were very good, but it’s just a story.”

She glanced around, I guess half hoping to see a timber-supported opening in the hills. “If those men found the mine, then it must be true.”

“Not really—it’s probably just an old, shallow-shaft coal mine, a rarity in these parts; but still, as Dorothy Johnson once said, ‘when the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’” Nudging my chin toward the Bighorns, I started back toward the Bullet. “If they found gold, it would’ve been closer to the mountains, but actually there’s really not much geologic evidence of any gold anywhere in the area.” I opened the door and looked back at the two of them. “Fool’s gold, I’d say.”

“Have you seen it?”

“What?”

“The mine.”

“Once, when I was a kid out with my father.” She opened the passenger-side door and let Dog hop in. “We were fishing and I got bored, so I went for a walk over a few ridges.”

She climbed in and stretched the safety belt over her chest. “Through the draws?”

“Yep.” I glanced over my shoulder at the endless series of hills. “You get in some of these big draws and you can’t see the mountains; I was young, maybe six or seven, and not paying attention, and pretty soon I was lost. I got turned around and thought I was heading back, but then I saw an opening in a hillside with timbers and supports.” I climbed into the truck, set the board with the etched names, faded with time and weather, across the center console between us, and fastened my own seat belt. “I was a kid so of course I went over and looked into it, but it was dark.” I shook my head. “Threw a few pebbles in the opening but couldn’t hear anything. Anyway, I got bored again and kept walking.” I closed the door and started the Bullet. “Around dark, my father found me heading down Cook Road in the wrong direction. He was pretty mad, but I distracted him by telling him about the mine. We went back and looked for it a few days later; saw an old lineman’s shack, but I never could find the mine opening again.”

She glanced through the windshield at the fork in the road. “So, where to?”

I pointed my thumb at the arrow on the board that pointed to the left, next to the worn white letters in the reddish wood that read L
ONE
E
LK
. “The road less traveled, I suppose.”

I pulled out and drove over a few more ridges and then hit a straightaway that seemed to stretch to the horizon.

“But you saw it? I mean, it’s out here.”

“The mine?” I thought about it, but the memories were vague. “Or maybe I just dreamed it.” I smiled at her. “I’m getting like that, you know. I think I know things from my past, but it turns out I just think that I know them; my youth is becoming a mythology to me.”

She shook her head. “Just for the record? You say some of the strangest shit sometimes.”

I went back to studying the road, because ahead is where the trouble usually is waiting. “Comes from having an overly active imagination.”

Vic leaned forward in her seat. “Is that somebody?”

“Yep, I think it is.” I began slowing the Bullet in an attempt to not powder whoever it might be—being afoot was a daring feat this far out.

I eased to a stop and rolled my window down; I could tell the young man thought about making a break for it but then realized that he might’ve waited a little too long—he might outrun two cops, but he wouldn’t outrun the Bullet. “Howdy.”

He shifted the backpack on his shoulder as if it were the weight of the world, and maybe it was, at least to him. His voice didn’t carry much enthusiasm as he studied the hills, one eye swollen, the skin underneath blackened. “Hey.”

“Where are you going?”

He shrugged.

“Just headed out for the territories, huh?”

He turned his head, the long tendrils of black hair whipping across his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Vic snickered as I explained. “Oh, just something the old-timers used to say.” I watched him some more—one tough cookie, as my father would have said. “Reno’s nice; ever been to Reno?”

The eye that wasn’t damaged narrowed, and he was unsure if I was poking fun at him. “Where’s that?”

“Nevada.”

He took his time answering. “Is that where you’re headed?”

“No, we’re headed for your house.”

He sighed and kicked at a chunk of red shale in the road with the toe of a Chuck Taylor sneaker. “That’s the one place I don’t want to go.”

I nodded and glanced at my undersheriff. “Well, we’re lost and were hoping you could help us out.”

He lip-pointed over his shoulder. “S’that way.”

“We might miss it.”

He sighed again, bigger this time, and then trudged in front of my truck and around to Vic’s side like a condemned prisoner. She opened the door and got out, forcing him to the center. He climbed in, setting his backpack on the transmission hump as Dog swiped a tongue as broad as a dishwashing sponge up the back of his head. “’The fuck?”

Dog sat back and looked at him the way dogs have looked at boys for centuries—half-feral kindred spirits.

“That’s Dog; I’m his.”

The kid nodded toward Vic. “Are you hers, too?”

“I’m not so sure that’s an appropriate question for you to be asking.” I pulled out. “Where’d you get the shiner?”

“The what?”

“Black eye.”

He touched his face. “What did you call it?”

“A shiner. The term can be traced back to a couple of origins; some say it was an Irish term for the beating you’d get if you didn’t keep your equipment shiny, others that it was because the discolored, swelled tissue appears to have a shine to it.”

He shrugged. “All I know is that if you make a smart remark to my uncle, you get one free of charge.”

I drove, and he continued to study us; then he turned toward Vic, even going so far as to shift in the seat.

She stared back at him. “What?”