Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  The heat, the dust, and the noise are so oppressive that I feel like dropping back and resting in the high grass that overlooks the river in the valley below. But he’s moving, and I watch his other hand as it rises up, blocking out the sun for just a moment, and I’m almost glad for the shade. He hesitates, and our eyes meet, joined in disbelief. There is a stone club in his hand, the clear tawny sinew, the red paint on the river rock, and the delicate feathers that flitter a rainbow of color in the sun.

  Then.

  With all his might.

  He brings it down into my face.

  “Earth to Walt, come in, Walt.”

  Hearing her voice in the distance, I turned in what seemed like slow motion as the images faded and disappeared. “What?”

  She leaned back on the bench that rests on the bridge spanning Clear Creek. She sipped her soda, her unfinished grilled cheese sandwich lying on the wrapper in her lap. “I’m so glad you’re not having those spells anymore.”

  Taking a deep breath, I stretched my neck muscles and listened to the popping noises. “How long?”

  “About two minutes—I’m sitting here chattering away, and I look over and you’re staring off into the ozone. Did Doc Bloomfield say if this was supposed to go away?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Well, at least they’re getting shorter.” She continued to study me. “So, what was this one?”

  “I think I was at the Little Bighorn, or in a painting of the Little Bighorn.”

  She nodded. “Were you an Indian?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, then this one ends badly . . .” She sighed and stared at me. “So, I’ll repeat my most recent question—did Charley Lee sell the painting and did the purchaser come back to retrieve it? And if so, why trash the place?”

  “Huh?”

  “For the third time—did Charley Lee sell the painting and did the purchaser come back to retrieve it? And if so, why trash the place?”

  I tried to concentrate; it was so hard these days. “A warning?”

  “To who? Charley Lee is dead.”

  I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and listened to the rushing sound of the water beneath us as the twilight shouldered the sun to the west. We sometimes got our dinner to go from the Busy Bee Cafe only twenty yards away and then ate it on the bench to avoid the summer crowds. “Maybe they were frustrated when they couldn’t find it.”

  “Or maybe they were frustrated and then they did.” Dog sat beside her, or more important beside the remains of her sandwich, adjusting his weight as she regarded him. “I’m going to give you some, but you have to wait.”

  “Who in the world has a million dollars in cash to throw around?”

  “The federal government.”

  “It’s their painting, so they don’t have to buy it.”

  She picked up her sandwich but then paused mid bite to look at me. “Are you going to call in DCI to dust the place?”

  “I’m trying to decide if they have better things to do.”

  “A million dollars’ worth of better things?”

  “I know, I know.”

  “How long are you going to sweat the Joint Chiefs of Wheelchairs up at the Home?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, probably till tomorrow.”

  “They’re going to be trying to get their story straight.”

  “Yep.”

  “Hey, how come there aren’t any coast guard guys up there?”

  “Most are under six feet tall and drown when their ship sinks and they try and walk to shore . . .” She stared at me. “Sorry, old marine joke.”

  “So, the next time there’s something really important, I’d rather not have you or Wes tell it to me—capisce?”

  “I thought we were relatively gentle in the delivery of the information.”

  “He had a heart attack, Walt.”

  “Bloomfield and Nickerson said he was heading in that direction anyway and that we just exacerbated the condition a bit.”

  “No way he was up at the Home looking around?” I turned to glance at her. “Hey, everybody’s a suspect until we catch someone.”

  I leaned back on the bench and smiled at some tourists on their way to the bandstand for Dave Stewart’s bluegrass night. “No, he was waiting on the steps of the office when I got there and then slept over at the Blue Gables.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I called Jim at the office. He said Bass checked in, went to his cabin, and didn’t appear till morning, when he came out and ordered a cappuccino.”

  “Lucky for him he’s staying in the only place in the state of Wyoming that has such a device.” She handed the rest of her sandwich to Dog, and we watched as he swallowed it in one great, snapping gulp. “Jesus . . .” She checked her fingers to make sure she hadn’t lost any. “It’s like the shark tank at SeaWorld.”

  “He doesn’t have very good manners.”

  She stood and took a few steps toward my truck. “So, what’s the game plan?”

  “I guess I have to call DCI. We haven’t got much to work with since I let the most important piece of evidence be stolen.”

  “Well, we know it was the real deal, that’s something.”

  I stood up and we walked along Main Street until we got to the truck, where I opened the rear door so that the beast could jump in. He sat on the sidewalk looking at me, just to make sure I wasn’t fooling him by uttering the word ham.

  “Get in, it’s not a trick.” I glanced at Vic. “He’s got a memory like an elephant.”

  She reached out and batted his nose. “Get in, you moron.”

  With the possible exception of Henry and Ruby, I figured Vic was the only one who could get away with that and then watched as he jumped in. I closed the door and had started around the truck when I noticed she wasn’t getting in. I stopped at the front fender and rested an elbow on the hood between us. “What, I have to beg you to get in too?”

  “Are you happy?”

  I laughed until I saw the seriousness in the tarnished gold eyes. “What?”

  “Are you happy?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She rested both forearms on the hood and placed a chin there, studying me. “Are you happy? It’s a simple question.”

  “What is this all about?”

  She set her eyes on me for a good, long while and looked very serious—it was more than a little unsettling. “These fits that you’re having where you just go away, are you sure it’s not something simple like maybe you actually want to be somewhere else?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t think so, I mean it’s usually not a pleasant experience.”

  She looked down the street. “You’d tell me, right?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “If something was wrong.”

  I studied her until she finally turned to look at me. “Yes, I would.”

  “Cool.” She pushed off the truck and started down the block at a saunter.

  “Hey, you don’t want a ride?”

  “Nah, I’ll walk.” She paused and considered the goods behind the plate-glass of one of the stores as I studied her reflection.

  “You’d do the same for me, right?”

  She stood without moving and then finally turned just enough for me to see the side of her face. “Have you ever known me to hold my feelings in check?” The sly smile held for a few seconds and then she walked off, the Glock bouncing on her hip as she checked the door of every shop on Main Street to make sure they were locked.

  Watching her until she turned the corner at the end of the block, I finally opened the door and climbed in, turning to look at my companion. “Next time, just get in the truck, okay?”

  Doubling back, I took the left and then another left, parking in our l
ot and letting Dog out. I unlocked the door to the office and allowed the beast to go up the stairs to Ruby’s chair first. I didn’t bother to turn on the light but picked up her phone, called DCI in Cheyenne, got an answering machine, and, after telling a shortened version of the situation, requested its assistance in fingerprinting a room at the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home.

  It was about then that someone picked up the phone, and I recognized the voice of Steve “Woody” Woodson, the director. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were.” Stuffing the phone into the crook of my neck, I glanced around. “What, you get the Big Dog if you call DCI during off-hours?”

  “Nobody else is here, and I was walking by the reception desk when I heard a familiar voice. Did you say a million dollars?”

  “I did.”

  “And something about a Custer painting?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m getting in my car and heading up there right now.”

  “Woody, wait . . . I mean you can wait till tomorrow.”

  “This is the most interesting case I’ve heard of in years, and I’m not letting anyone else have it. Whatever you do, don’t call the field office in Sheridan or Gillette . . .”

  “I’m not calling anybody else, Woody.”

  “How’s the fishing up there this season?”

  “I knew there was an ulterior motive in all this.”

  “No, but if I’m driving all that way I might bring a rod and wet a fly or two.”

  “I’ll call the Ferg and get you the lowdown.”

  “He still working for you?”

  “Retired. I think law enforcement was getting in the way of his fishing.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  I hung up the phone and glanced around at the graceful cursive writing on the assorted notes, forms, and papers that made up my dispatcher’s desk. I’d heard that they were going to stop teaching cursive in schools, which was fine with me, because then all us old people would have a secret code.

  I was about to get up when I noticed that Dog had walked to the end of the counter and was looking toward the main entrance. He stood there a moment more and then approached the edge.

  There was a gasp from the entryway and then a voice. “Oh, my God.”

  I stood and walked to the end of the counter and grazed my fingers on his back to let him know I was there and then peered over the edge to where what appeared to be a woman in a hoodie stood, plastered against the glass door. “Howdy?”

  Pulling the hood down to reveal her blonde hair, Katrina Dejean looked up at me and sighed. “I thought I was a goner, there for a moment.”

  “Only if you were a ham. Can I help you?”

  She smiled. “Katrina Dejean, from the Buffalo Bill Gala?”

  Taking a few more steps, I sat on the edge and Dog went down to greet her properly with his tail in full wag. “I know. Is there something wrong?”

  She petted Dog and came up the steps, stopping a few down to look me in the eye.

  “What, a girl can’t just stop by to see the sheriff?”

  “Sure, but it’s after hours.”

  “I saw your truck and thought I’d try your door.”

  “Well, we’re here. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “This is going to sound odd . . .”

  “Okay.”

  “There was a notice on one of the social media marketplace sites about a lost set of rings that were found?”

  I thought about the report Saizarbitoria had given me a few days ago, and I was sure that as tech savvy as he was, he was the one who had posted it. “An engagement set.”

  “I think they’re mine.”

  “Really?”

  “I came through Durant a few days ago on my way to Cody and stopped in a parking lot on the way up the mountain and I think I lost them there.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Better. I can show you a picture.” She held out her phone, turning the screen to show the selfsame rings on her own hand, or at least a hand similar to her own with the same fingernail polish.

  “Sure looks like the ones that were found.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. From what I am to understand, they were quite remarkable—almost thirty thousand dollars’ worth.”

  “That’s remarkable, that’s for sure. Mind telling me how it happened?”

  “I threw them away. I was angry.”

  “Thirty thousand dollars’ worth?”

  She crossed to the side, resting her back against the railing and spreading her hands on the steel. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever done anything stupid like that?”

  “Daily, actually.”

  “I was mad at the individual who gave them to me.”

  “A natural response to a very expensive gift.”

  She sighed, smiling and looking down at her tennis shoes. “I’ve been trying to get this person to ask me to marry him for years, and he finally did but the timing was wrong.” She looked up at me. “I’m interested in somebody else, and he thought the rings would bring me back.”

  “It didn’t work?”

  “No, but I felt bad about throwing them while on the phone with him and even worse when I couldn’t find them.”

  “Sounds like a stormy relationship.”

  “To say the least.” She continued studying her shoes.

  I studied her. “It sounds like you want to tell me about it.”

  Her eyes came up. “I guess I just want to talk to someone, and sometimes a relative stranger is best because they’re not involved.”

  Dog realized from our tone of voice that the conversation was going to be a lengthier one, so he sidled up the steps and collapsed beside me with one great heaving breath and closed his eyes. She looked alarmed, and I assured her. “If we aren’t talking about meat products, he gets bored.” She didn’t look any less puzzled. But I continued. “It sounds like more than a personal problem. Tell me, has the count gotten himself into some kind of trouble I should know about?”

  She stared at me. “Possibly.”

  “I’m all ears.” I reached up and stroked the missing portion. “Except for the small part of one I lost a few years ago.”

  “You’re a funny man to be a sheriff.”

  “You’re not the first person to say that. Now, about the count?”

  “There are people, and mind you Philippe knows many of them, who will pay for the things they want badly no matter what the price.”

  “I’ve heard of such people.”

  “They are in the habit of getting the things they want.”

  “Yep.”

  “Philippe is in the business of getting those types of things for those types of people.”

  “I see.”

  “Sometimes things that aren’t supposed to exist.”

  “Things like Custer’s Last Fight?”

  She was silent for a moment, then spoke to her feet. “I’m feeling bad about being involved in all this.”

  “Involved in what, exactly?”

  She practically whispered. “I feel as if I’ve already said too much.”

  “Actually, as the man who is the investigator in a case involving a missing, legendary painting, a million dollars in cash, and a man’s death, I don’t think you’ve said nearly enough.”

  “A man’s death?”

  “Charley Lee Stillwater.”

  “I thought his death was accidental?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “So, you know the man?”

  It took her awhile to respond. “I never said that.”

  “Katrina, your accent is very good, but I can still detect just a touch of far-western Russia in there somewhere—possibly Saint Petersburg? You see, I had a friend while I was working in Alaska years ago who was fr
om that same region and you sound remarkably like him.”

  Her voice, along with the Russian umlaut, took on a defensive tone. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  I threw a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ve got four guys who sit out in front of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home who say they’ve had dealings with people they referred to as ‘the Russians’ and as near as I can tell, you, Serge, and Philippe are the only ones who fit that bill.”

  “I’ve said too much.”

  “Possibly, but this conversation took a professional turn for me, and now I’m going to need you to answer some more questions.”

  She looked toward the door but didn’t move, only folding her arms. “I don’t really know more than what I’ve told you—you need to talk to Philippe.”

  I stood, aware that I was towering over her. “I guess I do.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, but I think I’ll have you accompany me over to the count’s house for a little chat and to get things straightened out.”

  “Now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “I really don’t want to go over there, for personal reasons.”

  “I really don’t care. You come in here and open this can of worms and now you want to just turn around and walk away? I’m afraid I can’t allow that. Right now, the only thing I’ve got you on would be conspiracy and collusion to the tune of grand larceny, but that’s certainly enough to detain you if you continue to not cooperate.”

  “You know what I said about you being a funny man to be a sheriff—I take that back.”

  “Okay, but in the meantime let’s just be two folks taking a twenty-minute ride to a guy’s house and having a conversation about what the heck is going on around here.”

  “Okay.”

  One more thing?”

  She turned to look at me. “Yes?”

  “Do you still want your rings?”

  * * *

  —

  Story is on the frontier of two counties, Sheridan and mine. A picturesque western community, it boasts of a couple of supper clubs and inns, along with a gas station and a guesthouse known as the Waldorf A’Story. Having long been a haven for the independently minded along the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains, it is popular with the artistic set.