An Obvious Fact

by Craig Johnson

She yawned. “Good. We miss you, too, you know?”

  “I do. Get some sleep, Punk; that little one’ll be up soon enough.”

  “Roger that. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Over.”

  She giggled. “Over.”

  I turned the thing off and laid it on the nightstand just as the other phone there began vibrating. Evidently, it had summoned enough energy to work. Curious as to who was trying to contact the young man, I picked it up. It had buzzed twice, which I had learned means a text message, and I stared at it for a moment, checking the date and time to see if it was old, but the date was today and the time, two minutes ago.

  MEET ME AT THE NINTH GREEN

  The sender’s name had not come up, but the number was a 310 area code. I just lay there looking at the message, making sure it said what I thought it said. I hesitated, looking at the time of morning and thinking about whether I really wanted to continue being involved with this case, but then went ahead and did what I knew I was going to do—and sent back two letters in return.

  OK

  I guess it all comes down to the fact that I hate mysteries, and I wanted to know who had attempted a vehicular homicide on Bodaway Torres. I quietly dressed, went to the door, and looked back at Dog. He raised his head and looked back at me, but then lowered it and didn’t make another move.

  So much for backup.

  I closed the door behind me, fingered the Cheyenne Nation’s keys that I’d taken from the nightstand, and walked around the cabin just in time to interrupt two scruffy-looking guys attempting to unlock Lucie, the Bear’s Indian motorcycle, from the trailer.

  The nearest one tilted his Viking helmet back, smiled, and waved as I approached. “How you doin’?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Oh, we’re having trouble with these locks.” He noted that I’d stopped and was watching him. “Um . . . this yours?”

  “Might as well be.”

  The other scruff, who was holding a tire iron, stepped back. “Then you’re saying we shouldn’t be doing this?”

  “If I were the real owner you never would’ve heard him, and they would’ve found your bodies in the Belle Fourche River tomorrow morning.”

  The one with the tire iron palmed it a few times, attempting to send a message via Morse code. “He a tough guy, like you?”

  “Tougher.”

  “Well, how ’bout we see how tough you are.”

  I sighed and looked down at the more reasonable of the two. “Look, Eddy, I’m old and tired and if you piss me off bad enough I’m going to have to pull this .45 I’ve got at the small of my back and shoot you just to show your friend how tough I am.”

  He studied me as his buddy started sidling to the left back of the trailer. “We know each other?”

  “That Indian belongs to Henry Standing Bear, Heads Man of the Dog Soldier Society, Bear Clan.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Oh, shit is right.”

  “How come I’m the one that gets shot?”

  I gestured toward his buddy, now coming around the back, supposedly out of my line of sight. “He looks too stupid to learn from it, but you know, I just might be changing my mind.” I slipped the Colt from my back and turned to look at number two. He froze when he saw the semiautomatic hanging at my thigh. “Go home, or wherever it is you go; nothing good ever happens this late at night, and the two of you are liable to get killed.”

  Tire iron’s mouth unfroze. “Is that a real Colt?”

  “Yep, it is.” I gestured with my sidearm. “Go. Home.”

  “I hear they jam a lot.”

  “Not this one.” I raised the weapon. “I said, go home.”

  They left, mumbling to each other, something about life not being fair. Figuring I’d pushed my luck borrowing the real Lola’s Cadillac all day the day before, I slipped behind the wheel of Henry’s Lola and started her up. Dodging through the remaining motorcyclists who appeared to be impervious to both exhaustion and alcohol, I made my way across town toward the only golf course I knew existed in Hulett.

  The Devils Tower Club sits on a private mesa above the town, which gave me the first indication as to who might be attempting to contact Bodaway. I turned the vintage bird and trailer in a broad arc, lined up in the diagonal parking at the center of the lot, and killed the engine. To my right was what I assumed to be the clubhouse, a beautiful if predictable structure of stone and massive logs.

  There were no other vehicles, just a few carts parked near the building. I quietly got out of the T-bird and walked over to a large, hand-engraved map to look for the ninth green. It was a red moon that shone across the clipped fairway and I struck off, careful to stay on the cart path in the shade of the conifers.

  I climbed a rise, and when I got to the top I could see someone standing under a tree by a water hazard, and I listened as the frogs croaked at each other. A trail cut through the trees so that I would come up behind whoever it was. I stopped about fifty yards away and studied the figure long enough to know that it was female.

  I got a little closer and noticed she was wearing a set of earbuds, her head bobbing to the music—so much for stealth. I stepped to the side and raised a hand, trying not to scare her. “Howdy.” I needn’t have bothered with that, either—she screamed loud enough to be heard by Mount Rushmore. I held up my hands in surrender. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  She had an arm in a sling but managed to yank the earbuds out to scream at me some more. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sorry—my name is Walt Longmire.”

  “You scared the shit out of me.”

  I folded my arms over my chest to show her I didn’t mean any harm, meanwhile studying the extraordinarily beautiful young woman. “Sorry.”

  “Where’s Bodaway?”

  It seemed like an odd question. “As far as I know he’s still in a hospital room at Rapid City Regional.”

  “He’s still in the hospital?”

  I stared at her. “Well, yes. I was under the impression that you were a witness to the accident.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Corbin Dougherty, the officer here in Hulett.”

  “And who are you again?”

  “Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire.”

  She didn’t seem impressed and swiped a long lock of blonde from her face. “And where the hell is that?”

  “About two hours from here.”

  “Wyoming?”

  “Yep.” I studied her in return. “You’re not up too much on Wyoming geography, are you?”

  “I’m from California, and I don’t give a shit.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Excuse me, but do you know who I am?”

  “I was under the assumption that you are Chloe Nance.”

  “Yeah, but do you know who I am?”

  One of the great trials in law enforcement is the “do you know who I am” question, which pops up every now and again. Usually it’s a county or city councilman from somewhere else or a state representative, but I didn’t think she fit the bill. “Um . . . Bob Nance’s daughter?”

  “Well, that’s one thing, and do you know who he is?”

  “Not really.” I took a step past her and looked out at the picturesque scenery, only partially marred by little flags and golf-ball washers. “Look, Miss Nance, are you a witness to Bodaway Torres’s accident?”

  She tried to fold her own arms but then remembered the sling. “Why should I talk to you about it?”

  “I’m assisting the investigating officer.”

  She sighed and looked away. “My father says I’m not supposed to say anything to anybody, that it’ll just lead to trouble with those people.”

  “Well, seeing as how you’re an eyewitness to what may or may not have been an attempted homicide, I can get a subpoen
a and we can have this conversation down at the Hulett police headquarters or the Crook County sheriff’s office.”

  “I found him, okay? I didn’t witness anything.”

  “On the side of the road.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  I turned and looked at the young woman. “Can you give me an indication as to what kind of condition he was in?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was he conscious, unconscious?”

  “He was unconscious.”

  “Did he have anything with him on the motorcycle that you saw lying around—saddlebags or anything like that?”

  She took a long time to answer. “No.”

  I looked pointedly at her injured arm. “Was there anybody else on the motorcycle with him?”

  “No.”

  I gave her the long pause I’d learned from Lucian—the one that crept like an epoch-eating glacier—just to let her know I had my suspicions. “Then I guess I’ve got only one more question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When did you get his cell phone number?”

  A voice sounded from behind me. “I think you’ve answered enough of the sheriff’s questions, Chloe.”

  I turned to see a fireplug of a man with a shaved head standing behind us, aiming what looked to be a sporting-clay over-and-under shotgun mostly at me. “Mr. Nance?”

  He strolled up a little closer, and I could see two men standing behind him in matching black polo shirts. “You’re supposed to follow that with ‘I presume.’”

  I shrugged. “It’s late, and the guy who does my Sherlock Holmes is asleep.”

  • • •

  Next to big-game hunter Omar Rhoades’s log palace back in the home county, and Versailles, Bob Nance’s ranch house was just about the most extravagant place I’d ever visited.

  “Will you still be needing us, Mr. Nance?” The muscle in the black shirts continued to glance at me. “We can stick around if you need us.”

  Nance, with his back to the three of us, was mixing two drinks. “That’s fine, Mr. Frick. I think we’ll be okay.”

  I watched as they left and turned back as Nance handed me one of the drinks. “Is the other one’s name Frack?”

  He ignored my joke. “Vintage ’66, thirty years in cask 559, and bottled on June eighteenth of 1996 at the Laphroaig distillery.” He handed me a tumbler, neat, and then adjusted the flames on the river-rock fireplace with a remote. “I know it’s summer, but I like the ambiance—a little like Dick Nixon in that regard.” He lifted his glass. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I have to tell you this is the most civilized stickup in which I’ve ever taken part.”

  He sat in an overstuffed leather chair, throwing his polished boots onto a matching ottoman. “We strive to please.”

  I took a sip of the amber liquid and was pretty sure that it was the finest stuff my palate would ever touch, and that if I wasn’t careful I’d be asleep by the time I finished it. The room was lined with bookshelves, and there was a gigantic burled-wood billiards table at the center, with red felt where he had laid the Krieghoff K-80 Pro Sporter. “Nice place—almost as nice as mine.”

  “Is yours log?”

  I nodded. “Yep, and I believe my whole house would fit in this one room.”

  He smiled and glanced up at the timbers, a good forty feet in the air. “It’s kind of over-the-top, but you know how it is when you think you’re building your last one.”

  “I haven’t even finished my first.”

  “Well, the ex got the other three—one in Palo Alto, one in Grosse Pointe, and one in Paradise Valley—so I guess I felt entitled.” He took another sip of his scotch and studied me. “So, how can I help you, Sheriff?”

  “Your daughter is a pretty girl.”

  “Yes, she is, and you can see why I’m a little protective of her, especially since it’s rally week.” He put his scotch on a massive Indian drum, which had been turned into a coffee table. “I heard her try the old ‘do you know who I am’ on you.”

  “It was done pretty well.”

  “She’s an actress.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Or was till she got into trouble.” He gestured toward a few framed one sheets near the fireplace. “You mean to say you haven’t seen Barasharktapus or Pagan Women of Planet X?”

  I walked over to the posters, which were far worse than anything anybody could’ve imagined. “I’ve let my subscription to the Metropolitan Opera lapse, I’m afraid.”

  “Crap, all of ’em, and this is her father talking. . . . But she tries, you know?”

  “Must be a difficult business.”

  “Four years at NYU and then two more at UCLA and a stint at the Guildhall School of Music & Drama. I tell you, I sat through more crappy, esoteric one-act plays with people in black leotards than you can shake a stick at.”

  “I can shake a lot of sticks at crappy, esoteric one-acts.”

  “I wish I had. Anyway, what’s going on, Sheriff, and why am I talking to you instead of the sheriff of Crook County or Chief Nutter?”

  “I’m assisting the Hulett police with an investigation concerning a young man who we believe was forced off the road.”

  “And what does that have to do with my daughter?”

  I walked toward the pool table and glanced at the stairwell where Chloe Nance had disappeared. “From what I am made to understand, your daughter was a possible witness to the incident.”

  “She wasn’t a witness—she just found that young man on the side of the road, after the fact, and did what any decent human being would do and tried to help.”

  I pulled the mobile from my pocket and touched the screen, then turned it so that Nance could read it. “Is that your daughter’s cell phone number?”

  He got up and came over and stared at the screen for only an instant. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I pay for the damn thing once a month, so I know the number.”

  I placed it back in my shirt pocket. “How do you suppose your daughter has Bodaway Torres’s number if they’d never met before the accident?”

  Nance leaned against the pool table and fingered the adjustable comb on the Monte Carlo Turkish walnut stock of the shotgun that probably cost as much as my truck. “You shoot, Sheriff?”

  “Trap?” I shook my head. “Not so much lately.”

  “It’s a sport known for its congeniality, like golf.” He set his glass on the bumper and picked up the 12 gauge, swinging the 30-inch barrels around toward the flying mounts of two pheasants above the fireplace. “I’ve learned that it’s the relationships in life that really matter, Sheriff Longmire, whether it’s with your family, your business associates, or your community.”

  “Like the MRAP?”

  He nodded. “The MRAP for the local police and why I give so much to so many charities and organizations.” He lowered the shotgun and looked out the windows. “I mentioned some trouble concerning my daughter.”

  I waited and said nothing.

  “She had a little substance abuse problem in L.A.” He handed me the Krieghoff. “We’ve got a little benefit shoot tomorrow evening, and I’d like you to come up and take part as my guest.”

  I held the expensive beauty and thumbed the top-tang push-button safety, locked in the off position. “So, you’re thinking that she might’ve met Bodaway previously and was attempting to obtain drugs?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve been running interference for about eight months now.”

  “We’re still going to need to have her come in and make an official statement.”

  He smiled and took the over-and-under back, throwing it over one shoulder like he knew what he was doing. “That’s fine, Sheriff. I�
�d just rather she not make it on the ninth green after midnight.”

  5

  I watched as the Cheyenne Nation held the bike steady while Jamey, who was whistling a Beatles tune, made the final adjustments on the KTM. We all turned at the sound of a racer’s engine just in time to see another of the hill climbers flip over backward and have his motorcycle land on top of him, man and machine intertwined as they slammed back down the slope.

  “This is a really dumb sport.”

  The Bear pulled on his helmet and tightened up the chin strap. “Well, not all of us are lucky enough to go shooting sporting clays with the millionaires up on snob knob.”

  We watched as the EMTs scraped the kid off the hill and loaded him into a van, another in a bunch that had gotten carted off to Rapid City Regional.

  “Wasn’t my idea.”

  He pulled on his gloves and took in a crowd that was much larger than the previous day’s seated on the makeshift bleachers. “Any idea where all his money comes from?”

  “Nope, but I figure I’ll ask Corbin and get the story.”

  As I finished speaking, the youngster who’d razzed the Bear just the previous day pulled up and rapped his throttle a few times, shouting to be heard over his own noise. “You up for it today, old man?”

  Henry ignored him, so I answered. “Hey, Evel Knievel, why don’t you go find a canyon to fall into?”

  He smirked, and this time I was quick enough to get my arm up to protect my face as he spun out toward the starting gate and sprayed all three of us with a rich coating of South Dakota dirt.

  The Bear dusted himself off. “Do you think he knows who Evel Knievel is?”

  “I don’t know.” I watched as the kid took his place in line, waiting to back up against the buttress log and make his run. “But I really wouldn’t mind seeing him bust his ass all the way down that hill.”

  “He had the fastest time trial yesterday.”

  I glanced at the Bear. “What, he got his training wheels off?”

  He scanned the competitive field. “They all look young, do they not?”

  “To us? Yep, they do.”

  He twisted his head, stretching the muscles in his neck, and all I could think was that if he didn’t climb the hill, he could always take a pickax and destroy it. “I am thinking this might be my last run.”