Rough Country

by John Sandford

  He’d mentioned it to Davenport, and Davenport’s wife had said, “Well, somebody’s got to be the tall poppy.”

  He hadn’t known exactly what she’d been talking about until he looked it up on Wikipedia.

  Then he worried more . . . and now fellow cops were sucking up to him, which made it worse.

  He’d have to fuck something up, he thought, to get back to normal. Shouldn’t be a problem.

  SLIBE WASN’T HOME when Virgil got there.

  The pickup was gone, and when he knocked on the door, he got a hollow echo, the kind you get when a house is empty. Virgil had the rifle case in one hand and stepped back from the door and turned toward his truck and saw Slibe II standing in the doorway of the kennel, with a half-bag of Purina dog chow in his hand. The sun was illuminating him, a Caravaggesque saint set against the black velvet surround of the barn’s interior.

  Virgil went that way, called out, “How ya doing?”

  The Deuce didn’t say anything; stood in his camo coveralls, one hand in a pocket, and watched Virgil get closer. Virgil thought about the pistol under the front seat of the truck, but kept walking anyway, smiling, called, “Your dad around?”

  The Deuce said, “No trespassin’.”

  “Bringing your dad’s rifle back to him,” Virgil said.

  The Deuce was an inch taller than Virgil, with melancholy, deep-set dark eyes under overgrown eyebrows and shaggy dark hair that looked as though it had been cut with a knife. He was slender, underfed, with hard, weathered hands and a short beard. He wore a Filson canvas billed hat the precise color of a pile of dog shit somebody had shoveled out of the kennels. He considered Virgil’s comment for a moment, then grunted, “You can leave it.”

  “Can’t. Need to get your dad to sign a receipt,” Virgil said. He turned casually toward the kennels and asked, “How many dogs you got here?”

  “Some,” the Deuce said. He smiled, said, “Get ’em going at it, we’ll have some more.”

  “The kind of business you want,” Virgil agreed.

  “Them bitches want it all the time, when the heat’s on them,” the Deuce said. He spat in the yard, but in a conversational way, not as an insult.

  “You know when your dad’s coming back?” Virgil asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m a cop, I’m looking into that shooting up at Stone Lake.”

  “Wendy . . .” The Deuce lost his thought for a moment, as though his mind were wandering through corridors labeled “Wendy,” then found it again. “. . . told me.”

  “Yeah? You know that country? Up around Stone Lake?”

  “The Deuce knows all the country around here.” He dropped the bag of dog food by a foot, stepped out into the driveway, turned slowly around, as though sniffing the air, looked north, then northeast, then pointed with his chin and said, “Off that way. About, maybe . . . I could walk there after breakfast, get back here for lunch, if I hurried.”

  “You ever do that?”

  “Oh, I went by there a few times, but it’s not a good spot,” the Deuce said, turning his dark gaze back on Virgil. “The trails don’t lead in there.”

  “The trails?”

  “Indian trails. I follow the Indian trails. But the lake is there, cuts the trails off. . . .” He looked north again, then gestured. “See, the trails go this way, and that way, but they don’t go straight, because the lake cuts them off, so they bend.”

  “But if I needed somebody to take me in there, you could do it,” Virgil said.

  “Could. Probably wouldn’t,” the Deuce said.

  “Yeah? You don’t like cops?”

  “Not much,” he said.

  TALKING TO HIM, Virgil understood what people had meant when they described Slibe II as not quite right. He thought too long about his words, though the words, when they arrived, were appropriate enough; it was the measure of his sentences that was wrong. And he had an odd sideways gaze, not shy, but shielded, as though he were trying to conceal an unhealthy curiosity, or passion, or fear.

  Virgil had met people like him a few times, and he knew for sure that if he accused Slibe II of stealing a ham sandwich, a good prosecutor could get him sent to prison for life.

  The Deuce oozed guilt.

  VIRGIL WAS ABOUT to go on with the questions about Stone Lake, but Slibe Ashbach turned into the driveway in his pickup, bounced down past the garden, and rolled to a stop fifteen feet from the kennel. He climbed out and Virgil said to Slibe II, “Nice talking to you,” and walked over to his father. “Dropped by to return the rifle.”

  Slibe took the gun case, looked at Virgil a little too long, then said, “Clean bill of health, huh?”

  “It’s not the gun that killed McDill or shot Jan Washington,” Virgil said.

  Slibe turned his head toward his son a bit, then asked, “They was both shot with the same weapon?”

  “We think so,” Virgil said. “That’s what the lab people tell us.”

  “Told you it wasn’t me,” Slibe said. Once again glanced toward his son and then asked, “So what’d the dunce have to say?”

  The Deuce backed into the kennel and out of sight.

  “We were talking about Indian trails,” Virgil said.

  “Mmm. Well, he knows them,” Slibe said. He hefted the gun: “You done with us?”

  “Not completely,” Virgil said, with a smile. “Me’n a friend are gonna go see Wendy tonight. He’s sort of a big shot in the country music world, wants to take a look at her.”

  “Yeah, well,” Slibe said, and he walked up to the kennel door, then looked back and said, “You know what I think about that horseshit.”

  HE DISAPPEARED into the barn, after his son; Virgil waited for a moment, thinking they might come back out, but then he heard them knocking around, and doors started opening down the side of the barn, and fuzzy yellow dogs began moving into their separate cages.

  Virgil turned and left. Fuck ’em, he thought, I know where they are if I need them.

  Nothing to do; nobody to talk to—Sig was working, Zoe was pissed off. And he had things to think about, so he went back to the motel and took a nap.

  GOT UP GROGGY, looked at the clock: time to move. But toothpaste was critical, he thought, smacking his lips.

  Virgil and Jud Windrow hooked up at the Wild Goose at ten minutes to seven, found a booth, talked to Chuck the bartender for a couple of minutes, were comped the first two beers on grounds of good-bar fellowship, and paid for two more before Wendy went on.

  Virgil had briefed Windrow on the exact nature of the band, the crowd, and the bar, and when Wendy and the other women climbed on the stage, he said, “They got a good look. That dyke vibe works. Is that black eye from the fight?”

  “Yeah. You’ll notice a big scratch healing up on Berni’s cheek. . . .”

  Wendy growled into the microphone, “It’s been a heck of a week, so instead of getting everyone riled up all over again, we’re going to start out slow. So grab a hunny-bunny and let’s do the ‘Art ists’ Waltz.’ . . .”

  They did and Virgil watched Windrow sit back in the booth, a skeptical sideways tilt to his head, and watched the skepticism drain away as Wendy did a number on him. When they finished, they went into some soft-rock bullshit that Virgil didn’t know, and Windrow leaned across the table and said, “She can do it.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh, yeah. Gotta do something about the drummer,” he said. “She sort of hits around the beat, but not exactly on it.”

  Virgil nodded. “Everybody says that, but she and Wendy are, you know, whatever.”

  “She’s the one who punched her out?”

  “Yeah. Right in this very booth,” Virgil said.

  Windrow did a low coughing laugh, like a bear, looking at Berni pounding away on her drums, and said, “I could get a big old hard-on thinking about that. Wish I’d been here.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. This wasn’t a wrestling match, this was like watching a couple of bobcats go after each other,�
� Virgil said.

  Windrow turned back to the band, listened for a bit, then asked, “The first song—where’d they get that? Is that local up here?”

  “She wrote it,” Virgil said.

  “Better and better,” Windrow said. “Gotta do something about the drummer.”

  “Somebody told me that she’s okay as a backup singer, and her tits are good enough to put her out front, singing. Maybe with a tambourine or something,” Virgil said.

  “Could do that, if you had to keep her,” Windrow said.

  Wendy finished the bullshit soft-rocker and looked out over the crowd at Virgil and Windrow, and said, “Here’s another one of ours; we were just working it out today . . . it’s called, ‘Doggin’ Me Around.’ ”

  She had Windrow playing the air drum before she finished, and he said to Virgil, “Goddamn. I kinda didn’t believe the story, but I’ll sign her up if I can.”

  THE FIRST SET LASTED forty minutes, ending with a quiet cheek-to-cheeker ballad, and then they climbed off the bandstand and Virgil saw Wendy heading straight for them. When she came up, they both stood and she asked Virgil, “This the guy?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Daddy said you were bringing up some guy. . . .” And she said, as they sat down, and she slid in beside Virgil, “You’re Jud Windrow. I looked you up on your website.”

  “You got a nice act,” Windrow said. “Let me buy you something.”

  Chuck comped them another three beers and Windrow interviewed her about the band: who everybody was, how long they’d been playing together, how many country songs they could cover, what else they could play.

  Wendy told him about her mom dragging her around to polka fests and about singing in polka bands, and Windrow’s head was bobbing, and he was saying, “That’s good, that’s good, nothing is better than playing a lot, especially when you’re young.”

  “I was doing that—when Mom was taking me around, I was singing twice a week for two years,” Wendy said. “She was going to take me to Hollywood.”

  “What happened?” Virgil asked.

  “What happened was a guy named Hector Avila. They had an affair, and everything blew up and they took off. Went to bed one night with a mom and dad, and woke up with a dad and a note. Blew us off. Went to Arizona. Never even called to say good-bye.”

  “How old were you?” Windrow asked.

  “Nine,” she said. “It was like the end of the fuckin’ world. The Deuce cried for three days, and Dad wouldn’t talk to anybody. He went out and started the garden and worked in it day and night for two straight months and wouldn’t talk to anyone. I thought he was going to take us to an orphanage or something. Then, you know, it got better. Took time.”

  “Hard times make good singers,” Windrow said. Then, “You got a problem with your drummer.”

  Wendy winced. “I know. That can be fixed, if we can find somebody better.”

  “I got drummers,” Windrow said. “I know a female-person drummer from Normal, Illinois, who can drum your ass off, and she’s looking for a new band. The one she’s got ain’t going nowhere: they shot their bolt.”

  VIRGIL HADN’ TSEEN ZOE come in, but suddenly she was standing next to Wendy, and she said over Wendy’s head, to Virgil, “You’re so mean. I’ve been crying all afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry. I was too harsh. But I was pissed,” Virgil said.

  Zoe said to Wendy, “He says I’m still a suspect, because I’m in love with you and because I want to buy the Eagle Nest and McDill was sleeping with you and she might have bought the Eagle Nest out from under me, and . . .”

  She started to blubber, and Wendy patted her thigh and said to Virgil, “Asshole.”

  “Hey . . .”

  “You can solve the murder without being an asshole,” Wendy said.

  “That’s r-r-right,” Zoe said.

  Berni came up and said to Wendy, “Get your hand off her ass.” “Shut up,” Wendy said. “We got a problem here.”

  Zoe said to Berni, “If she wants to put her hand on my ass, she has my permission.”

  Berni backed up a step and Virgil said, “Aw Christ . . .”

  Wendy shouted, “No!”

  Berni was about to smack Zoe, and Zoe’s teeth were bared—she was ready to go, Virgil thought, as he tried to push past Wendy to get out of the booth. Wendy lurched forward and put herself between Zoe and Berni, and Virgil got out and put an arm around Zoe’s waist, and Chuck the bartender came running over and Windrow laughed out loud and cried out, “Rock ’n’ roll . . .”

  VIRGIL GOT ZOE out the door, kissed her on the forehead, and asked, “Are we made up now?”

  “No.”

  “I won’t call you a suspect again unless I’ve really got something on you,” Virgil said, which he thought was a reasonable compromise.

  “Thanks a lot, jerk,” she said.

  “Look: go home, take a Xanax, go to bed. It’ll be better in the morning.”

  “That’s right: take drugs. That’s everybody’s solution,” Zoe said. “Nobody takes responsibility for their feelings.”

  She rambled on for a while, and Virgil lost the thread, because he noticed a moth the size of a saucer flapping around one of the bar lights, and he’d always had an interest in moths. He kept nodding and watching the moth, in silhouette, circling toward the light, and she said something and he said, “I hope so. Look, get some sleep,” and whatever she’d said, his response was apparently okay, because she said, “Thanks . . .”

  A flash of green. A goddamn luna moth: he hadn’t seen a live one in years. Late in the year for a luna. Were they producing two generations now, in Minnesota? He had a friend at the University of Minnesota who’d know. . . .

  “. . . tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Virgil said. “Call me anytime . . . let’s get a cheeseburger or something.”

  She looked at him oddly, and he wondered what she’d said— there’d been a little chime in his head, when she said whatever it was—and she headed off to her car, turning to wave.

  The luna flapped around the light, beating against it. Virgil tried to edge up close, but the bug must’ve spotted him, because it flapped wildly off into the night, toward the third-quarter moon hanging overhead.

  HE WENT BACK INSIDE, told Windrow he had to run, and Windrow nodded and the band started playing and Windrow lifted his voice and said, “Thanks for reminding me about these girls. I owe you one.”

  Virgil left. He had a plan; he’d go fishing in the morning, and while he was out in the boat, he’d solve the crime.

  In his head, anyway.

  But he might get a late start. Tonight, he was gonna drop by Sig’s place. There was, he thought, an excellent chance that he might not be in any shape to get up at five A.M.

  An excellent chance.

  HE GOT TO SIG’S PLACE at eight-thirty. Zoe’s Pilot was parked outside, with a couple of other cars, and he could see lights down at the gazebo.

  He groaned, and heard the chime again, the one that’d gone off when Zoe was talking.

  Quilting bee, she’d said. Sig’s having a quilting bee. . . .

  15

  ROBERT PLANT AND ALISON KRAUSS were working their way through “Please Read the Letter” as Virgil backed his boat down the ramp into Stone Lake. The music suited the morning and his mood, and he sat and listened to the last bit of the song before he cut the engine.

  Another day with flat water, but the sky had turned, showing a flat gray screen of cloud that could make some rain before the day was gone. He climbed down from the truck, into the smell of fish scales and backwater, clambered up on the trailer tongue and walked out to the bow of the boat, grabbed the bow line and pushed it off. The boat slipped off the trailer and he pulled it around to the side of the ramp and tied it off to a bush.

  After parking the truck and trailer, he locked up, unlocked again, got his raincoat, peed on a shrub, climbed in the boat, pulled it out with the engine, then swung around and headed for the south
shoreline.

  There were muskies in the lake, but he wasn’t going to worry about that. Instead, he went looking for a weedy bay, something with lily pads and snags, found one and started flipping out a weed-less bass lure, looking for either northern pike or bass. He wouldn’t keep anything, so he didn’t much care what he caught, or, indeed, whether he caught anything at all.

  FISHING CALMED HIS MIND, slowed him down: the sheer, unimportant repetitive quality of it, flip and reel, flip and reel, worked as a tranquilizer, but the possibility of a strike kept him alert. The combination of alertness and quietude was good for thinking in general. Sometimes, when he was buried in facts, he couldn’t see the forest.

  And he knew how to work that state of mind.

  Instead of attacking the facts, he let them float across his consciousness as he worked the bait around the flat purple-and-green lily pads. Halfway down the bay, a white heron watched him with its yellow-rimmed snake eye, until it decided that Virgil wasn’t a threat and stalked on after a breakfast frog.

  A wise man—a cop named Capslock—once observed that he’d never seen a murder with a large amount of money attached to it, in which the money wasn’t important. On the other hand, Virgil hadn’t ever seen a murder that involved an intense sexuality in which the sexuality wasn’t involved.

  The same was not true with the mentally challenged: he’d seen lots of cases that involved obviously crazy people, the first suspects in everyone’s minds, in which the crazy people weren’t involved at all. But that was no guarantee—sometimes obviously crazy people did do it.

  SO: he had a murder case in which there was large money involved in at least two unrelated ways.