Cold Wind jp-11

by C. J. Box

  Bud never used to be like this, Joe thought. He recalled Bud’s immaculate tool sheds on the ranch, with every tool wiped down and in its proper drawer in the industrial tool chests. Bud didn’t even allow oily rags tossed on the garage floor or workbench. And his horse tack was hung neatly and symmetrically in his barn, small saddles to the left, large ones to the right.

  Joe entered the bathroom. Dirty gray towels hung from a rod. Joe touched them. Dry. The garbage can overflowed with crumpled tissues. He opened the medicine cabinet. Although there were a half-dozen pill bottles for various ailments and the labels said “LONGBRAKE,” there was no toothbrush or toothpaste and the other shelves were empty. Meaning it was likely Bud had packed up his essential medicines and toiletries to take with him.

  Joe confirmed his theory as he made his way through the apartment. Although there were still clothes in the closet, there were large gaps in the hanging garments, like he’d taken some. The covers on the bed had been pulled up over the pillows but not tucked in, as if he’d made the bed in haste.

  Joe thought about the milk and the coffee. The piece of toast was dry, but not hard. Bud hadn’t been gone long. Joe guessed the old rancher had left the day before, after breakfast. At about the time Joe was climbing the wind tower.

  Outside on the street, Joe heard two car doors slam almost simultaneously in a percussive double-tap. He covered the living room floor in a few steps and carefully pushed the edge of the window shade to the side so he could see out.

  A sheriff’s department SUV had taken a space recently vacated by one of the early-morning cowboys directly below the window. Sheriff Kyle McLanahan stood on the passenger side of the vehicle, hands on hips, waiting impatiently for Deputy Sollis to adjust his hat and aviator sunglasses in the side mirror on the driver’s side. Joe smoothed the shade back before either the sheriff or the deputy glanced up and saw him.

  He walked as quietly as he could toward the open door and got to it as a series of heavy knocks shook the ground floor entrance door. Sollis shouted, “Bud Longbrake? You in there?”

  They planned to come up.

  Joe took another quick look outside in the hallway to make sure there wasn’t another door he could escape through. There wasn’t. He was trapped in Bud’s apartment and the only way out was down the stairs the sheriff and deputy were about to come up.

  The uncomfortable feeling he’d had that morning bloomed into full-fledged guilt and dread. Technically, he’d entered a private residence without a warrant, and officially he had no reason to be there. He could even be charged with breaking and entering since he’d forced the door open. Although he didn’t know where Bud was or why he was gone, Joe could imagine the sheriff adding on charges and framing the incident as an attempt to hide or destroy evidence, or saying the reason Joe was there in the first place was to intimidate or tamper with the key prosecution witness.

  Which wasn’t all that far from the truth, he thought. Although from his standpoint, he simply wanted to ask Bud if he’d really been the informant. And why.

  Joe hesitated for a second before shutting the door. He considered greeting the sheriff on the way down with a story about trying to find his ex-father-in-law. But why, if it wasn’t related to the case? Joe was the lousiest liar he knew, and he just couldn’t do it.

  At that instant, Sollis opened the door downstairs and Joe started to ease Bud’s door closed. The hinges moaned again, but he hoped the sound was drowned out by Sollis himself, who was telling the sheriff, “Damned if it wasn’t open. Now where’s his place? Top of the stairs?”

  Feeling sweat bead beneath his hatband, Joe eased the door shut and prayed the dead latch would spring back and catch again in the switch plate without a sound. He heard a dull click as it locked, and he let out a long ragged breath and stepped back.

  He looked around Bud’s apartment. Would he try and hide? Did the sheriff have permission to enter? A key?

  The voices of the sheriff and deputy rose as they climbed the stairs. Once they made the landing, Joe recognized McLanahan’s labored breathing.

  “Well, knock, damn it,” the sheriff said between gulps of air.

  Joe waited, facing the door.

  Sollis pounded on the door so hard Joe’s heart raced. He wondered if the sheer force of the deputy’s blows would open the door again.

  “Bud Longbrake?” Sollis shouted. “You in there? This is Deputy Sollis and Sheriff McLanahan from the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department. The county attorney wants you to move to a safe place until you testify.”

  Joe tried to keep his breath calm and to stay quiet. Did they have a warrant to enter? If so, he was doomed.

  “Too much information,” McLanahan admonished his employee in a low growl. “Just get him to open the damn door.”

  More fierce pounding. It rattled the empty bottles on the coffee table. Joe watched the doorknob assembly, just waiting for it to give way.

  “Bud, open the door,” Sollis boomed. Then, after a beat, his voice not as direct, “I don’t think he’s in there, boss.”

  “Then where the hell is he?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Jesus-if we lost him. ”

  “I could force it,” Sollis said. “This lock don’t look like much. We could say we heard something inside and thought he might be injured or something.”

  “That would give us PC,” McLanahan said, but by the tone of his voice he wasn’t encouraging Sollis to do it. Yet.

  “Naw,” McLanahan said after a few seconds. “If we damage the door and he isn’t in there, it’ll look bad. We can be back here with a warrant in an hour and open it up. But I think you’re right-he isn’t home.”

  “Then where is he?” Sollis asked.

  “You dope,” McLanahan said. “I just asked you that question. You think I’ve got an answer between a minute ago and now?”

  “No, boss.”

  “Holy hell in a handbasket.”

  Joe took a deep relieved breath and let it out through his nose.

  “Tell you what,” McLanahan said. “You stay here in case he shows up. I’ll call the county attorney and get the warrant going and bring it back.”

  Joe thought it interesting that Bud had left without informing the sheriff.

  The sheriff’s boots descended the stairs. After a beat, the sheriff called up to his deputy, “We’ve got to find that son-of-a-bitch, and fast. Without him, we’re up shit creek without a paddle.”

  “Ten-four,” Sollis said.

  Joe waited ten minutes. He thought Sollis might disobey orders or let his curiosity get the best of him and force the door open himself. If he did. Joe didn’t know what the hell he’d do if he did. Remarkably, Sollis stayed out. Joe could hear the deputy sigh with boredom, then tunelessly hum the melody for “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places.” Joe tiptoed back into Bud’s bedroom and shut the door. He went to the farthest corner and dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called 9-1-1.

  When the emergency dispatcher answered, he mumbled, “Hey, I just left a game at Sandvick’s and some old rancher was there raising hell. I think something’s wrong with him and you need to send somebody.”

  “Please identify yourself,” the dispatcher said coldly. Joe recognized her voice. He hoped like hell she didn’t recognize his.

  “Ain’t important,” Joe said. “Just tell the cops Bud Longbrake is gonna get himself hurt if he doesn’t learn to watch his mouth.” And with that, he shut the phone.

  Joe went back to the door and listened. A minute later, he heard Sollis’ radio sputter to life. The dispatcher relayed what he’d told her. She referred to Joe as “an unknown party.”

  Sollis said, “Sandvick’s? That’s right up the street from where I am now.”

  “Should I send backup?”

  Sollis snorted. “I can handle that old coot. Just let the sheriff know we’ve got our man.”

  With that, Sollis’ boots thundered down the stairway.

  Joe again crosse
d the room and parted the blinds. The deputy was crossing Main Street on foot, stopping a car on the street with his outstretched palm while talking on his radio. Sollis reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street and strode purposefully up the block toward Sandvick’s Taxidermy. As he did, he watched his own official reflection in the glass of the retail stores.

  Joe let himself out and let the door latch behind him.

  16

  Joe gathered himself up, fitted his hat on tight, and strolled out of the passageway onto the sidewalk. The morning sun was burning off the fog and the clouds were dissipating. Even in town, the air smelled of pine and fragrant sage from the light rain that morning. It would likely be a nice day after all. He wished he didn’t feel so proud of himself for his deceptive maneuvers.

  Buck Timberman was behind the bar wearing reading glasses and working on a liquor order when Joe walked into the Stockman’s. Timberman was in his eighties, but was still an imposing presence. A lean and ropey six-foot, Timberman was a half-blind former basketball and rodeo team coach who took over the bar on retirement twenty-five years before and hadn’t missed a day since. The barman was stoic and soft-spoken and was everybody’s friend because he never made a public judgment or offered an opinion on anything. When customers rattled on about one thing or another-water rights, guns, dogs, neighbors, politics, sports-Timberman nodded slightly as if he agreed and went about his business. Joe had always admired the man.

  “Buck,” he said by way of greeting. He sat down on a stool and put his hat crown-down on the bar next to Timberman’s order form.

  “Joe,” Timberman said. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  “Black?”

  “Yup.”

  Timberman poured and went back to his order. Joe checked out the early-morning clientele. Ranch hands, mostly, four of them clustered at the far end of the bar sipping red beer. Keith Bailey, an imposing ex-highway patrolman who worked part-time manning the entrance gate to the exclusive Eagle Mountain Club resort up on the hill, eyed Joe with a suspicion born of decades of open-road encounters. Joe nodded toward him and Bailey nodded back. An older couple were in the back in a high-backed booth, talking softly and holding hands across the table, likely making up after an argument. The Stockman’s Bar opened at seven in the morning. The tradition had started eighty years before, when local ranchers and cowboys wanted a beer or two after calving all night, or a red beer (tomato juice, Tabasco, and draft) to nurse a hangover.

  “How you been, Buck?” Joe asked, after blowing on the coffee. The coffee was hot but weak, little more than tinted water. Timberman didn’t want to encourage his customers to drink coffee, particularly.

  “Getting on.”

  “Business good?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  Joe smiled. The rumor was Buck Timberman was one of the wealthiest men in Twelve Sleep County. He worked long hours, spent little, took care of his customers, and bought and stockpiled gold with the profits. Little of his money was spent on new clothing. Timberman wore his usual faded cowboy shirt and frayed red suspenders.

  “I’m wondering about my ex-father-in-law, Bud Longbrake,” Joe said. “Has he been in recently?”

  Timberman gestured toward an empty stool two spaces away from Joe.

  Joe waited for more, but Bud went back to his figures. That was it.

  “Buck?”

  “That’s his stool,” Timberman said, indicating a space next to Keith Bailey. “He enjoys his bourbon.”

  Joe nodded. “I was wondering if he’d been in lately.”

  Timberman shrugged, as if he wasn’t sure. Then said, “Most days.”

  “Was he here yesterday?”

  Timberman placed the tip of his finger on a scrawl so he wouldn’t lose his place, and looked up. “Don’t think so. Day before, maybe.”

  “When does he come in? I mean, what time of day?”

  Timberman’s face told Joe nothing beyond what he said, which was, “He’s usually here by now.”

  “So you haven’t seen him this morning?”

  Timberman shook his head. He nodded toward Bailey, who shrugged as well.

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Could be.”

  Joe sighed and smiled. This is why everyone trusted Buck Timberman.

  Joe leaned in toward the barman, speaking very low. “Did Bud talk a lot about his ex-wife Missy?”

  Timberman looked away, but nodded almost imperceptibly. He didn’t want the cowboys at the end of the bar to see him answering the game warden’s questions. Now Joe understood.

  “You heard what happened, right?”

  Another nod.

  “Do you think Bud hated her so much he’d try to pin something on her?”

  Timberman shrugged noncommittally.

  Joe said, “I’m not asking you to tell me something I’d ask you to repeat in court. I’m just trying to sort things out for myself. I know Bud to be a kind man, but pretty mule-headed at times. He’d focus on things until they got done. I remember when I worked for him, he’d bring up the same section of loose fence at breakfast every day to his ranch hands until I’d go out and fix it myself just to shut him up. I’m wondering if he was focused on getting back at Missy.”

  “He did have some choice things to say about her from time to time,” Timberman conceded.

  “Me, too,” Joe said.

  Timberman reacted to that with a slight smile-no more than a twin tug up on the corners of his mouth.

  “Word is,” Joe said, “Bud’s the star witness for the prosecution.”

  Timberman said, “Hmmmm.” Then: “Maybe I ought to cut down on my Jim Beam order. I might not be pouring as much in the next few weeks.”

  Joe finished his coffee. “Did Bud ever talk about wind turbines?”

  Timberman looked up, puzzled. “Everybody does these days.”

  Joe sighed. This was hard work getting anything out of Buck Timberman. “Did he seem to have any opinion of them either way?”

  “Not that I can recall. More?” Timberman asked, chinning over his shoulder toward the pot.

  “You’ve got more?” Joe said, not meaning coffee.

  “Not really.”

  “Then I’m fine.”

  Joe slid off the stool and put a five on the bar.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Timberman said, waving at the bill as if trying to get it out of his sight.

  Joe left it, and said, “If you see him, give me a call, will you? My wife is pretty concerned about what’s going on.”

  The slight nod. Then, “He lives upstairs. I’ve rented the rooms to him for a while. He pays in cash and on time, and there haven’t been any complaints.”

  “Does he entertain guests?” Joe asked.

  “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

  “No one recently, then?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thanks for the coffee, Buck.”

  “Anytime, Joe.”

  Joe hesitated before opening the door to go outside. He glanced up the street, to see Deputy Sollis striding back angrily from Sandvick’s Taxidermy, barking on his radio.

  “One thing,” Buck Timberman said softly, and Joe realized he was talking to him.

  Joe turned and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Timberman had left his order on the counter and stood in the crook of the bar close to Joe and as far away from the four cowboys as possible.

  “Nice-looking lady in here a week ago. She and Bud seemed to get on pretty well. She said her name was Patsy. Don’t remember a last name.”

  Joe shook his head, not following.

  “Before she met Bud, she asked me if I knew where she could find your friend.”

  Joe felt his scalp tighten. “Nate Romanowski?”

  “That’s the one,” Buck said.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing to tell as far as I’m concerned.”

  Joe nodded. Then he got it. “You said she got al
ong with Bud, though. Think she asked him about Nate?”

  “Couldn’t say for sure,” Timberman said, but Joe could read between the lines.

  “Interesting,” Joe said. “Will you let me know if Patsy comes back?”

  Timberman nodded his slight nod before turning and going back to his order form. Cutting down on his order of Jim Beam.

  Justice of the Peace Tilden Mouton held the preliminary hearing. After a recap of the charges and the evidentiary testimony by Sheriff McLanahan but without an appearance by Bud Longbrake, Mouton bound Missy over for arraignment before Judge Hewitt on Monday.

  AUGUST 27

  Funeral by funeral, theory advances.

  — PAUL A. SAMUELSON

  17

  The funeral for Earl Alden took place at the Twelve Sleep County Cemetery on a warm still morning. It was a small affair.

  Joe wore his dark suit and stood with Marybeth, April, and Lucy in the sun. As the Rev. Maury Brown read the eulogy about a man he’d never met, Joe felt a drip of sweat snake down his spine beneath his shirt. He looked up and took in the scene around them.

  The cemetery took up ten acres on the top of a hill west of Saddlestring. From where they stood, he could see the cottonwood-choked river below them, the town itself, and the Eagle Mountain Club perched on a bluff on the other side of the river. Insects burred in the turf, and while he was looking, a big grasshopper landed on the top of the casket with a thump. The air was ripe with pollen and the dank smell of dug-up dirt. A massive granite monument had been delivered to the site on a pallet. It was nearly as high as the large tarped mound of fresh dirt it sat next to.

  Missy stood across from the casket and the hole in the ground. Small and black and veiled, she was flanked by Marcus Hand on one side and Sheriff McLanahan on the other. After the funeral, she’d be returned home on bail. A small knot of ranch hands and construction workers from the Thunderhead Ranch stood together apart from the other mourners. Joe wondered if they were there to pay their respects or to find out when and if they’d get their last paychecks.