The Dark Horse

by Craig Johnson

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the armrests of the chair. “You still haven’t answered the big question. Did she kill him?”

  She sighed deeply and stood, looking down at me. “Are you from around here?”

  “Hereabouts.”

  “There’s a myth about this place.”

  I didn’t try to hide my confusion. “This town?”

  “No.” She crossed to the dresser, fetched the toolbox, and stood there holding it between herself and Dog again. “More like the West, or maybe it’s the world.”

  “Maybe it’s my head; I’m not following.”

  “The myth is that you’re supposed to be independent—you know, cowboy-up and all that stuff?”

  “Yep?”

  “I don’t think they mean for that to apply to everybody, especially women.” She nudged toward the door, but Dog didn’t move. She gave me a side glance. “You wanna call him off?”

  I made the same noise through my teeth, picked up the bottle of aspirin, and patted the swale of the bed; he was on it in an instant, wagging and smiling. “He was never on.” I extended the plastic bottle toward her. “You want your aspirin?”

  She held the door, and I watched her think about what she was going to say and what she wasn’t; then she spoke again, her voice carrying with the soft buzz of the yellow bug fluorescents outside. “Definitely local, or Billings; how else could you have the dog? Either way, you’re a dark horse, that’s for sure.” She closed the door, and I listened to her footsteps in a pair of leather sandals as they became a diminishing echo on the wooden walkway.

  In town seven hours, and I’d already been made by an associate degree.

  October 20: seven days earlier, noon.

  I had rested the DCI file on my desk.

  “What the fuck are you looking for?”

  “She was diagnosed with chronic insomnia.”

  “So?” Vic came in and sat in the chair next to Saizarbitoria, who was eating his lunch on his lap. The Basquo was one of the newer additions to our little high-plains contingency and was still attempting to get over having one of his kidneys filleted only a couple of months ago.

  I was easing the young man back, but the going was slow after his injury. I’d assigned him court duty and a number of other less strenuous jobs, but it seemed as if a certain light was missing from the Basquo’s eyes, as if the dark at his pupils was overtaking the spark that had lived there.

  Sancho wiped some gourmet mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth with an index finger. His wife, Marie, packed his lunch every day and made what looked like incredible sandwiches. He took a sip of his Mountain Dew. “She was prescribed both Ambien and Lunesta.”

  I returned to the faxed sheets in the report as Ruby appeared in the doorway. “Joe Meyer is on line one.”

  We all looked at each other—it wasn’t every day you got a call from the state attorney general’s office, let alone from the ranking officer himself. I picked up the receiver and punched the button. “Hey, Joe—”

  “What the heck are you up to?”

  I liked Joe; he was old-school Wyoming and one of the few appointed individuals in the state who still exuded integrity. “I’m watching one of my musketeers eat his lunch on his lap and am thinking about how I’ve gotten to the age where skipping a few meals won’t hurt me.”

  It was quiet on the line for a moment. “Since when did your jurisdiction encompass parts of Campbell County?”

  I leaned back in my chair, careful to slip my foot under the edge of the desk so that I wouldn’t flip over backward; a safety measure I’d adopted after hard-won knowledge. “Aw, c’mon Joe. I’m just curious.”

  “Well, I’ve got two investigators down here at DCI that are as mad as a couple of wet hens.” I looked at the faxed report Saizarbitoria had requested from the Division of Criminal Investigation. “They want to know why it is the celebrated Walt Longmire has taken such a sudden interest in this case.”

  Vic watched me with more than a trace of amusement on her face. “Well, I’ve got her in my holding cell for the next two weeks and—”

  “I’m going to have a word with Sandy Sandberg about that.”

  “Now, Joe.”

  There was a loud sigh from the state capital. “You and I both know that’s why the Powder River dry-gulcher sent that woman over to you.” The thought had occurred to me. “Haven’t you had enough to do lately?”

  In the last twelve months, Joe had run interference for me with the Department of Justice, the Philadelphia Police Department, and the California attorney general’s office. It was my turn to sigh.

  “Maybe you should stick a little closer to home in the next few weeks.”

  I set the folder on my desk. “I was born in that Powder River country.”

  “I know that, Walt.” It was silent on both ends of the line. “You know we have the highest regard for your abilities here in Cheyenne.”

  “Have you met her?” It was quiet again. “Mary Barsad, have you met her?”

  “No, I can’t say that . . .”

  “I have, and I don’t think she did it.”

  It was the longest silence of the conversation, and I sat there waiting. My two deputies stopped chewing and watched me as I argued with the highest sworn official in Wyoming law enforcement. “Walt, you need to be careful. I got another call from the Department of Justice, wanting to know in exactly what capacity you were involved with this case.”

  “What?”

  “I told them to go piss up a rope, but in state there are some folks who’re thinking about pouring some serious money into Kyle Straub’s coffers—television ads, radio, and the like. I know that it seems like neither of these things has anything to do with the price of cattle in Crook County, but if you’re going to stick your neck out for that woman, you better know what you’re risking.”

  I looked at my two deputies, one of whom I was hoping to hand the reins off to in two years. “What the hell does the FBI have to do with all of this, other than that before he was dead they were spreading him over the country like a venereal disease.”

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but there’s been talk about the federal marshal’s position that’s coming up.”

  I laughed; the idea was ridiculous. “Joe, I’m not even sure I want to be sheriff of Absaroka County anymore.”

  “All I’m saying is that if you’re going to do this, you better make sure you do it right.”

  “Well, that’s pretty much how I approach all my investigations.” I looked at the floor. “Is this what you called to tell me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Well, I appreciate you looking out for my back, but you can tell anybody that’ll listen, including the Department of Justice, that my political ambitions begin and end here, in Absaroka County.”

  “I’ll do that, but in the meantime you watch yourself. All right?”

  “I will, Joe. Tell Mary I said hey.”

  “You bet.”

  I hung up, and my two deputies stared at me—Vic, of course, was the first to speak. “What the hell was that all about?”

  I studied the phone and thought about the conversation I thought I’d just had. “I believe I just had a warning shot from the Department of Justice fired across my bow.” They both studied me, but I changed the subject. “Ambien and Lunesta?”

  Sancho nudged his ball cap back. “What?”

  “I’m assuming they’re sleeping pills?”

  Vic glanced at Sancho and then at me, unwilling to let it go. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Nothing—just a bunch of political foolishness.” I picked the file back up and began studying the notations in the margin. “What’s this stuff about the FDA?”

  Saizarbitoria glanced at Vic, who continued to watch me, and then spoke. “Ambien was pulled by the FDA as unsafe, and then they suggested stronger warnings. They’re called sedative-hypnotics and they have a side effect known as ‘com
plex sleep-related behaviors.’ ”

  “You hear about this stuff in Rawlins?” The Basquo had been a corrections officer in the state’s extreme risk unit.

  “The Internet. When we got the report from DCI, I looked it up. Technically, it occurs during the slow-wave or deep stages of nonrapid eye movement sleep. The subject is usually incoherent though the eyes remain open, and there are cases where people dress, undress, cook, eat, and even drive cars—completely unaware.”

  I sat forward. “Wait, you have a computer?” Sancho had taken the office next to Vic’s but kept his door shut most of the time, an act I felt was somewhat antisocial, considering I didn’t even have a doorknob. I looked at Vic. “He has a computer?”

  She shrugged. “He knows how to use one.”

  “I could learn.” I studied the file. “Do you need a prescription for this stuff?”

  Sancho picked up his sandwich again. “Yes, but there were about twenty-seven million prescriptions written last year.”

  I flipped the sheets but couldn’t see anything about any prescribed medications. “Where did Mary Barsad get hers?”

  “There’s no mention of it in the report, but it was in her bloodstream.”

  I looked up at the Basquo; it was important information, but the young man seemed uninterested. “You figured that out from the blood tests?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “At any point, did you call down to Cheyenne and ask the investigators at DCI about this?”

  “Yeah, they seemed pretty upset that they hadn’t caught it.”

  I had gone back to the report. “I bet they did.”

  5

  October 21: six days earlier, afternoon.

  It had meant a great deal that Eric Boss had driven down from Billings just to have this conversation.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, Walt, but you’d be doing me a big favor. We’re into this one to the tune of close to nine million dollars, and if there’s any funny business I just want to make sure we’re not the ones footing the bill.”

  I sipped my coffee and slid it across the counter for Dorothy to refill. “What, exactly, is it you want me to do?”

  The insurance man pushed the bone-white, cattleman-style hat back on his head, and I noticed the golden crucifix hat pin that glinted in competition with Boss’s grin. “Well, nothing illegal.” He shifted the smile to the chief cook and bottle washer. “How good’s the pie today, honey?”

  She looked back at him more than just a little askance as she poured coffee. “Are you trying to get our sheriff in trouble?”

  “Nope.” He picked up his mug and winked at her from over the edge. “Just got a tough job and need a tough guy for it.”

  She placed the pot back on one of the burners and dumped the grounds from the other, readying it for a refill. “You get him hurt, and you’re gonna know what tough is.”

  Boss ignored her and reached down to pull up a leather satchel that was engraved with the words COWBOYS FOR CHRIST across the hand-tooled leather. He retrieved a thick file from the bag and put the pile of papers on the counter between us. “You know me, Walt, I don’t mind paying on a righteous claim, but I need to know if this one’s on the level.”

  “Don’t you have investigators who do this sort of thing?”

  “We do, and the last one I sent barely escaped with his life.” He sipped his coffee. “They are a regular bunch of outlaws out there. The law of the land has left Absalom, and I need somebody to go out and reintroduce it.”

  “To the tune of nine million dollars.”

  “Exactly.”

  “A feast is made for laughter, and wine makes life merry, but money is the answer for everything?” I didn’t see any reason to tell the insurance man about the phone call with Sandy Sandberg or the one with Attorney General Joe Meyer, for that matter, figuring there was nothing like getting offers for more marching orders on a march you’d already decided to make. “Ecclesiastes 10:18.” I slid the folder beside my mug and looked up at the blond man’s nonplussed face. “Who’s the beneficiary in all this?”

  It took an instant for Boss to respond. “Barsad’s got a brother in Youngstown, Ohio, who sounded on the phone like he was just as glad to hear Wade was dead.”

  “He hasn’t shown up?”

  “Nope, but I don’t think there was any love lost between ’em.”

  “What’d he say about the wife, Mary?”

  He thought about it. “Didn’t say anything.”

  “No questions about why she did it or how?” Boss shook his head. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Some, but they sounded estranged, so maybe he never met the wife.” Vic swung open the door of the Busy Bee and sat on the stool beside me. Boss glanced at me and then at Vic. “Hello, young lady.”

  I continued to study the file without looking up. “It’s all right, she’s with me.”

  Taking his chances, Boss ordered the pumpkin chiffon pie and looked back at Vic. “We were just discussing that people do all kinds of horrible things to each other, young lady, but I figure that’s between them and God. I’m more concerned with the work at hand.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Vic nodding. “Amen.”

  I flipped to the contact sheet. There were a couple of numbers for Wade’s brother—work, home, and a cell. “You mind if I give him a call?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I read the figures and tallied up. “So, you think he burned all those horses with the intention of insurance fraud?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d say it was pretty telling of his character if he did so.”

  I flipped some pages. “The problem being DCI didn’t find any signs of arson?”

  The insurance man grinned in Vic’s direction, the effect being halfway between a snake-oil salesman and a snake. He watched her closely as Dorothy poured her a cup of coffee. She doctored it with the requisite cream and four sugars. “Exactly.”

  “You want whipped cream on that pie?”

  He was still looking at Vic when he answered. “Yes, ma’am. That would be fine.”

  I followed the insurance man’s eyes and then gazed up to the crucifix on his hat. “Maybe your boss was trying to hit him with a lightning bolt and missed.”

  His face colored a little, embarrassed at getting caught staring at my deputy. “My boss doesn’t damn well miss.” He leaned forward and tipped the brim of his hat to Vic. “Excuse my French, young lady.”

  The coffee cup had stalled out, just in front of her lips. “Yeah, well, you watch your fucking mouth.”

  October 28, 12:48 A.M.

  I lay there listening to the loud voices and country music and thought about how much energy it was going to take to put my clothes on, go next door to room number three, and tell them to turn it down and quiet up.

  There wasn’t a lot of space with the two of us on the bed, but the beast had insisted. He was sprawled across the bottom, so I’d attempted sleep with my feet hanging off the edge diagonally. It didn’t work, so I made use of the only reading material I could find in the room.

  I stuck an index finger in the Bible I’d found in the bedside drawer, left for travelers in need of salvation via the Gideons; Absalom was seemingly prime territory. There was a loud thump against the wall, and Dog sat up at the end of the bed, a low growl beginning to emit from his pulled-back lips.

  “Easy, easy—” I took a deep breath and rolled my head over so that I could see the partially melted clock-radio’s plutonium-like green numbers.

  12:52 A.M.

  The headache was still lingering, and I started thinking that I should’ve gotten some of Mary Barsad’s medication myself. The party in the next room had started at a little after midnight, and an hour later the soirée was in full swing.

  I retrieved my index finger, stared at 2 Samuel, and read aloud: “And unto David were sons born in Hebron: and his first born was Amnon, of Ahinoam the Jezreelitess, and his second, Chileab, of Abigail the wife
of Nebal the Carmelite, and the third, Absalom the son of Maacah the daughter of Talmai king of Geshur—” I paused and looked at Dog’s big brown eyes. “Are you getting all this?”

  His head lowered back to the stained bedcover.

  “That’s a lot of begetting.” I skipped ahead to the juicy part. “Absalom was riding upon his mule, and the mule went under the branches of a great oak and his hair caught fast in the branches and he was left hanging between heaven and earth.” I nudged the beast with my foot, but he ignored me. “That’s what you get for riding a mule.” I continued my theatrics. “And Joab thrust three darts into the heart of Absalom while he hung, still alive in the oak tree. And ten young men, Joab’s armor-bearers, surrounded Absalom and struck him, and killed him.” As if the three darts hadn’t done the job. I nudged Dog again, but he didn’t move. “Seems like all they do is beget and slaughter people in this book. In the Old Testament part, at least.”

  The volume of the radio next door increased. It was a station out of Durant, and I recognized Steve Lawrence’s voice as he introduced the next song. “This is an oldie but a goodie, ‘Cattle Call,’ from that Tennessee plowboy, Mr. Eddy Arnold.”

  I remembered that it had been one of my mother’s favorites. A fellow by the name of Tex Owens had written it while waiting to do a radio broadcast. It had begun snowing in Kansas City that night, slowly at first, but then it had blotted out his view of the buildings across the street.

  1:05 A.M.

  Owens had grown up on a ranch, not unlike myself, and had done a lot of cattle feeding in the winter; knew what it was like for the animals out in the weather, the wet and cold. He’d felt sympathy for all those animals and just wished he could call them all in and break up a little corn for them to eat.

  1:06 A.M.

  Thirty minutes later he had written the music and four verses. I could still see the little 45 turning on my mother’s suitcase of a record player on hot afternoons in August. I was in high school and thought the tune one of the corniest things I’d ever heard, referring to it as goat-yodeling music. My mother knew I hated the song, and so she played it constantly. She might have been the reason that I was considered by some as a bit of a wiseguy.