I almost drop my bottle of water when I recognize the voice of the sixth caller.
“Hey, bro,” it says. “Bet you're surprised to hear from me. I want you to come down and see me. I guess you know where I'm at, and I'm not going anywhere at the moment. Can't tell you how to get here though—I came by bus.” He chuckles. “Don't bother to RSVP, you're on the visitors' list. Hasta luego, Ant.”
The message ends but I don't hang up. This is the first time I've heard from him since he went to prison two years ago. He's refused my calls, refused my visits, refused to even talk with our parents. Roberto doesn't want us to see him locked in a cage. After a moment the mechanized voice that manages the messaging system is threatening to disconnect me if I don't press a button. I let her hang up on me.
To avoid having to explain the shock that is probably evident on my face, I dial one of the numbers Kristi brought me. It's the direct line of Heller's probation officer for his possession conviction in Teton County. I smiled when I first saw the number among the papers she gave me, and that she also had put down the PO's home number. Kristi is known as being very resourceful, among other things.
I don't expect to get a live voice, as POs are notorious for screening their calls. I'm not sure if this is due to being overworked or if they simply come to dread meeting with the criminals whose lives they are supposed to manage. So I'm surprised that a real voice answers, but predictably it sounds harried. I look at my watch and realize that the PO is probably getting ready to leave for the night.
“Jim Deagle. What do you need?”
I introduce myself quickly, slurring over my name, and ask about Billy Heller.
“That guy,” Deagle says. He sighs and sounds irritated. “His case was transferred to me three months ago. And I haven't seen him yet except for in the climbing magazines. He's something of a rock-climbing star, and I do a little of that too.”
I'm not at all disappointed that the PO didn't pick up on my name. My brief fame in the climbing community was years ago and never very large. I'm worn out from my long day and don't feel like a discussion about climbing. And I'm even happier he doesn't seem to recognize my name from the Cheyenne shooting.
“Is that why you filed a revo on him? No-shows?”
“That too, but mainly because he picked up a new charge. It's irrelevant now—I filed to withdraw the petition today.”
“Why?”
“Our now-famous County Attorney down in Laramie left me a voicemail saying he's dismissed the distribution charge. And we let our guys get away with five no-shows before we nail 'em.”
“How come you let them get away with not showing up so many times?”
“It's procedure, Agent. We're understaffed and underfunded here, just like everywhere else. We can't go to court every time someone doesn't show or drops a hot UA,” he says, meaning a drug-tainted urine analysis.
“Can you tell me anything about this guy?”
“Well, his file shows a bunch of charges and some convictions for assault. But he's never done any real time, just overnighters. I got a copy of the police report for the most recent charge—the one that was dumped—and it says he was caught driving around with a couple of cases of Sudafed. Guy must've had a bad cold! Anyway, they charged him for attempt to manufacture meth, but Karge let it slide just the other day. Most of what I know about him is from reading those climbing magazines my wife got me a subscription to last Christmas. He's getting on in years, but is still a great athlete. To tell you the truth, Billy Heller's sort of a hero of mine, except for the brawling and druggy stuff, of course.”
I take Kristi to a Mexican restaurant called Café Ole that's just a few blocks from the Holiday Inn, on the other side of the interstate. All the reporters must be busy writing their stories or commenting in front of their cameras, as the restaurant is nearly empty when we enter. We sit at a small table in the center of a large room crowded with linoleum tables. A waitress brings us both Coronas with wedges of lime shoved down through their necks. Kristi giggles when the young waitress asks me for my ID, and then laughs outright when she's asked for hers. After we place an order and drink a second beer she has a question for me.
“People are saying you might be leaving DCI. Maybe police work altogether. Is there any truth in that?”
“Who's saying that?” It really is an impressive conjecture, I think. I hadn't discussed my plans with anyone.
“Pretty much everyone. They're saying that the shooting and lawsuit last year really screwed you up.”
Made to smile by her directness, I ask, “Is this conversation just between us or will it be added to the rumor mill?”
“Just us. Cross my heart.” She traces with her fingertips from chin to stomach, then across her breasts.
I take a long pull on the Corona while looking at her. “I guess you could say that I'm a little disillusioned.”
“With carrying a badge and gun, honey?”
“Yeah. And all the legal, political bullshit.”
When I started I just wanted to go after the bad guys. Especially the drug dealers, the greedy, careless men who hooked my brother like a hungry trout. I wanted to catch them and help the prosecutors punish them. But in my six years as a state cop I've learned it isn't quite that simple. Catching them is fun; it's the easy part. But once you do, they don't follow the rules. They pull guns and shoot at you. And even when you finally take them down, a fast-talking lawyer, a friend of the judge, springs them on a low bond within hours. They're back to selling it the next night, threatening the witnesses against them. And months later, when they finally come to court, if they come to court at all, the lawyers scream about how you had no reasonable suspicion to investigate. No probable cause to make the arrest. That you never read them their rights. Even when everyone in the courtroom knows it's a lie. When I discovered early on that law enforcement is just a game with rules more complex than cricket, I studied the game and learned to play like an all-star. But it doesn't do any good.
The law says that when someone is guilty of selling meth, it's a four-to-ten-year sentence in prison. But I've learned that the game is one-sided; the rules are enforced against the police but not against the accused. I've yet to see someone get four-to-ten for the crime. The cases are pleaded to lesser charges with short sentences and useless probation. Or the prosecutor is scared or lazy and just lets it slip away. Or, the times I've bullied the deputy county attorneys into taking a case to trial, even when the conviction enters, the judge will simply reduce the sentence on his own. And even if they eventually go to prison, they're paroled to a halfway house after serving a quarter of their sentence. It's really a lousy game. It shouldn't be a game at all. And I'm tired of playing.
But more recently I've also seen it from the other side, when I was so close to being charged with three counts of murder myself. I was truly lucky that McGee had blustered the office into withholding the charges and waiting to see how the civil suit shakes out. But I wonder, my own self-interest aside, is that justice?
An evening crowd is flowing into the restaurant. They are the same reporters and commentators I saw earlier lounging by the pool. Many of them stare at me quite frankly. I guess that word has gotten around about who I am and what I did. The attention makes me feel uncomfortable. And I'm feeling both wired and stressed from the day's events.
Kristi folds her hands under her chin with her elbows on the table and doesn't say anything for a while. Her eyes probe mine, then I see them cut along the scar that runs down to my lips.
“I know about your brother,” she suddenly tells me.
I say nothing, just stare at her.
“He called the office yesterday, wanting your number. Uh-oh, I shouldn't have mentioned him. I can see it on your face. Now you're mad. Listen, I was just curious about you, so I borrowed your file. I didn't mean anything by it. I just know he's in jail, for manslaughter.”
I keep on staring, so she shuts up. Just as my brother wants no one to see him in a cage, I c
an't stand the thought of him being there. It's something that I don't speak about, that I don't think about. He has always had enough energy for ten ordinary mortals. When he was climbing, it took the biggest faces in the mountains to dissipate it and make his energy safe. When he was using drugs, it took enormous quantities to satisfy and calm him. The thought of all that explosive energy contained in a small steel cell makes me feel both claustrophobic and sick. But the cop in me knows that a cell is exactly where my brother belongs.
After a few minutes of silence, I wave the waitress over to ask for the bill and a take-home box for Oso.
It's just a short drive back to the Holiday Inn, but it's made long by the silence. In the lot I turn off my engine next to her car.
When I start to open my door, she says, “I'm sorry, Anton. I shouldn't have brought that up. I'm really sorry!”
“Are you okay to drive back to Cheyenne?”
“I think so. I only had two beers.”
For a moment longer we remain in the Land Cruiser, each of us with a hand on the door releases. Her other hand plays with the hem of her skirt a few inches above her knees. Between us hangs Oso's massive head. He is gazing down at the Styrofoam box on the seat between the secretary and me, drooling. She looks at him, the box, then out the windshield, and says, “But I wouldn't mind staying either.”
I take a deep breath and with my elbow push Oso's head back into the rear seat. “I think you're a kind and beautiful woman, Kristi. And probably just what I need tonight. But it may not be what I need tomorrow, because I really don't know what I'm doing right now.”
She kisses my cheek. Then she kisses the dog's and pulls on the door handle.
After she drives away, I remember that I'd never picked up the dog food. So when I start the engine again, Oso is concerned. He's ready to get at what's in the box. He doesn't have the foresight to see that he'll be hungry again come morning and I'm unable to explain. Driving north on Third Street, I stop at an all-night convenience store. There's a patrol car in the lot. I consider driving away and finding another store, but through the window I see that it isn't Bender chatting with the girl at the counter above the racks of cigarettes and candy. So I park and go in.
I lift a twenty-pound bag of lamb and rice kibble to my shoulder and walk to the counter. The young officer there politely steps aside while I pay. The officer gives me a closer look when he catches the flash of the badge in my wallet, and I turn to acknowledge him with a smile before leaving. Then I see the name Knight stenciled on the silver plate pinned to the patrolman's chest.
“Deputy Knight. Hi, I'm Antonio Burns, Special Agent with DCI. We spoke earlier today.”
The rookie seems startled to see me. I guess that Knight has heard all about what happened earlier in the day. Maybe he was even one of the officers there outside the pet store—I hadn't been paying attention. After a moment we shake hands.
“Call me Dave,” he says.
“Actually, Dave, I thought of another question or two. Do you mind talking for a minute?”
Knight looks like he doesn't want to, but says, “Sure, but just for a minute. I'm supposed to be on duty right now.” To the girl behind the counter he says, “Be right back.”
We walk outside and I drop the bag of dog chow on the hood of the Land Cruiser. “I forgot to ask if there was a rope hanging off that wall.”
“Wall?”
“You know, the cliff above the girl.”
“Uh, no. I really can't remember. It was still dark when I was there. Like I told you before, I was just there to see if there was anything medical I could do.”
“What about that guy who was supposed to be up there partying with Brad Karge and Kate Danning, name of Billy Heller. Do you know him?”
“The climber. Yeah, I've seen him around but never arrested him, if that's what you mean. Just chased him off a couple of times.”
“Chased him off from what?”
“Uh, nothing really. He just sometimes cruises for young girls. He's got a rep for that sort of thing. You know, getting them boozed or stoned or whatever, then taking them home. The word is that sometimes he's a little rough, and sometimes they're a little young.” Knight looks around the parking lot, then glances at his watch.
“How about Bradley Karge, the County Attorney's son? Do you know him?”
“Just seen him around, on the street, sometimes with his dad.”
“Do you know Chris Braddock?”
“I can't . . . No, sorry. Look, I really have to go before I get in trouble.”
I study him for a minute. Then I ask on a hunch, “Did someone tell you not to talk to me?”
“Uh, no.” The rookie looks me right in the eye as he says it, and then quickly glances away. “I gotta go. It was good meeting you, Agent Burns.” He walks to his car and gets in without going back into the store to finish his conversation with the girl behind the counter. I watch him all the way until his taillights disappear down Third Street.
When I get back in my truck Oso is lying on the backseat, strangely subdued. His usual position for waiting is to be crouched awkwardly in the too-small passenger seat where he can better keep an eye on me through the windshield. Something is wrong but I can't think what it is. Then the smell of the Mexican food reaches me and I see that the box is missing. I remember leaving it between the front seats. When I look into the backseat where the beast sprawls innocently, there are pieces of white Styrofoam scattered throughout the back of the truck. All appear to have been licked clean. “There sure seems to be a lot of crime and intrigue in this town,” I tell him as I reach out an arm to gently knuckle his broad head. “But I never thought you'd be a part of it too.”
TEN
LYNN DRIVES THE rutted road too fast, her old pickup truck banging over the holes and washes. Her dirty blonde hair is being sucked out the open window by the wind as she slows and looks for me at potential spots. The pickup accelerates when she sees me parked in a rocky turnout on a hill surrounded by pines. I'm sitting on my open tailgate, swinging my legs and enjoying the clean morning air. The wind still has a chilly bite to it as it blows right through my battered canvas climbing pants and old wool jacket. I've pulled a red balaclava just over the top of my ears so that the rest of the ski mask hangs limply at the back of my neck. I signal at her with a slow, circular wave.
She skids to a stop next to my ancient Land Cruiser and I hear the rip of the emergency brake being pulled. As she steps into the dirt, Oso huffs out of the woods. His shaggy fur is bristling with brambles. He goes right toward her to check her out. She's fairly short, only four inches or so over five feet, and when he sniffs her his nose is level with where her belly button is exposed beneath her sports bra and open jacket. She flinches and laughs when he follows up the cold-nosed sniff with a single rough lick before he lumbers off. She zips up her short fleece.
“Hey,” she calls to me.
“Hey yourself.”
“Just what kind of dog is that?”
“I don't really know for sure. He looks like some Tibetan mastiffs I once saw.” Then I ask where her friends are.
“They hopped out to Glenwood Canyon. Billy has some business up in Casper later. So it's just you and me, man. And I hope you brought a rack—those fuckers took mine without even asking.” She means a set of chocks, cams, and carabiners to be used for placing protection. They're devices set in the rock and connected to the rope in order to catch a fall.
Oso takes another swing by her and she grabs the thick fur on the sides of his face, kneading it. “He looks like a bear. That's what his name means, right? So what do you want to climb?”
“Right. You're the local. You choose it. Just make it a crack. I hate sport climbs.”
Lynn looks thoughtful as she pulls her long hair back into a ponytail and ties it off with a rubber band from around her wrist. With her arms behind her head, her jacket lifts, revealing her tan, flat stomach. She catches my eyes lingering there for a moment until I consciously focus o
n her face.
With a grin, she says, “How about ‘Hung Like a Horse'?”
I flip through the guidebook I'm holding and find the climb. Rated 5.11c, it's at the upper end of the difficulty scale. Especially for cracks. And especially at a place like Vedauwoo that's famous for sandbagging, or dangerously underrating climbs. It's described as a finger crack that widens to thin hands and then off-width. I look at her small, hard hands and know she'll have the advantage. I nod and say, “Okay.”
“Grab your rack and follow me,” she says and swings her own pack on her shoulders. Oso and I follow her up and over a steep slope.
She moves easily up the rocky trail, like this place is her backyard. Maybe, I think to myself, feeling so clean and fresh it has to be a dream, she is one of the earthborn spirits this place was named for. A pixie that dances across granite. A spirit born of this place, Vedauwoo.
We skip on small rocks across a stream, and she laughs as Oso simply plows through and shakes icy water on us. Beyond the stream is a meadow with grass and small white flowers that rise as high as my chest. I pause, breathing easy, and watch the wind make patterns across it. It smells faintly of a sweet perfume. Past the meadow, we hike a faint game track through the trees and between boulders until we come to an eighty-foot-high rock face that looms over us with an angle far beyond vertical. Here she drops her pack at the base of a narrow crack that splits the face.
She watches me eye it critically from the bottom on up. Even in my prime I would feel threatened by a climb like this. “Looks thin,” I say. “You lead.”
The Edge of Justice Page 10
