That could mean any number of things. The poetry manuscripts were, Sally believed, the most valuable things in the house, and probably worth stealing. Insanely, however, this burglar had so little interest in those that he’d put out a cigarette in the middle of a poem. So clearly, he was looking for something else. What?
There was an obvious answer. They worked over Edna’s story about the legend of Mac Dunwoodie’s treasure. Maybe somebody was, idiotically, hoping to find a map to a hidden fortune in Krugerrands or something. You know: six miles from Encampment, turn left at the lightningstruck tree, X marks the spot.
“But if I were somebody with a map to buried treasure, I sure would put it away carefully in a locked closet, not in a pile of randomly thrown-together boxes of every old kind of junk in the world,” said Hawk.
“Yeah, of course you would,” Sally replied, wondering once again how soon she could get into the closet herself. “And I’m sure the thought would occur to any half-wit who’d been upstairs. So he didn’t get that far. He broke in through the basement, stayed there messing with things, was interrupted by Maude, did a number on her and took off.”
“So why would he hang around in the basement long enough to dig through stuff? Judging from what Dickie told you, he must have been there a while anyway, tearing through one pile and another. Why wouldn’t he have given the house a once-over first?”
“Well, presumably he had some reason to think that what he wanted was in the basement,” she said.
“And presumably,” Hawk said very quietly, “he thought he had plenty of time.”
A chill ran down her back. “But why would he think that? I mean, I’m there all the time. For the last two months, I’ve been practically living in the basement day and night.”
Hawk answered, his mouth hardening. “He knew you were gone. He’d seen us drive off. He figured the basement was the place to start because he knows you’ve been hanging out down there.” Sally just stared at him.
Hawk knew now what he hadn’t known when he’d taken her car to Mike the mechanic back in August, when he’d dismissed the possibility that somebody would have deliberately tried to mess up her brakes. He knew more than he’d known when her car had been vandalized, again, at Halloween. He gathered her close, tipped her face up to his, looked her solemnly in the eye and said, “He’s been watching you, love.”
Chapter 18
Huck and Tom for the ’90s
“Well, isn’t this an interesting development,” Sam Branch said quietly to himself on the Tuesday morning following Thanksgiving, popping a Pepcid AC and reaching for his cashmere sport coat and his cellphone. He swung out of his spacious office in a strip mall on east Grand, told his secretary that he’d be having lunch at Hasta la Pasta!, and got into his Range Rover. He ran his hand lovingly over the leather seats, thought how life had been very, very good to him. But life was good because he was smart. A case could be made that he was lucky to be alive at all.
Only a couple of years after Dickie Langham had disappeared, Sam had made the decision to avoid any possibility of a similar fate and get out of the dope business. All through his four years at the University, and then for some time to come, he’d been Laramie’s most successful main man. But it was high time, as they said, to consider other lines of endeavor. He’d saved plenty of the money he’d made selling sinsemilla to high school kids and cocaine to those who appeared old enough to vote (he had some ethics, he liked to think), and he put his profits directly into a no-brainer real estate deal that had made so much money, so fast, that he wondered how it could possibly be legal . Turned out that not only was it legal, it was only barely taxable, thanks to the legislative effectiveness of the real estate lobby, all the way up to Congress.
Sam had always known he had a head for money, but for some time he’d had to conceal his genius for fear of being sent to prison. So he’d fashioned a persona as a sleepy-eyed, loose-living country western front-man and gigged his way around the West while putting together a very lucrative and entirely unlawful “medical practice,” as he’d liked to call it. It had been a good life—loaded a lot, more sex than you could imagine (and very nearly as much as he would have desired), plenty of time to go fishing when he felt like it. On contemplative days, he’d thought of himself as a kind of late-’70s Huck Finn.
But he’d been on the sunny side of shady for years and years, and he was, as the century neared an end, a major figure in the Wyoming business world, a rising star in the National Association of Realtors, and a serious player in the state Republican party. What kept his sordid past from catching up with him and ruining him was the fact that a surprising number of influential people had been regular customers back in those more tolerant, less efficient times.
Minutes earlier, Sam’s office phone had rung.
“Hey there,” said a hearty voice. “This is Bobby Helwigsen. We met at the legislature in Cheyenne, remember?”
Sam remembered. Helwigsen had impressed him as precisely the sort of sharp, cynical operator who might be of immense use at a future time. At thirty-three, Sam saw Bobby as a guy who wore tailored suits and had never done anything but go to school, work out at the gym, and hold a high-paying job. Probably figured he had all the angles. At thirty-three, Sam hadn’t even finished throwing up yet. Now, nearing fifty, Sam was pretty sure he had some angles little Bobby was still seeing as straight lines.
“Listen,” Bobby said. “I’m down in Laramie and I’d love to take you to lunch, chat about this and that. Any chance you’re free now?”
Sam had heard that Bobby was doing a lot of work lately for Elroy Foote, one of the richest and least balanced men in Wyoming. Bobby hadn’t been too specific about what he wanted to talk to Sam about, but Sam figured it was worth enduring a miserable couple of hours at the mercy of Hasta la Pasta! to find out.
The Unknown Soldiers had left Laramie early in the morning on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Most had headed home—to Cheyenne and Rock Springs, Douglas and Riverton, small towns and little ranches scattered across the state, where they awaited their next mobilization. Bobby badly wanted to go back to Casper, but he decided he’d better accompany Arthur Stopes, Danny Crease, and Dirtbag Robideaux, who were taking Shane Parker to Elroy Foote’s place, Freedom Ranch. Once Shane told them he’d blown the burglary, they’d known it wouldn’t be long before the cops would be after him. There weren’t that many skinheads in Laramie, and Maude had gotten a good look at him. He’d been hanging around the place a lot, and somebody might have noticed. He needed to disappear until they figured out what to do next.
Danny, predictably, wanted to kill Shane instantly. Arthur and Bobby admitted that Shane had become a liability, but they argued against executing him (as Arthur put it) because they thought they might need him later, once they’d figured out what to do. Danny grudgingly conceded that they were right, but privately told himself that if they didn’t come up with a plan quickly, he might be tempted to cut his own losses by killing them all and letting God sort them out.
Elroy had been very disturbed at the news that the break-in had failed, and seemed at a complete loss to know what to do next. They all retired to private quarters Saturday night, frustrated and, in several cases, somewhat deranged. Bobby had managed to buy himself a bottle of scotch when they’d stopped for gas, and he worked it down steadily while he tried to come up with a way to turn what was looking like a big mistake into something with potential. He looked at the tattered Boomerang clipping he’d taken from Shane, unable to figure how he’d gotten mixed up in this ridiculously low-percentage Dunwoodie mess. “I’m a goddamn lawyer,” he’d cried aloud after knocking off several inches of Johnny Walker, then reminded himself to shut up or he’d have Dirtbag or somebody coming to find out what was up. “I don’t even give a shit about Mac Dunwoodie’s treasure, the white man’s right to rule Wyoming, or, for that matter, Elroy’s property rights,” he continued, muttering to himself. “All I care about, as I’ve reminded myself all alon
g, is my bottom line. What am I doing with this crazy bunch of bozos?”
It was almost too easy.
He was a lawyer. He sued people and got paid for it. Whether he won or lost, he billed hours, and by now, he was practically writing checks on Elroy’s accounts. One of the first things he’d done when he’d started handling Elroy’s affairs was to set up a nonprofit, nonpartisan foundation, the Foote Freedom Foundation (FFF), which was mainly devoted to paying Bobby’s legal fees. What he needed was somebody for Elroy to sue, and some reason to sue them. He looked again at the clipping, thought about the weird way that Dunwoodie endowment seemed to work. Maybe old Meg had not quite been in her right mind when she’d written her will. If so, then it was worth keeping Shane alive awhile in case Bobby had to use him as plaintiff and rightful heir in a challenge to the will.
He wondered, too, if the University had any business taking that money, with all those strings attached. And apron strings at that. Hell, the old lady had practically ordered them from the grave to burn every bra in Laramie. Some chick she’d personally handpicked was getting paid to pretend women had ever done anything. It was sort of like reverse discrimination. Perhaps there might be some people at the University itself who would consider a bequest so full of conditions and stipulations and women’s liberation to be a violation of academic freedom. Naturally, Bobby didn’t care one bit about academic freedom, but there must be people who did. Talk radio was very popular in Wyoming.
He thought about Shane’s description of his idol, Dr. Bosworth, and looked again at the clipping. The history department did not appear to have profited by the bequest; perhaps there were bruised feelings. And surely he could convince Elroy to bankroll a lawsuit that was supposedly about freedom, even if it was academic. Bobby would of course make some money, but it was also a good idea to convince Elroy that this was a better strategy for shaking loose more information about the Dunwoodie fortune than trying to break into that house or, Shane’s brilliant plan, kidnapping a historian and forcing him to do research. By morning, he’d mapped the whole thing out.
“I hate this plan,” said Danny Crease. “We’re going to end up offing people anyway.”
“I like it,” said Elroy, who was the one who really counted.
“I’ll go along with it,” said Arthur. “Perhaps it will bring me closer to revelation.”
Bobby shivered.
The other Unknown Soldiers, Dirtbag blessedly included, wouldn’t have to be involved at all. Most would remain at home, on call, and Dirtbag would be detailed to assure that Shane remained quietly out of the way, at the ranch.
So right after the Thanksgiving weekend, Bobby and Arthur drove down to Laramie. They went to the history department claiming to represent a group of alumni worried that the Dunwoodie gift violated academic freedom. (There was some truth to that; Bobby had partied his way through UW law school.) They made an offer, on behalf of the concerned alumni, to seek legal counsel in the matter, and to think about bringing suit on behalf of similarly concerned faculty members.
They didn’t even have to sell Bosworth—he’d already thought about taking legal action, but said that on his salary he couldn’t have afforded to hire a lawyer. “Money,” Bobby told him, “is not a problem.” And it had been that simple. They would round up a group of aggrieved faculty, who would file suit to challenge the bequest. Bobby would handle the legal end, and a generous, concerned donor would provide the cash. Bosworth asked who that donor might be and Bobby explained that he’d be paid by the Foote Freedom Foundation, a nonprofit, nonpartisan group whose politics he described as “libertarian.” Bobby’s next move was to line up political support and think about the best way to threaten the University into believing somebody really planned to sue. (He didn’t. He mostly intended to bill. But if he had to sue, he could do that, too.)
He was still on the clock. All was right with the world.
“Beefcake alert,” said one waitress to another as they poured water into spotty glasses at Hasta la Pasta! Bobby Helwigsen, looking coolly corporate in a white shirt, blue tie, and dark Brooks Brothers suit, had just walked in, found Sam Branch sitting at his usual table in the bar, and gone over to join him. “Two at once.”
“If the other one’s like Sam Branch, you’d better watch your ass, girl,” said the other waitress, a veteran.
As they shook hands, Bobby and Sam loaded all the manly sincerity they could into their twinkling blue eyes and firm grips. Bobby, impressive in his suit, had three inches on Sam, but Sam, in blue jeans, a denim shirt and an expensive sport coat, had been ruggedly charming longer . Bobby was sporting the kind of jarhead haircut you didn’t usually see on lawyers, and Sam noticed. Sam’s gold-and-silver hair was curling over his shirt collar, evidently not a liability for rancho deluxe Realtors, but something that caught Bobby’s eye. Sam had already ordered a Heineken, and Bobby asked for the same. Bobby was from a generation that had never learned to drink at lunch, but when you were trying to get something out of a guy, you ordered one of whatever he was having.
The waitress brought his beer right back, bending over both of them to lay menus on the streaky, not quite clean table. She stood a little too close to Bobby as she announced the specials (both men knew enough not to bother listening) and hung around a little too attentively waiting for them to order. Bobby had no more illusions about Wyoming haute cuisine than Sam did. They both ordered the Hasta la Pasta! version of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. By the time she left, they’d both moved silently beyond opening cordialities into the wary dance of business.
“So what brings you to Laramie?” Sam asked, putting Bobby immediately in the position of being the one answering questions, and putting himself immediately in the position of the one who gathers, but doesn’t give out, information.
“Oh, I’ve got some depositions in Cheyenne tomorrow, and I thought I’d stop here on the way and do a thing or two at the University,” Bobby said blandly, taking a sip from the Heineken bottle and wiping the foam off his lips with the back of his hand, seeking a casual effect that was ruined when the bottle foamed up and overflowed onto the table. He dabbed ineffectually at the spreading pool of beer with a tiny bar napkin, and the waitress came running with a towel. In her enthusiasm, she swept most of the spilled beer into his lap.
Sam chuckled briefly at this little calamity, but said nothing and tried to look sympathetic while the wiping up was going on and the waitress brought a complimentary second beer. (“Our fault entirely, sir,” she simpered, getting no response.) Sam waited for Bobby to speak.
“So how’s life treating you, Sam? Going over to the legislature in January?”
“I might,” Sam allowed. “if there’s something worth going for.”
“Always some interesting tax stuff on the agenda,” said Bobby.
“Tax stuff is never interesting, but it’s always on the agenda,” said Sam.
Sam could have kept this up all day, but Bobby’d had enough sparkling repartee. “I hear the governor plans to appoint you to the trustees,” he said.
“You hear lots of things in Wyoming,” said Sam. “It’s a state full of ears.”
“Be a great thing for the University, Sam,” Bobby offered warmly, “guy with good solid politics and good business sense.”
“What the hell do you care?” Sam asked, sick of the hearty two-guys thing and delighted at catching Bobby completely off guard.
Bobby wondered how he ought to play this. The political zealot: Make a lot of pious noise about concerned alumni and aggrieved faculty and academic freedom and the reputation of the university? The political operator: Talk about the money, and get right down to horsetrading? Bobby didn’t know Sam well enough to know for sure what would work, but he suspected that the zealot routine would be as transparent to Sam as it would be to Bobby himself if somebody like him tried it. Or to his own self be true, be a lawyer, by God, and answer a question with a question.
“What do you think about this Dunwoodie Chair th
ing?”
Sam looked surprised at that one. He’d given the Dunwoodie Chair thing relatively little thought. As the whole town knew, Sally Alder’s ass (which Sam considered still enticing) was sitting in it. He knew that there was a lot of money involved, but Sam didn’t really care how the University got or spent its money as long as the basketball team won and they didn’t raise property taxes. “I don’t,” he said shortly. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” Bobby drawled, “a lot of people are asking questions about it. Of course, there’ve been gifts like this that other universities felt they had to turn down on the grounds that they violated academic freedom. Yale had that Bass Professor fiasco a few years back, where they turned down millions for a chair teaching the goddamned classics of western civilization, on the grounds that it usurped curriculum decisions that properly belonged to the faculty. United Parcel Service tried to endow a chair in occupational medicine at the University of Washington, but the university turned it down when the bequest named the guy who was to be appointed to the chair, and it turned out he’d done a lot of research that proved that workers’ back problems were caused by family stress, not on-thejob stuff like lifting four-hundred-pound packages. And it isn’t just conservatives who’ve been getting the shaft. Yale turned down money from that gay agitator, Larry Kramer, to endow a chair in gay and lesbian studies. I mean, this is a hot topic!” he exclaimed, flinging his arms out and nearly upending the waitress, who’d arrived with halfdone sandwiches that had unfortunately been exposed to a grill upon which a twice-thawed filet-o-fish had recently been deposited.
Sam could smell his sandwich without taking a bite; he settled for the limp but non-fishy fries. “Hot topic,” he said, shaking his head.
Bobby had tasted his own sandwich and was obviously disgusted but clearly not surprised. He was working at getting ketchup out of a Heinz bottle that had recently been refilled with industrial-grade condiment.
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