Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  Vic stood at my side as I examined the workmanship, opening it up to see my star mounted in the basketweave setting. “It’s beautiful.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  I slipped the holster from my shoulder and handed it out to him. “Bret said to bring this in and give it to you.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “He’s out there sitting on one of the benches. He said he wanted a little time to himself.”

  Bussell didn’t take the holstered weapon, so I laid it on the counter. He removed his glasses and rubbed the spots where the pads rested on his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “I was afraid of that.” He replaced the glasses and reached out to move the weapon. “You shoot it?”

  I glanced down at Vic. “She did.”

  He smiled at her. “How’d you like it?”

  “A lot.” She looked behind us out the swinging doors that led to the range. “He gonna be okay?”

  The leathersmith thumbed the loop off from the hammer and slipped the elegant-looking revolver from the holster. “You don’t clean these things after you shoot ’em, they start corroding and pretty soon they’re useless—I’ve told him that a thousand times.” He disassembled the Walker and began cleaning the weapon very carefully, as befit the museum piece. “Loaned him the money for this thing, and you’d think it was his kid or something . . .”

  “It’s quite a weapon.”

  “Bret fell in love with it at first sight—kind of like he did with Robby.”

  I looked down at Vic as she leaned against the counter and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

  “He’s never been the same since she’s been gone.” He looked up at us, and it was one of those moments where you wished you did anything else but this for a living, like wash cars maybe. Bussell gestured toward the swinging doors as he cleaned out the barrel of the Colt. “I found him out there about a month ago with this gun in his hands; he’d been drinking . . . He said that he just couldn’t put up with it anymore and that the pain was about to kill him and he’d rather do it himself.” The gunsmith quietly reassembled the revolver, the barely audible clicks of the metal justifying the workmanship of its original manufacture. “He said that if he was going to do it, he might as well do it with the best gun he had . . .”

  Neither Vic nor I said anything.

  Bussell finished fitting the Walker together, loaded it, and then set after it with a polishing cloth so as to remove every fingerprint from the metal surfaces—almost as if he wanted to remove any traces of a human hand ever touching it. “Gave it back to him this week, and then you two walk in the door; I swear to God the thing is cursed.” He slid it back into the holster, relooped the rawhide hammer retainer, and looked up at me. “Would you do me a favor, Sheriff?”

  “Anything.”

  He glanced at the big pistol. “Take it.”

  I stood there staring at him but thinking about another vintage weapon, another suicide, and another lost and confused soul. Finally, with nothing to say, I laughed, but it was hollow and I desperately strung two words together. “I can’t—”

  “A loan; I just want to get it out of the shop and out of his life for a few weeks.”

  I glanced at Vic and then back to him. “Look, Mr. Bussell, I can understand your reasoning—”

  His head jogged toward the shooting range. “He knows every hiding place, every combination to every safe, and has since he was eleven years old—do me a favor and just take it with you for a few weeks.”

  I sighed. “What if I lose it?”

  “It’s insured; anyway, you won’t. I didn’t say you had to use it—just lock it away for a while so that he can’t.”

  Vic, her hand having slipped from his shoulder, slid the holstered weapon toward me. “That won’t stop him.” She glanced around. “There’s always another way.”

  The gunsmith nodded. “Maybe, but it’ll save him from using this one.”

  I raised my hand slowly and placed it over the weapon, careful not to touch the spotless metal. “What was the man’s name?”

  He looked up at me through the reflection in the tops of the lenses that covered his eyes. “What man is that?”

  “The one who sold you this antique?”

  He smiled for the first time in the conversation. “I figured you’d put two and two together faster than Noah—his name was Vanskike, Sheriff Longmire. Hershel Vanskike.”

  —

  Outside High Mountain Shooters under the shadow of Jeremiah, Vic pulled at my arm. “So, Hershel Vanskike?”

  I glanced up at the twenty-five-foot statue. “You remember Mary Barsad?”

  “The woman from out in Absalom that ended up not killing her husband; the one who had the horse that Cady rode at the wedding?”

  “Wahoo Sue. Yep, that’s her. Hershel was this old cowboy who worked for her, the one that Wade Barsad, her husband, killed.”

  “Oh yeah, the one who gave you the old rifle.”

  “The Henry in the office safe, yep.”

  “Next to the Cheyenne Rifle of the Dead.” She reached up and fingered the holster on my shoulder. “You’re putting together quite a collection of antique weapons.”

  “Yep.”

  As we climbed into my truck, Vic pulled the duty notebook out of her coat and looked at the address that we had gotten for Sadie Payne. “So, I’m assuming we’re headed over to the she-devil’s house?”

  I carefully wrapped the leather straps around the four-point holster and opened my center console, gently placing the Colt Walker on the foam padding. “We are—after we meet with Schaffer at Jack’s Tavern.”

  “Payne’s daughter has been missing for only three months and she’s trying to get her declared dead? I don’t think we’re going to be well received.”

  I tried to close the console, but the bulk of the Colt, powder flask, ammo box, and surrounding leather was more than modern truck designers possibly had had in mind. “Probably not.” I suddenly felt very weary and slid my gloved hands onto my lap.

  Vic attached her seat belt and then reached back and petted Dog before looking over at me. “You all right?”

  “Hmm? Yep, I’m fine. Just thinking about that Bret Bussell.”

  She looked through the frost that had accumulated again on the inside of my truck windshield from Dog’s breathing. “A little young for that shit, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe—sixty-five and older have a 14.3 rate per 100,000, but young adults from twenty to twenty-four are pretty close behind at 12.7.”

  She stared at me. “Why do you memorize that shit?”

  “My father had a photographic memory, and I got some of it.” I started my truck and pushed down on the lid with my elbow and it somehow clicked shut. “It’s just that it sometimes takes a while for it to fully develop.”

  7

  As per Mr. Schaffer’s request, we were to meet him at Jack’s Tavern, a sprawling watering hole on the south side of town that housed a massive dance floor, pool tables, and dartboards. There was a spot for motorcycle parking that was under cover, which probably hadn’t gotten much use since October, so I parked the Bullet and Dog there just to keep from having to push off the six inches of snow that were likely to be covering it when we got back.

  “Don’t you ever worry about him getting cold?”

  “Who?”

  “Dog.”

  I was confused by the question. “No . . . No. He’s got a coat on him like a Kodiak; the only time I worry for his comfort is in the summer.” I pulled open the door to Jack’s Tavern and ushered her in. “He’s tough, like me.”

  “You’re not so tough.”

  I held a finger to my lips. “Ssh . . . Don’t tell anybody.”

  Vic and I picked a corner booth on the unused dance-floor side of the place and quietly sat, unnoticed by the bartender. �
�I guess he didn’t want the thin blue line showing up and queering the deal with the buyers.”

  “I guess.”

  She leaned in, even though we were the only ones in the bar, which was as big as a warehouse. “A biker bar?”

  “Maybe he’s a biker.”

  He was.

  Ten minutes later, the man who slid in the booth with us was a young forty with a cleft chin, a little Dizzy Gillespie cookie-duster under his lower lip, and lots of ink. Mr. Schaffer wore a do-rag, sunglasses, a black leather jacket, and biker boots, and wasn’t what I was expecting any more than the bar he had chosen.

  “Hi.” He immediately stuck a fingerless gloved hand out to Vic. “Mike Schaffer, how are you, Ma’am?”

  She smiled, and I could see why he’d focused his attention on her first. “I’m good—you ride your bike over?”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up, having taken no offense. “Too cold, even for me.” He took off his sunglasses as his eyes shifted to me and he extended his hand. “Mike Schaffer. You the sheriff?”

  I shook the hand as somewhere in the bowels of the massive building the Marshall Tucker Band began trying to get us to see what their women had done to them. “That’s me.”

  “Corbin said you guys wanted to talk to me?”

  “You’ve gotten to know Patrolman Dougherty pretty well?”

  Schaffer nodded. “Oh yeah, he’s a great guy. My son, Michael Junior, thinks he’s like T. J. Hooker or something.”

  I glanced at my undersheriff, who waved me off. “Cop show on TV in the eighties where they specialized in sliding over the hoods of cars and shooting without the benefit of aiming.”

  Mike nodded. “He has a lot of contact with Michael on e-mail, but I didn’t want to take him out of school to come over here, so I left him with my sister; that, and I just didn’t want him reminded about what happened to his mother.”

  Vic tapped the file that rested on the table between us with a fingernail. “Linda?”

  “Yeah.” He looked a little unsure for a moment. “Corbin said there were some developments but that you hadn’t really found anything more?”

  “No, we haven’t specifically, but there have been a couple of other women who’ve gone missing and we’re wondering if there might be a connection.”

  He leaned back in the booth and caught the waitress’s attention, her smile brightening as she approached.

  “Mickey, how you doin’?”

  “Tracy, are you playing the Marshall Tucker Band for me?”

  “I am.” She placed a hand on her hip. “It’s slow enough that I’m waitin’ tables myself, so I thought I’d cater to the clientele.”

  He gestured toward Vic and me. “Chief cook and bottle washer Tracy Jacobs, this is Sheriff Longmire and his fine partner Vic; they’re looking into Linda’s disappearance.”

  She looked at us. “You find her?”

  “Um, no . . . We’re just continuing with the investigation.”

  She pulled a pad from her apron. “Something to drink?”

  Schaffer made a grand gesture. “Beer and a bump all around—I sold my house today.”

  I started to interrupt, but Tracy pursed her lips, looking a little downcast. “Damn, I thought you were maybe moving back.”

  “Nope, the check-cashing place bought it. I guess they’re going to tear it down and add on to their parking lot.”

  I nodded toward Vic. “Just a couple of coffees for us, thanks.”

  She walked away, and I turned back to Schaffer. “No offense, but we’re still on the clock.”

  “That’s cool.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with an Airborne insignia on it from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “You guys mind? It’s one of the only bars in Wyoming that still let you smoke, and I’m a little edgy from all this talk about Linda.”

  I changed the subject, just to give him a chance to settle himself. “Airborne?”

  He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke skyward. “Fifth—Special Forces; you?”

  “Marines, Military Police.”

  “Figures.”

  Vic asked. “Why is that?”

  He smiled. “General enormity.” He studied me. “Vietnam?”

  “Yep.”

  “Iraq for me; you ever been?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “Got married, did two tours, then I quit, went back to school, and got a real job where I didn’t have to get shot at.”

  I smiled back. “Sounds familiar.”

  He slid down his side of the booth and put his legs along the bench. “Maybe, but I bet you didn’t lose your wife.”

  “In fact, I did.”

  “Sorry.” He looked out at the empty dance floor, and I watched the sadness overtake him like a pack of hounds; I knew those hounds and had felt their gnawing. “Sometimes I get to where I feel like I’m the only one getting it in the shorts in this life, you know?”

  Vic waited a few seconds and then asked, “You mind telling us about Linda?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  My undersheriff thumbed the files. “We’ve got reports, but we think that really knowing these women might give us more opportunities to catch whoever it is that’s doing this.”

  He took another drag on the cigarette. “Met her here, right out on that floor; she was an incredible dancer.” He grinned. “She had the shittiest laugh; really high and funny sounding . . .” He took a deep breath and then stuck the cigarette in his mouth again. “I’d give just about everything I’ve got to hear that laugh just one more time.”

  “Hobbies?”

  “Jujitsu.”

  Vic snorted. “You’re kidding.”

  “Kata and mixed-style, even Randori.”

  She made a face. “What the hell is that?”

  “Random attack competitions; she was really good at it. She could kick some serious ass if you came at her; she whaled on me a couple of times.”

  My undersheriff and I looked at each other before I turned and asked Schaffer, “Did you tell Patrolman Dougherty that?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” Thinking, he stretched his jaw. “I don’t know, man; it was months ago.”

  Vic opened the folder and searched the file. “Not in here.”

  “What’s the big deal—is it important?”

  Tracy brought the drinks over, sliding Mike his Coors and a shot of amber happiness and then setting the two coffees in front of us, along with a bowl of cream containers and sugar before addressing the biker. “You want a tab?”

  “Please.” He waited until she was gone and then asked again, “Why is jujitsu a big deal?”

  “If it was an abduction . . .” I leaned forward and took a sip. “It tells us something about the abductor—that either he was incredibly powerful, capable, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  Vic dumped her requisite three creams and five sugars into her coffee and stirred it with her pencil. “Or she knew him.”

  Schaffer nodded his head for a few moments, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t even aware that he was doing it, and then downed the contents of the shot glass in a swallow, followed by a deep draught from the can of beer.

  “Tell me about the night she went missing.”

  His eyes came back to mine. “She was supposed to meet me here for a drink, but she never showed.” His eyes diverted to the table again, and he sounded like he was reading from a script. “It was a Thursday night, and I waited till an hour after she was supposed to be here and then drove over to Kmart where she was working, but by that time they were closed. I got one of the cleaning guys to let me in, but they said that all the regular employees had already left.”

  Vic leaned closer. “What about her car?”

  He shook his hea
d. “Wasn’t driving one; walked everywhere, when she wasn’t running.” He drank some more of his beer. “I figured she’d just forgot we were supposed to meet and went home. I found the babysitter and Michael watching a movie, and I asked them if they’d seen her, but they hadn’t so I drove back over here.”

  I turned my cup in the ring it had made on the table. “Then what?”

  His voice rose, and he called out to the waitress/bartender/owner/operator. “Hey, Tracy, can I get another one over here?” His eyes came back to mine. “I ran into some buddies who were playing pool, and we had a few drinks . . . Later on, I just headed home and went to bed.”

  “What about the babysitter?”

  “She had a car, drove herself.”

  “Remember her name?”

  He thought as Vic worked her way through the files. “Shit, no.”

  Her face came up. “Would Michael?”

  Schaffer laughed. “Yeah, he probably would.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Just a sec.” He punched in the numbers and waited, and when he spoke his voice changed instantly. “Hey buddy, how you doin’?” He waited. “Yeah? Hey, I’ve got a question for you; you remember the babysitter you had here in Gillette?” Another pause. “Yeah, her.” He listened. “Yeah . . . you remember her last name?” He stubbed out the cigarette. “No, I’ll be back when I said, I promise. Love you too, buddy.” He punched a button on the cell. “Ashley Reich.” He spelled the name for Vic, and she wrote it on the outside of the folder.

  “Sounds like you have a pretty good relationship with that son of yours.”

  He looked back at me. “Why do you say that?”

  “He said he loved you—in my experience you have to get that out of your kids with a crowbar.”

  He sat the phone down on the surface of the table, turned it, and slid it over to me. On the screen was a handsome boy with an enormous smile, holding up a pretty good-sized rainbow trout. “That, right there, is my life. He’s all I’ve got left . . .” He swallowed and straightened up in time for the waitress to bring him another round. After she left, he spoke to the surface of the table, but it was meant for us. “Do me a favor?”