A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  • • •

  Wanda, as I’d suspected, would be fine. She’d sustained a little damage to her shoulder and throat, but other than that she’d only had a mild concussion and would be held overnight for observation purposes.

  I was restless and didn’t feel like going home or to the office; it was past the middle of the night, and I was driving around town like a teenager. Staring at the blinking red light, I sat there at Fort and Main and thought about my life. I guessed that’s what people did at three in the morning—thought about their lives. Parents—gone; wife—gone; and a freshly married daughter who might as well have been gone, too.

  Five o’clock in Philadelphia; too early to call.

  I missed Dog.

  There was an ambient light in the cab now, and I was starting to think I was having a visitation when I noticed it was the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler in my rearview; he was probably intimidated by the stars and bars into not honking his horn at the crazy sheriff who had been sitting at the blinking stoplight for the last three minutes.

  I was startled by a knock and looked out to see a man standing in the road in an IGA ball cap.

  Rolling down the window, I placed an elbow on the door. “Howdy.”

  He looked a little uncertain. “Hi?” He glanced back at his truck, idling behind us, and the vacant streets of the county seat. “Is there some kind of trouble?”

  I rubbed my face with my other hand. “In my line of work—pretty much all the time.”

  He didn’t seem too sure as to how to answer. “Oh.”

  I looked across the street at Wilcox Abstract, housed in a building that had been driven into twice by drivers not paying attention to where their cars were going. “Do you think the biggest troubles in life are a result of doing or not doing things?”

  He edged back just a bit. “I really wouldn’t know.”

  “Me either.”

  He swallowed. “Hey, Sheriff?”

  “Yep?”

  “Did you know that there’s somebody in the back of your truck?”

  I opened my door, stepped out into the street, and unsnapped the safety strap from my Colt: the tonneau cover was unfastened from the left corner. “You’re sure?”

  The trucker nodded. “Yeah, there was this hand sticking out, trying to get that cover shut.”

  I resnapped the safety strap on my sidearm and spoke in a loud voice. “Mr. Rockwell?”

  A muffled reply came from under the tonneau. “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you like to come out now?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I’d prefer you did.”

  His hand appeared at the corner, and he pushed the cover back further, smiled at me, then turned to the truck driver. “Damn your eyes, sir, as an informer.”

  The trucker looked at me. “I should be going.”

  He looked both ways to make sure he wasn’t going to get run over, which might have been a trifle cautious in that it was pretty desolate in Durant at three in the morning. Rockwell and I watched as he backed up the big truck and drove around us, took a left, and headed out of town.

  The old man marveled at the size of the thing as it passed. “My Lord, big as a house. . . .” Pushing himself up the rest of the way, his long hair and beard looking more unkempt than usual, he turned to look at me. “You, sir, drive a great deal.”

  “How long have you been in there?”

  “Since this afternoon.”

  I undid the rest of the snaps, lowered the tailgate, and reached a hand up to help him down to street level. “I’d imagine you’re hungry.”

  He looked at me. “You are one big son of a gun, are you not?” He straightened his pants out and gave a shiver. “A little cold and thirsty, mostly, but I could eat.”

  I thought about taking him back to the jail, but in all honesty I didn’t want to awaken Cord. I gestured toward the passenger side. “Climb in.”

  He went around the truck as I shut the door behind me and put on my seat belt. When I looked up, he was still standing by the door. I hit the button and stared at him. “Is there a problem?”

  He glanced at me and then at the door handle. “Don’t know how.”

  We had to find out what booby hatch he’d escaped from. “Just pull sideways on that black thing.

  He did as I requested, and the truck door bumped open. He slid in and climbed up on the seat. “Amazing, truly amazing.”

  “You drove in the truck on the way back from the Lazy D-W, where you tried to steal the horses.”

  He shook his head. “We only intended to borrow them.” He pulled the door closed behind him but not strongly enough for it to latch. “And at that time I never operated the mechanism.”

  I sighed. “Well, you’re going to have to open it again and close it harder.”

  He stared at the inside of the door.

  “It’s the lever toward the front; pull it and push out.”

  He finally got the door secured, and I drove us over to the Maverik at the on-ramp to I-25. “You’ll like this place—it’s owned by Mormons.” I got out and reminded him, “Lever on the front.”

  I introduced Orrin Porter Rockwell to the wonders of the frozen burrito, microwave oven, and root beer, in that order. We now stood at the cash register, where I slid a fifty across the counter to the pimpled kid working the late shift. “Sorry, all I’ve got.”

  Rockwell reached across and laid a few fingers on the bill, studying it. “Ulysses S. Grant on the denomination of the Union?”

  “For quite some time now.”

  The kid took the bill, studied the portrait of the eighteenth president of the United States, and then the old man. “Friend of yours, pops?”

  “He was a drunkard.”

  The kid used a marker to identify the bill as genuine. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Rockwell got the door shut this time and was happily munching on his burrito as I stared at him. “So, you were in the truck when the woman crashed her car?”

  “Which woman was that?”

  “Wanda Bidarte Lynear.”

  He stared at the dash, and I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know her.” He thought about it. “Sounds Spanish.” Turning, he focused the pale eyes on me and threw a thumb toward the back of my truck. “Nice and warm back there, under the tarp, but not as nice as this.”

  “Uh-huh.” I continued to watch him eat. “How about Vann Ross Lynear; have you ever heard of him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about Roy Lynear?”

  He continued eating as I watched, but he paused if for only a second and then shook his head. “Don’t know him either.”

  I reached over and pinched Rockwell’s arm.

  “Ouch.” He looked at me. “And why, may I ask, is it you did that?”

  “Just to make sure you’re actually here—I’ve been having a little trouble with that lately.”

  He paused and then nodded knowingly. “Visions?”

  I thought about Henry Standing Bear and smiled. “That’s what a friend of mine has been calling them.”

  “Perhaps you are the One; you certainly seem to have the size for it.”

  I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “The One, Mighty and Strong.”

  I laughed. “I’m not a Mormon; I’m barely a Methodist.”

  He went back to eating his burrito. “Pity.”

  I continued to watch him for a while longer and then pulled the truck into reverse, backed out of the convenience store lot, and took the on-ramp to I-25 South. “Well, let’s go introduce you to Roy Lynear then.”

  • • •

  “Oil?”

  The rippling effect of the Powder River set the keynote for the topography of the southern part of my county, where the Bighorn Mountains relaxed their grip and allowed the hills to subside into prairie.

  The area had been the source of one of the largest oil holdings in the United States, but that time had passed and now the Tea
pot Dome reserves were only a testing ground, leased out to numerous oil companies for the development of experimental methods.

  I followed Rockwell’s eyes to one of the pump jacks in the distance beside the front gate of the East Spring Ranch. “Yep.”

  The nodding donkeys kept time to the geothermal beat, but it was unlikely that they were pumping much oil. The entire area had been put up for sale by the federal government, but there hadn’t been any takers; the other major naval oil reserve in Elk Hills, California, however, had fetched over three and a half billion—the largest privatization of federal property in history.

  The Teapot, on the other hand, was pretty much empty.

  Standing outside the chain-link fence, I tossed the station wagon’s keychain in my hand and thought about what a bad idea this was.

  I caught the keys and looked at the fob—a plastic, prism-like portrait of Jesus that fluctuated as I tipped the thing back and forth. First, it was the Messiah appearing thoughtful and prophetic with His eyes down, and next He was looking to his Father with blood trailing across his face from the crown of thorns on his head—it was the kind of kitschy macabre stuff that was sold in trinket shops in Mexico.

  Flipping through the keys, I found three short ones that were similar—all of them marked Master Lock.

  Rockwell, who stood beside me, studied the fence and then the chintzy fob in my hand. “I did not think the Methodists, even with their many faults, were given to brazen idolatry.”

  I tipped the holographic image back and forth for his entertainment. “Not mine.” Reaching up, I undid the highest lock, then the middle one, then the bottom, and pushed the gate sideways on the casters.

  There were no sirens, no lights, nothing.

  We climbed back in the Bullet—Rockwell didn’t have as much trouble this time. I pulled forward, then got out and closed the gate but left it unlocked just in case we had to make a hasty retreat. I climbed back in and turned to stare down the freshly graded red-scoria road that led into the dark. I was now at the portion of this particular exercise in stupidity where I was going to have to make up my mind as to what, exactly, I was doing.

  I figured I had about three hours before the sun came up. Evidently, I had been thinking pretty hard, because Rockwell heard it. “What are we doing here?”

  “That’s a really good question.” I laughed and glanced at him. “Officially, we’re here to notify one man that his wife—and another man that his mother—has been in a car accident.”

  “This Wanda Bidarte Lynear?”

  “Yep.”

  He looked down the darkened plain. “Am I correct to assume that there is something clandestine about our arrival?”

  “Boy howdy.”

  “Oh, good. I used to specialize in such activities.” He nodded his head and smiled, and I shook my own.

  I pulled the three-quarter-ton down into gear. There was a glow on the horizon to our right so maybe we didn’t have that three hours I had been assuming. A worn track led east, but the main road veered left, and I figured it was best to see where it led. About a half mile north we came to a draw that went to the right where there was a newly built road toward an old ranch house and barn with a few cottonwoods surrounding it. There were a bunch of outbuildings and a number of Quonset huts and prefabricated steel buildings that were popular in our area because they were inexpensive and could be quickly assembled.

  I figured the ranch house and barn were from the twenties, but the rest of the place was most decidedly recent.

  The only lights evident were a dusk-to-dawn arc light in the common area between the house and barn and a block of illumination cast from the open door of one of the very large steel buildings. It looked like there was movement in that area, and shadows appeared to be passing back and forth inside.

  I wondered what it was that they could possibly be doing under the cover of night as I pulled the Bullet to the right alongside an old post-and-pole fence that protected myriad wash lines with an abundance of women’s and children’s clothing hanging from clothespins; it looked, from the assortment of items, as though there must’ve been close to a dozen women and thirty children in residence.

  I cracked open the door and looked at Rockwell. “You might want to stay in the truck; I’m not sure what kind of reception we’re going to get.”

  He snorted, and this time had no trouble finding the door handle.

  I walked toward the entrance of the metal building. The bonnet on a 357 Peterbilt truck was tipped forward and at least a half-dozen men were working on what appeared to be a massive, portable drilling rig.

  I recognized two of the men right off—George, Roy Lynear’s son, and Tomás Bidarte, the other man I’d met at The Noose bar. I was surprised to see how adept the Hispanic poet appeared to be at working on the big diesel.

  I didn’t see the father but figured he was there somewhere.

  Orrin Porter Rockwell joined me in the doorway, and it wasn’t long before another one of the men, one I didn’t know, nudged George, who raised his head, jumped down from the running board of the truck, and advanced with a torque wrench in one hand.

  “What are you doing here?” He looked to the left and smacked the two-foot tool in the palm of his other greasy hand. “And how did you get in?”

  I waited a moment and then didn’t respond, at least not in the way he wanted. “Mr. Bidarte?”

  At the sound of my voice, Tomás raised his head. It was easy to see the similarity between him and his mother, weight notwithstanding; it was the look, the same look she had given the grave decorations at the front gate. There was something about the lack of movement, an old-world stillness that carried no intention, just a waiting quality that was slightly unnerving. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Bidarte.” I turned to George. “Is Roy Lynear here, also?”

  “What’s it to you if he is?”

  I wondered if anybody who had ever met George had anything but the urge to punch his teeth down his throat. “I need to speak to your father.”

  He smirked, which appeared to be his signature expression. “What’s it like to need?”

  A sonorous voice carried from our right. “Who is it, George?”

  “That sheriff.” He gave Rockwell the once-over. “And some hobo.”

  Rockwell looked at me, and I was glad that I’d disarmed him.

  “It’s Sheriff Longmire, Mr. Lynear.”

  After a second, the elder spoke again. “Well, come around here, Sheriff.”

  I walked past George, careful to get the point of my shoulder as close to his chin as I could as I passed, and walked around two banks of rolling tool cases plastered with stickers, almost all of them in Spanish. Rockwell followed me, but the old guy seemed to be unable to take his eyes off of Bidarte, who remained on the running board of the dismantled truck.

  Roy Lynear was seated in another of his custom-built La-Z-Boy chairs that usually were meant to accommodate two, if not one and a half, but at present was filled to capacity with the great man himself. He was enthroned in a space that was like a miniature living room with a vintage Navajo rug spread out underneath the faux-leather chair. Lynear had what looked to be a motor manual for the drilling rig open in his lap and, of all things, a diet soda resting on his knee. “Hello, Sheriff.” He closed the book. “A surprise visit in the middle of the night?” He glanced past me at Rockwell.

  “You don’t appear to be sleeping, so I’m guessing I’m not disturbing your rest.”

  He waved at the drilling rig. “The water here is putrid, so we’re digging a new well. I can assure you that all the proper paperwork has been filed and the appropriate permits are in order.”

  “I have no doubt.” I looked back at the derrick and the 550-horsepower Caterpillar engine and accoutrements. “That’ll dig a heck of a well.”

  “We’ve found it best, living in the areas that we are forced to live in because of our religious beliefs, to be self-supportive. The cost of contracting these types of activitie
s is financially prohibitive.” He gestured toward the book. “With our limited funding, we are forced to buy the equipment we can and make do.”

  I studied the Peterbilt. “I worked for a summer as a roughneck—granted that was quite a while ago—but that looks impressive.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.” Lynear laughed and gestured toward the book again. “Especially since it won’t run.” He set the motor manual on a side table that I was sure had been placed there explicitly for that purpose. “Now, who is your friend?”

  It felt silly saying it, but until we found out just who the crazy man was, I was forced to use the name he’d provided. “Well, this is, umm . . . Orrin Porter Rockwell.”

  The fat man, in a state of fascination, hefted himself forward in the cushioned chair and peered at the man beside me. “And a damn fine resemblance.” An embarrassing moment passed, and then he turned back to me. “I was unaware that your department was in the habit of traveling with a troupe of reenactors.”

  I ignored the statement and got down to one of the reasons I was there. “I was sorry to hear of the passing of your father.”

  He shrugged. “The man was quite old, and I think there comes an age where you shouldn’t be climbing around on your third-story roof.” He narrowed an eye at me. “I understand you met my son Ronald and a few of his people, including Mr. Lockhart and Mr. Gloss, in South Dakota.”

  “I did.”

  “I also understand that there’s currently a warrant for your arrest.”

  “I heard that, too.” I took a step forward and was aware that the men who had been working on the truck had all joined George at the edge of the rug behind us and that Rockwell had turned to face them. “And, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Mr. Lynear.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Do you have a wife by the name of Wanda?”

  “Big Wanda is one of ours, yes.”

  “But not a wife?”

  “Mine, no.”

  I waited a moment before continuing. “She identified herself as a wife of yours.”

  He shook his head. “No. Wanda and I were never officially married, but I’m assuming you have news of her? We were afraid since she seems to have gone missing.”