I could picture Briggs shrugging. “Finally out of the cast,” he said. “Arm’s all shrunk, looks like a twelve-year-old’s. Back hurts every time I have to sit on the john. Don’t get old, Matthias.”
“So you shouldn’t have come rescue me, is that what you’re saying? You should’ve just let him gut me in his basement, save me the agony of getting older?”
There was a pause.
“I’m joking, Deputy,” I said. “Ha-ha, a little laugh in the face of death.”
“Everyone’s a comedian,” Briggs grumbled.
“Seriously, I’m glad you didn’t let a guy in a moose shirt kill me. Never would have lived that down.”
Briggs uttered something between a snort and a chuckle. “The DA’s in seventh heaven,” he said. “He’s like a bull in a field of cows, trying to figure out which one he’s gonna screw first.”
I laughed, but it was automatic. My joke had inadvertently rung a bell deep in my own head—a moose shirt . . .
I pulled my laptop over to me, opened a new tab, and started a Google search. Briggs was going on about the DA when I interrupted him. “Where all did you say Kelly had been out west?”
“Why?” Briggs’s voice was sharp, interested.
“What about Jackson Hole?”
“Wait a minute. Where?”
“Wyoming,” I said. On my laptop was one result of my search: an image of the same tee shirt Kevin Kelly had been wearing, with a cartoon moose on skis. I clicked it, and a new page loaded. I scanned it quickly. “Chase the Moose,” I said. “It’s a ski race near Jackson Hole. Was Kelly out there?”
“Hold on,” Briggs said. I could hear him typing on a keyboard. “Yeah, he was, last May. What’s going on?”
“He said something about a clown . . .”
“Matthias, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Pelham Greer told me that Kelly knew where Fritz was, that he’d seen him last spring. And when I mentioned it to Kelly, he said, ‘The clown.’ Just like that, all . . . derisive.”
“I was wondering when you were going to finally tell me about Fritz,” he said. “That’s the whole reason you went up to Kelly’s house, isn’t it? Unless you wanted to get stabbed and snap your Achilles tendon—”
“Are you still online? Can you help me look up circuses around Jackson Hole?”
“You think Fritz is a clown?”
I had already started typing. “Got any better ideas?”
Five minutes later we had hit a wall. There were no circuses based in or around Jackson Hole, not ones with clowns and tents at any rate. Of course, clowns could be hired for children’s parties. But somehow I didn’t see Kevin Kelly flying out to Jackson Hole to build his drug empire and making the time to stop by some kid’s birthday party and running into Fritz wearing an orange wig and gigantic shoes. It was beginning to feel a bit ludicrous. “Can you find out who Kelly met with in Wyoming?” I asked Briggs. “Maybe they could tell us where Kelly could have seen Fritz?”
“It’ll take time,” Briggs said. “DA might not want to share.”
“You’re resourceful.”
“He didn’t just go to Wyoming, Matthias. There’s California, Nevada, Oregon, Colorado. You want to look at all the circuses in those places, too?”
“If I have to, yes,” I said, though I felt deflated. Jackson Hole had felt so right, somehow.
After a pause, Briggs said, “Maybe we’re thinking about the wrong kind of clowns.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s the kind of clowns with the face paint and the rubber noses who honk horns at kids in a big top. Then there’s the kind who keep bulls from stomping all over their riders once they throw them off.”
“A rodeo clown,” I said, sitting up. I leaned forward and started typing again. “When was Kelly out in Jackson Hole, specifically?” I asked, looking at my laptop screen.
“Last May,” Briggs said. “Memorial Day weekend, actually. Why?”
“Because,” I said, my voice trembling with excitement as I stared at the screen, “the Jackson Hole Rodeo starts on Memorial Day weekend.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Jackson Hole Airport is in the middle of a wide valley, a flat scrubland underneath a dome of sky, ringed by sharp mountains. From a distance, the Blue Ridge Mountains around Asheville look like rising folds in a bedsheet; as you approach, they gather you in slowly until you realize all at once that you are among them. In Jackson Hole, the Tetons thrust themselves into view, giant rocks dropped from space by a Titan. As I stepped out of the plane and walked down a wheeled set of steps to the tarmac, I stared at the Teton Range jutting out of the scrublands. Although a couple of miles distant, they seemed within arm’s reach. It was a cloudless, sunny day in late May, and yet I was shivering in the breeze—I was well over a mile above sea level and freezing when I passed through shade. I had difficulty grasping that I was still on the same planet, let alone the same country.
I found a cheap hotel called the Lucky Dollar that seemed to have little familiarity with dollars and even less with luck, but it had a forlorn room with a king-sized bed waiting for me. I threw my suitcase onto the floor of the tiny closet and lay on top of a hideous saffron-colored bedspread that felt like it was made of oven mitts. I was exhausted but too keyed up to sleep, so I stared at the ceiling and waited for evening, when the rodeo would start.
THE RODEO WAS LOCATED in a fairgrounds lot backed up against Snow King Mountain, which rose steeply at the southern end of Jackson as if barring passage beyond. At half past six, I parked my rental car in the rodeo lot and crossed a dirt-and-gravel yard, my Achilles tendon stiff but not complaining yet. I passed several parked semis with transport rigs for horses and bulls and eventually stopped at a ticket booth, where I gained entrance through a swinging gate to the arena itself, a mud-churned space with stands on one side and chutes on the other. The stands were filling slowly with families, small groups of men in cowboy hats, grandmothers, and teenagers in denim and boots. I bought a cup of hot chocolate and cupped my hands around it, grateful for the warmth, and then found a seat near the front with a clear view.
Bright white floodlights shone down on the arena below. The parking lot was to the right beyond sheets of plywood hung over the fence. Off to the left, fenced-in pens extended from a large warehouse-like stable. Across from me stood the chutes, behind which milled several men in chaps and cowboy hats—I assumed they were the riders. I couldn’t see them well, but I knew that eventually they would come close enough for me to get a better view. Breath misted out of everyone’s mouth as the sun fell toward the western peaks and the sky began to shade toward a deeper blue.
A flat, metallic voice came out of the speakers, informing us that the rodeo was about to begin. A young woman with a sheet of shimmering brown hair and a white cowboy hat stepped up to a microphone at the far edge of the muddied field below, and everyone stood and removed his or her hat as the woman sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and we cheered politely. A crew of men in jeans and work gloves brought out a series of barrels that they placed around the arena before hurrying off into the shadows of the stable. The same flat voice as earlier announced the barrel-racing contestants, who rode one by one out of the stable, their tall, clean Stetsons and bright shirts contrasting sharply with their horses, who took dignified steps as they entered the arena, mud up to their fetlocks, heads carried high as if suffering their riders for only the moment. They raced around the barrels, the riders leaning into their mounts and coming within a hairbreadth of grazing the barrels with their knees as they rounded them tightly and then galloped for the finish line. After the adults competed, there was another race for children. A tiny girl on a huge brown horse, her hat almost as big as she was, won easily and waved a petite hand at the audience.
The men in work gloves ran out and removed the barrels, and the flat speaker voice announced the calf-roping competition. A young cowboy, barely out of his teens, rode down a bawling calf an
d flicked his lasso so it caught the calf’s rear legs and the animal crashed to its side. The cowboy dismounted, ran to the calf, and tied the rope around its hooves in less than five seconds to general applause. The second cowboy, older and gaunter, was even faster—one moment he was on his horse, lasso secured to a calf’s hind legs, and the next he was standing in the mud, the calf trussed up and helpless. A third cowboy made a great show of twirling his lasso overhead, but when he popped it at his calf, the animal spooked and dodged, the lasso missing it by several feet. The cowboy’s horse tossed its head as if in disgust, trotting off to the stable with the rider’s expression hard and set.
In the pause after the calf roping, I could see lots of activity by the chutes across the way. One or two gates shuddered as the bulls behind them vented their frustration at being penned in. Two men in bright red chaps, plaid shirts, and face paint came out onto the field to cheers. I squeezed my empty Styrofoam cup and leaned forward, peering through the white haze of the spotlights. One was balding with a bad comb-over, although I couldn’t tell if that was real or part of his makeup. The other was tall and lean, younger, but with more of a stoic face behind the white-and-black greasepaint. I followed him as he strode around the muddy arena, working the crowd, waving at kids in the stands, pretending to lasso them and then dropping his hat, bending over to pick up the hat and then standing up as his red chaps fell to the mud. I couldn’t tell if it was Fritz.
The two clowns met up at the gate to one of the middle chutes, the balding one grasping a rope. The announcer read off the name of the first bull rider in his flat voice. A bell rang and the balding clown threw open the gate, the bull within bursting forth, heaving and plunging, and the rider clutching the rope lashed around the bull’s chest. The rider’s free hand whipped about through the air like a pennant in the thick of battle. I had thought the horses were big, but the bull was the size of a small car. Still plunging up and down, the bull began to rotate in a circle. The rider slipped, his face banging against the back of the bull’s neck; then he fell off to the side and hit the mud, one of the stomping hooves landing on his arm. The two clowns rushed forward, the balding one waving in the bull’s face, the tall one grabbing the fallen rider and leading him away. The bull danced madly in the center of the arena until two riders with lassos approached, driving the animal back toward the pens.
The next rider had a bit more luck, his bull merely whirling around and around as if trying to bite its own tail. He lasted the full eight seconds, and then leapt off the bull, landing clumsily in the mud and falling to his knees, but he scampered to the wall and climbed over it before the bull could charge him. The tall clown had been shouting at the bull, and I strained to hear his voice, but unsuccessfully. I realized I had shredded the empty Styrofoam cup in my hands and let the pieces drop to my feet.
The third rider looked to be in trouble before his chute even opened. I caught a glimpse of his eyes, wide with fright. The gate rattled on its hinges as the bull, dark with a barrel-sized hump, struck it with its flank. I could see the wicked curve of a horn shine like an ivory tooth in the floodlight. Then the bell rang and the chute opened. Immediately the bull tore out of the chute, bucking and kicking out its hind legs, leaping and spinning in a circle, the rider’s hat blown through the air. The rider seemed to hunch over the bull, as if trying to hide from its rage by lying prone on its back, and then with a jerk he fell to one side. Even from the stands I could feel the impact of the bull’s hooves striking the ground, mud spraying as if from a mortar shell. The rider clutched at the rope, hanging on to the side of the heaving bull. His feet were dragged through the mud, and were then thrown up in the air as he was tossed like a proverbial rag doll. Just let go, I thought, and then I saw that his left hand was caught in the rope. The bull continued to carry him along as it plunged and spun. “Oh, mercy,” an older woman said behind me.
The two clowns ran up to the bull, the balding one again in the bull’s face while the taller one dashed to help untangle the rider. But the bull ignored the balding clown and, with almost casual violence, turned and lowered its head, hooking the tall clown around the back of the legs with its horns and tossing him aside in a backward somersault. Meanwhile, the rider flailed uselessly at his trapped hand. My breath caught as I watched the tall clown hit the mud facedown. He scrambled to his feet.
The two men on horseback approached, lassoes in hand, but they hesitated, clearly unwilling to do anything that could harm the rider, who looked like a man being slowly churned to death. The balding clown was waving a green hat at the bull, trying to distract the animal, but the tall one couldn’t get to the rider and was holding a hand to his ribs. Meanwhile the bull continued to spin around and around, tossing its head angrily, its horns stabbing the air.
Two men in jeans and flannel shirts ran into the arena, part of the work crew that had moved the barrels earlier. They still had their work gloves on. One, Hispanic with a brush of a mustache, went to the tall clown to see if he was all right. The second, with short blond hair, made straight for the bull, his arms wide as if rushing to embrace it. The bull stomped and began to run at the man, lowering its head, the rider being dragged helplessly along. At the last moment, the bull’s horns thrusting toward his navel, the blond brought his arms in, pivoted off his right foot, and spun once around, the bull charging through empty air. It was like watching a dancer pirouette around a rhino. The man ended up next to the bull’s shoulder, his hands on the rope binding the rider. Then the rider was free, leaning heavily on the blond man. The balding clown helped drag them to the wall as the men on horseback moved in, crying out at the bull, their lassoes whirling and moving the beast off to the side. After a stunned second or two, those in the audience clapped and cheered, some waving their hats.
I found myself on my feet with the rest of them, but I wasn’t clapping. I stared down into the arena at the blond man in work gloves, sweat running down his face. The hair was completely different, but I had seen that pivot and spin before, the same fast shuffle of feet, the angle of the shoulders as the man had turned into his tight spin. He had done that before in a game against Norfolk Academy on a lateral pass, where he had pivoted around the end of the line, dodged a cornerback, and run into the end zone. I stood in the chill night and watched Fritz Davenport climb up onto the fence and straddle it as the other cowboys led the bull away.
I FORCED MY WAY through the standing crowd, people still talking about that last bull and the man who had rescued the rider, and made my way toward the stairs that led down to the ground by the pens and the stable. But a church youth group, all its members in matching purple tee shirts underneath their coats, was clogging the aisle, a score or more of boys and girls apparently heading for the porta potties standing next to the pens. I turned and went back through the crowd the other way, toward the parking lot, ignoring a shout as I stepped on someone’s foot. My own foot was beginning to clamor for attention, the dull ache in my heel that I felt at the end of every day now upgraded to a burn, but I just craned my neck to see whether Fritz was still by the chutes. All the cowboys seemed to have exited the arena. Limping, I made my way down the stairs at the far end, hurried out the gate and past the ticket booth, the gravel crunching beneath my sneakers. There was a closed gate, against which leaned a fat, bearded man in a red plaid shirt and a dirty cowboy hat. Despite my sense of urgency, I hesitated. Just walking up and asking about Fritz didn’t seem like the right play. It might scare Fritz off, and I hadn’t come this far to lose him. He might not even be using his real name. Then a man farther down the fence, pulling bales of hay off a flatbed, called to the fat cowboy, who pushed himself off the gate and ambled over to help. As soon as he left, I quickly pushed the gate open and stepped through, letting it swing shut behind me. I didn’t look back.
Here stood a handful of trailers, all backlit by the bright lights of the arena and crossed in shadow. Knots of men stood around smoking and chatting. The flat voice of the announcer came out of the speakers
again, talking about bronc riding. A medic in a blue uniform knelt down in front of the last bull rider, who was sitting in a folding chair, his shoulders trembling, head down in defeat. Beside him were the two clowns, their face paint now ludicrous, even bizarre. The balding one had a slightly affronted air about him, as if embarrassed by the rider’s behavior. The tall one was closer to me, and I caught his eye. “You know where I could find the guy who saved him?” I said, indicating the bull rider with a nod.
The clown looked at me, the sweat that was running through his greasepaint making his face seem half-melted. “Might be over there, getting a cup of coffee.” He pointed off to the right, toward the stable. “Why?”
I waved and moved off, not wanting to engage with anyone else until I found Fritz. Pausing to let a man carrying a pail of water cross my path, I glanced back and saw that the tall clown had left the bull rider and was dogging my steps. I hurried on, stepping around the end of a trailer and moving toward the stable as I tried not to let my limp slow me down. To my left, I could hear the crowd gasp; turning my head, I saw in the arena someone attempting to ride a bronco. The horse was kicking frantically, its rear hooves bucking into the night sky and its rider leaning back as if riding a barrel down a waterfall.
Ahead, by the pens, I saw a table with a stainless steel urn and stacks of coffee cups, and a group of men standing around and talking. “Hey,” someone said behind me. I ignored the voice and strode forward, trying to get a good look at the men around the coffee. A hand touched my shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” came the slow voice of the tall clown.
“I’m looking for somebody,” I said, turning around and tearing my arm out of his grasp as I glared at him. His face looked like an overheated wax impression of a panda, black circles smudged around his eyes.
“There’s nobody back here don’t work here, boss,” he said calmly. “You need to move on.”
Shadow of the Lions Page 31
