“I’ve never been shot in the pancreas.” He’d agreed to talk to me without seeming very happy about it, and from his behavior I was pretty sure he rated me as a somewhat unintelligent, rural gunsel. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
He studied me. “It’s a glandular organ behind the stomach. There are a number of different kinds of pancreatic cancer, but his, like about eighty-five percent of the cases, is pancreatic adenocarcinoma, a cancer that affects the portion of the organ that produces digestive enzymes.”
I leaned forward on my stool and rested my elbows on my knees. “Were you his regular doctor over at the prison?”
“No, Dr. Howe is his general physician there. They run a clinic on a daily basis, and I come in once a week to follow up on anything that looks more serious. My work is mostly here in Cheyenne.” He waited for me to speak, and when I didn’t, he continued. “I mean, to be honest, he’s been there so long I think everybody just ignored him until he was found on the floor.” The young man stood and ran a hand through imaginary hair as he looked out the hospital window toward the rail yard. “Once somebody took a look, though, it was textbook, really—yellowing of the skin and loss of appetite. There really aren’t any symptoms in the early stages, so that by the time a diagnosis is made, even in the least severe cases, it’s too late and has spread to other parts of the body.” He grimaced at me. “He’s riddled with it.”
I took off my hat and glanced around the lab where I’d tracked the doctor down. “Causes?”
“Smoking, obesity, diabetes, and certain genetic traits. A crapshoot, really, but in his case the diabetes was a factor, that and HIV.” He turned to look at me. “Don’t be surprised; it is a prison, after all.”
I rolled the brim of my hat in my hands. “So what are his prospects?”
“Quite bad, actually. After being diagnosed with this particular strain, only twenty-five percent survive a year, only five percent survive five years—but given how advanced his is, I’d guess he’ll be dead in two weeks at the absolute most.”
He leaned against a counter and folded his arms. “You’re the one who arrested him, I mean, back then?”
“Yep. He’s been in Rawlins since 1973.”
He pulled out his cell phone, looked at it, and then returned it to his pocket. “I must admit that when you contacted me, I did a little research on you.”
I looked at him.
“I’ve read a number of interviews you’ve given, and I’m impressed by the philosophical response you have to your chosen occupation and to human nature.”
I smiled. “For a sheriff?”
“No, I don’t mean it that way at all.” He swallowed. “At the risk of getting myself into trouble, you seem to have preserved your humanity, which I would imagine is difficult in your line of work.”
“Why would that thought get you in trouble?”
“I’m about to get to that part.” He gestured in the patient’s general direction. “He’s going to die, if not in hours, in days.”
I stood, pulled my hat back on, and walked over to the window, my back to him.
He stood up and moved a couple of steps toward me. “You don’t think that there might be some mitigating circumstance that—”
“Short of miraculously being discovered innocent?” I continued to look at the rail yard. “No. What we are concerned with here is the appropriate punishment for multiple murders. Capital punishment is an extreme sanction that would perhaps have been suitable for this most extreme of crimes, but we make mistakes, and taking another life due to human error is the worst we can do in a society based on law. And even if we get it right, killing the killer is not going to bring back the victims.”
I paused, and I guess he thought I was through, but I wasn’t, not by a long shot.
“But if a defendant is judged to be guilty and sentenced to life without parole, he should die in prison. That’s the meaning of the sentence. In my experience, a sentence of life without parole allows survivors to move on. I’m sure that the victims’ families long ago gave up the thought that anyone would ever voluntarily release him, no matter what the circumstance. Imagine what this would do to them. No. Life in prison without parole means dying in prison, Doctor.”
He looked at his loafers. “I’m in the business of keeping people alive, Sheriff, no matter who they are or what they’ve done.”
Seeing we had an irreconcilable difference of perspective and figuring I’d gotten everything I was going to get from him, I turned and walked toward the door. “You and Jean-Paul Sartre tell that to the victims’ friends and families, would you?”
—
“Why the hell would anybody kill Marv Leeland?”
I adjusted my gun belt over my shoulder as we moved through the parlor car. It felt kind of silly looking for McKay beneath the tables, behind the bar itself, and under the piano, but you never knew. “Maybe he was on to something . . . or someone.”
Sheriff Connelly put a hand on my arm in an attempt to slow me down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I stood at the center of the empty car and looked around. I sighed and looked down at him. “That conversation I had with Leeland in the observation car?”
“Yeah?”
I weighed the thing in my mind; I wasn’t sure if I wanted to show all my cards to anybody just yet. “He mentioned something about what you and Sheriff Eldredge were discussing earlier.” He shook his head, and I made a decision. I needed at least one other person on my side. “Supposedly, somebody’s been cleaning up messes all over the state without jurisdiction.”
He thought about it and scrunched his eyebrows together. “You mean that lynching in Albany County?”
“Among other incidents not strictly within the purview of the law.” I studied him. “Sheriff, has anything like that happened in our county? Any unexplained homicides of individuals you’d just as well see dead?”
His chestnut eyes narrowed. “What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking if you’re involved in this somehow. Leeland was pretty well convinced that it was more than one sheriff—he called it a cabal—and before this goes any further, I want to know if you’re involved.”
There was a long silence.
“I’ve only known you well for a few weeks, Sheriff, and even with that limited knowledge, I know you’re willing to work outside the law to get things done. So, I’m going to ask you one more time, and if I’m not satisfied with your answer, I’ll just do this myself.”
His mouth set, and I could see he was thinking about how he was going to respond to his subordinate, or whether he was going to answer at all. “I’ve had suspicions, but I haven’t shared them with anybody—”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
His face turned a lively crimson, and he exploded just as I expected he would. “Well, if you’ll shut up for a damn minute, I’ll answer your damn question.” He stood there, then turned and looked straight at me. “No, I don’t have anything to do with this, whatever it is.”
Satisfied for the moment, I fumbled with my book. “Sheriff Leeland gave me a list of all the unsolved murders that have taken place in the last three years.” Finding nothing inside the Agatha Christie, I searched through the rest of my pockets in an attempt to find the piece of paper. “I swear I had it in my . . .” I took a deep breath and settled myself. “Somebody must have taken it, probably the same person who hit me in the head and left me for dead.”
Lucian looked a little doubtful. “A list?”
“I had doubts myself when Leeland was telling me about it, but it seems that someone or a collection of someones has been moving around the state, systematically killing who it was they suspected in some very nasty cases. At least, that’s how it was relayed to me.”
He looked a little incredulous. “And Marv spoke with you about this?”
; “He did, and now he’s dead.”
He shook his head slowly. “Why would he talk to you?”
I studied my new boss. “Because he thought a sheriff or a group of sheriffs were doing this, and I’m not a sheriff. I’ve only been back in-country for a month, so I’m the only one who couldn’t be involved. He needed a fresh set of eyes.”
“And now somebody else has that list.”
“Yep. I didn’t entirely believe him when he was telling me about it, but I’m beginning to now.” I rubbed a hand across my face. “Maybe if I’d taken him a little more seriously, he’d still be alive.”
“And you think it’s McKay?”
“He was the only one trackside in Medicine Bow.”
“You think he killed Marv?”
“Well, he sure seems unaccounted for as of late.”
He licked his upper lip and looked toward the back of the train. “Let me ask you something: if you’d killed somebody, would you still be on this train?”
I answered honestly. “No.”
“Neither would I, but that doesn’t mean we won’t keep looking, huh?” He moved out ahead of me, shifting his gun belt from his shoulder and slipping it around his middle, where he buckled it up and adjusted the holster with a thumb. “Let’s go.”
Following his lead, I buckled my Sam Brown around my hips and tried to keep up as we pushed open the door and reentered the dining car where Marv Leeland and I had had our conversation. “I can’t think that there would be that many places to hide on a train.”
“That’s according to how bad you want to disappear. Whoever took the list doesn’t want anybody to know about this, and the only reason I can think that they might’ve let you live was because they thought you were dead and because they were in a big hurry to get back on. You were not the primary target in this deal.”
“I didn’t think I was.”
“Yeah, but if there’s anything to this sheriffs’ cabal, they know you’re alive now and know what Marv knew, and they’re gonna want you dead, too.”
He took one side and I took the other as we worked our way through the car toward the back. “That’s comforting.”
“Just don’t let anybody get you alone somewhere until we get this sorted out.”
“So far, you’re the only one I trust.”
He pushed open the door and continued on toward the caboose, throwing me a grin over his shoulder as the cold air blasted between us. “If I was in your place in these selfsame circumstances, Deputy, I’m not so sure I’d even do that.”
7
The battered planet and stars blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Cady peeked in at the three of us from the kitchen. “Another newspaper called.”
I nodded and kept playing grab-the-finger with the diminutive love of my life as Dog watched. “Well, that didn’t take long, did it?”
We were sitting on the new red leather sofa and were ignoring the world. “Three more on the answering machine.”
I stood and, hoisting Lola up on a hip, carried her to where the good smells were coming from, Dog following closely behind. “This may turn into a real mess before it’s all over.”
She turned and looked at me. “I guess they’re going with the full-court press attack.”
I smiled at the play on words. “Who? The governor’s wife?”
“It would appear she’s holding a press conference about it tomorrow afternoon, and I think you should go.”
“To somebody else’s press conference?” I occupied my granddaughter with my index finger. “I don’t even like going to my own.”
“Listen, Dad—and I’m not joking—you make an impression. Just go and stand there against the wall and don’t say anything; it’ll scare the shit out of everybody, trust me.” Cady went back to stirring. “And don’t take Uncle Lucian.” She added onions. “Take Henry and Vic; they’re the only ones on the planet scarier than you.”
“Uh huh.” Lola gnawed on my finger. “One of the newspapers was there at the hospital taking pictures of him as I was leaving.”
She made a face as she added tomatoes to the mixture she’d been sautéing in the frying pan. “Great, that’ll look good in the morning edition and get the public on his side. Did they see you?”
“Yep.”
“Let me guess—no comment?”
“Good thing Lucian wasn’t there or they would’ve gotten plenty.”
“Where are the rest of the musketeers?”
“Checking records to see if they can come up with some of the victims’ surviving family members to give a little credence to our cause.” I sat Lola on the corner of the island, my arm around her waist.
Cady pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “Wasn’t this all happening right after you and Mom got married? Where was she during all of this?”
I kept Lola in place as Dog sat on my foot. “We were fighting.”
“About?”
Lola reached out for Dog’s big muzzle and giggled as he licked her hands. “Um . . . nothing really.”
She sidled over and bumped me with her hip. “Why did it take so long for you guys to get around to having me, anyway?”
It took me a moment to respond. “I was doing my best; your mother just wasn’t cooperating.” I thought about the missing member of our little circle and felt a familiar sorrow come over me, as it always did when I thought about being robbed of her company. I also thought about the secrets that had remained between the two of us, and the things that Martha had chosen to share with our daughter and the things she hadn’t. I didn’t think it was the time or place to reveal them now. “If she were here, she’d say let him go.”
Cady returned to the stove. “If she were here, she’d compliment me on that magnificent, homemade pasta on the counter over here.”
I was impressed. “How did you do that?”
“The machine you bought me last Christmas.”
There was another pause as I switched directions in the backfield. “Oh, that machine.”
“It’s all right—I figured Henry picked it out.” She stirred the sauce and then offered me a taste. “I’m making so much of the stuff I think I’m going to need a pasta intervention.”
I took a spoonful from the ladle, and it was marvelous. “The effect of the Moretti in-laws.”
“Probably.” She watched me with the cool, nickel-plated eyes I’d given her. “Yeah, if Mom were here, she’d tell you to let it go.” She stirred some more. “It’s not that he isn’t guilty, Daddy, but what are you giving up? A few days, a week?”
“Freedom, I’d be giving him his freedom, something I swore would never happen.”
She nodded, unknowingly compressing her lips in an exact imitation of her mother. “You may not have a choice.”
I spoke under my breath. “No, but I can gum up the works till he’s dead.”
“Wow.” She turned to look at me, fingering a worn spot in the blanket. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“It sounded like the young me, a guy you never met.”
She turned her face, looking at me askance. “I’m not so sure I would have wanted to.” She reached past me, took Lola, and swiveled away. “You mind setting the table?”
“Not at all.” Fetching a stack of plates, I placed them around the dining-room table I’d given her, a hand-me-down from her grandparents, and folded napkins and set them out along with the silverware and glasses. Overwhelmed by a sense of personal history, I stood there for I don’t know how long.
Dog began barking, ending my reverie. My three comrades-in-arms came in, looking a little weary, Lucian in the lead, and Henry and Vic following behind. “Something smells good in here.”
I pulled a chair out and gestured for the old man to sit. “Perfect timing; dinner is almost on the table.”
He waved me off and co
ntinued toward the back of the apartment. “I gotta go to the bathroom and wash my hands.”
The Bear went toward the new sofa, and Vic sat in the proffered chair.
I fetched the breadbasket from the kitchen. “The guests have arrived.”
She handed me Lola and a bottle of red wine. “Could you open that?”
Handing off the wine to Henry, I placed the bread on the table, around which the whole crew was now seated, and sat in the chair opposite him with Lola, who was practicing the word “doggie.” “Find anything?”
Henry pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “The survivors’ progeny, listed alphabetically with the corresponding individual noted in the margin.”
There were five of them, four of them scattered around the country. Only one was in driving distance: Pine Bluffs, about forty minutes away. “Not much to work with, is it?”
He expertly stripped the foil off the wine bottle with the Laguiole stag horn wine knife I’d never seen him without and threaded the corkscrew into the cork. “No, but it is something.”
I looked at the name of the woman in Pine Bluffs. “Marv Leeland’s daughter is still around here?”
Pulling the cork in one expert move, he reached across the table and poured Vic a glass, then me.
Vic sipped her wine. “So it would appear.”
Lola reached out and snagged the cork. “Guess I’ll drive over there in the morning.”
—
When we found ourselves back at the caboose, Mr. Gibbs was sitting on the little set of stairs that led to the cupola. He was playing his cigar-box guitar and sipping from a pint bottle that I assumed did not contain soda pop. He looked at me. “Can I have my railing back?”
“I think I left it in our cabin.” I rubbed my wrist where the handcuffs had been. “Seen anybody since we left, Mr. Gibbs?”
The Western Star Page 10
