Lucian fidgeted for a moment, unsure as to where to go with this information. He huffed a breath from his mouth in frustration. “You talked to him alone?”
“There was an incident in the cafeteria, and Schafer went to help take care of that.”
Lucian pushed his hat back on his head, a little confounded. “So, the brother says he’s innocent?”
“That’s what he said.”
Lucian thought about it. “They all say that.”
“He says he killed the guard in Rawlins, but that it was self-defense.”
He nodded and then took a step out into the hallway to make sure no one was listening before coming back in and closing the door. “Anything else?”
“John Schafer was pushing hard to get rid of me—offered me a car.”
“Well, you were pretty hip on leaving.”
I turned around and looked at him. “Lucian, if somebody is trying to put together a syndicate of sheriffs that go around solving each other’s problems by murdering suspects, we’re looking for a killer.”
“Every one of these sheriffs has killed men, so that ain’t exactly going to thin the herd.”
“Maybe not, but it’s a start.”
“Just talk.”
“Dangerous talk.” He looked shaken but not completely convinced. “Lucian, we’ve got one man dead and another one missing, and a man in prison who says he’s innocent. Now I’m not sure these two series of crimes are connected, but I’m not ruling anything out. If you’ve got another scenario, I’ll be glad to entertain it.”
His eyes sharpened, and those dark brows furrowed over the walnut eyes. “So, what do you want to do?”
“A full-blown investigation will have to wait until we get off this train, but in the meantime we could take a look in his compartment.”
“Schafer’s?”
“Yep.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed and leaned an elbow on the bunk again. “You need to go find him and keep him busy for a while, and in the meantime, if you could ask Mr. Gibbs to come here, I’ll get him to open Schafer’s compartment and I’ll take a look around. I’m not sure how this all fits together, but there’s something we’re missing.”
“Alrighty.” He started to go but then turned back. “Be careful; if what you’re saying is true, there’s more than one of ’em in on this—and if it is Schafer, he’s bound to know you’ve got suspicions.” He moved to go again but then stopped and added, “Welcome back.”
“I’m not sure I’m all the way back.”
“Well, you let me know when you get there, and I’ll think about cutting you a check.” He turned and walked away.
When he was gone, I pulled my M1911A1 from my duffel, dropped the magazine to check the loads, and then slapped it back between the grips. It was the one I’d carried in Vietnam, on Johnston Atoll, and in Alaska. When I started, Lucian had offered me a standard-barrel-length .38 from the department locker, but I’d grown used to the weight of the large-frame semiautomatic and had felt naked in its absence. It had been a calculated risk bringing the Colt home with me from Southeast Asia—servicemen were not allowed to keep their weapons—but the sidearm had become a part of me. I weighed it in my hand and couldn’t help but think about what Henry had said about it getting heavier and how I wasn’t so sure I was gripping the thing as much as it was holding on to me.
There was a movement in the doorway, and I turned, carefully slipping the Colt behind my back.
“I heard you and Sheriff Connelly just now.”
I waited for her to continue.
“Look, I don’t mean to threaten you.” She glanced up and down the hall behind her just as Lucian had. “But if you don’t help me, I’m going to tell everyone what you’re up to.”
“Well, for someone who doesn’t want to threaten me, that was pretty good.”
“I need your help.” LeClerc sidled in and closed the door behind her.
“Um, given our most recent interaction, I’d just as soon you left that open.”
“I haven’t been completely honest with you.” She leaned against the door. “Look, I know we didn’t get off to a good start.” She stood there for a moment and then lowered her voice. “I have a reason to be on this train, too.” She whispered. “My sister was one of the girls who were killed.”
My eyes met hers from under the brim of my hat, and I lowered my voice, too. “Go on.”
She studied me, weighing how much she could trust me. “My little sister, Melanie, was strangled to death, and these sons-a-bitches haven’t done anything to bring the bastard that did it to justice.” She closed her fingers into fists. “Her name was Melanie Wheeler, and she’s dead because of those men.”
“That your real name, Wheeler?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “Why were you with George McKay?”
“I couldn’t get close to Schafer, and I thought McKay could help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Find the man who killed my sister.”
“Ed Schafer appears to be at the top of that list.”
“You spoke with him, and you know he didn’t do it.”
I sighed. “And what about McKay?”
She gestured in futility. “He took a powder.”
I broke a smile, just wide enough to let her know I wasn’t buying it. “You honestly don’t know what happened to him?”
“No.”
“How much did he know about you?”
“I told him about my sister, and he said he’d help.”
“With privileges?”
Her jaw stiffened. “Not all of us are as big as a refrigerator with a head—we have to find other ways of getting what we need.” I stared at her but said nothing, and she made a move to leave. “Sorry to have bothered you, Deputy, I guess I misjudged.”
I threw out a hand and held the door shut as she looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “Schafer’s brother was tried and convicted, but I know he wasn’t the one who killed my little sister.”
“How do you know?” Her glance dropped to my side where the big Colt hung in my hand, and I watched as her eyes widened. I slipped my sidearm into the back of my waistband and kept a hand on the door. “How do you know that?”
She wiped the tears away with the back of a hand and then adjusted the extravagant pile of blond hair on top of her head, confirming my suspicion that it was a wig. “Because I saw Melanie after her date with Ed.”
—
I stood with Pamela Delahunt as she made the final preparations for the twenty-five-hour drive. I glanced back at the horse trailer in the flat light of the afternoon, the horizontal beams striking the raised surface of the ridged metal and the edges of furniture that stuck out the openings. “I wonder if anybody’s ever hauled a horse in one of these things?”
She laughed at the old Wyoming joke.
“You’re not going to do it all at once, I hope?”
“No, I’ll take a couple of breaks along the way.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry I caused this trouble for you.”
“Oh, I may have caused some of it myself.” She nodded, biting her lip and placing a foot onto the running board. “Was he a good guy?”
I leaned against the side of her truck and studied her. “Your grandfather?”
“Yeah.”
I glanced back at Vic and Henry, leaning on the fender of the rental car parked just behind Pamela’s trailer. “Yep, he was one of the best.”
“My mother hardly ever talked about him.”
“Sometimes that’s the way people deal with the pain of losing a loved one.” I could feel her wanting to get on the road. “Well, we’re holding you up.”
Her head dropped, but she leaned in closer. “I never got to meet him, you know? I was born in ’
83.” She took a breath. “He died in 1972.”
“Yep.”
“So, this man, he killed my grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure of it?”
“Yes, but that’s not your problem.” I leaned in a little closer myself. “He would’ve wanted you to get in this truck and get on with your life.” Helping her along, I opened the door and held it for her. “So, come on, let’s get you on the road.”
Reluctantly, she climbed in, and I closed it behind her.
She laid an arm on the sill and studied the road ahead. “Thank you.”
I laughed. “For what?”
“For caring.” She pulled the truck in gear with a flourish and backed the trailer directly into our rented Mitsubishi. Vic and Henry leapt out of the way just before the trailer smashed the grille, hood, and one of the headlights with a thundering crunch. After that, the only sound was a slight tinkling as shards of broken glass dropped on the pavement.
Pamela was alarmed as she turned and looked at me, then glanced in the side mirror at the destruction behind us. “Oh, my God.”
“I believe Florida is in the other direction.”
She burst out crying, and I reached in and gripped her shoulder, doing everything I could to keep from laughing, until Henry and Vic joined me at the window.
Vic, of course, was the first to speak. “Fuck it, it’s a rental.”
Still sniffling, Pamela wiped her nose with the back of her hand as I pulled a handkerchief from my inside pocket and handed it to her. “Here, you can mail it back to me.”
Nodding, she pulled the gear lever into first and inched out and away.
Vic and Henry joined me in the street, Vic following the horse trailer for a few steps, then turning to look at me, her arms crossed. “You don’t think she’s involved?”
“Nope.”
She glanced over her shoulder as the truck and trailer made a turn, heading for the highway. “I hope you’re right.”
—
I breathed a laugh. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
“The thing is, I was supposed to go out on a blind date with John that night, but I just had a funny feeling and begged off.” She started crying again and looked at me with tears on her cheeks. “And the next morning they found her in the park near the railroad tracks in Laramie.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean that John did it.”
“Well, if he didn’t, then who else?” She stared at me. “What did he tell you?”
“Who, Ed?”
“Yes.”
“It was a somewhat limited conversation through a steel door.” I gestured toward the hallway where she’d obviously been listening. “You heard the conversation between Lucian and me, so you know as much as we do.”
“Do I?”
I pushed my hat back on my head and studied her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did he say something about my sister?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“He didn’t mention any of the women by name.” She seemed disappointed, and I was sure it was hard to believe that someone you loved could have something like that done to them and then simply be forgotten like yesterday’s news. “I’m sorry.”
There was a knock, and she jumped. Mr. Gibbs opened the door and stuck his head inside and then immediately retreated. “Sorry, Mr. Longmire, I didn’t know Miss LeClerc was in there with you. . . .”
I called out to him. “It’s okay. You can open the door, Mr. Gibbs.”
“Yes, sir.” He did and widened his eyes at me in a conspiratorial fashion. “Um . . . Sheriff Connelly asked me to assist you?”
I glanced at Kim. “You’ll excuse me?”
She looked at Gibbs and then at me. “Sure, I guess.”
I joined Gibbs in the hallway and followed him toward the front of the train. In the space between cars, I placed a hand on his shoulder and asked in a low voice, “I’m assuming that Sheriff Connelly has told you what’s going on?”
He didn’t look at me. “I don’t want to know, Mr. Longmire. I have enough trouble remembering which doors I locked and which ones I unlocked.” He stepped into the next car, turned to the door of the first cabin on the left, and knocked. “Sheriff Schafer?”
“I think Lucian is keeping him busy somewhere else.”
He ignored me and knocked again before slipping a hand down to pull out a prodigious key ring. He unlocked the door, then quietly continued past me down the hallway until he disappeared. As the train rumbled on, the door threatened to shut, so I stuck a hand out and held it, slowly pushing it open.
The room was neat and orderly, with a medium-size valise sitting on the lower bunk along with a long coat and a pistol case. After a quick run through the cabinets and closet, I picked up the case, ascertaining that it was empty. I slid the coat aside and looked at the valise, noticing that the latch was locked.
I crouched there with my thumb on the metallic wheels. Now came the tricky part—birth dates were common, but Schafer didn’t strike me as the type. There were a few dates he’d mentioned back at the hospital, but it was the cataclysmic fire that stuck in my head—maybe it had stuck in his, too.
I thumbed the numbers 9, 11, and 17 and watched as the latches popped free.
On the top was a small container of mustache wax.
Shaking my head, I pulled a sweater from the suitcase and pushed some other items of clothing aside. It was beginning to dawn on me just how stupid this might be, when I noticed some newspaper clippings in the lid pocket and pulled a few out.
Holding one up, I began reading. Following a tip, a half-dozen Rawlins police officers surrounded the rear of the Pioneer Café on November 6 at 1 P.M. where they found the deceased. The exact circumstance of the death is yet to be determined, but it appears the young woman was strangled. . . .
I leafed through the clippings and read another one.
Pauline Davenport was discovered by WYDOT, November 8, in a barrow ditch adjacent to the parking lot on the south side of Green River, her neck having been broken. . . .
And another.
The victim, Lisa Pell, had been strangled and left in an abandoned vehicle. . . .
Another.
Francine Harrison.
Yet another.
Elaine Lenz.
And even another.
The Laramie native and University of Wyoming student was found strangled Saturday night near Optimist Park after her brother said that she hadn’t returned from a date the previous evening. . . .
I glanced at the name—Melanie Wheeler.
Wheeler was enrolled at the School for Geology and was scheduled to graduate in the spring, and as near as police can tell, she was killed on the day before. . . . I glanced at the date at the top of the clipping—1965, November 4. It was November 3 today; I thought about it—the same day Melanie Wheeler was killed, seven years ago.
There really wasn’t a great deal more, other than a few quotes from the family and neighbors on what a fine young woman she’d been. There were a half dozen in all, young women who had been strangled in locations trailing across the I-80 corridor from Cheyenne all the way to Evanston in a six-year period.
I checked the rest and noticed that the dates the bodies were found were all in early to mid-November. I carefully folded the clippings, replacing them in the lid of the case before closing it and latching it shut. I placed the coat and the pistol case back as they’d been and then glanced around the room to check my work before exiting. I closed the door behind me just as two men turned the corner, the knob still in my hand.
I smiled at Sheriffs Tillman and Brown. “Can’t seem to get my key to work.”
Tillman, the Sheridan County man, was the first to speak. “Probably not, seein’ as how t
hat’s not your room.”
Remembering that the different cars were named for Wyoming mountain ranges, I glanced around. “Isn’t this Bighorn?”
Brown shook his head. “Wind River.”
“Oh. No wonder.”
Pretending to palm my key back in my pocket, I looked at the two of them as Brown leaned against the wood-paneled wall. “We heard you were calling it quits.”
I nodded. “Changed my mind, I guess.”
Tillman’s eyes narrowed. “What did that—visiting with John Schafer’s crazy brother?”
I held the smile. “Maybe so.”
“Ed tell you that he’s innocent?”
Pulling my hand from my pocket, I shifted, just to give me a clear grab on my sidearm if I needed it. “He might’ve mentioned something about that.”
The man with the thin face nodded and studied me. “Just don’t want you getting the idea that you’re the only one he’s dumped that load of horseshit on.”
I studied him back. “What makes you so sure that it’s horseshit?”
Tillman glanced toward Brown with a knowing look and then turned back to me. “Girls were dying, six of ’em to be exact, and that all stopped when they locked that crazy son of a bitch up a year ago.” He leaned in to me. “Look, you need to figure out which team you’re playing on and get suited up. You got me?”
I didn’t say anything, mostly because I knew if I spoke again and I didn’t like his response, chances were I’d use his buddy to club him into unconsciousness and then throw the two of them off the train.
Not necessarily needing to go in that direction, I started past them. “Excuse me.”
Brown gave room, but Tillman left a shoulder square in the passageway.
“I said, excuse me.”
He looked up at me and then smirked before stepping aside, cocking his head as he watched me pass.
I made the corner and then realized I was at the front of the train and there really wasn’t anywhere to go. I thought about turning back but didn’t want to give the two sheriffs the satisfaction, so I just stood there thinking about what I knew, what I didn’t, and—more important—who it was I trusted.
It was possible that Schafer was innocent and just kept the clippings from his brother’s murders as a penance, but I had to be sure that there were no connections between the two cases. Marv Leeland was dead and George McKay was missing and possibly dead, too, unless McKay was the guilty party, in which case all I was doing was chasing my tail.
The Western Star Page 19
