“So, this bullshit sheriffs’ cabal that Marv Leeland was going on about, it doesn’t really exist.”
“Maybe, maybe not—we agree that Marv was pretty shrewd.”
We sat there in the uncomfortable silence as Lucian sipped his hard liquor in response to my hard words. “Well, we might have to do a little more investigative work, then, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Lucian.” I took the final sip of my beer and then gently placed it on the table. “The job wasn’t the reason I was staying.”
I could feel the wave of words building up in the old bull as he pulled out his pipe again and began stuffing the bowl with tobacco. “I’m gonna tell you something, and you can listen or not.” His eyes went to the window. “When I was younger and full of piss and vinegar, I got a call about some bootleggers up on Jim Creek Hill, the Extapare brothers, and let me tell you, they were not unserious sons-a-bitches. Well, I headed out there all by my lonesome and got the drop on ’em red-handed, but I got cocky and wasn’t watching where one of ’em was puttin’ his hands, and Beltran, the older one, pulled out a shotgun and damn near blew my leg off.”
As proof, he reached down and tapped the bottom of the bowl of his pipe on the hard, prosthetic leg, settling the tobacco. “Well, I laid there on the cold ground thinkin’ about all the money I was gonna save on socks when Beltran walks over after loadin’ as much of the contraband in the back of their truck that would fit and leans down to have a look at his handiwork. That old Basquo’s eyes were black as coal, and I figure his heart wasn’t so far behind, and he says to me—Lucian, I doubt you’re going to make it, but if you do, I’d advise another line of work.”
He lit the pipe, puffing as the flame from the wooden match flared.
“But you did make it.”
“For a fact, I did. After lyin’ there for a while thinking about what he’d said, I decided that I didn’t particularly need a change in occupation and got to moving. I drug myself back to that old Nash I was drivin’ and tied a rifle sling around my leg and drove back in to Durant, where they cut the damn thing off.”
“What happened to Beltran?”
He puffed his pipe and blew smoke toward the window as the train finally came to a stop right about where we’d started this adventure, what felt like light-years ago. “I arrested the son of a bitch three weeks later and stuck his ass down a hole in Rawlins for a five spot.”
“And the moral of the story is?”
He studied me. “Well, as I was lyin’ there lookin’ up at the sky at them stars all that ways away and bleedin’ into the frost, I got to thinkin’ about what Beltran had said and decided I was pretty damn lucky.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Lucky.”
“Lucky.” He squinted. “Most people go through their lives doin’ whatever it is that comes along, but every once in a while we stumble onto what it is we’re supposed to do.” He sat back and puffed his pipe.
I stood. “I guess I haven’t found it yet, Lucian.”
“Oh, you found it all right; you just don’t know it.”
“Well, maybe I will in some other place.”
He stood, too, and extended his hand. “Their gain, my loss.”
We shook. “You’ll say my good-byes for me?”
“All but one.”
That took me by surprise, and I waited till the little tremor of adrenaline faded before trusting myself to speak. “Yep, well . . . I don’t think she wants to hear from me anytime soon.” I reached down and picked up my duffel. “You want to walk me off the train?”
“In a hurry, huh?” He sat and smoothed the white tablecloth with his powerful hands, his fingers lingering on the edge. “No, I think I’m gonna sit here and drink my bourbon and chat with Mr. Gibbs about a bygone era, this bein’ the last time they’ll be runnin’ this train.”
Threading the strap of the duffel onto my shoulder, I nodded. “The times are changing.”
He stared at the tablecloth and the place setting with the silverware, and then at the green velvet curtains, golden swags, and the single rose in the tiny glass vase held by a brass bracket attached to the wood paneling. “Indeed they are, and possibly not for the better.” His eyes stayed looking out the window, and I was pretty sure he was looking at something, something specific, but from my vantage point I couldn’t see what it could be. His hand moved toward the vase and plucked the white rose from the glass and handed it to me. “Here, take this.”
It seemed like a strange gesture, but I took the thing.
He patted his shirt pocket. “You change your mind, I’ll keep this star for you.”
“Give it to somebody worthy.”
We smiled at each other for a moment, and then I turned and walked away.
Gibbs was waiting for me at the galley with a paper bag. “I packed up some supper for you, Mr. Longmire.”
I tucked the sack under my arm. “Thanks, Mr. Gibbs, I may need it.” I stood there fidgeting, ready to go, but still not sure where I was headed. “I’m sorry to have turned out to be so much trouble for you.”
“Oh, you weren’t any trouble, sir. You were the solution.”
I offered him a hand. “Thanks, Gibbs.”
“You take care.”
I pushed my way through the double doors to the bar car so that I could make my escape onto the platform, but certainly didn’t expect to see the twenty-one surviving Wyoming sheriffs gathered there.
I stopped, wondering what kind of kangaroo court this was going to turn out to be, when Schafer himself stood and began clapping. After a moment, Tillman and Brown stood with him, and it wasn’t long before the entire car joined them.
Feeling my face turning red, I nodded and stared at my boots and then tried to quickly make my way along the side to the other exit, but they caught me with handshakes and slaps on the back. By the time I got out of there, my shoulders were sore from the pounding and I was glad to step out onto the concrete platform; only one of them had followed me.
“Thank you.”
I nodded and took John Schafer’s hand. “You need to get your brother out of there. Even if he killed that guard, I believe there must’ve been some sort of mitigating circumstance, and with this kind of miscarriage of justice I can’t help but think a wrongful imprisonment hearing might be in order.”
He nodded. “Hey, hey, hey, I think I owe him a lot more than that.”
There was a cluster of Cheyenne police officers at the next doorway, along with a cadre of Laramie County deputy sheriffs, probably there to get an eye on the individual who had killed their boss.
I wasn’t tempted to stay and take part. Since I no longer had a badge, I figured I might as well get on with my life—whatever that was.
Crossing the platform, I pulled open the heavy glass door by the brass handle and stepped inside. The newsstand where I’d bought the Agatha Christie was closed, the metal grates rolled down, but I couldn’t help but pull the paperback from the pocket of my jacket and leave it on the counter for the next passing traveler.
Remembering the rose Lucian had given me, I pulled it from my pocket, a little the worse for it, and placed it on the book, then started off.
“Giving up reading?”
Her voice echoed off the marble floor and through my internal organs, and I stopped and turned slowly. She stood in the reflection of the golden glow of the streetlights outside, where the snow was falling in a gentle flurry, only marginally diminished by the revolving red lights of the CPD cruisers.
“Just mysteries.” I walked toward her and could see she was wearing the same outfit she’d had on in Evanston, still accessorized with the blanket I’d given her, courtesy of Grace. “Speaking of, where’s your partner in crime?”
“Waiting. Sitting out in Lola.”
I nodded and looked down at the wooden bench where I’d first met the president of the Wy
oming Sheriffs’ Association. “Waiting on who?”
“Us.”
“Us?”
Her head came up, and if she so much as pressed a forefinger against my chest I was going to fall over backward. “How are you, Walt?”
I tipped my hat forward and rubbed the back of my head. “A few bumps and bruises, and I broke my watch, but I’m fine.”
She snuck a glance at me between butterscotch locks, and then looked out the big plate-glass windows at the cop convention. “I’m afraid, Walt. I’m afraid we’re doing something stupid, and then I’m afraid we might not do something stupid.”
“When given the opportunity, I always go for stupid.”
She smiled, even though she didn’t want to, and she thumped a blanket-covered fist off my chest.
“Martha, I don’t think anything I’d ever do to be with you could be construed as stupid.” Adjusting the strap on my shoulder, I swung the duffel away and took off my hat, bending forward to give her a kiss.
There was a commotion on the platform as the two inside doors opened and a troop of assorted lawmen escorted Kim LeClerc/Wheeler through the lobby of the depot toward the vehicles in the parking lot.
He had looked better, what with the bandages wrapped around half of his head, and he was unsteady as he trudged, handcuffed, between a deputy and Holland, toward the door beside us.
I took a step forward, and I guess Holland must’ve thought that I wanted to say something to him. So he pulled up short and turned the prisoner toward us. LeClerc cocked his head sideways and tilted it back so that I could see the one eye still marred by smeared mascara.
I should have seen it there in that eye.
I should’ve known.
There really isn’t anybody more dangerous than somebody who has absolutely nothing to lose, and Kim LeClerc was that person—so with all the force he could muster, he brought his knee up into my wife’s abdomen.
—
Placenta abruption, that’s what they call it. Generally damage of this type can only be done after the first trimester, when the uterus begins to peek above the pelvis, and that was where Martha happened to be at that time in her pregnancy. We lost the baby.
“Hey, buddy, would you mind moving along?”
I took another step forward in the line at the ticketing desk at Denver International Airport, adjusted the duffel strap on my shoulder, and clutched the handle of the hard case.
I thought about the questions that I’d been peppered with in the last week, the amount of people who’d been able to read that it must have been something more than the murders that had made me maintain a personal vendetta against Kim LeClerc for so many years, even if they didn’t know the specifics.
I took another step forward.
Henry and Vic had driven my truck home to deposit my grandchild in the safest place I knew, deep in the heart of the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, and then they would join me.
I was traveling light and would likely be for some time, at least until I got the job done. It was a dirty job, but that’s okay because I was in a dirty mood. I pulled the linen postcard from my shirt pocket and studied the hand-tinted, grainy photograph of the two sentinel rock spires and the singular word printed on the back.
I glanced up and found myself looking at one of the airline’s smartly dressed young women. Stepping forward, I placed the hard case on the counter and the duffel by my boots. Stuffing the postcard back in my shirt, I handed her my badge wallet, flipping it open to the ID card. “Walt Longmire.”
“Can you remove that from the wallet for me, please?”
I did as she requested and handed it to her.
“Hey, cowboy. . . . What, you’ve never flown before?”
I turned and looked at the Captain of Industry behind me, with his three-piece suit, red power tie, carry-on bag, and briefcase, just long enough to find his polished loafers interesting and then turned back and thumbed the lock on the hard case, popping open the container and turning it toward the young woman. “My name is Walter Longmire. I’m sheriff of Absaroka County, Wyoming, and I am declaring an unloaded Colt 1911 semiautomatic pistol and two full clips of .45 ammunition in a separate container.” I pulled the weapon and slid the assembly back, flipped the lever locking it home, and lowered the hammer in one dexterous move, assuring her that it was, indeed, empty.
I placed the Colt back in the case and closed it. “You’ll find the orange manifest card on the lid there.” I scooped the case up and carefully lifted the duffel onto the scale and unzipped it, placing my sidearm inside. “Anything else?”
She glanced around, then stepped through the opening where the scale was, careful to avoid my bag like it was rank death with a luggage tag. “Here’s your ID, Sheriff Longmire. Do you need a boarding pass?”
“If you would, please.”
She printed it out and then glanced at a workmate. “Jeannie, can you cover for me?” She looked back at me with a perfunctory smile. “Sheriff Longmire, I’m going to need to accompany you to a TSA agent, where they can examine the weapon and case.”
I followed her, patting my shirt pocket to make sure the postcard, the only clue I had, was still there. I knew she was alive because he wanted me, and the only way he’d get me was if that was the case. And I found it hard to believe that Alexia was involved, figuring they wanted Cady to have one familiar face, at least that was what I hoped.
As we went toward the center of the walkway, the ticket agent blithely asked, “Business or pleasure, Sheriff?”
I stretched my neck, looking up at the peaked roof that was meant to mimic the Rocky Mountains soaring into the blue sky but that always reminded me of teepees. Riding the escalator down, I know it was the thunder of the jets taking off and landing that rattled the surrounding glass—but I could’ve sworn I heard drums.
“Business.”
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The Western Star Page 25
