Stone Cold (16 page)

After a while, Nate thought, her voice was like anything else: the breeze through the trees, birds chirping. Other things he'd learned to filter out. But he grudgingly admitted to himself that he enjoyed the timbre and cadence of her voice and found it beguilingly musical.

She said with a conspiratorial whisper, “Mr. T.'s getting the place ready for someone new. I've been working for him long enough that I think I can recognize that Mr. T. is in
love
.”

Nate couldn't help himself. He looked at her. She showed no signs of jealousy. In fact, she seemed delighted by the prospect.

“That's right,” she said, nodding. “He's getting the walls painted and replacing old furniture. He got a nice proper poster bed to replace the decadent round one he's had forever, so I was wondering what was up. I used to ask him, ‘When you getting rid of that white-trash Hugh Hefner bed?' and he'd just say it was in the castle when he bought it, which it was. But when he sent those two bimbos away and asked me to help him pick out a nice new bed to order, I just knew it. He's bringing in a new lady. I couldn't be happier for him. I think he's been lonely. Those bimbos weren't exactly interesting conversationalists, you know. So this new lady—she must be something pretty special.”

Nate went back to the chimney pipe.

“So in the middle of them bitching and whining at breakfast about having to pack up their stuff to be out of here by tonight—one of the staff is driving them to the airport in Rapid City—two of our local redneck employees show up and
demand
to see him. Usually those types come in the door with their hats in their hands, acting all
docile because they want something from him. But these two walked straight into the breakfast room and said they needed to talk to him right away. They had no manners, just like most of the people around here. They were muddy and dirty, and they had blood and feathers stuck to them. It was disgusting,” she said, making a face.

“I escorted them into Mr. T.'s office. He was calm and cool as always, but they were all worked up. They said they had a big problem, and like always they expected Mr. T. to fix it. They started going on and on before I even left the room. You know, Mr. T. can't fix every damn thing there is around here, even though some of those people seem to think he can.”

She muttered to herself and shook her head back and forth before continuing. “But they said they knew Whip was back, which is something no one is supposed to talk about. None of the staff is even allowed to say his name, just like they aren't supposed to say yours.
No one.
Those rednecks said they wanted Mr. T. to send Whip to take care of their stupid problem.”

She wagged a single finger in the air. “That just isn't done. You don't ask Mr. T. to send Whip. You just leave Whip alone and don't look at him or meet his eye or talk to him. Those are the rules. You just
leave that man alone
. Those fools don't know what they're doing even mentioning his name, and they don't know what kind of . . . man . . . they're dealing with. Whip—” She caught herself. Then: “He's the coldest alive, and not someone to mess with. Not for something like this.”

She paused, and Nate waited.

“Did you hear what the problem was?” Nate asked.

“Not the whole thing,” she said. “Something about a new game warden.”

The screw slipped out of his fingers and rolled down the length of the roof and fell to the dirt below.

“You dropped something,” she said, advancing again to pick it up. “Hold on a second, and I'll bring it up to you.”

“It's okay,” he said. He thought:
Game warden?
“I've got another one.”

Liv retrieved it anyway, moved the ladder back, and climbed up. When she reached to hand him the tiny screw, their fingers touched and Nate felt it deep inside like he was afraid he would.

“Time to go now,” he said.

“You know, Mr. Falcon, you're a hard man to flirt with.”

“Good.”

“You gonna tell me what the problem is?”

“No,” he said, turning away.

Sundance, Wyoming

Jim Latta was over an hour late arriving for breakfast at the Longabaugh Café in Sundance, and Joe checked his wristwatch and ordered a second refill of coffee. He needed it, since he'd slept only three hours after returning to the Whispering Pines Motel.

The Longabaugh was located on Main Street, across from the post office, and was the only business on the block open that early in the morning. Mud-splashed pickups were parked outside, and Joe had chosen a corner booth next to the kitchen bat-wing doors with his back to the wall so he could observe the patrons and greet Latta when he showed up. When Joe arrived at seven, the place was filled with road crew workers en route to a highway construction project on I-90—men who wanted big breakfasts of chicken-fried steak, three eggs, and gravy to drown it all in. There was plenty of grumping
about the weather and their bosses before they all got up and left en masse with box lunches at seven-thirty.

While he waited, Joe checked his phone—no calls or messages from Sheridan—and read about the history of Longabaugh on the back of the menu. Harry Longabaugh was a fifteen-year-old Pennsylvanian who had come west in 1887 in a covered wagon as far as Sundance, where he decided to steal a horse, saddle, and gun from a local ranch. He was caught immediately and arrested. During his year-and-a-half jail term, he'd adopted the name the Sundance Kid.

After the construction crew left, locals filtered in. A young, dirty couple in their late twenties or early thirties took the largest table in the center of the room and situated three children under six in the other chairs. The kids were loud and wild, and the mother cursed at them to shut up. The father wore a battered Carhartt barn coat and he took it off to reveal a black heavy metal T-shirt and sleeve tattoos. He was obviously not in a hurry to get to work that morning, Joe thought.

When two of the boys threw packets of jam at each other from a container on the table, the father reached over and swept the condiments away from their reach with his arm, lit a cigarette, and looked away.

“Still waiting?” the waitress asked Joe. She was heavy, with pink hair, and she wore cargo pants and a hoodie. There was a small silver hoop in her left nostril that Joe found hard not to fix on.

“A few more minutes,” he said.

“Waitin' on Jim Latta?” she asked, nodding toward Joe's red uniform shirt.

“Yup.”

“He'll be here,” she said. “He comes in most days. You want to order while you wait?”

He ordered the Wild Bunch—three eggs, bacon, and toast.

There was the old iconic photograph of Harry Longabaugh, Butch Cassidy, and the Wild Bunch over the counter of the café. In it, the Sundance Kid wore a suit, tie, handlebar mustache, and bowler hat. Joe wished idly that criminals still chose to dress well, but thought:
Nobody
did anymore.

He was reaching for his phone to check on Latta when the game warden entered the café. Latta nodded to Joe in a brusque manner and said to the waitress, “The usual, Steffi.”

He sat heavily in the opposite seat and leaned forward toward Joe. Latta's eyes were bloodshot and hooded, and a hundred tiny veins were visible on his nose and fleshy cheeks. He looked like he'd got about as much sleep as Joe had.

“I got your messages this morning,” Latta growled.

“I was wondering,” Joe said.

Latta shook his head, almost in sorrow. “I wish you wouldn't have gone up there.”

“Couldn't sleep,” Joe said.

“This is my district, goddamnit.”

“I know that.”

“Then what in the
hell
were you doing?” Latta asked, angry and pleading at the same time.

“My job.
Our
job.”

Joe drew out his phone and brought up the camera roll. “Here,” he said, handing it over to Latta. “I've got 'em in the act. Scroll through there and you'll see their truck, the license plate, and some dead birds. You can even see hatchery bands on one of their feet if you zoom in. The time stamp nails down when it happened.”

Latta frowned as he scrolled through the shots. He grumbled
about having trouble figuring out the features of the phone to zoom in on individual shots. He complained that his thumbs were too big for the modern world.

“That's Critchfield's truck, isn't it?” Joe asked.

Latta grunted an assent, then put the phone down in front of him.

“Jesus, Joe,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. “Next time you can't sleep, why don't you play solitaire or jerk off like everybody else?”

Joe chose not to reply.

“Why didn't you tell me you were going to go back up there last night?” Latta asked.

“I tried,” Joe said. “You didn't pick up.”

Latta said, “Shit, you stirred up a damn hornet's nest.”

Joe was puzzled. “I did?”

The game warden turned his deadeye cop stare back on. “You left your card on their
windshield
.”

Joe nodded. “So you heard about that already? What, did they call you? Is that why you're late this morning?”

“Never mind that,” Latta said. “This is my district and I deal with things in my own way. I don't need you around here pissing in the pool.”

“Sorry you feel that way,” Joe said through tight jaws.

Before Latta went on, the waitress delivered their plates. Both had the Wild Bunch in front of them.

“I'll try to smooth things out,” Latta said, “but in the meanwhile, I don't need any more of your goddamn help, okay?”

“Smooth what out?” Joe asked.

A gust of cool air blew through the café as two men entered. One was obviously the sheriff, judging by his beige uniform. The sheriff
had narrow shoulders and a potbelly, and wore black squared-off boots. He had a sunken, weathered face and looked bemused, and he held his gaze on Joe for a beat longer than necessary. The other wore a tie and slacks and a long gray topcoat. Both men glanced their way as they entered—two redshirts were always a curiosity in hunting country—but settled into a booth across the room. The older man in the topcoat had a large square head, silver hair, and a serious expression on his face. When Joe nodded a hello, the sheriff looked quickly to his companion as if he hadn't seen it.

Joe noticed Latta had seen them enter as well, and the game warden's face seemed to have drained of color.

“Who are they?” Joe asked as he stabbed the yolk of an egg with a point of his toast.

“Sheriff R. C. Mead and Judge Bartholomew,” Latta said in a low tone, not wanting to be overheard. “Don't stare at them.”

“So that's Judge Bartholomew,” Joe said. “I met his sister last night. I see the resemblance.”

Latta said, “Let's eat and get out of here. You and me have to talk.”

Joe nodded and ate. He was starving. He didn't even look up when a packet of jam thrown by one of the dirty boys hit him in the leg.

“Had to meet the physical therapist at the house before I could get going this morning,” Latta said through a mouthful. “That's why I'm late.”

Joe thought:
It took you a while to come up with that one.

•   •   •

A
FTER THEY'D PAID THEIR TAB,
Jim Latta left the restaurant with his head down the same way he had left the Bronco Bar the night before. He said he'd meet Joe outside. The fact that Latta didn't
acknowledge the judge or the sheriff said more, in a way, than if he had, Joe thought.

On his way toward the door, Joe skirted the table with the family and intentionally neared the booth with the sheriff and judge. Neither raised his head to acknowledge him.

As he passed, Sheriff R. C. Mead said to the judge, “And there he goes, off to enforce the game regulations for the great state of Wyoming.”

Joe paused next to them and looked over. The judge seemed to be fighting a grin.

Mead said to Joe, “If you find somebody out there engaged in major criminal activity—like with too many mourning doves in their coat pocket or something—you make sure to call 911 so I can call up our SWAT team, you hear?”

“I think I could handle that one on my own,” Joe said. “But thanks for the offer, Sheriff.”

“That's why I'm here,” Mead said, exchanging glances with the judge.

“Joe Pickett,” he said, extending his hand.

“I'm Judge Ethan Bartholomew,” the judge said, dismissively shaking Joe's hand. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Pines.”

“So far, so good,” Joe said.

The judge paused for a moment, then said, “And don't go smoking in bed. Poor Anna can't afford to lose any more units.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Joe said. Then he clamped his hat on his head and said to both of them: “Morning, gentlemen.”

The judge nodded back. Mead said, “I know all about you, you know.”

Joe raised his eyebrows.

“Bud Barnum and Kyle McLanahan were friends of mine,” Mead said, letting the names drop like lead weights. When Bartholomew looked to him for clarification, Mead said, “The last couple sheriffs of Twelve Sleep County, where Joe Pickett here comes from. He was a pain in the ass to both of them, they said. Barnum dropped off the face of the earth and McLanahan died in a mysterious fall. I'm sure you heard about that.”

“I heard about it,” Bartholomew said, then looked up at Joe as if seeing him in a different light.

Mead said, “There's a new sheriff over there, some cripple. I don't know him very well yet. But my guess is he'd agree with the other two how the local game warden doesn't know how to keep his nose out of sheriff department business. That's what they told me, anyway.”

Joe said, “His name is Sheriff Mike Reed. He's a paraplegic because he got shot in the line of duty. He's a good man who needs a wheelchair. There's nothing crippled about him.”

Mead said to Joe, “Just keep out of my way in this county. I really don't want to run across you again. You seem to be bad luck when it comes to sheriffs.”

He said it as a mock joke, but Joe could tell he wasn't joking.

“And I'd appreciate it if you would stay out of my courtroom,” Bartholomew said. “My court has enough on the docket without a bunch of frivolous game violations.”

“You mean like locals who poach pheasants at night?” Joe asked innocently.

Something flashed through Judge Bartholomew's eyes. Mead managed to act as though he didn't understand what Joe had alluded to.

“That's what I mean,” Bartholomew said with finality. “I don't want to waste my time with trivialities.”

When the waitress arrived with their breakfasts, Joe stepped aside.

“Nice meeting you,” he said as he went out the door.

•   •   •

J
IM
L
ATTA
stood between their two pickups, shuffling his feet nervously. He had Joe's phone in his hand. “You forgot this.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, taking it.

“What were you talking with them about in there?”

“Just saying hello.”

“That's all?”

“That and the fact that everybody in this county seems to know where I'm staying and what happened last night.”

“It's a small place,” Latta said. “Everybody talks. That's what I was trying to tell you.”

“Except you,” Joe said, standing close to Latta. “You don't seem to have a need to talk to anyone around here. You move through them like you're a ghost, I've noticed.”

Latta looked over his shoulder as if checking for spies and said, “That's what we need to talk about. Why don't we drop your rig and your dog by the motel and you can go out with me today? You can tell me all about establishing some public walk-in areas, like we talked about.”

Joe hesitated, then agreed.

When he got behind the wheel to follow Latta out of Sundance, Joe checked his phone for messages he might have missed. There were none.

But the photos had been deleted.

•   •   •

J
OE FOLLOWED
L
ATTA'S TRUCK
east out of Sundance toward Medicine Wheel. The long grassy mountain meadow they drove across was empty of other cars. Wooded hills bordered the flat on both sides and a narrow creek meandered in and out of view on the right side, its bank choked by heavy brush. A small herd of white-tailed deer grazed in the grass near the creek and didn't bother to look up as the two pickups sizzled by.

He let Latta build a comfortable lead before scrolling through his phone for Chuck Coon's private cell phone number. When he found it, he punched the number with his thumb and put his phone on speaker and lowered it to his lap. Joe didn't want Latta to see him talking with anyone if the game warden checked him in his rearview mirror.

Coon answered on the second ring. “Make it quick, Joe. I'm on my way down the hall right now for a meeting with some D.C. honchos.”