Craig Johnson - Cold Dish

The smile hung there. “I’m home to hunt for the weekend.”

“How did George know you were coming up?”

“I called him last week; he was going to go with me.”

I pulled the pellet gun from my underarm and broke the barrel down, used a fingernail to pull the pellet in the tiny gun out, and let the small, mushroom-shaped projectile fall to the floor. I tossed the rifle onto a desk filled with taxidermy supplies, which made a tremendous noise. “Okay, Petie. We’ve got two options here. Number one is me reading you your rights and taking you up to town and booking you on at least resisting arrest and with a criminal conspiracy charge that’s gonna look really good on your transcript, or you and I just have a little chat and we don’t tell your school or your daddy and uncle what you’ve been up to.”

It didn’t take him long to answer; maybe the college thing was working out. “What do you want to know?”

It was about that time that there was a clamoring at the other end of the table; George Esper must have awakened, heard a little bit of what was being said, and decided once again to make a break for it. The table moved about six inches, even with my weight on it, when George reached the end of his stainless-steel tether. A low moan emanated from below the other end of the table as Lucian walked around and looked down at him. “Son, I have met some sorry little bastards in my life…”

“Lucian, don’t abuse the prisoner.”

He looked up with his mouth pulled to one side. “Hell, I ain’t the one that shot ’im and broke his jaw.”

“He shot himself.”

“Yeah, that’s your story…”

I turned back to Petie, who had not moved, but whose eyes seemed a little wider. “What’s the story on Houdini down here?” He looked confused, so I nodded toward the moaning. “George.”

He cleared his throat. “He called me this morning, real early. He said he had a hunting accident and that he didn’t want to go to the hospital because it was going to cost a lot.” I nodded. “He showed up, with his jaw and all? I started thinking that there might be something else going on.”

“You doctored him up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He got here when?”

“About an hour ago.”

“What all did he have to say?” Petie looked at the ceiling, and I sighed. “Petie, I think you are considering lying to me, and I would advise you against it.”

“He said he ran his car off the road.”

“Anything about his parents?”

“He said they were in Deadwood.” Well, that answered a few questions.

Outside, I placed George in the passenger seat of the Bullet and found his keys in the bunched pants he still had on his lap. I tossed the keys to Lucian. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“He drove the thing with one leg, I figure you can too. Go get Turk out at the Espers. I’m headed to the hospital to get George here looked at.”

“You ought to kick his skinny little ass, but you do as you see fit.”

When I got in, George was looking at the steering column for the keys to my truck. When he caught my eye, he leaned against the door and began moaning, with his eyes partially closed. “George, so far your situation is not irretrievable. Henry Standing Bear is unlikely to press charges, and I’ll do what I can about the mandatories if you tell me everything I want to know.” One eye opened a little more. “Where are your parents?”

He started to speak, then put a hand to his mouth in an attempt to still the pain. “Dehdwoo.”

I keyed the mic on my radio. “Come in Base, this is Unit One.” I waited as Lucian backed the Mazda out and pulled up beside me with a questioning look. I held up the mic to show him what was up; he nodded and headed off for the Espers. The entire side of the little truck was dented from one end to the other. “Come in, Base.”

Static. “What do you want now?”

“Ruby, the Espers are in Deadwood, South Dakota. Can you make the appropriate inquiries?”

Static. “How did you find that out?”

“I am sitting here with the elusive George Esper.”

Static. “Does he know where they’re staying?”

I looked over at George, who was now watching me with both eyes. “Lowsla.”

“Loadstar?” He nodded. I keyed the mic. “The Loadstar. Any word from up on the mountain?”

Static. “They’re on their way down.”

“Roger that. I’ll be over at the hospital.”

Static. “Ten-four.”

I stared at the radio. “What’d you just say?”

Static for a moment, then a sharp response. “I wouldn’t press my luck, if I were you.”

I started the truck, wheeled around, and headed back for the highway. The gravel road wasn’t too bad, but George moaned with a little more persistence every time the truck bounced. He was back in full victim mode. “Your parents gambling in Deadwood?” I glanced over at him. “Just nod your head yes or no.” He nodded yes and looked out the windshield. “Your brother with ’em?” He shook his head. “Was he supposed to meet you fishing up on the mountain?” He nodded, then, after a second, turned to look at me. I looked back at the road and nodded a little myself. “We’ll talk some more about that at the hospital.”

His eyes stayed on me, and I was convinced he wasn’t the Vasques, size nines we were looking for. “Eesurt?”

“No, he’s not hurt.” It wasn’t a complete lie. “We just need to get you repaired.” I changed the subject. “Sorry about the jaw.”

He nodded and slouched farther against the door. He really was a mess. I don’t think the second altercation had done him much good, and the symptoms of the first were plainly evident. The discoloration from his jaw had spread to his eyes, and the swelling had puffed his face so that he was almost unrecognizable. There was that, and the fact that being confused with his brother wouldn’t be an issue anymore. The radio interrupted my thoughts. “Come in Unit One?” Static. “I’ve got the Espers on line one. You want me to patch them through?”

I glanced over at George, who was studying me very closely. “No, just get the number, and I’ll call them back in about five minutes.”

Static. “Roger that.” I looked at the radio and smiled.

By the time we got to the hospital, it was looking like a cop convention; both Vic’s and Ferg’s vehicles were parked in the official spots at the emergency room entrance. I pulled up to the door and walked around to get George. There was a small crowd at the desk when I made my way in. “You know, just because you’re as big as a bus, doesn’t mean you have to provide service like one.” I casually bumped past her and sat George in the wheelchair that Janine had pulled from the wall.

“He’s got a gunshot wound in his left thigh, and I think his jaw’s busted. You better check his ribs. Thanks, Janine.” She rolled George away, and I nodded for Ferg to follow them. As he passed, he patted my shoulder and smiled. I called after him, “Hey, you got my hat?”

He smiled some more. “It’s on the desk.”

I watched them go down the hallway, then walked over and picked up the now disreputable piece of 10X beaver felt. It needed a little work. I was dusting it off as a sharp index finger punched my stomach. It didn’t go in as far as it used to. I turned to look at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“What are you doing out of here?”

“I released myself.”

She shook her head, but the poking stopped. “You looked like you were going to die last night.”

“They gave me Tylenol. I’m feeling much better.” I gave her a thumb’s up. “What’s the story on DCI?”

She looked at me for a moment longer. “Headed for Cheyenne with Jacob.” She looked down the hallway after George and his entourage. “What’s the word on him?”