Ridley Pearson - Killer View

“Well, that’s a good start for us. You remember how you paid him?”

Lon Bernie briefly lost his composure. “I paid him good, I’ll tell you what. It’s a long drive over here, and he charged by the hour. How is it my livestock is any of your business, anyway, Sheriff? You going to answer me that?”

“The vet’s brother was killed two nights ago. Now the vet’s gone missing. Mark’s last business brought him over this direction.” Lon Bernie’s face remained expressionless. “Mark doesn’t often tend to the bigger animals. That’s his brother’s job. Seems he made an exception. That interests me. The appointment book shows it was Mel Hickenbottom who called the center. Said your sheep were suffering. Your sheep, not your cattle. No mention of bloat.”

“Could be right,” Lon Bernie said, without missing a beat. “Coulda been the way you say. Maybe it was Mel handled the bloat and the Glitter Gulch vet the sheep.”

The nickname for the Sun Valley area was not new to Walt. The valley’s wealth and glamour offended people like Lon Bernie, and there was nothing to be done about it. Most of the resentment stemmed from jealousy and ignorance and was therefore undeserved. Most but not all. Not by a long shot. Lon Bernie was letting him and Brandon know they were outsiders here and therefore unwelcome, business or not.

“Was it the cattle or the sheep?” Walt asked pointedly.

“I said one of my cattle had the bloat, didn’t I? Something’s always sick around here.”

“What specifically was wrong with your sheep?”

“If I’d known that,” Lon Bernie said, “I wouldn’ta needed no vet, now, would I?”

“Did you get an answer? A diagnosis?”

“You ever been around sheep, Sheriff?” The rancher looked to his right and the hundreds of thick wool coats milling about. “Dumb as paint. You look at ’em wrong and they take sick. Or they throw themselves in the irrigation ditch and their coats get too heavy and they drown themselves in two feet of water. I leave ’em to the vets. A couple of shots and they’re right as rain. I pay my bills on time, and that’s about all there is to it. I’m not asking for no diagnosis, just results.”

“The sheep are better now, then? Did Mark Aker have success with the sheep? Or was he working on your cattle?”

Lon Bernie’s eyes went stone cold. A grin twitched at the edges of his cracked lips.

“Maybe what happened,” Walt suggested, “was that Mel called Mark about the sheep, but then, when Mark got here, it turned out Mel had misspoken and it was actually the cattle having problems.”

“You think I don’t know which of my animals is having problems, Sheriff? You got a dog? A cat? You can’t tell the difference? Not me. A head of cattle had the bloat. That’s all.”

“My brother,” Brandon said, “once had a cow with bloat. Stuck his Swiss Army knife in the cow and about the worst smell I’ve ever smelled came out. But that cow stood up five minutes later and went on her way. He never even called the vet.”

“Cattle’s got three stomachs, son. Depends which one catches the bloat. I put a knife to our cow three times. Doggone pincushion. Got nothing. Then I called Mel. I thought I was the one called your Glitter Gulch fellow, but, maybe you’re right, it could have been Mel. Don’t see how it matters.”

“Mel took care of the bloat. Mark worked with the sheep,” Walt stated. He did not ask.

“Hell, it has been a month or more, Sheriff. What do I know?”

“Have you heard of any illness at your neighbors’ ranches? Sheep or cattle?”

“No, sir, I have not.” The man’s answer came out much too quickly and sharply. He’d been expecting that question.

“Would you happen to have a bill handy?” Brandon asked. “Could we maybe get a look at it?”

“I pay ’ em and I throw ’em out, son.”

“It’s ‘Deputy,’ or ‘Deputy Sheriff,’ not ’son,’” Brandon said, making no effort to conceal his contempt. “The vet, Hickenbottom, would have records?”

“Might have. You’d have to ask him.”

“We will.” Brandon withdrew his notebook and scribbled in it.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Lon Bernie said.

“A man’s dead,” Walt reminded. “That’s fuss enough for us.”

The wind picked up. At a certain temperature, it seemed it couldn’t get any colder, but it always did. Lon Bernie still didn’t seem to feel it.

“Ever had any sign of mad cow over this way?” Walt asked, hoping for a reaction.

“That’s never come down from Canada, as far as I know.”

“And the last time you called upon either vet would have been…?”

Lon Bernie cocked his head toward Walt, as if he had only one good eye. “A while,” he said.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Out here, time kinda runs into itself. Drive a man half mad, this time of year. Maybe more than half.”

“Cattle bloat from eating too much green grass,” Walt said.

“A month ago, we had green grass. Early winter this year. Moldy hay’ll do it too. You trying to make a point, Sheriff? ’Cause you’re going the long way around the barn to find the door.” He looked first at Walt, then at Brandon.

“I’ll tell you what I need: I need the truth, Mr. Bernie. And I don’t believe I’m getting it.”

“You calling me a liar, Sheriff? ’Cause, over here, that’s not terribly neighborly. Listen, I’ve got chores to do.” He never flinched, as he maintained eye contact with Walt.

He turned and walked toward the barns.

The foul smell had not been apparent while Walt and Brandon had been out of the vehicle, but as they drove away from the ranch it filled the car again. Complaining, Brandon rolled down the window.

That seemed to only make matters worse.

Like burning hair.

ROY COATS TRUDGED AROUND BEHIND THE CABIN ALONG a path shoveled through four feet of snow that created a trench with six-foot-high walls. He avoided the piles of frozen dog excrement, as if they were land mines.

The narrator in his head wouldn’t shut up.

The rebel soldier must learn to improvise if he is to survive. The needs of the few give way to the needs of the man. Faced with the possible death of his hostage, he’s willing to make a sacrifice.

Coats called the two cows and the pig by their names: Bess, Tilda, and Pinky. He didn’t think enough of the chickens to name them. He had, on many occasions, launched into rambling diatribes with only these three as his audience. He’d gone on about the injustices to society brought on by the immigration influenza, the disease of poverty eating into society like a cancer. He had stood on the milking stool and lectured for ninety minutes at a time, his voice carrying over their heads and fading into the thousands of acres of empty wilderness that surrounded his homestead. The government had lost its way, focused entirely overseas, when there was cleaning up to do at home. He’d chosen the name Samakinn carefully, never mind that his recruitment had not gone well. A spear was needed. The Romans, the Croats, the Uzbeks, the Hutus all had the right idea: ethnic cleansing. But it started with being heard, being taken seriously. The government thought they could silence their voices by denying their acts. But once the people heard of what they’d done, how powerful they were, the Samakinn’s message would be heard. Supporters would swell their ranks. Change would be at hand. He sought legitimacy, nothing less: credit where credit was due. The doc would make his report-who didn’t believe a doctor?

He had a long night ahead of him, dressing out whichever beast he decided to kill. It was a great deal to ask of him. The sacrifice had begun.