Craig Johnson: A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

I raised a hand in assurance and unplugged my voice. “Um, howdy.”

The assurance was short lived, and he leapt from the room straight into Vic, who was standing in the doorway leading to the living room and front door. He rammed his way past her, but to give her credit, even with a bloodied nose, she clung to his pant leg as he dragged her along with him. “Motherfucker!”

I made the four strides between us just as the pants slipped from his narrow hips. He darted into the living room, bounced off the room divider, and hurtled through the doorway. I watched helplessly as he skimmed off the porch and was gone like a sidewinder.

I didn’t even bother pretending to chase him, went back into the kitchen, pulled a dishcloth from the stem of the spigot, and dampened it. I got some ice from the freezer and held it out to my undersheriff as she stood and looked at me. “If I’d had my gun, I would’ve shot the little asshole.”

“Did he hit you?”

“His knee did when he bowled me over.”

Tipping her head back, I leaned her against the kitchen counter. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody that scared before in my life.”

She held the cloth to her nose, muffling her voice. “Wait’ll I get ahold of him again.”

I stretched the cord of the rotary phone over to where she stood, called 911, and pulled the cloth away to examine the damage. It was swelling, but it didn’t look as if anything was broken. “You’re going to have a couple of beauties there.”

The phone at my ear suddenly came alive. “Absaroka County Sheriff’s Office; you have an emergency?”

“Yep, Vic is going to kill a fifteen-year-old kid.”

“Sheriff?”

I listened as Ruby’s phone cradle jostled on his shoulder. “Double Tough, is that you?” I never was sure who was scheduled to rotate up from Powder Junction for weekend duty since Santiago Saizarbitoria, one of my other deputies, had run off to visit family in Rawlins for a couple of weeks.

“Yup, what’s up?”

“I’ve got a fugitive on the loose over here on Upper Clear Creek Road, and sure would appreciate it if you caught him before Vic does.”

I listened as he scrambled his way around my dispatcher’s desk. “What kind of fugitive, Walt?”

“Male Caucasian, approximately fifteen years of age, blond hair, blue eyes with an expression like he’s cleared for takeoff—and he was.”

I listened as Double Tough started to sign off. “Got it.”

“One more thing.”

“Yup, Chief?”

I picked up the pair of pants from the edge of the counter where I’d put them. “He’s naked from the waist down.”

For the first time in the conversation, my deputy was given pause. “Well, that should make things a little easier.”

• • •

It didn’t.

We rummaged the entire neighborhood once and then again but came up with nothing. We were in the office, where Vic sat with a sack of frozen petite peas on her nose and watched me close last year’s Durant High School yearbook. “He’s not in here.”

She looked at me from over the bag of vegetables. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“You got the age right?”

“I think so.” I reached down and ruffled Dog’s ears; he liked the relative cool of my abandoned office and the quiet of a Sunday afternoon. “I guess you didn’t get a very good look at him.”

She stretched her jaw in an attempt to loosen her facial muscles and stared at the escapee’s pants on her lap. “You mean did I get the number of the skinny truck that hit me? No.”

“Then he’s from out of town.”

She studied the inside band of the pants. “Maybe.” She rested the frozen pouch on the dried bloodstains that were discoloring the neck of her dress. “What?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to get your nose X-rayed?”

She dismissed me with a flapping of her hand. “What about the kid?”

“He just seemed odd.”

The next statement fairly flooded with sarcasm. “Really?”

I conjured up the brief image of the scared young man and held it there in front of my eyes. “The way he stood there for that moment: flexing his hands repeatedly, no eye contact, on the balls of his feet . . .”

“He’s a ’tard?”

I sighed and felt the bridge of my own nose. “Just . . . odd.”

“Health Services?”

I dialed the number and listened as it transferred me to the answering machine; Nancy Griffith asked me to record a message. I declined and placed the receiver on the cradle.

I pulled the phone book from the top drawer of my desk and leafed through to the G’s. “This stuff is a lot easier when Ruby’s around.” I pinned Nancy with a forefinger and dialed. On the third ring she answered, and I described a young man she’d never seen. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. The description doesn’t match up with any of our current clients. Have you tried the Wyoming Boys’ School?”

“In Worland?”

“Stranger things have happened.” I listened as she chuckled and was reminded that she had sung in the church choir with Martha. “Hey, are you going to the football game on Friday?”

“Why, is there a problem?”

She waited a moment before responding. “Does there always have to be a problem when you’re invited somewhere?”

“Generally.”

“It’s homecoming, and they’re retiring your number.”

“Oh.”

“They’re retiring Henry Standing Bear’s number, too. Didn’t anyone get ahold of you?” There was another pause, but it wasn’t long enough for me to come up with an answer or an excuse. “I think everybody up at the high school would appreciate it if the two of you showed up at halftime for the celebration.”

“Friday. Um . . . I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, Nance.”

I hung up the phone and watched as Vic reapplied the now-not-so-frozen peas to her nose. “What was all that about?”

“What?”

“Friday.”

“Nothing.” I continued to think about the odd young man as I looked at the Durant Dogies annual on my desk. “He’s got to live in the neighborhood.”

“Was she just asking you out on a date?”

“What?” I glanced back up at her. “No.”

Her tone became a little sharper. “Then what’s Friday?”

“A football thing; they’re going to retire my number.”

She looked amused. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Henry’s, too.”

“I wanna go.”

“No.”

“C’mon, I never got to do that crap when I was a teenager.” She thought about it. “I never dated any football guys in high school.”

I was momentarily distracted. “What kind of guys did you date?”

“Thirty-seven-year-olds named Rudy with mustaches and vans—guys that would give my parents heart attacks.” She studied me. “I wanna go, and I want a corsage, just like Babs.” I didn’t respond and slumped in my guest chair. “Please tell me we’re not going to canvas the neighborhood in the short bus with have-you-seen-this-half-naked-retard posters?”

“I thought we’d knock on a few doors.”

“That or we just bait a few Havahart traps with Double Stuf Oreos.” She struggled to her feet. “But I don’t think we have to do that here.” She reached down and held up the inside band of the pants toward me. It read CITY OF BELLE FOURCHE DEPARTMENT OF SANITATION.

• • •

I made a few more phone calls to the services in Butte County, South Dakota, that were open on a Sunday afternoon, but they didn’t know anything about a runaway, so we met Double Tough at the gravel turnout above the T Bar T. “Nothing?”

The ex–oil rig jockey was built like a brick pillar. When I first met him he’d been shot, something he’d neglected to mention until later in the conversation; hence, his nickname. “Nope, and I asked at every house within a quarter mile of the place.”