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

I thought about what Wanda had said before things had gotten interesting down at the entrance to East Spring Ranch. “Does Tim know that Roy Lynear and his bunch were in South Dakota yesterday?”

“Not that I am aware.”

“Would you like to make him aware?”

He looked around for a trash can. “Not at two in the morning.”

“Any sign of Orrin Porter Rockwell?”

“Faded into the pages of history so far.”

“Cord?”

He had found the trash and chucked his cup. “Locked up in protective custody with Dog, a copy of My Friend Flicka lying on his sleeping chest.”

“How was the coffee?”

His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw bulging like the hocks on a horse. “Wretched. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

• • •

Wanda, as I’d suspected, would be fine. She’d sustained a little damage to her shoulder and throat, but other than that she’d only had a mild concussion and would be held overnight for observation purposes.

I was restless and didn’t feel like going home or to the office; it was past the middle of the night, and I was driving around town like a teenager. Staring at the blinking red light, I sat there at Fort and Main and thought about my life. I guessed that’s what people did at three in the morning—thought about their lives. Parents—gone; wife—gone; and a freshly married daughter who might as well have been gone, too.

Five o’clock in Philadelphia; too early to call.

I missed Dog.

There was an ambient light in the cab now, and I was starting to think I was having a visitation when I noticed it was the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler in my rearview; he was probably intimidated by the stars and bars into not honking his horn at the crazy sheriff who had been sitting at the blinking stoplight for the last three minutes.

I was startled by a knock and looked out to see a man standing in the road in an IGA ball cap.

Rolling down the window, I placed an elbow on the door. “Howdy.”

He looked a little uncertain. “Hi?” He glanced back at his truck, idling behind us, and the vacant streets of the county seat. “Is there some kind of trouble?”

I rubbed my face with my other hand. “In my line of work—pretty much all the time.”

He didn’t seem too sure as to how to answer. “Oh.”

I looked across the street at Wilcox Abstract, housed in a building that had been driven into twice by drivers not paying attention to where their cars were going. “Do you think the biggest troubles in life are a result of doing or not doing things?”

He edged back just a bit. “I really wouldn’t know.”

“Me either.”

He swallowed. “Hey, Sheriff?”

“Yep?”

“Did you know that there’s somebody in the back of your truck?”

I opened my door, stepped out into the street, and unsnapped the safety strap from my Colt: the tonneau cover was unfastened from the left corner. “You’re sure?”

The trucker nodded. “Yeah, there was this hand sticking out, trying to get that cover shut.”

I resnapped the safety strap on my sidearm and spoke in a loud voice. “Mr. Rockwell?”

A muffled reply came from under the tonneau. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to come out now?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’d prefer you did.”

His hand appeared at the corner, and he pushed the cover back further, smiled at me, then turned to the truck driver. “Damn your eyes, sir, as an informer.”

The trucker looked at me. “I should be going.”

He looked both ways to make sure he wasn’t going to get run over, which might have been a trifle cautious in that it was pretty desolate in Durant at three in the morning. Rockwell and I watched as he backed up the big truck and drove around us, took a left, and headed out of town.

The old man marveled at the size of the thing as it passed. “My Lord, big as a house. . . .” Pushing himself up the rest of the way, his long hair and beard looking more unkempt than usual, he turned to look at me. “You, sir, drive a great deal.”

“How long have you been in there?”

“Since this afternoon.”

I undid the rest of the snaps, lowered the tailgate, and reached a hand up to help him down to street level. “I’d imagine you’re hungry.”

He looked at me. “You are one big son of a gun, are you not?” He straightened his pants out and gave a shiver. “A little cold and thirsty, mostly, but I could eat.”

I thought about taking him back to the jail, but in all honesty I didn’t want to awaken Cord. I gestured toward the passenger side. “Climb in.”

He went around the truck as I shut the door behind me and put on my seat belt. When I looked up, he was still standing by the door. I hit the button and stared at him. “Is there a problem?”

He glanced at me and then at the door handle. “Don’t know how.”

We had to find out what booby hatch he’d escaped from. “Just pull sideways on that black thing.

He did as I requested, and the truck door bumped open. He slid in and climbed up on the seat. “Amazing, truly amazing.”

“You drove in the truck on the way back from the Lazy D-W, where you tried to steal the horses.”

He shook his head. “We only intended to borrow them.” He pulled the door closed behind him but not strongly enough for it to latch. “And at that time I never operated the mechanism.”

I sighed. “Well, you’re going to have to open it again and close it harder.”

He stared at the inside of the door.

“It’s the lever toward the front; pull it and push out.”

He finally got the door secured, and I drove us over to the Maverik at the on-ramp to I-25. “You’ll like this place—it’s owned by Mormons.” I got out and reminded him, “Lever on the front.”

I introduced Orrin Porter Rockwell to the wonders of the frozen burrito, microwave oven, and root beer, in that order. We now stood at the cash register, where I slid a fifty across the counter to the pimpled kid working the late shift. “Sorry, all I’ve got.”

Rockwell reached across and laid a few fingers on the bill, studying it. “Ulysses S. Grant on the denomination of the Union?”

“For quite some time now.”

The kid took the bill, studied the portrait of the eighteenth president of the United States, and then the old man. “Friend of yours, pops?”

“He was a drunkard.”

The kid used a marker to identify the bill as genuine. “I wouldn’t know.”

Rockwell got the door shut this time and was happily munching on his burrito as I stared at him. “So, you were in the truck when the woman crashed her car?”

“Which woman was that?”

“Wanda Bidarte Lynear.”

He stared at the dash, and I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know her.” He thought about it. “Sounds Spanish.” Turning, he focused the pale eyes on me and threw a thumb toward the back of my truck. “Nice and warm back there, under the tarp, but not as nice as this.”

“Uh-huh.” I continued to watch him eat. “How about Vann Ross Lynear; have you ever heard of him?”

“No, sir.”

“How about Roy Lynear?”

He continued eating as I watched, but he paused if for only a second and then shook his head. “Don’t know him either.”

I reached over and pinched Rockwell’s arm.

“Ouch.” He looked at me. “And why, may I ask, is it you did that?”

“Just to make sure you’re actually here—I’ve been having a little trouble with that lately.”

He paused and then nodded knowingly. “Visions?”

I thought about Henry Standing Bear and smiled. “That’s what a friend of mine has been calling them.”

“Perhaps you are the One; you certainly seem to have the size for it.”