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

“Meaning?”

“Uniforms made her nervous; I think I remember a story about her being kidnapped and raped by soldiers when she was young. I believe her daddy tracked ’em down and killed them, killed everybody they knew. So, I guess it runs on both sides.”

“Rough justice.”

“Yeah. Find anything in the car?”

“Just groceries, a gun, and a dozen bricks of ammo. Why do you ask?”

“Well, in south Texas it’s always about drugs or oil.”

“I thought you said they were drug-free?”

“Far as I know, but things change.” Another pause. “So, that’s it?”

“No, I’ve also got a found Lost Boy and a missing woman.”

“Names?”

“The runaway boy’s name is Cord, and the mother’s name is Sarah Lynear, formerly Tisdale.”

“Well, the Lynear part doesn’t help since that’s what just about everybody in that group goes by.”

“Blonde woman about thirty years of age. I’ve got a photo of her, but it’s an old one.”

“If you want to scan it and e-mail it, I’ll have one of my people run down to Bosque and ask around.” There was a pause. “Did you say her maiden name was Tisdale?”

“I did.”

“She have family? An oil man by the name of Dale Tisdale who died in a plane crash down here a few years back?”

I remembered the story Eleanor had told us about her husband and found that bit of information to be of interest. “That would’ve been this woman’s father. Was there any connection between the ACLG and him?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but the accident happened right across the border. I’ll ask around about that, too.”

“I’d appreciate it.” I examined the cuff on my sleeve—threadbare; might need a new shirt one of these days. “Can you tell me anything about Roy?”

“Lynear? He’s a piece of work; kind of thought of himself as the king of Texas, at least down there in his shirttail end of it. He’s charismatic in a way, but I guess you need to be if you’re going to be the leader of a cult.” He paused. “I’m not an overly religious person, but the few times we were down there, I noticed that they didn’t even have a church. There were all these Quonset huts they were living in, and the whole place was set up like a military bunker.” He paused again. “You see him stand up yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“He lived down here for twenty years, and I don’t think anybody ever saw him standing on his own two feet.” There was another even longer pause. “Anyway, I guess they’re your problem now, huh?”

I nodded and then remembered I was talking on the phone. “Yep; if you could check on those few things we talked about and get back to me, that’d be great.”

“Consider it done. Adiós.”

I hit the conference button and looked up at Vic and Sancho, the Basquo the first to speak. “That means good-bye.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” I sat forward. “There were some words she said: ‘ Lo lamento . . . Lo siento, por favor ’?”

The Basquo grinned. “The literal translation of lo siento is ‘I feel it,’ but the meaning is generally ‘I’m sorry,’ especially in conjunction with lo lamento , which is the more traditional form, and por favor is, of course, please.”

I glanced out my window at the cloudless day. “So, I’m sorry and please.”

“Yeah.”

I thought about what Crutchley had said about drugs and oil and asked Sancho, “You checked the entire vehicle?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Like you said, the gun, all that ammo, and groceries.”

“Anything else?”

He thought about it. “There were some spare car parts, a rear-end differential, and some bearings, but that was about it.” We were silent for a moment, and he grinned. “So, we have the historic Western figure back in custody?”

I smiled. “We do.”

“I brought Mr. Rockwell some hot tea; he seems to like tea.” The Basquo smiled back. “He’s quite taken with you—says he hasn’t been arrested in a hundred and fifty years, but he’ll put up with it from Sheriff Longmire.”

Vic turned to look at me, the faded to yellow bruises providing nothing if not emphasis. “Well, at least this time you arrested him.” She continued to study my face. “You did arrest him, right?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She stood and stalked from my office, headed for the holding cells.

Sancho sat in her seat. “I hope he’s back there, for your sake.” I guess he noticed the concern on my face. “Don’t worry; he was back there a few minutes ago. Anyway, if we lose him we’ll just back your truck up to the jail and unload him again.”

“Boy howdy.”

“By the way, they called, and the Bidarte fellow is coming up to check on his mother and get the groceries; I guess they’re getting hungry down at East Spring Ranch.” He continued to watch me. “Did you know that’s the exact station wagon that was on The Brady Bunch ?”

I stared at him.

“It was a TV show.”

I then stared at my desk.

“Something about that car bothering you?”

“One of the sons, George, seemed more concerned about the Plymouth than Wanda.”

“So, he’s a prick?”

I nodded. “Oh, yeah, but more than that.”

“Do you want me to get all Border Patrol on the Satellite? That’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Tear a car down to its nuts and bolts?”

“Yes.” He continued to study me. “You’re thinking about it, if for no other reason than it’ll piss off this Lynear bunch?”

I leaned back in my chair, hooking a boot underneath the corner of my desk as I always did. “Yep.”

Vic reentered, standing in the doorway. “He’s arrested. Officially.” Her eyes flicked between us like a cat’s tail. “What are we discussing now?”

Saizarbitoria volunteered. “Going Border Patrol on that station wagon.”

“Just to piss ’em off?”

Everybody knew my methods. “Yep.”

She started to smile, the canine tooth, just a little longer than the others, growing more evident as she smiled more broadly. “I am all about pissing people off.”

“Take it down to Ray’s Sinclair; if you find anything, call me.”

Sancho grinned, got up from my guest chair, and joined Vic in the hallway. “What are you going to do?”

I pulled my hat down over my face.

• • •

My nap lasted forty-seven minutes before Ruby knocked on my door and told me Tomás Bidarte was here to visit his mother. I pulled my hat from my face and wrestled myself from the chair.

The Basque/Mexican poet/mechanic was standing in the reception area, alone, and I took the time to study him. Older than I’d thought in my first couple of meetings with him, he looked more like a poet than a killer. Everything about him was elongated, stretched, but still balanced—maybe more of a bullfighter than a poet—like a poised steel spring.

“You’re by yourself?”

He kept looking at the ground, and I noticed he’d made a gesture to the cooler weather by donning a black leather jacket. “No, there are more men in the truck outside.”

“Would you like to load the groceries or visit your mother first?”

He pulled at the corners of his mouth with a thumb and forefinger, and I was amazed at the length of them, like a concert pianist. “First, I would like to see my mother.”

I walked him out to the office parking lot, watched as he spoke briefly with three men in the front of another, relatively new, flatbed pickup that I hadn’t seen. There was what appeared to be a brief argument, and then Tomás joined me. I stood beside the door and watched the three men, George Lynear being the one on the far passenger side. He leaned forward and watched me for a moment and then leaned back in his seat in a huff.