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

I took his coffee and had a sip myself. “Where did you learn such things?”

“Frymire—remember? He was the fire investigation guy over in Sheridan.”

I could feel my undersheriff’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

The Cheyenne Nation’s voice was low. “What is the plan, assuming we have one?”

“These guys don’t like the heat, so they’re going to call in the lawyers and piss on the fire—I can’t have that.” They both nodded, and I looked at Victoria Moretti, who was studying us with her Browning tactical boot back on my dash. “But first I need to make a quick stop.”

• • •

None of us knew where the house was, and we couldn’t call into the office without alerting the gaggle of lawyers to our whereabouts, so the Cheyenne Nation had a brainstorm and looked in the phone book.

The house was down by the Middle Fork of the Powder River, set back in some Russian olive trees and red willow. Two-story and large for the area, it probably had been built as a ranch headquarters seventy-five years ago, but as the town had crowded in, the ranch had up and left. The clapboard was covered in a black spray of mold where the overgrown trees rested on the surface. Overall, the impression was one of decay; just the kind of place where two bachelors might live.

“It’s the House of Usher.”

There was a late-model Chevrolet parked in the driveway with plates that read FRY, which lead us to believe that there was no reason to call first; the only disturbing thing was that the driver’s-side door hung open. I parked in front of the bridge at the edge of the high grass. “They need a lawn mower.”

We got out and walked to the driveway. Vic went to the overloaded mailbox and pulled out a handful of assorted mail. “What they need is a wrecking ball.”

Henry looked at the windows, empty except for the Rebel flag hanging in the front. Still holding the shotgun, he took a few more steps forward and made his stand at the end of the driveway.

Vic sifted through the mail, dividing it into two groups as I joined her at the box. “Anything?”

“The usual crap, but there are handwritten letters to Chuck from an address in Sheridan in a spirally script with little hearts dotting the i’s.”

“So the fiancée exists?”

“Apparently.”

“Anything else?”

She stuffed the lot back into the mailbox. “I swear it’s only guys that get the Victoria’s Secret catalog.”

Saizarbitoria joined us. “Would someone mind explaining to me what it is that we’re supposed to be doing?”

Vic growled. “Social call.”

The Basquo looked at the Cheyenne Nation still standing at the end of the driveway with the scatter gun. “You bet.”

We all joined the Bear like the Bighorn Mountain Mod Squad. “Reservation warrant?”

Henry was referring to the old method of planting somebody at the back door to yell “Come in” as you banged on the front. “No, we’ll just knock, and if nobody answers we go in.”

My undersheriff frowned as she checked her Glock. “Inadmissible; we find a body in there then we need this to be by the book.”

Sancho interrupted. “A body?”

I glanced at Henry, knowing well his habit of squirreling away ammunition. “Do you still have some of those extra shells in your pockets?”

“I do.”

Saizarbitoria wasn’t going to let it go. “What body?”

“Didn’t Frymire say something about needing more twelve-gauge ammo?”

The Bear nodded. “I believe he did.”

“Whose body?”

Henry turned and regarded the young man. “What body, whose body—is life really worth so many questions? Let us just go down there and shoot or be shot, shall we?” We watched as he blithely flipped the shotgun onto his shoulder as if it were a parasol in a fancy dress competition and paraded down the grass strip between the two gravel tracks in his worn moccasins as if it were a garden path—Sunday in the Park with Bear.

The Basquo glanced at me and pulled out his own sidearm as we started after the Cheyenne Nation. “How did we win?”

I shook my head. “I’m not so sure we have.” I paused at the vehicle and peered inside, but there was nothing out of the ordinary; no blood, not even keys.

Pushing the door shut, I looked at the house; the storm door which had the glass busted out was open along with the main door—even more disturbing.

The front porch was a little rickety, and more than a few boards gave way as I took the point position. I stuck to my plan and knocked, loud and clear. I waited, but there was no answer—Henry reached over and gently pushed it the rest of the way open to reveal a living room.

There was a large, flat-screen television on a stand in front of the curtained front window with a number of devices attached to it with cables and what looked like plastic guns. Vic moved past me and knelt down to look at the stack of cartridge covers. “Looks like the boys are gamers.”

Henry fanned out to the entryway that appeared as if it led to an abbreviated dining room as Saizarbitoria and his Beretta moved past into the kitchen.

I started getting the feeling that I should have my sidearm out, too.

Vic stood and looked around at the art held against the walls with thumbtacks; a few wildlife prints, posters from movies I’d never seen, and a silhouette target with the majority of his eleven-point heart shot out. She shook her head. “Men.”

I backtracked into the entry and followed the Bear as he stood looking up the steps to what I assumed were the bedrooms. I kept my voice low. “Anything?”

He shook his head as Vic, also speaking quietly, joined me. “If, and I repeat if, there is no one here, why was Double Tough sleeping at the substation?”

“Maybe Frymire went to Sheridan and didn’t tell him. I don’t know.”

Sancho had taken the basement, and Henry nodded toward the stairs and started up with us following. There was a landing at the top with one of those pull-down attic accesses, doors on either side, both of which were closed, and a window that overlooked the backyard. We split the duty as we got to the top, the Bear taking one door and Vic and I taking the other. The door was stuck to the old paint on the molding, but I bumped it open and found a mattress and box springs on the floor, the sheets and pillows looking like they got a regular workout. In an attempt at interior décor, there were a few Wyoming Game & Fish posters on the wall, and a large Turkish rug on the floor that looked out of place. The closet door hung open and clothes and an assortment of hiking and hunting boots were spilling out onto the floor.

As a token to amour, a small lamp with a pair of red panties hung over the shade was sitting on a cardboard set of drawers; it was still on and cast a pinkish glow on the cracked wall. Vic walked into the room and paused to read the label on the lingerie. “Victoria’s Secret. Of course.”

I turned to look at the Bear, whose girth blocked most of the other doorway, his face turned toward the ceiling. Vic joined me in returning to the landing behind him, and I moved to his side as he took a step into the room. He slowly raised his hand and finally an index finger, touching one of the stained cracks in the ceiling. He picked at the crack until a chip fell away and something seeped from the plaster.

He withdrew his hand and rubbed the thick substance between his thumb and forefinger and his dark hair pivoted to reveal the powerful face as he held his fingers out for me to smell.

No mistake about it.

I watched as a drop fell onto the narrow-pinewood floor, the drip sounding like the beginning of a soft rain.

This room was also empty, with the exception of two folding chairs, a sleeping bag, and what appeared to be a broken transistor radio.