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

I’d been an interior lineman at USC, a Marine investigator in Vietnam, and had taken my share of body blows, but that had been an awfully long time ago, when I had been in better shape and a lot younger. The impact of his bony back into my chest wasn’t so bad, but he had curled one of the brogans up under the seat and it planted itself firmly in my crotch.

As luck would have some of it, the cuff had closed around the kid’s upper arm, which wasn’t as big as the joint at his elbow, and had latched secure. I had fallen backward and pulled him with me, but as soon as we hit the ground, he’d jumped up and, as I’d anticipated, started off. My arm was the only thing he moved, and he yanked himself backward on top of me as he tried the opposite direction, perhaps thinking he would have better luck. My arm crossed my chest after he tromped across me, but at the moment, all I could do was massage my groin and lie there like a ball and chain.

I guess he’d gotten the best of my patience at that point, because I remember curling my bicep and pulling his face in close to mine. “You need to quit that. Now.”

He looked terribly scared, but he kicked at me some more, so I finally stood in a hunched fashion and breathed out my final word on the subject. “Stop.”

He pulled back from the word, and I was sure he thought I was going to hit him.

I took a deep breath. “Are you all right?”

He fidgeted, flung his loose hand back and forth, and looked at my chest, finally nodding his head. “Yes.”

His voice was higher than I would’ve thought, but I was just glad he could speak. “What’s your name?”

He looked around nervously, still looking for an avenue of escape, but seeing none, he kind of collapsed into himself and muttered, “Cord.”

I stood fully upright, and the fear played across his face. I was anxious that the populace not be treated to the sight of a grown man massaging his groin, handcuffed to a teenager in nothing but a shirt in the elementary school playground close to midnight. “C’mon Cord, let’s go get you some clothes.”

• • •

When I got him back to the office, I planted him in my guest chair and recuffed him to the arm. Dog watched us from across the room with a great deal of interest. “I’m, um . . . I’m going to go get you some clothes, so just wait here till I get back.”

I vaguely remembered Ruby having had a clothing drive for the Methodist Women’s League a month back, and that there were still a few bags of assorted clothing downstairs out of which I might find something to fit the young man.

Passing my dispatcher’s desk with Dog in tow, I stopped for a moment to phone Double Tough and inform him that the great Mormon manhunt could be called off. As I stood there talking to him, Dog and I both heard some noise from down the hallway and turned to see the boy had fallen in his attempt to drag the chair along with him out the back door.

“I gotta go.”

I walked into the hallway, picked him up, and sat him back in the chair, then picked up the chair and walked him back into my office. I set the chair in its original location, called Dog, and told him to sit, which he did. “That is the K-9 unit of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, and he’s trained to deal with any kind of situation. I can’t say what he might do, but I would advise you not to move. Is that clear?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” I glanced at Dog, who I’m sure was wondering what the heck I was talking about. “Stay. And . . . Guard.”

He canted his head, looking at me as if I were an idiot, which of course I was.

The kid was looking at Dog as if the beast might go for his throat at any moment, which, of course, he wouldn’t, but a nod being as good as a wink in most cases, I turned and went down the steps and rifled through the grocery bags, finally coming up with a Denver Broncos T-shirt and, more important, a pair of gray sweatpants with a hole in only one knee.

I’d started back up the stairs when I heard another commotion. I got to the first landing at the corner of the building near the front door in time to see Double Tough laying hands on both boy and furniture.

The solid deputy turned with a comical look on his face as he sat the young man in the chair. “I guess you can add theft of municipal property to his list of offenses.”

I joined the group—Dog was standing there wagging. “Some guard dog you are.”

We carried the prisoner and chair back to my office, where I uncuffed him and led him to the bathroom in the hall, the one without a window, handed him the clothes, and nudged him inside as I closed the door behind him. “Get dressed.”

Producing a plastic bag of oatmeal cookies, Double Tough crossed his scuffed ropers, leaned against the wall, and smirked at me. “Have a cookie.” I did, as he studied me. “Call up Health Services?”

I thought about it. “Not at midnight. I’ll just wait until morning and then give Nancy Griffith another ring.”

He waited a moment. “You want, I can stick around up here. There’s nothing going on down at the Junction, and Frymire’s girlfriend is visiting him.”

“I thought he married her.”

“Not yet.” He chewed his cookie.

“There’s no need, I’ll just stick around.” I noticed the crestfallen look on his face. “Unless you really want to stay up here.” I waited for a moment. “Things getting pastoral down there in Powder Junction?”

“Uh-huh, other than some yokels driving around over near the East Spring Draw and being unneighborly.” He judged the look on my face. “Nothing big; new owners, and they’re a strange bunch—Texans.” He glanced behind him at the bathroom. “You gonna put him in the holding cell for the night?”

“Yep.”

He stretched and yawned, covering his face with his hand. “You better lock the door.”

• • •

He stared at the open cell and then up at me, and I was struck by how young the kid looked; I was estimating his age at fifteen, but he might’ve been younger. “You’re not trustworthy, or I’d let you sleep out here on the bench in the waiting room.” I gestured for him to go in. “Anyway, the bunks are a lot more comfortable; I should know.”

He strung his fingers around the bars of the open door. “What if I promise?”

“Excuse me?”

He stared at my chest. “What if I promise to not run off?”

“Well, considering your track record, I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

He thought about it for a second, and then the words poured from him like a teletype machine. “‘Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful.’” He glanced up at my face for only a second. “Corinthians four:two.”

I stared back at him and nudged him with my hand. “Get in the cell.” And then added, “Walt Longmire, quarter past twelve.”

He stepped inside but turned as I closed the door. I reassured him: “Don’t worry, I’m going to gather up a few blankets and sleep right out here.”

“Can I have the Bible? I saw it on your desk.”

I thought about arguing religious semantics with him but instead just locked the door; then I retrieved the blankets and his book from my office. I handed it to him through the bars. “Who’s Orrin?”

The return words were wooden, just as they’d been when he’d quoted scripture. “The Destroying Angel and Danite: Man of God, Son of Thunder.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded and suddenly felt very tired. “Get some sleep.”

“I’d rather read.”

I felt my shoulders slump but then gathered an old floor lamp that I’d used for just that purpose from the corner of the room and brought it over to the bars, switched it on, and directed the light into the cell. “There.”