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

I flipped off the overhead fluorescents, pulled the mattress off of the bunk in the other cell, dragged it around to the floor, and piled on the blankets and a pillow. I sat on the mattress, pulled off my boots, and covered up. The kid was studying his book and was seated on the far bunk: “Don’t worry; we’ll get you out of here tomorrow.”

He continued to turn pages in the Mormon Bible, his face close to the good book, but I could hear him plainly in that high voice of his: “Actually, I’m okay.”

• • •

“So this is Orrin the Mormon?”

I spoke from beneath the blanket that covered my head. “He says his name is Cord.”

“As in music or firewood?”

“Firewood, I think.” I peeled the blanket down from my face and looked up at my undersheriff, now having sprouted two fully blown black-eyed Susans. “Oh my. . . .”

She leaned against the bars and looked in at the kid, the web of her thumb hitched onto the grip of her Glock. “Yeah, I know, I know—it looks like I went all ten rounds at the Blue Horizon.”

I looked at her blankly.

“Boxing venue in North Philly.” She gestured toward the sleeping young man. “He talks?”

I sat up against the wall. “He does.”

“You get anything more out of him other than a first name?”

“Not really.”

She gestured toward the book lying next to the boy. “Who’s Orrin?”

I repeated Cord’s mantra from last night: “The Destroying Angel and Danite: Man of God, Son of Thunder.”

Vic shrugged. “Does Orrin have to say that every time he answers the phone?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s he doing with Orrin’s book?”

I yawned. “We really didn’t get a chance to cover that.”

She watched the young man breathe for a few moments, and her face softened just a little. “Nancy is here from Hell’s Services; you wanna roust the fool on the hill out for a confab, or what?”

“I’d like to talk to her first.”

She pushed off the bars and walked down the hall. “Then get up. I’ll get you a cup of coffee, and you can join the in-crowd at Ruby’s desk.”

When I got to the bench at the reception area, I was still holding a blanket around me as I collapsed against the chief therapist for Health Services and then slid down to rest my head in her comfortable lap. “I’d like to commit myself.”

She looked down at me with big, liquid brown eyes. “Commit yourself to what?”

“Getting more sleep, for a start.” Nancy had been a good friend of Martha’s, and I’d depended on her prowess in dealing with the more delicate aspects of domestic and child-related problems over the years. “We have a little dogie who’s been thrown out on the long trail.”

She continued to look down at me and started singing:

“Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies

It’s your misfortune and none of my own

Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies

You know that Wyoming will be your new home.”

Vic stared at the two of us. “What the fuck?”

Nancy smiled. “It’s the Durant High School fight song.”

Vic nodded. “That’s likely to strike fear into the hearts of your opponents.”

I interrupted. “I guess he’s been living in Barbara Thomas’s pump house for the last two weeks.”

Nancy nodded. “I wouldn’t mind living at Barbara’s—it’s a nice place.”

“His name is Cord, and we can’t seem to find anything to indicate that anybody’s looking for him. He’s carrying the Book of Mormon, and he quotes scripture.”

“How old?”

I sat on the ground by Nancy’s sensible black flats. “Fifteen, maybe.”

She looked up at Ruby and Vic. “There are a lot of LDS splinter sects, fundamentalist polygamy groups that parted ways with the Mormons—Warren Jeffs stuff. There are a bunch in Utah, but there are also a few in southern Colorado, Arizona, Texas, and even one over in South Dakota.” She sighed, and her eyes returned to me. “Have you ever heard of the term Lost Boys?”

Vic was the first to answer. “The vampire movie?”

Nancy shook her head. “No.”

I ventured an opinion. “Peter Pan?”

She shook her head again. “Mormon castoffs; they’re the boys that get kicked out of these groups for what the elders deem inappropriate behavior, but mostly just to make room for the older men so that they can have their pick of the younger women as multiple wives.”

“Charming.”

“As far as I know the nearest polygamy group is in South Dakota.”

“He was wearing a pair of pants that were from the Department of Sanitation in Belle Fourche.”

“Probably got them from Goodwill or the Salvation Army.” She thought about it. “Is that Butte County?”

“Yep.” I waited. “What?”

“I’ve got a friend over there who works for the school system, and he mentioned something about one of those LDS splinter groups.” She thought about it some more. “Something like the Fundamentalist . . . no, the Apostolic Church of the Lamb of God.”

Vic sighed. “Oh shit, not more sheep.”

I reared up, glancing at Ruby. “See if you can get Tim Berg on the line by the time I get back from the Busy Bee.” I looked at Nancy. “It won’t do any harm to the boy to get in touch with these people, will it?”

The therapist shook her head. “Chances are they’re the ones who tossed him out. I can’t see them wanting him back.”

“Well, at least we can get some information on the kid.” I stood and folded my blanket. “Would you like to make the acquaintance of the Latter-day dogie while I go out and get us all some breakfast?”

“Ready when you are.” She stood. “Do I have to do it through bars?”

“The keys are hanging in the holding cell, but I wouldn’t turn my back on him for an instant—he’s a jackrabbit.”

She saluted. “Roger that.”

• • •

The proprietor of the Busy Bee Café folded her arms and glared at me from the narrow aperture of the partially open door. “We’re closed.”

I had looked through the windows and noticed that there wasn’t anybody else inside. “What do you mean, you’re closed. You haven’t been closed in thirty years.”

“My dishwasher quit again, and I’m tired from working the Basque Festival.”

“How about a couple of egg sandwiches?”

“No.”

“The usual?”

“No, Walt. I’m pooped.” She shut the door in my face.

“Jeez.” I turned to Vic. “Dash Inn?”

“Looks like.” She turned and started down the sidewalk. “I’m parked on Main.”

I caught up with her, and a scorching U-turn and five minutes later we were waiting at the drive-through window at the locally owned fast food restaurant. “Are you going to tell me about the running of the sheep?”

“No.”

“Well, who were you drinking with?”

“Why? You jealous?” I didn’t rise to the bait, so she answered. “Sancho, Marie, and the Critter.” The Critter was the name Vic had given to Antonio, their son.

“I thought Saizarbitoria was in Rawlins.”

“They left that lovely town Saturday morning; he said he might take a day or two off.” She shrugged. “They’re the only Basquos I know, and the Critter is getting kind of cute.”

“I didn’t know little kids drink Patxaran.”

“He should have; it would’ve kept me from drinking all of it.”

The radio on the transmission hump of Vic’s twelve-year-old unit sputtered and coughed Ruby’s voice, and we both looked at it.

Static. “I’ve got Sheriff Berg on the landline; do you want me to patch him through?”

I unclipped the mic from the dash and hit the button as Tim’s voice sounded through the tinny speakers. Static. “What do you want, redneck?”