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

I keyed the mic. “Hippie.”

He continued unabated. Static. “You got the hot little deputy with you?”

I held the mic out to Vic. “You still got that psychedelic VW bus with the tinted windows you park outside the schools?”

The voice continued. Static. “Only for you, darlin’.”

I returned the mic to my own mouth, which was generally a little cleaner. “Hey, Tim, have you got a group in the county called the Apostolic Church of the Lamb of God?”

Static. “Amen, heaven help me.”

“What’s the story?”

Static. “Oh, they owed about quarter million in property taxes that they suddenly made current here about a month ago. They’re putting together a little compound, trying to start a dairy up in the northwest corner of the county and the state. Why?”

“I’ve got a boy down here; might be one of their castoffs.”

Static. “Blond-haired, blue-eyed, slight, and fidgety—about driving age?”

“Yes, he says his name is Cord.”

Static. “The mother was in here about three weeks ago asking for him.”

“Well, I’ve got him.”

Static. “Hold on to him till I can get hold of her—she’s up in that part of the county that’s kind of hard to get to.”

Vic interrupted as she took our bag of sandwiches through the drive-through window. “Hey, Tim?”

Static. “Yeah?”

She set the bag on the center console and continued. “I heard you got the guy that did that motel arson last week.”

Static. “What?”

She started up the engine and pulled the unit down into drive. “I heard you got DNA on the perp and broke open the case.”

Static. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, that’s right, genetic evidence isn’t permissible in South Dakota—everybody’s got the same DNA.”

I reattached the mic as his laughter rang through the speakers. Vic turned to look at me. “There, mystery solved.”

“I guess.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure. Anyway, what are we supposed to do with him in the meantime?” I watched the morning traffic, what there was of it, drifting by as a man with very long hair and an extravagant beard stood on the corner and raised his hand to us.

Vic’s eyes followed mine as I tipped my hat at the man with the rucksack on his back. “Another friend of yours?”

I slumped in my seat as we rolled past the individual who continued to hold his palm out to us. “Nope, but it’s coming up on fall and time for all the hitchers to disappear south.”

• • •

When we pulled into the parking lot, Dorothy’s familiar Subaru was parked in the spot closest to the door, and, when we got inside, there was a large cardboard box full of pastries from Baroja’s, the Basque shop, on the dispatcher’s desk. The repentant café owner was sipping coffee with the dispatcher herself.

Dorothy turned and looked at me. “I started feeling bad about turning you away, so I went over to Lana’s and got some treats.” She pointed at the paper bags we carried from one of her competitors. “My being closed doesn’t appear to have slowed you down.”

I rested the bags on the counter and nudged Dog out of the place where he had put himself in case anybody got careless with the pastries. “A man’s got to eat, and I hope you got something more than donuts ’cause you know I don’t like them.”

“You don’t like donuts?” Cord was sitting next to Nancy, a maple cruller in his hand.

I shrugged. “I know it’s against type. . . .”

“I don’t understand.”

My undersheriff gestured to the office at large in an exasperated fashion. “Cops, donuts . . .”

He looked at her questioningly and then back to me. “Is it because you’re big?”

Vic snickered, and there was a long silence. Dorothy, in an attempt to deflect, spoke up. “Walt, if you don’t have any objections, I’ve offered the boy a job.”

I turned and looked at her. “What?”

She nodded. “Washing dishes.”

The incredulity wrote itself on my face. “Dorothy, could I speak with you and Nancy in my office?” I took one of the bags of food with me as I made my way around the dispatcher’s desk and gestured from Ruby to the young man so that she knew to keep an eye on him. “Now, if you would.”

Vic joined the two women and, sticking her finger in the hole where the doorknob to my office used to be, closed the door behind us. I set my breakfast on my desk and took off my hat, hooking it onto the hammer of my sidearm, crossing my arms over my chest. “What are you two up to?”

Nancy was the first to speak. “Walt, it was my idea. I didn’t think it would be a bad thing for—”

“I just got off the phone with Tim Berg over in South Dakota. He says that the boy’s mother was in the sheriff’s office three weeks ago.” I noticed they were looking at me a little funny. “What?”

Dorothy spoke this time. “Walt, Cord seemed to intimate that his mother might’ve passed away.”

I thought about it. “Since when?”

They looked at each other and then back to me as Nancy spoke in a low voice. “It sounded quite recent.” She stepped in closer to my desk. “Walt, this boy shows all the classic symptoms of being a polygamy kid. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him, psychologically speaking, but . . .”

“Well, Tim said the mother was from some compound over there, and as soon as he gets back to me we’ll start getting some answers.”

“What can it hurt?” Dorothy placed her fists on her hips and looked at me. “I need the help, and what else is he going to do, sit in one of your cells?”

I glanced at Nancy, who jumped in quickly. “It would take me a day or two to come up with a foster home for him, so if Dorothy’s got a place . . . ?”

“He’ll skip town like a Kansas City paperhanger.”

Dorothy shook her head. “He won’t.”

Vic joined in the conversation, and I was glad of another sane voice in the room. “Who the hell says?”

“He does.” Dorothy crossed her own arms. “I made him promise.” We stood there looking at each other, the immovable object meeting the irresistible force. “He can stay here and work over at my place till we get him settled out.”

Nancy joined Dorothy at the other side of my desk. “Walt, if it’s true that his mother is dead or has run off, then he’s lost his advocate within that group and they’re probably not going to want him anymore.”

Throwing my hat onto my desk, I sighed and sat in my chair. “All right, but if he bolts, I’m holding the two of you responsible.” I glanced at the chief cook and used-to-be bottle washer of the Busy Bee. “And I’m going to want free lunch for a week.”

Dorothy leaned in and looked down at me. “Oh, Walt, you know there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

I guess after the Kansas City paperhanger remark, she thought I deserved it.

• • •

It was five after five when Tim called, and he was none too happy. “They say they never heard of the boy or the mother.”

I leaned back in my chair and slipped a foot under my desk to keep from doing my usual sheriff backflip with a full twist. “Are you sure that’s where she said she was from?”

“Yes, damn it.”

I stared at the receiver for a moment. “You seem a little agitated, Tim.”

There was silence on the phone, and then he spoke. “I damn well am.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“I don’t like having guns pointed at me in my own county.”

“What happened?”

He breathed a deep sigh, blowing some of the agitation through his teeth, and I could hear him easing himself into a chair. “I drove out that way, and mind you, this is the first time in a long while that I’ve been up in that Castle Rock territory near the South Fork of the Moreau except for that pipeline they got going through there.” He swallowed. “It’s a fort is what it is, Walt. I mean to tell you that they’ve got walls and fences up all over the place and gun towers—honest-to-God gun towers. Now they call ’em observation posts, but they’re gun towers is what they are. I saw individuals up there with deer rifles, and I gotta tell you I am not happy about this happening in my county.”