Land of Wolves, page 13
Carefully opening my jacket, I pulled my badge wallet from my pocket and flipped it open displaying the six-point star for him. “I’m a pretty good friend of the sheriff myself.” The color kind of drained from his face as I put the hardware away and hiked my jacket back to incidentally reveal my Colt. “How about you show me some ID so that we can all get acquainted.”
“Um . . .” He glanced around, licking his lips, and then pointed at a black, four-door Jeep Wrangler with Colorado plates out by the pumps on the opposite side from mine. “It’s in my wallet out on the dash of my car.”
Reaching over and taking his credit card from the attendant, I handed it back and gestured toward the lot. “Well, let’s go take a look.”
Following him out to the vehicle, he began backpedaling a bit. “So, you’re a deputy here in Absaroka County?”
Evidently, he hadn’t read the ID card that accompanied my badge very carefully. “Something like that.”
Reaching the door, I watched as he took the wallet and pulled out his Colorado driver’s license, handing it to me. “Well, I do know the sheriff, I mean, he knows my family.”
I read aloud. “Donald Lott?”
“That’s not the family name, the family here in Absaroka County, that is.”
I looked up at him. “Extepare would be the family name here in-county, and Abarrane Extepare would be your father-in-law?”
He looked surprised and a little confused. “Um, yeah, but how do you know?”
* * *
—
We sipped our Styrofoam cups of coffee as his tank filled, courtesy of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department fleet credit card. He was embarrassed and not wanting to talk, but that was too bad, because I did. “I spoke with your wife, Jeannie, and she said you weren’t driving up until this coming weekend.”
He watched the numbers go by as the tank filled; anything better than making eye contact with me. “I had a change in schedule.”
“And what is it you do, Mr. Lott?”
“IT for Western Banking and Trust down in Denver.”
I nodded, proud of having just learned the term. “I can see why you aren’t too excited about the sheep business.”
For the first time he smiled, placing an expensive-looking hiking boot onto the concrete of the pump island. “Abe told you that?”
“He said you and his daughter were less than excited about the prospect.”
The pump stopped, he hung up the handle, and turned to look in my general direction. “You ever work sheep?”
I leaned on the fender of his car and shook my head. “Nope, my family were cattle people, but I think the romance is about the same after you’ve done it for a couple thousand head.”
He turned and laughed. “I’m from Mississippi. I didn’t know anything about sheep, but I was trying to impress Jeannie. If I never see another sheep again in my life it’ll be too soon.”
“Sounds like your wife pretty much feels the same way.”
“Maybe worse.”
“How about your son?”
He froze up a bit but then peeled the top from the cup of coffee I’d fronted him and took a sip. “Oh, he thinks it’s a grand adventure every time he comes up here.”
“He and your father-in-law seem close.”
He nodded, keeping his nose in the cup. “They are—maybe a little too close.”
“Meaning?”
He sipped the coffee some more and then turned to look at me. “Look, Sheriff, I don’t know how much you know about what’s going on here?”
I lowered my own cup and studied him back. “Enough to know that you tried to hire a good friend of mine or me to kidnap your son.”
He expulsed a lungful of air and acted as if I’d hit him. “Now, wait a minute. It wasn’t anything like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
“Look, I just wanted my son back, and I didn’t want it to turn into a big legal hassle, so I was talking to Libby Troon down in Cheyenne and she said that she knew people up here that—”
“And if you don’t mind my asking, how do you know Libby?”
“My bank sometimes finds itself in situations when we need a bail bondsman, and in cases that concern Wyoming, it’s often best to have one from in-state, and Liberty Bail Bonds fits the bill. Anyway, I was just venting to her, and she came up with the idea.”
“Libby did?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to get her into trouble or anything. She was just trying to help me.”
“Why didn’t you simply contact my office?”
He dipped a shoulder in a modified shrug. “Jeannie said her family had a history with the sheriff’s department up here and that it might not be for the best.”
“She also mentioned that you might’ve had some run-ins with the law?”
“She said that?” He paused for a moment. “Just some stupid stuff from back when I was a kid . . . Good grief.”
“But then you were going to try and hire me to kidnap your child?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t know it was you. For goodness sake, if I was going to hire somebody for an illegal kidnapping I wouldn’t hire the local sheriff. Tell me, is Libby Troon some kind of moron or what?”
“She can be”—I considered my word choice carefully—“eccentric.”
“I just wanted to get my son back—you can understand that?”
“I suppose so, but you can’t go around kidnapping people and transporting them across state lines, even family—the law has some strong feeling about that kind of thing.”
“I know, I know. Look, I apologize, it’s just that I found myself in a difficult situation and was trying to find some way of solving the problem and made a few bad choices.”
“Okay.”
He stood there for a moment more. “You were out there, at the ranch? About the dead shepherd?”
“Yep.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Did you know him?”
“I may have met him once, but I don’t remember. Sometimes I’d ride along with the camp tender, Jimenez. I know him, but the others, what with the turnover rate and the few times I saw any of them, are just a blur.”
“Any idea why he might’ve killed himself or somebody might’ve killed him?”
“You’re serious?” He stared at me. “Somebody killed him? You mean actually killed him?”
“It’s a potential, and we’re duty bound to investigate all possibilities.”
“The murder thing I have no idea, but you said maybe suicide?”
“Yep.”
He crossed one muscled arm, hugging himself, and looked around, saying the next words carefully. “Well, Abe is kind of hard on those guys sometimes.”
“How hard?”
“Look, Sheriff, I don’t know how much of this I should be talking about.”
“You don’t have to talk about any of it.”
He sipped the coffee. “He beat on one of the shepherds one time while I was there; practically beat him to death.”
“Miguel Hernandez?”
“No, this was years ago. I mean he smacked the guy until he was trying to hide under the wagon and then went around kicking at him. I’d never seen anything like that in my life.”
I sipped the last of my coffee and then tossed the cup in the trashcan. “I suppose that has something to do with your concerns about your son?”
“Oh, I don’t think Abe would ever hurt Liam. It’s just . . . He’s got a temper, comes from a line of tempers, and that’s just not something I’m acquainted with, if you know what I mean.”
“Western Banking and Trust doesn’t have a bare-knuckle Friday?”
“No, not that it might not be a good idea.” He sighed and then tossed the remains of his own cup into the trash. “Will you excuse me for just a moment?”
“Sure.”
I watched as he crossed the parking lot to reenter the Maverik and speak with the clerk at length, and then I watched as the two of them laughed. They then shook hands, and he returned to where I stood. “Sorry, just something I needed to do.”
“No problem.” I watched as he climbed in the Jeep and fired it up. “You still owe the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department forty-three dollars and forty-two cents.”
“Oh, shit.” He started fumbling for his wallet on the dashboard. “I can write you a check?”
I waved him off. “Just drop it at my office sometime—I’ll be interested in how the meeting with your father-in-law goes.” I glanced around. “It’s getting kind of late. I’m thinking you should maybe grab a motel room rather than drive all the way out there tonight.”
He nodded. “I agree.”
“Do you need a loan?”
“A broke banker, pretty ridiculous, huh?” He flushed a little. “I think I’ve got enough cash if I don’t need to pay you back tonight.”
“That’s fine.”
He extended a hand. “Sheriff, please don’t judge me too harshly from my behavior this evening. I’m a little upset about my son, and sometimes the pressure of all of it just gets to me. Please accept my apology?”
I shook the hand. “Certainly.”
He took a last look at me and then pulled the Wrangler into gear. “I just want to see my child, you know?”
With that, he pulled out, making a U-turn and waving at the convenience store attendant and then wheeling across the street to the Best Western as I started for my truck and Dog, my eyes drifting back to the pool of light that illuminated the southbound ramp of I-25.
“Yep, I do.”
8
“It says I have a message.”
Ruby’s voice trailed in from the outside office. “Well then, answer it.”
“How do I find it?”
“It should be right there on the left.”
I studied the screen. “What left?”
She appeared in my doorway. “It is in no way helpful for me to have to come in here and assist you in the simplest tasks.” Crossing my office, she turned and looked at the computer. “You don’t have a screen saver?”
“That’s going to be my next email.”
She pointed. “See that little icon down there on the bottom?”
“Which icon?”
“The one that looks like a stamp.” Grabbing the thingamajig, she moved it and a little arrow magically appeared. “You just left-click it and it’ll open your emails.”
“Left-click?”
“The mouse, you left-click the mouse and it opens your email.”
“What if I right-click?”
“Don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Any more questions?”
“Why do they call it a mouse?”
She left without answering, and I moved the thingamajig as she’d instructed, very careful to left-click.
An entirely new screen appeared, and I could see an abbreviated version of my email response boxed in the left-hand corner. I shouted to the outer office. “It worked!”
Ruby’s voice came back in response. “We’re all so proud of you, Walter.”
“What now?”
“Left-click the email you want.”
“Right.” I did as she said, and the thing grew to encompass the screen so I could now read my daughter’s four-word response:
I love you too.
“It worked again!”
“Hallelujah.”
“What now?”
There was a moment and then Ruby appeared in my door like the magic arrow, making a beeline for my seat and then grabbing the thingamajig and manipulating it again. “You just hover the curser at the top here and click on the arrow facing this direction and then type your response.”
“What if I click the arrow that goes in the other direction?”
“Don’t.”
“Right.”
She left, and I stared at the screen, composed a response and a request before placing my two middle fingers over the keys. When I was finished, I called out again. “How do you send it?”
There was another pause, and then she appeared once more, walked to my side, and pushed my hands away. “See the little paper airplane up here in the left-hand corner? You just click on that, and it sends the email.”
“Paper airplane, that’s clever.” She stared at me. “Left-click?”
“Always left-click, until otherwise notified.”
“Right.”
Ruby disappeared, and I sent my email, feeling very proud of myself. “Hey, that wasn’t so bad.” There was a ding, and I looked at the screen. “I got another email!”
There was no response, and I carefully left-clicked the box and was rewarded with a magnificent photo of my daughter and granddaughter sitting in the back of a hay wagon, Cady looking to the side with her striking profile and Lola looking straight at me with those deep-souled eyes.
I remembered taking that photograph.
“Wow.”
Another face appeared in my doorway, and Saizarbitoria glanced around. “Is it safe to come in?”
“Safer than it is out there.” I gestured toward the computer, my new pal. “Hey, I can do emails.”
“That’s great, Boss.” He stepped in. “There’s a bit of a problem.”
“What?”
“Did you go off on some tirade about werewolves with Jon Rupert?”
“The TV idiot?”
“Yes.”
“No. I had a tirade on clinical lycanthropy, a condition Jon Rupert couldn’t even pronounce much less understand, but that was after they stopped filming.”
“Evidently not, because it’s being included in the episode they’re airing tonight.”
“I said ‘bullshit,’ and they said you can’t say that on the air, so I assumed they’d stopped filming.”
He sat in my guest chair. “Boss, when was the last time you checked the FCC rulings on profanity? 1964?”
I laced my fingers in my lap. “I might be a little behind the times.”
“You can now say the word shit on television.”
“Even broadcast television?”
“There is no more broadcast television, Boss.”
I thought about the TV set back at my cabin that I hadn’t turned on in a long while. “I wondered why mine had stopped working.”
“Well, they’ve got you spouting off about the most detailed aspects of clinical lycanthropy—did I say that right?”
“Yep.”
“So, they say there’s some kind of cover-up going on with the sheriff’s department.”
“And what are they basing that on?”
“Your knowledge of clinical lycanthropy. Look Boss, I know you, so it doesn’t seem strange to me, but most sheriffs wouldn’t be able to tell you what clinical lycanthropy is if their lives depended on it.” He looked out the window. “What do you want to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
He turned back to me. “Nothing?”
I shook my head. “Until Joe Meyer, the state attorney general calls, there really isn’t anything to do. They got me talking about a psychiatric condition that has nothing to do with the death of Miguel Hernandez, so if they want to air it, feel free.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “Where are we on the Hernandez case anyway?”
“Isaac found mule hair traces on his jeans, which explains how he got up high enough to hang himself.”
“So, he used a mule to commit suicide?”
“The mules were tied up when I found them at his camp.”
“Oh.”
“The mules couldn’t have tied themselves.”
“So, it’s a murder.” He stood to go. “Which is why you don’t give a crap about this stupid werewolf story on cable television.”
“Can you say the word crap on television?”
As he departed, he called back. “I’ll check on that.”
Ruby took his place and held a Post-it out to me. “Abarrane Extepare called and said that his camp tender, Jimenez, was in town getting supplies and that if you wanted to speak with him and not have to drive up the mountain or out to the ranch, it might be a good time to catch him.”
“How was Abe’s English?”
“Exemplary.”
I took the piece of paper with the camp tender’s cell number. “Did he say anything about his son-in-law?”
“No, why?”
“I met him at the Maverik station on the way out of town late last night, and he said he was on his way there to collect his son. I just thought he might’ve mentioned it.”
“We don’t have enough to do besides keeping tabs on the familial affairs of the broader Extepare family?”
“Hey, Ruby, could you c’mere?”
I gestured toward the photo on my screen. “How do I make that my screen saver?”
She reached across, manipulating the mouse thingamajig and left-clicking the living daylights out of it as two of the most important things in my life expanded on the screen. “How do you want to set the sleep settings?”
“I don’t know.”
“When do you want the photo to go away?”
I glanced at the two faces, the one looking back at me. “Never.”
* * *
—
I always loved the old SETTINGS FOR YOUR TABLE sign that had stood on the roadway outside the IGA since I was a kid. The giant crossed spoon and fork made shade for Dog who was always happy to go to the grocery store because, as far as he knew, that’s where they keep all the ham.
I’d called the number on the phone and left a message for Jimenez. It went straight to voice mail, so I figured he hadn’t gotten in range just yet. My supposition was confirmed when I saw an elderly Hispanic man in a do-rag wheeling into the IGA parking lot probably talking to Ruby back at the office on his phone.
