Land of Wolves, page 28
“Funny where those lines of loyalty delineate themselves, huh?”
She gave it some thought. “So, Miguel finds out Donnie is beating his wife and molesting his own kid and threatens to tell Abarrane, so Donnie gets the shepherd drunk and hangs him.”
“There were also the arboglyphs that the shepherds were using to communicate between themselves, including the one with the man and boy—the one with the evil eye warning.”
“What about the whole Columbian connection?”
“A diversion.” We hit the straights past the runaway-truck cable system, and I gave the three-quarter ton a bit more steam. “By that time Donnie was on his last rope, so to speak. He’d accidentally run into me at the gas station and got spooked. He must’ve felt like the world was closing in on him, which it was.”
“So, being an IT guy, he figured a way to crack into the Colorado Department of Labor and Employment files and insert the incorrect fingerprints?”
“He did, but the photos didn’t match.”
“How about the ICE guy, did he show?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“He got a nice tour of the museums in Absaroka and Sheridan counties before having a beer at the Mint Bar and getting back on a plane to DC.”
“At least he knows where Wyoming is now.” She shook her head. “What about the Choo-choo woman?”
“Keasik, Cree for ‘sky blue,’ like her eyes and like the eyes of her grandfather, Jakes. She’d been in touch with Abarrane after following up on Miguel. I think she knew about what was going on and used Hernandez as a point of contact. Then she and Abe worked together to get Donnie.”
“Teamwork.”
“Once the investigation started, they saw me as the real threat and her main job was to keep an eye out and make sure I didn’t get too close.”
“Territory.”
“Blood being thicker than water.”
“Loyalty.” She shook her head. “So, all the wolves go to jail?”
“Inchoate crimes.”
“Excuse me?”
“A legal term relatively specific to the state of Wyoming, inchoate crimes are attempted crimes committed by accessories or by conspirators. Both Abarrane and Keasik were charged with attempted involuntary manslaughter and arranged a plea hearing and sentencing whereby they can plead nolo contendere; they were promised that they would be placed on probation, including but not limited to whether or not they go to jail.”
“Verne Selby is okay with that?”
“The judge likes to see justice done.”
“You talked to him.”
“I did.”
“You also talked to the prosecutor and explained that Donnie was an internet predator, a spousal abuser, a pedophile, and a child molester—of his own child no less—and the murderer of Miguel Hernandez.”
“I did and also pointed out Donnie’s decision to not extricate himself from the noose, which would warrant a more lenient treatment of both Abarrane and Keasik.”
“You think he dropped his spare set of keys in an attempt to get you to let go of him?”
When I didn’t respond, she shook her head. “Why not? I mean you beat your wife, molest your own son, and there isn’t going to be much solace from anybody.”
“No, there’s not.”
“So, time served and honest Abe is back at his ranch cutting hay to feed to the sheep the wolves are going to eat.”
Rolling into town, I slowed and made the turn, pulling in and parking beside the jail. “More or less.”
“And Keasik Cheechoo?”
“I don’t know, and tell the truth, I don’t care.”
“‘Inchoate crimes,’ it does have a ring to it.” Once again, she stared at me. “Come over and help me drink wine?”
“I thought there’s only a half-bottle?”
“I lied.” She unbuckled her seat belt and knelt on her seat, placing her elbows onto the center console and breathing on the side of my face. “C’mon, I’ll make spaghetti, and we’ll have sex.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Sex or spaghetti?”
I smiled. “Maybe I’ve finally had enough of what people can do to each other.”
“I got there a long time ago.”
I turned to look at her, those eyes very close. “So, why go on?”
“Because we’re doing good, Walt. We’re the only thing that holds the wolves at bay.”
“That’s unfair to wolves.”
“Yes, it is. Here’s where the hierarchy comes into play—we’re the alphas, the ones that fight for decency and the common good.”
“Think we’re winning?”
“That’s not important, the important part is the fighting. I can’t believe I’m giving this pep talk to you. I don’t know much, but I know you’ve got to stand for something in this life—you have to fight for something. Some people go their whole lives without standing up or against something that’s wrong. I don’t know about you . . . Actually, I do. We don’t want to be those people, so that means we play by the rules, fight the fights, and take the shots.”
It was silent there in the truck-—the only noise was Dog’s breathing. “I think I’ll just go in and get a few things done and then head home, sit in my chair, and look out the window.”
“Well, maybe that’s the fight for today.” She knelt there with her eyes on me for quite some time and then turned, sat, and opened her door. She slid out and stood with a hand resting on the handle. “Whatever you decide to do, I better be part of the equation.”
I nodded. “Yep.”
She quietly closed the door, and I watched as she climbed into her unit, fired it up, and swung it around beside me. She cranked down her window.
I stared at her with a questioning look.
“Just so you know, I lost the office pool.” Rolling up her window, she jetted out of the parking lot at just under light speed, pausing only a moment to give me the finger.
* * *
—
I don’t know how long I sat there, but it was dark and the next thing I was aware of was Dog sniffing my ear and placing his head on my shoulder. “You need to get out, buddy?”
I could feel his weight shifting the truck as he moved to the suicide door behind me. I unbuckled my seat belt, opened my door, and stepped out to open his. I watched him as he leapt to the ground and trotted to the edge of the parking lot between us and the courthouse to relieve himself with the one-leg salute.
Standing there waiting, I studied the traffic lights and then turned and gazed at the red-stone front of the old library with its two columns and tall windows, one of 1,679 such buildings philanthropist Andrew Carnegie donated to communities across the nation from 1886 to 1919.
I felt as old as the building.
I glanced up at the dark clouds and scattered moonlight that was highlighting the Bighorn Mountains. Patting my leg, I made for the door and was surprised to find it ajar. I held it for Dog, who bounded ahead as I slowly followed him up the stairs.
Saizarbitoria was sitting on Ruby’s stool leafing through a copy of Wyoming Wildlife magazine, tossing it onto the counter as I approached. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks. What are you doing here so late?”
“Waiting for the results—neither wolf nor dog?”
“Cat.”
“A mountain lion. Do we have to worry about that too?”
“Probably not.”
“Good, I don’t think I’ve got the stamina for another scare.” He stood, stretched, and yawned. “Ruby left a note for you in your office.”
I stared at him. “A note?”
“Yeah, Boss.”
With a deep sense of dread, I approached my office, and looked inside at the large envelope lying on my otherwise naked desktop. “Where’s the computer?”
“She had me put it downstairs on the communal desk.” He joined me at the door and peered over my shoulder. “I have no idea what it says.”
Entering my office, I sat in my chair and studied the intimidating cursive handwriting, spelling out my full name. “I thought I was doing pretty well.”
“The computer?” He crossed his arms and leaned on the doorjamb. “What, you want it back?”
“No.”
He pulled something from his uniform shirt pocket. “I almost forgot. I was cleaning out the prisoner personal-possessions locker and found the rucksack Keasik Cheechoo left behind and these fell out.” He tossed the stack of cardboard coupons held together with a rubber band onto my desk—at least fifty Mallo Cup Play Money cards.
I gazed at them as if they might bite.
“I guess she figured they would spook you or something.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, at least one mystery solved.” He turned to go.
Still staring at the cards, I called out. “Hey, Sancho . . .”
He reappeared. “Yeah, Boss?”
“Are you still having those dreams?”
The smallest traces of a smile played out on his lips. “What dreams?” I smiled back at him, and he saluted before disappearing. “See you tomorrow, Boss.”
After a moment, I heard the heavy front door shut. My eyes returned to the manila envelope and the cursive “WALTER.”
Picking up the oversized stiletto switchblade I’d carried back from my most recent adventures in Mexico, I slid it across the flap and opened the envelope.
There was a photograph, a large, color 8 × 10 with, of all things, a Post-it attached.
Carefully sliding it out, I was confronted with the photo of Cady and Lola that I’d used as the screen saver for my now departed computer. Smiling, I read the Post-it:
Walter,
Sometimes it’s best for us old dogs to not learn any more new tricks.
Love,
Ruby
PS: Get your own frame.
Standing, I patted my leg and Dog followed as I walked through the office turning out the lights, finally stopping at Ruby’s desk.
I wasn’t aware of it until I felt the tug at my coat and watched as my hand turned and opened—the Absaroka County sheriff’s badge lying there in my palm after I’d evidently unpinned it from my jacket. I read the words and then recommitted the image to my mind—the open book for justice, the mountains for steadfastness, and the star for truth, but all significant of something so much more.
And this is how things end, not so much with a bang but with a whimper.
I gently placed the gleaming hardware on the smooth, oak-grained surface of Ruby’s desk.
Turning, I started to take a step but then stopped and stood there looking at the floor, my hand still resting on the surface of the desk.
You pin that star on and you think it’s something you can just take off, but it isn’t that way—it attaches itself to you. Unlike the glimmering pinpricks in the freezing winter sky, this star warms you and becomes a welcome weight that doesn’t let go even if you want it to. If its closest kin, over ninety-three million miles away, were to simply switch off, the average temperature on earth would plummet to zero degrees.
In a year it would be a hundred below zero.
In a million years four hundred degrees below.
Better to not risk it.
I picked up the star and pinned it back on, immediately feeling warmer.
Dog followed me down the steps, where I flipped the last switch off, stepped outside, and locked the door behind me.
On the drive out of town under the blinking yellow lights, I mused on the Mallo Cup cards and all the different places that I’d found them, but I couldn’t work out how she could’ve placed the one under the Travelall where the wolf, 777M, had been perched. Maybe she hadn’t planted all of them after all.
Noticing that the gas gauge was nearing empty, I drove under the interstate highway and took a left through the empty opposing lane, to pull into the vacant lot of the closed Maverik station.
It was getting cold again, so I zipped up my horsehide jacket and flipped up the collar, tugged down my hat, and pulled on my gloves. Standing there filling the tank, I realized this was the exact spot where I’d confronted Donnie Lott, and I gazed at the motel across the street, and then to the I-25 northbound off-ramp.
Maybe I’d head south for a few days to entertain my granddaughter and annoy my daughter, the Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time. Maybe I’d grab Vic and head down to Hatch, New Mexico, where it was bound to be warmer—or maybe I’d just break into the store and steal a six-pack of Rainier beer and go home.
Instead I held a notion in my head for a moment: the image of a bright-red Jeep Wrangler coming off the highway, rolling to a California stop at the sign, and then driving toward me, pulling up at the other side of the pump. A window rolling down, and me stooping to peer into the backseat, where a bundled toddler—my granddaughter—sleeps.
A toothsome redhead with startling gray eyes is at the wheel and glances up at me. “Hi, Daddy.”
But that’s not what was there.
My eyes refocused on the empty, stained surface of a concrete pad on the other side of the pump island, a skiff of snow cast across the hard surface, looking for something, anything, to attach itself to. I could see Dog watching me from inside the truck, and then on the center console, the envelope with the photograph of Cady and Lola.
Maybe Henry was right, maybe I was awaiting a vision that I wasn’t ready for just yet. I wondered what you had to do to be worthy of such things and thought about a world where I would no longer have a place, a world where people always did the right thing.
Studying the envelope, I figured maybe a photograph of a vision was enough for now.
I looked back at the mountains and listened for the sound of the ever-present wind and the swaying of the trees as they mourned its passing—but more important, I listened for the cry of 777M if you will, or Larry if you won’t.
All I could hear was the whir of technology as the gas filled the tank.
And I sighed, wanting to hear that howl so badly.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Craig Johnson is the New York Times bestselling author of thirteen full-length novels in the Longmire mystery series, as well as three works of short fiction featuring the beloved sheriff. His acclaimed books have won the Western Writers of America's Spur Award, the Will Rogers Medallion Award for fiction, the Watson Award for a mystery novel with the best sidekick, and the Wyoming Historical Association's Book of the Year award. They have been named best books of the year by Publishers Weekly and Library Journal. Spirit of Steamboat was chosen as the first One Book Wyoming selection. The series has been adapted for television by Warner Bros. as the hit show Longmire, now an original program on Netflix. Johnson lives in Ucross, Wyoming, population twenty-five.
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Johnson, Craig, Land of Wolves
