A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

9

“They say that as you get older, you need more sleep.”

I felt myself coming back as if from death. I was trying to climb out of a hole, but something large and feathery kept landing on my chest and pushing me deeper into the earth. Catching my breath, I’m pretty sure I snorted and then spoke through my hat. “Actually, you need less, which might explain the end result.” I pulled my hat from my face. “I thought I locked that door.”

“It doesn’t have a doorknob. How could you lock it?”

She had a point.

Rolling over, I lay there on my side on the stack of blankets and pillow I’d liberated from the jail. “What time is it?”

“Daytime.” She sat in my guest chair with a stack of papers under one arm and two mugs in her hands. She looked down at me, and it looked like the multicolor bruises under her eyes were just about gone. “Why didn’t you sleep in the jail—the kid goes to work at five.”

“There was no room at the inn.” I coughed again, half expecting feathers to fly out of my mouth. “I don’t know, all his stuff is in there. It felt like trespassing.”

She handed a mug down to me. “Here, mother’s milk.” I sat up and hunched against one of my bookcases, taking the coffee as she smiled. “So, the staff is dying to know how you single-handedly captured public enemy number old.”

I mainlined the caffeine and tried to clear my mind, buying time with clever repartee. “Huh?”

She nodded her head toward the holding cells, and I noticed she was wearing a ball cap, which was trouble as it indicated a bad hair day. “Cousin Itt.”

“Oh . . . Yep.”

She sipped from her mug and pulled the papers from under her arm. “Where did you find him?”

I told her she was never going to believe me if I told her and then did.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

I raised a hand. “As God is my witness.”

“He was in the truck all afternoon, even when we were down in Short Drop?”

“Twice.”

She settled in the chair with the papers in her lap, crossed her legs, and bobbed a tactical boot about a foot from my head. I wondered if she was going to kick me. “You went back?”

I sipped my coffee. “I did.”

“Alone.” She looked out the window, and I was pretty sure she was going to kick me now. “In the middle of the night.”

I gestured with my mug toward the holding cells. “With Cousin Itt.”

“You took him with you?”

I yawned, even though it was probably a bad move. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The tarnished gold focused on me, and I was pretty sure it was the same look pythons give you just before they crush you to death and eat you. “And?”

“Roy Lynear claims Wanda is one of theirs but not his wife; however, it turns out she is Tomás Bidarte’s mother.”

She pursed her lips, and I had to fight to concentrate. “The guy with the knife we met at the bar?”

“Yep.” I sipped my coffee some more. “How ’bout you run a check on Tomás with the Mexican authorities; he made mention of a brother being killed by PEMEX security, and that struck me as being a little strange.”

She continued to study me doubtfully. “Mexican authorities—isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Oxymoron is a little south of Mexico City, isn’t it?” I smiled for the first time this morning. “How’s your Spanish?”

She yelled over her shoulder. “Sancho, translation!”

I drank my coffee as if my life depended on it, which it did. “That bad, huh?”

She reached down, scooping up the sheaf of papers and handing them to me. “Anything else?”

I stared at them, a complete dossier from the NCIS on the entire Bidarte family. “Did I already ask you to do this?”

She shook her head. “I ran the SOP on Wanda and the rest of the family popped up, kind of like Ancestry.com for criminals.” She sipped her coffee. “They got a lot of little leaves in that family.”

I thumbed through the pages and looked up at her. “Do I have to pay a quarter for the audio presentation?”

She set her mug on the corner of my desk and held out a hand.

It was a habit she’d adopted in getting me to read reports that only worked when I had pocket change. “I think I liked you better when you weren’t making house payments.” I handed her back the papers and then struggled to get two bits out of my jeans, finally depositing the quarter in her open palm.

She poked the change into her shirt pocket—I was pretty sure I’d paid for a third of a living room by now. “The earliest mention of the family is a Philippe Bidarte who was a big deal in the Mexico oil business in the twenties till he climbed in bed with a lot of the big American oil interests. With all the revolutions, Mexico was changing governments every twenty minutes, but the one thing all the revolutionaries could agree on was getting the gringos the fuck out of Mexico. Philippe, on the losing end of one of these wars, found himself guarding the ex–el presidente, some old one-armed fart by the name of Álvaro Obregón. Anyway, the jefe has a price on his head, and Philippe makes a lateral career move, whereupon he and his men shoot the old guy, asleep in his tent, dead.”

“Oh, my.” I sipped the last of my coffee and rolled my hand to prompt the history lesson.

“Bidarte Sr. and his men, mostly family, are seen to be viable muscle in certain quarters unimpeded by such a useless appendage as a conscience. They hire out as a kind of private army through the decades, and then in the eighties, they become the strong arm for the most powerful drug cartel, Familia Escobar in Chihuahua.”

“Where the dogs come from.”

She stared at me. “Did you wake up on the funny side of your pile of blankets or what?”

“So Tomás and his mother are connected to the drug trade?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Eduardo and Wanda shipped Tomás, their baby boy, off to—get this—Universidad de Salamanca in Spain.”

She glanced at the file to freshen her memory. “There’s a vacant time period for Tomás after college where there are reports of his involvement with the Basque terrorist group, something called the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, or ETA for short, but about twenty years ago Tomás’s father, Eduardo, splits from the Escobar family because he sees what drugs are doing to an otherwise virtuous business like the Mexican mafia; he walks away and joins the Church of the Little Lambsy-Divey or whatever it’s called.”

“The Apostolic Church of the Lamb of God.”

“Whatever.”

I looked in my empty cup. “I thought all the mafiosos, no matter what their nationality, frowned on that—it’s the in-for-life kind of thing.”

“Evidently Eduardo had the juice to do it for six months, and move to los Estados Unidos; Hudspeth County, Texas, to be exact.”

“Six months; why do I not like the sound of that?”

“Because the sheriff down there said the story goes that they filled him so full of holes you could’ve used him for a colander.”

“Hmm.”

“Wait, it gets better. Our man Tomás Bidarte shows up in northern Mexico like the Shadow, and suddenly Escobar personnel start disappearing wholesale, by the carload, by the houseload—until every single member of the family is dead: men, women, and children. Now there’s nothing to connect Bidarte to any of this, but in good old Mexican tradition, enough people are paid enough bribes to get Tomás thrown into Penal del Altiplano, the worst prison in all of Mexico, for what turns out to be twelve years. Just as a side note, the life span of the average prisoner in that place is only five.”

“He got out?”

“Yes, and reestablished his ties with the Apoplectic Church of Sheepskin, which had a compound on both sides of the Rio Grande near a little town called Bosque. Whenever they got in trouble for the polygamy thing in the U.S., they would run over to the Mexican side, and whenever they got in trouble with the Mexicans, they would come back.”

“Who did you talk to in Texas?”

“The new sheriff, a guy by the name of Crutchley.”

I hoisted myself off the floor and stretched my back in an attempt to get it somewhat in line, and noticed Santiago standing in the doorway of my office. “What are you looking at?”

His grin displayed the trademark dimple in his right cheek. “Jeez, I’ve seen buffalo get up more gracefully than that.”

I ambled to my chair and sat down. “Just wait, your day is coming.”

He leaned against the facing. “Somebody need a translator?”

“Do you want Crutchley’s number?” Vic laid the papers on my desk, pointing at a number she’d scrawled in the margin, including her signature period she added to everything; it looked like somebody had stabbed the sheet of paper with an ice pick. I dialed and glanced up at her and Sancho. “Bidarte—that doesn’t sound Spanish.”

Without looking at him, Vic snapped a finger and pointed at Saizarbitoria’s face, and he responded. “Basque, it means ‘Between the Ways.’”

“He’s Basque?”

“Vasco,” Santiago nodded. “At least part; Basque heritage makes up about twenty percent of the bloodlines in Mexico.”

She looked up at Sancho. “Dismissed.”

He didn’t move.

The phone rang twice and then a female voice with enough twang to string a mandolin answered. “Hudspeth County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Hey, I’m looking for Michael Crutchley. This is Sheriff Walt Longmire of Absaroka County, Wyoming. Who’s this?”

“Buffy, his wife. I think I talked to an eye-talian woman from your department this morning about those cuckoos down near Bosque.” There was a pause as she rearranged the phone against her ear. “I’m sorry, but our damned dispatcher/receptionist is pregnant again and out of the office.”

I hit the speakerphone and rested the receiver back in the cradle. “Sorry about that.”

“Nowhere near as sorry as I am—I married into Team Crutchley for better or worse but not for lunch.” None of us were quite sure what to say to that and listened as she talked to someone in the background. “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you—maybe he wants to talk to me.”

We could hear a man speaking: “Buffy, gimme the phone, God-damnit.” More jostling. “Hey, Sheriff, I apologize for my wife; she thinks she’s funny.” There was a pause, and I assumed he was walking into his office with the phone. “How can I help you?”

“I believe you had a conversation with my undersheriff about the Apostolic Church of the Lamb of God folks who were down in the southern part of your county?”

“Yeah, they used to be here, up until about a year ago.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, back taxes, but from what I remember they got paid in full here a couple of months ago. And there were some problems with the Department of Child Services, who got all over ’em about not having some of their adolescent boys properly educated. They claimed they had a school for them, but these teenagers couldn’t even tell you the capital of Texas.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s Austin, by the way.”

I grunted. “Thanks.”

“Bosque’s in the southern part of the county; I’ve got a shoestring budget and 4,572 square miles of sidewinders, sand, sagebrush, and sons-a-bitches trying to make it to the promised land. I guess you don’t have those problems with the Canadians up there?”

“They would have to go through Montana first.” I waited a moment. “That’s north of us.”

He grunted back. “Thanks.”

“What’s the story on Eduardo Bidarte?”

“Ancient history, like I told your deputy. He’s about twenty years dead; the cartel over in Chihuahua decided to use him for target practice, and by the time they were finished their marksmanship got really good.”

“I understand there was some wholesale retribution?”

“It’s common knowledge that the son, Tomás, killed everything that crawled, walked, or flew with the name Escobar.”

“No proof, though?”

Crutchley laughed. “It’s Mexico; proof doesn’t enter into it.”

“Any drug ties to the ACLG church?”

“Nope. I’ve got drug problems on every point of the compass, but I didn’t with the Mormons.” He waited a moment, and when I didn’t say anything, he asked, “What’s the problem up there, Sheriff?”

“For now, just a traffic accident.”

“Name?”

“Wanda Bidarte, lately Lynear.”

“Big Wanda?”

I stared at the tiny red light on my phone. “You know her?”

“She was Eduardo’s wife and Tomás’s mother and was pretty much involved with every charity in the county. She even started going to the Catholic Church up here in San Marcos; thought she was going to revert, but I think they put the clamps on her.” He sighed. “Traffic stop, you say?”

“Yep. We had her pulled over and she tried to make a run for it.”

“Jesus.” A pause. “She was jumpy that way.”

“Meaning?”

“Uniforms made her nervous; I think I remember a story about her being kidnapped and raped by soldiers when she was young. I believe her daddy tracked ’em down and killed them, killed everybody they knew. So, I guess it runs on both sides.”

“Rough justice.”

“Yeah. Find anything in the car?”

“Just groceries, a gun, and a dozen bricks of ammo. Why do you ask?”

“Well, in south Texas it’s always about drugs or oil.”

“I thought you said they were drug-free?”

“Far as I know, but things change.” Another pause. “So, that’s it?”

“No, I’ve also got a found Lost Boy and a missing woman.”

“Names?”

“The runaway boy’s name is Cord, and the mother’s name is Sarah Lynear, formerly Tisdale.”

“Well, the Lynear part doesn’t help since that’s what just about everybody in that group goes by.”

“Blonde woman about thirty years of age. I’ve got a photo of her, but it’s an old one.”

“If you want to scan it and e-mail it, I’ll have one of my people run down to Bosque and ask around.” There was a pause. “Did you say her maiden name was Tisdale?”

“I did.”

“She have family? An oil man by the name of Dale Tisdale who died in a plane crash down here a few years back?”

I remembered the story Eleanor had told us about her husband and found that bit of information to be of interest. “That would’ve been this woman’s father. Was there any connection between the ACLG and him?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but the accident happened right across the border. I’ll ask around about that, too.”

“I’d appreciate it.” I examined the cuff on my sleeve—threadbare; might need a new shirt one of these days. “Can you tell me anything about Roy?”

“Lynear? He’s a piece of work; kind of thought of himself as the king of Texas, at least down there in his shirttail end of it. He’s charismatic in a way, but I guess you need to be if you’re going to be the leader of a cult.” He paused. “I’m not an overly religious person, but the few times we were down there, I noticed that they didn’t even have a church. There were all these Quonset huts they were living in, and the whole place was set up like a military bunker.” He paused again. “You see him stand up yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“He lived down here for twenty years, and I don’t think anybody ever saw him standing on his own two feet.” There was another even longer pause. “Anyway, I guess they’re your problem now, huh?”

I nodded and then remembered I was talking on the phone. “Yep; if you could check on those few things we talked about and get back to me, that’d be great.”

“Consider it done. Adiós.”

I hit the conference button and looked up at Vic and Sancho, the Basquo the first to speak. “That means good-bye.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” I sat forward. “There were some words she said: ‘Lo lamento . . . Lo siento, por favor’?”

The Basquo grinned. “The literal translation of lo siento is ‘I feel it,’ but the meaning is generally ‘I’m sorry,’ especially in conjunction with lo lamento, which is the more traditional form, and por favor is, of course, please.”

I glanced out my window at the cloudless day. “So, I’m sorry and please.”

“Yeah.”

I thought about what Crutchley had said about drugs and oil and asked Sancho, “You checked the entire vehicle?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Like you said, the gun, all that ammo, and groceries.”

“Anything else?”

He thought about it. “There were some spare car parts, a rear-end differential, and some bearings, but that was about it.” We were silent for a moment, and he grinned. “So, we have the historic Western figure back in custody?”

I smiled. “We do.”

“I brought Mr. Rockwell some hot tea; he seems to like tea.” The Basquo smiled back. “He’s quite taken with you—says he hasn’t been arrested in a hundred and fifty years, but he’ll put up with it from Sheriff Longmire.”

Vic turned to look at me, the faded to yellow bruises providing nothing if not emphasis. “Well, at least this time you arrested him.” She continued to study my face. “You did arrest him, right?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She stood and stalked from my office, headed for the holding cells.

Sancho sat in her seat. “I hope he’s back there, for your sake.” I guess he noticed the concern on my face. “Don’t worry; he was back there a few minutes ago. Anyway, if we lose him we’ll just back your truck up to the jail and unload him again.”

“Boy howdy.”

“By the way, they called, and the Bidarte fellow is coming up to check on his mother and get the groceries; I guess they’re getting hungry down at East Spring Ranch.” He continued to watch me. “Did you know that’s the exact station wagon that was on The Brady Bunch?”

I stared at him.

“It was a TV show.”

I then stared at my desk.

“Something about that car bothering you?”

“One of the sons, George, seemed more concerned about the Plymouth than Wanda.”

“So, he’s a prick?”

I nodded. “Oh, yeah, but more than that.”

“Do you want me to get all Border Patrol on the Satellite? That’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Tear a car down to its nuts and bolts?”

“Yes.” He continued to study me. “You’re thinking about it, if for no other reason than it’ll piss off this Lynear bunch?”

I leaned back in my chair, hooking a boot underneath the corner of my desk as I always did. “Yep.”

Vic reentered, standing in the doorway. “He’s arrested. Officially.” Her eyes flicked between us like a cat’s tail. “What are we discussing now?”

Saizarbitoria volunteered. “Going Border Patrol on that station wagon.”

“Just to piss ’em off?”

Everybody knew my methods. “Yep.”

She started to smile, the canine tooth, just a little longer than the others, growing more evident as she smiled more broadly. “I am all about pissing people off.”

“Take it down to Ray’s Sinclair; if you find anything, call me.”

Sancho grinned, got up from my guest chair, and joined Vic in the hallway. “What are you going to do?”

I pulled my hat down over my face.

• • •

My nap lasted forty-seven minutes before Ruby knocked on my door and told me Tomás Bidarte was here to visit his mother. I pulled my hat from my face and wrestled myself from the chair.

The Basque/Mexican poet/mechanic was standing in the reception area, alone, and I took the time to study him. Older than I’d thought in my first couple of meetings with him, he looked more like a poet than a killer. Everything about him was elongated, stretched, but still balanced—maybe more of a bullfighter than a poet—like a poised steel spring.

“You’re by yourself?”

He kept looking at the ground, and I noticed he’d made a gesture to the cooler weather by donning a black leather jacket. “No, there are more men in the truck outside.”

“Would you like to load the groceries or visit your mother first?”

He pulled at the corners of his mouth with a thumb and forefinger, and I was amazed at the length of them, like a concert pianist. “First, I would like to see my mother.”

I walked him out to the office parking lot, watched as he spoke briefly with three men in the front of another, relatively new, flatbed pickup that I hadn’t seen. There was what appeared to be a brief argument, and then Tomás joined me. I stood beside the door and watched the three men, George Lynear being the one on the far passenger side. He leaned forward and watched me for a moment and then leaned back in his seat in a huff.

I thought about walking over and looking for the shotgun he’d carried the other night but decided that there wasn’t reasonable suspicion—yet. I opened my door and looked through the window at Tomás, still standing there. “It’s unlocked.”

His face rose, and he stared at me. “Qué?”

“The truck—it’s unlocked.”

He nodded and pulled the door open, climbing in and closing it behind him.

“Trouble?”

He looked at me. “What?”

I smiled the warmest smile I could summon up. “Trouble with your compadres?”

“They are not my friends.”

I sat there for a moment and then started the Bullet, backing it out and pulling past the sullen crew. “I don’t think they’re mine either.”

We drove the three blocks in silence, and I parked in my OFFICIAL VEHICLES spot beside the Emergency Room. “I think my truck knows the way here so well I could just drape the reins over the steering wheel and go to sleep.”

“You see a lot of people hurt?”

I turned my head and looked at him. “Not particularly; generally it’s me.” He said nothing more. “How about you?”

“My father was in a business that required a great deal of violence, but he walked away from all of that; unfortunately, it did not walk away from him.” He sat back in the truck seat, and it seemed as if he wanted to talk. “My mother, in an attempt to insulate me from the family business, sent me to school.” He stared at the dash of my truck, not seeing it at all. “After college and before all of this, I returned home and became involved in my father’s business. I believe it might be one of the reasons he walked away from all of it—an attempt to save my mother and me.” He laughed. “I was younger then and impressionable, before I learned the ways of the world.”

He stopped talking, and I was compelled to ask, “And what are those?”

His eyes shifted and looked at me, surprised I didn’t know the answer. “They all involve money.”

“Well, I guess in some circles it’s pretty important. . . .”

“It is everything. The only thing that can possibly compare would be power, but the only true path to power is through money.” He glanced around the vehicle. “This truck, your badge, gun, and the oaths you have sworn—they are all simply for the protection of the status quo of power and wealth, the muscle for what is and what must be. Anything else is delusional.”

It was silent in the cab, and I didn’t want to argue with the man, but his philosophies were heading down a dark road and I thought I should redirect them. “I guess I disagree.”

A hard smile crept to the corner of his mouth as he slipped the stiletto from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

He held the beautiful but worn cutlery out for me to see. “This knife, it is clumsy, unbalanced, and useless except for show—but it is the knife I carried in prison and I am partial to it. . . .” His dark eyes turned to mine. “I know you have done a background check on me, Sheriff. It would have only been prudent.” He looked at the knife again. “It is a horrible throwing knife, but I had plenty of time to practice—we do the best we can with what we have.” He laughed. “Perhaps we are all delusional.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first one to say that.”

“You will argue the primacy of love or family?”

I sighed. “Fortunately, my jurisdiction doesn’t include those.”

“But for you, they are truths?”

“Yes.”

The smile grew more rigid. “They will fall away—love, family. . . . Without the support of money and power even they will fall away.” He rubbed a long, flat hand across his knee, as if polishing it. “You have family?”

“Yep.”

“Children?”

“A daughter and a grandchild on the way.”

“Wife?”

“Passed seven years ago, cancer.”

“I am sorry.” He looked at me with those dark eyes for a while longer and then unfastened his safety belt.

“What about your family, Mr. Bidarte?”

He sat there, looking through the windshield of my truck toward the entrance of the Emergency Room. “I have only her left.”

• • •

Isaac Bloomfield met us at the double swinging doors past the mauve waiting room. I looked around for the other two medical musketeers, but evidently the doc had decided to give them the afternoon off.

Isaac studied Tomás through his thick-lens glasses. “She’s right in here.”

We followed as he made an immediate left and down the hall to room 22. Big Wanda was propped against a team of pillows and was reading from a Gideon Bible that she’d procured from the nightstand. She looked up, and her cheeks bunched back in a joyous smile when she saw her son. “Tomasito!”

He hurried to the bed and embraced her but then quickly stepped back and looked at us. “I would like a moment with her alone, please?”

“Sure.” I escorted Bloomfield out the door into the hallway and past the unoccupied nurse’s station where the wall clock ticked loudly and the coffee pot was always on. I snagged a Styrofoam cup from the stack and poured myself one. “Doc?”

“No, thanks.” He waited a moment and then added, “You look tired.”

I brought my coffee over to the counter and rested my elbows on the plastic wood-grain surface. “In answer to your observation, I’m operating on about two and a half hours’ sleep.”

We both straightened as Tomás came through the doors. “I am ready to go.”

“That was quick.” I gulped what passed for coffee at Durant Memorial and tossed the cup in the trash. “All right.”

“I will be taking my mother with me.”

I glanced at Isaac, who spoke in a conciliatory tone. “I’m afraid you’ll have to allow for the twenty-four hours that’s customary with cases of concussion, even mild concussion.”

Bidarte folded his arms, and I listened to the leather of his jacket crinkle like the skin on a snake. “All right, if it’s really necessary.” He turned to me. “But I will need the vehicle she was driving.”

We all listened to the clock above the nurse’s station as it ticked, or at least I did. “Um . . . That might prove to be difficult, too.”

• • •

I’d explained that the car had been impounded and that it would take longer to get it.

Tomás supervised the loading of the groceries while George sat in the truck, the job obviously beneath him. I promised Bidarte that I’d check on the station wagon while they ran some errands in Gillette—told him that I would leave word with Ruby as to how he should proceed and gave him one of my cards.

He’d left without saying good-bye.

I drove over to Ray’s Sinclair, which had been Ray’s Shell, Ray’s Texaco, and Ray’s Red Crown before that. It was an old-style, two-bay filling station, the office with a wall of glass block on the side. The bathroom key was attached to an exhaust manifold, and as far as I knew, no one had ever bought one of the withering candy bars from the glass case upon which the cash register sat. No one came to Ray’s for the ambiance; they came for Fred Ray, automobile mechanic extraordinaire.

I walked through the office and underneath the shark-like looks of a familiar ’69 Mustang GT convertible that was on a lift in one of the bays. Ray was loosening the drain plug on the oil pan of the 428 Super Cobra Jet engine.

I reached up and placed a hand on one of the original bias-ply tires. “So you’re the one that keeps this thing in shape for Barbara Thomas, huh?”

The mechanic smiled at me through the grease smudged on his chin and upper lip. “Do you believe this thing has only seventeen thousand miles on it?” He rolled over an oil-catching container and unscrewed the plug the rest of the way, catching it in his well-trained hand before the golden liquid could carry it into the barrel. He brought his fingers up, rubbing a little of the viscosity between his fingers. “She lets that nephew of hers drive it, with her in the passenger seat, about a hundred miles a year and then sends it in here to get the oil changed and to keep it serviced. Hell, the biggest problem is keeping the battery charged.”

“Why doesn’t she just give it to Mike?”

Ray laughed. “She’s afraid he’s going to hurt himself in it. Can you believe that? I mean, he’s what, fifty years old?” He shook his head and placed the drain plug on the top of the barrel. “She thinks he’s seventeen. . . .” He glanced up at the mammoth engine in the small car. “Hell, maybe he would kill himself driving it. I know I would.” He wiped his hands on a red cotton rag. “You looking for the demolition derby?”

“Yep.”

“Next stall over.”

I nodded and walked through the doorway into the chaos of the garage, pieces of Plymouth Satellite scattered everywhere. “Boy howdy.”

Saizarbitoria’s head appeared with an inside door panel in his hands. “There is nothing in this car except car.”

I nodded and walked over to where the backseat sat with some cardboard boxes, and squatted down. “Where’s Vic?”

“Under here.” Her voice echoed off the concrete floor, and she rolled a creeper from underneath the Plymouth with a trouble light in her hand and a black grease smudge on her nose, looking completely at ease. “I want that Mustang.”

“I bet you do; everybody in the county wants that Mustang.” I studied her—she had a rag tied around her head in the front like Rosie the Riveter, and she was wearing a pair of coveralls she must’ve borrowed from Ray—she looked hot, as she always did.

“You’re enjoying this, right?”

“Among my Uncle Alphonse’s numerous, nefarious enterprises, he had a chop shop on Christian Street where I used to do lube jobs.”

“I bet you did.”

She smiled and disappeared under the car again. “I was very good at it.”

“I bet you were.” I caught the Basquo’s eye as he stood with his fists on his hips. “Anything at all?”

He sighed. “Nothing.”

I nodded and fingered the flap on the largest cardboard box beside me. “Well, we need to put it all back together as fast as we can, since I promised Tomás that we’d let him drive it back to East Spring later this afternoon.”

Vic’s head reappeared like a snapping turtle. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” I flipped the flap open and looked inside. “I’m sure we can get Ray to help us put it back together.” Reaching into the box, I moved some of the newspaper that surrounded a metal housing. “What’s this?”

Saizarbitoria peered over the top of the station wagon. “That’s that differential yoke I was talking about—the one we found in the spare-tire well. I didn’t look at it closely, but it’s huge and weighs a ton, so I don’t think it goes on the Plymouth.”

With both hands, I ripped the cardboard and looked at the massive piece, then turned it over. From this angle, it looked like nothing that could possibly go on any automobile, but especially this one.

Vic rolled the rest of the way out from under the Plymouth. “What is that thing, anyway?”

I looked more closely at the piece of industrial equipment. “This is a polycrystalline diamond Hughes tricone drilling bit.”