Cold Dish

5

I left the house around 5:30 in the morning and succeeded in avoiding Red Road Contracting and Henry. I wasn’t sure if he was going to make me run two days in a row, but I didn’t want to risk it. It was partly cloudy, but the sun was making a valiant attempt at clearing the sky, and it promised to be warmer than it had been in the last few days. I sometimes thought about moving south, following the geese, shooting through the pass at Raton, and seeing if there were any sheriff openings in New Mexico. Good Mexican food was hard to come by north of Denver. I liked Taos, but Hatch was probably my speed.

I took 14 to Lower Piney and cut across 267 to Rock Creek, slowly tacking my way up the foothills. I thought about Vonnie and missed her a little bit. It was probably way too early for that. I was going through that little bit of worry that I had said or done something wrong and that she might not want to see me again. I saw me every day, and I wasn’t so sure I was that fond of my company. I promised myself that I would call her up and make a real date, maybe a lunch of lessening expectations.

As far as I knew, Ruby hadn’t gotten any response from the Espers. I was going to have to swing out to their place and square things up on the way back from Omar’s unless I radioed in and got Vic to do it. With Turk back in Powder, I was shorthanded. I thought about Turk and forced my train of thought elsewhere. It was a big train. I waited till I got to the top of one of the ridges to tell Ruby to send Ferg out to the Esper place. She reminded me that I hadn’t taken my sweatpants and that Vic’s feelings were probably going to be hurt.

“Is she there?”

“Talking on the phone with Cheyenne.”

“This early? Well, tell her that the evidence stuff is on my desk from…”

“She’s already got that.”

“Oh.” I waited for a moment, but she didn’t continue. “Anything you need from me?”

“Like where you are?”

“Yep, like that.”

“No, we don’t care.” I thought I heard someone laughing in the background, but I wasn’t sure.

Palace Omar was made of logs, same as mine, but that was where the likeness ended. Unlike Vonnie’s, you had to park in a circular holding area after being buzzed through the gate, which was about a mile back down the asphalt road. No one said anything, but the gate had slowly risen, and I smiled and waved at the little black video camera. I looked up at the house and wondered how many cameras were on me now. The place was impressive, as multimillion-dollar mansions go. The architects from Montana had used a combination of massive hand-hewn logs and architectural salvage to produce a combination of old and new and all expensive.

I knocked and made faces at the security camera at the door, but no one answered. Entering Omar’s house unannounced was less than appealing, but I could hear a television blaring in the depths of the structure and decided to risk it. I pushed open the doors, listened to the satisfied thump as the metal cores closed, and walked into the two-story atrium that made up the entryway. I counted the mounted heads that were hung down the great hallway to the kitchen in the back. There were twenty-three. I knew the inside of the house pretty well; I had followed Omar and Myra through the majority of it while listening to their running, psychosis-ridden monologues on how they were going to kill each other.

As I made my way toward the kitchen, the sound from the TV became more distinct, and I was pretty sure some pretty dramatic lovemaking was going on. Obviously Omar got a lot better reception than I did. When I got there, Jay Scherle, Omar’s head wrangler, was standing at the counter and watching a watered-down version of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which I gathered was taking place in a hayloft somewhere. Every time the leading lady became overcome with passion, the camera would drift to the casually billowing curtains at a window. Jay was dressed for work, complete with chaps and spurs. I asked if Omar was up. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. “I’ve worked here for seven years, and I’ve never seen the son of a bitch sleep.”

I nodded and watched Jay watch the flip-down flat screen that was hung under the kitchen cabinets. I wasn’t sure if D. H. Lawrence would have recognized his work, but the plastic surgeon specializing in breast enhancement would have recognized his.

“Where is he?”

“Out back, getting set up.”

I looked at the screen, a curtain again. “Set up for what?”

“Hell if I know… took a pumpkin with him.” After a moment, he spoke again. “You ever seen a barn with so many damn curtains?”

I walked through the french doors Jay had indicated with his chin, across an expansive deck, and down a stone walkway to a courtyard walled in by four feet of moss rock topped with Colorado red granite, but I didn’t see Omar. I was about to go back in when I noticed a couple of sand bags, shooter’s glasses, and a spotting scope laying on the picnic table at the other side of the wall. My eyes continued up, and I saw Omar at the foot of a hill about a quarter mile away. He had been watching me and slowly raised his hand. I wasn’t sure if it was an invitation, but I started walking, my breath still blowing clouds of mist into the warming, easterly breeze.

When I got there, he was putting the finishing touches on the vegetable by adjusting it in the lawn chair just so and placing a thick piece of rubber behind it. Beside him on the ground lay a Sioux rifle scabbard, which was completely beaded with eagle feathers leading from the edge all the way to the butt. If the Game and Fish knew Omar had real eagle feathers, they’d come take them away and slap Omar with a $250 fine. I figured Omar probably lost that much in the daily wash. It was brain-tanned leather, as soft as a horse’s nose, and the color of butter melting in the sun. The minute glass trading beads were Maundy yellow, a faded mustard tint I recognized as over a hundred years old. He picked up the scabbard, and we started back for the house.

“How far have we gone?” He was wearing a black, ripstop down jacket and now favored Ted Nugent over Custer.

“I have no idea.”

“Use the range finder.”

I aimed the little scope gadget he had given me at the pumpkin that was sitting in the aged lawn chair. The distance did nothing to diminish the ludicrous image, especially with the little green indicator numbers jumping back and forth in the lower-right-hand corner. I lowered the scope and looked at him. “You tell me, Great White Hunter.”

He looked back across the slight grade at the squash luxuriating at the base of the hillside. “Three hundred and one yards.”

I smiled. “Close. Three hundred.”

“Step back here where I am.” He continued walking as I stood in his spot and looked back. The range finder read 301, and the small hairs on the back of my neck stirred. He stopped and looked back at me and then unbuttoned three Indian-head nickels from the scabbard and slowly slid the rifle from its protective covering. The sheath looked like the skin of a snake coming off and what glistened in the early morning sun looked twice as deadly as any rattler I had ever seen.

The eighth-century pacifist Li Ch’uan branded the use of gunpowder weapons as tools of ill omen. “Eighteen-seventy-four?”

“Yep.”

“. 45–70?”

“Yep.” He handed me the rifle and crossed his arms. “You ever seen one up close?”

“Not a real one.”

It was heavy, and it seemed to me that if you missed what you were shooting at, you could simply run it down and beat it to death, whatever it was. The barrel was just shy of three feet long. I gently lowered the lever and dropped the block, looking through thirty-two inches of six groove, one in eighteen-inch, right-hand twist. From this vantage point, the world looked very small indeed. The action was smooth and precise, and I marveled at the workmanship that was more than 125 years old. The design on the aged monster was a falling block, breech-loading single shot. The old-timers used to take a great deal of pride in the fact that a single shot was all it took. The trigger was a double set, and the sights were an aperture rear with a globe-style front. I pulled the weapon from my shoulder and read the top of the barrel: Business Special.

What kind of special business had Christian Sharps intended? In 1874 the rifle had been adopted by the military because it could kill a horse dead as a stone at six hundred yards-six football fields. Congregational minister Henry Ward Beecher pledged his Plymouth church to furnish twenty-five Sharps rifles for use in bloody Kansas. Redoubtably, the preacher may have done more for the cause of abolitionism with his Beecher’s bibles than did his sister Harriet with her Uncle Tom’s Cabin. But it was John Brown who brought the Sharps to a bloody birth at Harpers Ferry, and a nation’s innocence was lost at Gettysburg. After the Civil War, free ammunition had been handed out to privateer hunters to usher the vast, uncontrollable buffalo herds into extinction. Then there were the Indians. Good and bad, these actions had earned the Sharps buffalo rifle the title of one of the most significant weapons in history and in language. Sharps shooter: sharp-shooter. “What makes you think…?”

“The amount of lead, cartridge lubricant, no powder burns… A feeling.” He turned and walked toward the house, the rifle scabbard thrown over his shoulder. After a moment, he stopped. “Three hundred and seventy.” Big deal.

I was sitting at the picnic table and contemplated muzzle velocity and trajectory sightings at 440 yards. The Sharps was now wedged between three small sand bags, and a much larger spotting scope sat atop a three-pronged pedestal at my elbow. Omar returned with two cups of coffee, at my request. The cups were thick buffalo china with his brand on them, and it was really good coffee.

“Jay still enjoying the matinee?”

“You know, I’ve seen men ruined by drink, drugs, and Dodge pickup trucks, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen one ruined by soft-core porn.” He nudged his mug a little farther over and leaned his elbows on the table. “You’d think he’d never seen a set of tits before.”

“Amazing what they can do with special effects these days.” I looked down the three-foot barrel. “Trajectory?”

“Like a rainbow, and it hits like a twelve-pound sledgehammer at fourteen hundred feet per second.”

“Sounds slow and painful.”

The noise he made was not kind. “Like my marriage.”

I looked across the range and unbuttoned the top button of my uniform coat. The sun was getting higher, and the warmth felt good on my back. “You think this is what did it, huh?”

“Reasonably sure.”

“We need to broaden our search grid.”

“By a wide margin.” He pushed the mug even farther away; maybe he didn’t drink coffee. “If you want, I’ll go up there and do a walk around. Might be less intrusive than Search and Rescue.”

I wondered why he was being so helpful. “You curious about this case?”

“A little.”

“I’d have to send somebody with you.”

He laughed. “Does this mean I’ve made the list?”

“Don’t feel so honored, everybody with two ears and a trigger finger has made it so far.”

“Maybe I can help you to shorten it.” He looked out at the doomed pumpkin. “Well…”

“Well, what?”

He nudged the butt of the rifle toward me with his fingertips. “I’ve shot it before. Your turn.”

By the time I got back to the paved county road we were in a full-blown Chinook, and the temperature had risen above sixty-five degrees. I regretted not taking off my jacket before I’d gotten in the Bullet and flipped the heater over to vent. The Esper place was out near the junkyard south of town, so I hopped on the interstate and blew by Durant. I was about a mile past the exit when I remembered that I had told Ruby to send Jim. I figured I’d just keep going and radioed in to tell Ruby to tell Ferg I’d just take care of it myself.

“I left a message at his place and on his cell. It’s before noon, so he’s probably out fishing.” Static. “When are you going to get a mobile phone?”

“Then we wouldn’t be able to say cool things like ‘roger that.’ ”

More static. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice.” Static. “You better get back here and let the Ferg go round up the Espers, Vic says she’s got news from DCI.”

I was already looking for a turnaround and spotted one at the top of the next rise. “Nothing she wants to tell me over the radio?”

Silence for a moment. “She says she’d tell you over a mobile phone.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I whipped through the official vehicle crossover, checked my speed, and automatically looked around for the HPs; they love to give tickets to sheriffs.

I parked the Bullet and reached over onto the passenger seat to get the small satchel Omar had given me. Vic was seated across from Ruby in one of our plastic civilian chairs with her feet propped up on Ruby’s desk. Her legs were barely long enough to make the reach. It didn’t look comfortable, but it was Vic.

Big smile. “How you doin’, faddass?”

“I’m sorrowed to see the time spent in the echoing halls of criminal investigation have done nothing to curb your native vulgarity.”

They looked at each other, and Vic raised her eyebrow. “He are a college graduate.”

I slapped her small feet and continued on to my office. She followed after me and watched as I eased into my chair. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’ve been running.” I was watching, but her expression didn’t change.

“Bullshit.”

“Honest.” I didn’t have to tell her how far.

“How far?” I smiled at her. “I mean from the Bullet into the office doesn’t really count.”

“Sure it does.”

“Or up to the drive-through to get more beer.”

“It’s a cumulative effect, right?” She tossed another registered packet onto my desk; this one was from the Store. “And this is?”

“You’re king of the big words this morning, you tell me.” She turned and swaggered out of the office. “I’m getting another cup of coffee. Should I get you one, or do you want to run out here and get your own?”

I was reading the cover letter when she put my coffee in front of me. She sat in the chair opposite and now propped her feet up on my desk. I looked at the Browning tactical boots laced up past her ankles. I followed them up to her big, tarnished gold eyes, one of which winked at me over the Philadelphia Police mug. “Glad to have me back, aren’tcha?”

I grunted and turned the letter around for her to see. “We have a state ornithologist?”

She sipped her coffee. “Makes you proud, huh?”

“Haliaeetus leucocephalus?”

“Sounds dirty, doesn’t it?

I shook my head. “Boy, are you in a mood.”

“I actually got some sleep; you ought to try it sometime.” She continued to look at me over the lip of her mug.

“Are you going to help me out with this gobbledygook, or do I really have to read this?”

“Haliaeetus leucocephalus, the national bird of los estados unidos.”

I read a little farther. “ Meleagris gallopavo?”

The gold rolled to the ceiling. “Think Thanksgiving.”

“Turkey?”

“The feather they found on scene with Cody Pritchard.”

“So, they’re saying that it wasn’t an eagle feather, that it was a wild turkey?” I let that sit awhile. “I wasn’t aware that eagles or turkeys were suspect; I thought we had all agreed that the gunshot wound might have had something to do with the cause of death.”

She uncrossed her legs, put her feet on the floor, and sat her cup on the edge of my desk. “Wait, it gets better.”

“If you bring Cock Robin into this, I’m going to send you back to Cheyenne.”

“It was a turkey disguised as an eagle.” She reached across the desk and reopened the extended envelope, plucking out the feather, and handing it to me in its cellophane wrapper. “It’s a fake.”

I turned on my desk lamp and examined it under the light. It looked real enough to me.

“They sell ’em all over the place, even got ’em down at the pawn shop with all the shells and beads and shit.” I thought about the eagle feathers hanging from Omar’s rifle sheath. “They use them for crafts and such. You can fit your thumbnail into the spline of a turkey feather, but not a bird of prey like an eagle.”

Sure enough, my thumbnail fit in the spline ridge. “What was Cody Pritchard doing with fake eagle feathers?” She sat back in her chair. “You don’t think…?”

“I do.”

I looked at the feather again; it was about a foot long and the quill was about a quarter inch thick. It was dark about three-quarters of the way up, then solid white where it had been bleached. “A calling card.”

“Knowing Cody’s predilection for all things Native American, I would say that’s a safe bet.”

I continued to look at the faux feather. “Damn, I don’t like the direction this is taking.”

Her eyes dropped; she didn’t like it either. “I confiscated some samples from the pawn shop and FedExed them down to Cheyenne to check the dye lots, but they said not to hold our breath. They said the majority of Native Americans just dip them in Clorox themselves.” She laced her fingers together and leaned forward. “I could get some more samples from over in Sheridan. Bucking Buffalo Supply Company over on Main Street carries them, too. I don’t know about Gillette.”

I held up the feather and looked at it. “Working on the supposition that this is a calling card, who should we say is calling?”

“Good question. I guess this means we can keep our shingle out.”

“Yep, business is good.” I turned the feather in my hand. “All right, bearing this in mind, we’re looking at a murder.”

“Yeah.” She looked resigned.

“But we’re going to have to go back and check the feather thing with Cody’s family, friends, and such.”

“Let me guess who’s gonna have to do that.”

“I can stick the Ferg on it. His fishing career is about to get cramped.” I held the feather up between us. “This immediately points to Indian involvement.” I looked at the feather some more. “Well, on the surface of it.”

“And a fake eagle feather?”

I shrugged. “Fake Indians?”

“I’m getting confused. Running with the supposition that this is real Indian mojo…”

“Doesn’t make sense. I don’t know everything about Indian medicine, but I don’t think they tolerate this fake stuff. Not when it’s this big.”

“What is the significance of the feather?”

“Not a clue, but I know this guy…” I punched up automatic dial number two, and Henry’s number at the Pony began ringing. “How was Cheyenne?”

She took another sip of her coffee. “The wind blows, along with everything else.” Nobody answered. He was probably waiting at my house to make me run. “Nobody?”

“Otherwise engaged. I’ll get him later.” I handed the feather over to her.

“Fuck.”

“Yep. Looks like we’re gonna have to go talk to some Indians.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

“What’s in the bag?”

I reached over and opened the flap of the canvas bag and tossed her a cartridge. It was as long as her index finger and about as big around. Her eyes shot to mine and then returned to the shell.

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

I put Vic on tracking down all the Sharps buffalo rifles registered in Wyoming under curio and antique registration. It wasn’t required, but maybe they would be registered for insurance purposes. Then she was going to check all the gun shops in the area and call up the replica companies that might have sold such a weapon or ammo. I thought we might have a better shot at the ammunition but that was balanced out by the possibility that the shells were loaded by the shooter. That meant tracking down reloading dies and paraphernalia for big calibers. It was going to be a lot of work, but she smiled when I gave her the slug shot from Omar’s gun to have compared with the original. The smile faded when I told her she was going to have to go out with him for a quick spiral search of the site this afternoon. “How’s Myra these days?”

“Last word from her was that Paris, half of Omar’s money, and none of him was suiting her just fine.”

She took her empty coffee cup and started for her office. “I wish Glen was rich.”

I thought about Vic being rich. She already had the fuck-you attitude; fuck-you money might be too much. I trailed after her and asked Ruby if she’d heard anything from Ferg. “Nothing; they must still be biting.”

“I’m gonna have to drive down to the Espers.”

She paused to look at me. “Not really. I think Ferg was fishing down on the north fork of Crazy Woman; as soon as he gets on the highway he’ll get the message and head over there. It’s on the way.”

“Any Post-its?”

“Vic got them all.”

I stood there. “Any pencils need sharpening?”

“Why don’t you go talk to Ernie Brown, Man About Town? He’s called here about six times since yesterday.” She went back to her keyboard and began typing. “Maybe he’s afraid of being scooped.” I gave her a hard look as I shambled out of the office with my tail between my legs. “Should I call and tell him the great man is on his way over, seeing as how you have nothing else to do?”

I didn’t slam the door; it would have been undignified. It was still gorgeous outside, so I decided to walk over to the Durant Courant ’s office, a block down and over. That would show them.

Omar and I had had a brief conversation on the more practical aspects of what I had still hoped wasn’t a murder case. Who could do it? What were the logistics of shooting an almost. 50 caliber rifle more than five hundred yards? Omar had his own theories. “I can narrow it down to almost a dozen men who could make a shot like that on a consistent basis.”

“In county?”

“In county.” He stroked his goatee and pulled on the long hairs at the end. “Me, you, Roger Russell from down on Powder, Mike Rubin, Carroll Cooper, Dwight Johnston in Durant, Phil La Vante, Stanley Fogel, Artie Small Song out on the Rez, your pal Henry Standing Bear and…” He shrugged.

“Let’s go with the ‘and’ first?”

“A sleeper. Somebody who does this stuff, is very good at it, and who nobody knows about.”

“Let’s move on to you.”

He looked back at the pumpkin without smiling. “I’d either be a liar or a fool to tell you anything different. I’ve got the talent and the weapon, just no motive.”

“You mind if I check the ballistics on your rifle?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

“Me.”

“Yep.”

“Roger Russell’s a shooter?”

“Yes, he is. You know that turkey shoot they have out Tipperary Road, near the Wallows?” I nodded. “He won that three years in a row.”

The last time I’d seen Roger Russell was at the Red Pony the evening of the shooting. I’d have to ask Henry if he was a regular. “Mike Rubin?”

“Best gunsmith in the state; he could do it.”

“Carroll Cooper?”

“Same as Roger, one of those reenactment crazies. Does a lot with the Little Big Horn people.”

“Dwight Johnston?”

“Drinks, but he used to be a damn good shot. He was on the NRA National Shooting Team back in the late seventies.”

“Phil La Vante is seventy-two years old.”

“That old Basquo can still shoot.”

“Stanley Fogel? The dentist?”

“He’s a shooter.”

“Artie Small Song?”

“I don’t know a lot about those guys out on the Rez, but him and Henry immediately come to mind. I like Artie, and I’ve used him to guide for me. He’s good, and the dollar dogs love Indians.”

I set my jaw. “Henry?”

“I knew that was one you didn’t want to hear, but he could most definitely do it. Jesus, Walt, the son of a bitch used to jump behind enemy lines in Laos, air extract NVA officers for interrogation. You ever stop to think how many he didn’t bring back?”

It had crossed my mind about the NVAs. “Out of this list, how many do you figure are capable of killing a man?”

He didn’t pause for a second. “Half.”

“Are we in that half?”

He looked at me. “One of us is.”

I turned the corner at the bridge, resisted the temptation of an early lunch at the Bee, and crossed the street down the hill to the little red brick building that had served the Courant since before the turn of the last century. The bell tinkled as I pushed open the antique beveled-glass door. “I wanna speak to the editor of this so-called newspaper!” He looked over his trifocals and smiled. I walked over to Ernie’s train set. The train was legendary around these parts in that it passed through an exact replica of our town, proceeded into the mountains, where it disappeared into a maze of tunnels only to reappear on the plains east, followed the flow of the Powder River, and returned to town. I leaned over Durant, past my office with me getting out of the Bullet, and looked at the mountainside to the little logging operation that had begun about a third of the way up. “That’s new.”

He got up and codgered his way over. “I’m not sure about it.”

I looked at the trucks, miniature sawmill, and diminutive little loggers. “Looks like a responsible operator, ‘long as he doesn’t overwork the tree line.”

“I suppose so…” He still didn’t sound sure, but his eyes met mine. “I’m sorry to bother you, Walter. I know how busy you must be these days.” He smiled. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Thanks, Ernie, but if it’s not going to take long…?”

He made a gentle waving gesture with his hand. “Just a few statements.” He drifted over to his desk and came back with a small, spiral-ring notebook and a pencil that had probably been sharpened since yesterday morning. I had to smile at the importance of being Ernest. “Just a few general questions.” He pursed his lips and poised the pencil over the pad. “How is the investigation progressing?”

I flipped a switch and went into publicspeak: “We’re very satisfied with the cooperation we’ve received from the Division of Criminal Investigation in Cheyenne and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington.” Where the hell else would it be, Peoria? “We’ve been able to make significant progress on the case with the help of some of the top-flight ballistics labs in the country.”

“That’s wonderful. People will sleep better knowing the scope of response to this incident.”

I looked at him, just to make sure facetious sarcasm hadn’t entered the office when I wasn’t looking. “We’ve put a substantial amount of our force on this case and are making every attempt to bring this particular incident to a quick conclusion.” What else was I going to say? That there were only three and a half of us and that we were going to drag the case out as long as we could, just so we could have something to do? I dreaded the running monologue that accompanied these public statements and lived in fear that my mouth would someday open and I’d accidentally speak the truth. So far, it hadn’t happened; that worried me too. When I looked back up, Ernie had stopped talking. “I’m sorry, Ernie.”

“It’s perfectly all right. I can’t even imagine all the things that must be going on in your head right now.” I was at least glad of that. “Any breakthroughs in the case?”

“Nothing that I can relate, as the investigation is ongoing at the moment.”

“Certainly.”

“Anybody else said anything that might be of any use to me?”

He blinked; it’s possible I derailed him by asking him a question. I watched as he stared at the little train tracks. “There have been a number of unfortunate statements concerning the young man. It is still an accidental situation, isn’t it?”

I thought about it. “Yes. Nothing strong enough to lead me to believe otherwise, at this time.”

It was close enough to publicspeak to get me through. I half turned toward the door. “Anything else?”

“Oh, no.” Lost in thought, he tapped the notebook with the pink, oversized eraser pushed onto the end of his pencil. “Do you ever get the feeling that the world is tired, Walter?” I stood there, not quite sure of what to say next. He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I sometimes forget myself and wax philosophic in the afternoons.”

I walked over to the door and pushed it open, pausing to lean against the frame. “I don’t know about the world, but I sure as hell get that way.” He smiled, I smiled, and I left. It was only eleven forty-five.

I climbed the hill and turned the corner on Main and became untired. The jaunty, little red Jeep sat at the curb just outside the Crazy Woman Bookstore. I went over and sat against the fender. It was a long walk back to the office, and I needed a rest. After about three minutes, she came out.

“Hey, you.” She was wearing a black cashmere sweater, a fancy western jacket all of fringe, vintage jeans, and a pair of high-heel boots. Her hair was loose and kind of rumpled. She looked great. “What, am I parked illegally?” She opened the door and tossed her paper bag of books onto the front seat. She did not come back around the door.

I continued to smile, but I was worried. “How’s your dog?” That at least got a partial smile.

“He scare you?”

“Yep.”

She smiled at a young couple walking up the street. “He has that effect on people.” She pulled her keys from her purse and then tossed it on the same seat as the books. Her eyes came up, steady. “Do you really want to talk about my dog?” I wanted to talk about anything. I wanted to run for my life. “Look…” I dreaded female statements that started with “look.” In my limited experience, there was nowhere to hide after they were made. “You’ve probably been pretty busy lately

…”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

She flipped the butterscotch hair back and laid those frank, lupine eyes on me again. “I’ve been thinking that this is probably a really bad time for both of us to think of starting a relationship.”

I nodded and pushed off the fender and thought about sweeping her into my arms and giving her a big wet one right on Main Street. Fortunately, I always check my shots, just buried my fists deeper in my jacket pockets, and stood with my legs apart on the other side of the door so that I could absorb the impact. “I thought we already had this conversation.”

It was the wrong thing to say, I could tell that right away. Her eyes sharpened along with her voice. “Maybe we weren’t clear.” I looked around to see if anybody was around to watch the sheriff get gunned down at what I’m sure was approaching high noon. “Walt…”

“Before you say anything else, let me get this out, because I might not get a chance later, or I may not want to…” I drove ahead, looking for light. “That measly, little, pathetic attempt at the beginnings of a romance, I refuse to use that word relationship, are all I’ve had to go on for the last three years. It may not seem like much to you, but for me it was giant steps, and if you think that you’re going to take it away from me with a few curt words here on the sidewalk, then you’ve got another think coming.” In my limited experience, women dreaded male statements that ended with “then you’ve got another think coming.” It usually meant there was a lot more coming, but in this case there wasn’t. It had taken everything for me to get that out; so, I just stood there, watching the tired world fall apart around me.

I’m not sure what I had hoped to accomplish with this particular outburst. I was just being honest and, to my utter surprise, she placed her hand under my chin, leaned over the door on tiptoes, and kissed me on the mouth, slowly and gently. As our faces parted, and my eyes were once again able to open and focus, she whispered, “You should call me, very soon.” As the little red Jeep skimmed away, I felt the thought of a mobile phone growing on me.

On the way back to the office, I picked up three chicken dinners from the Bee and fended off Dorothy’s questions about what had just taken place on Main Street across from her restaurant. She reminded me that hers was a family establishment and that such overt demonstrations of lust might be better served in a more private setting, by getting a room.

Ruby took one Styrofoam container and one iced tea out of my hands. “You keep this up and I might vote for you myself.”

I continued on my way to the door of Vic’s office. She was sitting with her feet up on her own desk for a change; folders and clipboards with legal pads ran the distance from her hips to her ankles. She was writing on one of the tablets with the phone cradled between her chin and shoulder. I carefully placed her tea and lunch on the desk. She nodded thanks, and I sat down to open mine. It was when I realized I hadn’t gotten any napkins that Ruby appeared in the doorway and handed me a roll of paper towels from the kitchenette in back: fine dining at its best. The steam rolled out as I opened the container and prepared to eat Dorothy’s famous Brookville, Kansas, recipe chicken. It was a religious experience.

Vic nodded and grunted a few agreements before she hung up. “This is a really fun job you’ve got me doing here.” She looked at me again. “Do you have lipstick on your face?”

I wiped it off with a paper towel and picked up a thigh. “Don’t be silly, what’ve you got?”

She looked at me for a moment longer, then continued. “Guess where the majority of these replicas are made?”

I momentarily paused on the batter-covered thigh. “New Jersey.”

She began placing the folders, clipboards, and paraphernalia on the desk. She fanned the information she’d gathered across the surface and placed her chicken container on her lap, taking the lid off and sipping her iced tea. She never used a straw. “Italy. The damn things are made in northern Italy by some firm called Pedersoli.”

“Sounds dirty.” That got a look. I continued to eat.

She picked up a breast. “What?”

“Only thing I know about Italian war rifles is you can buy ’em cheap, never fired, only dropped once.” She cocked an eyebrow and bit into her own chicken. “Sorry, old World War II joke.” She stuck a hand out, and I tore off a paper towel. “It’s chess night with Lucian; got me thinking about it.” I nodded toward the desk. “What’ve you got, other than a nation of origin?”

She got that predatory look on her face, unimpeded by the way she was dismembering the poor chicken. “There are a few made in this country, the most famous being the Shiloh Sharps made up in Big Timber.”

“New Jersey?”

“Montana.” Her eyes flattened. “Are you going to behave so we can get through this in a reasonable amount of time?”

“What happened to your good mood?”

She wiped her fingers off on her pants and picked up one of the clipboards. “My boss gave me this shitty job to do.” She took another sip of her tea. “The Shiloh version is the top of the line, with a waiting list of about four years. The only one sold in our area as far back as registration goes is one to a Roger Russell, about two years ago.” I stopped chewing. “Bingo?”

“He’s on Omar’s short list, and he was in the bar the night you called.”

“Really? Who else is on the list?”

“I think me, but I’m not sure.”

She looked back at the clipboard. “Well, your name didn’t come up.”

“And Roger Russell?”

“Special ordered his from the Sportshop here in town, 45–70 caliber. Mean anything?”

“I’ll go talk to David Fielding; I was going to anyway.” Dave would be a better source of information concerning a particular caliber in the area than the FBI and ATF combined.

“Then Roger Russell?”

“Among others.”

She turned the plastic spork in her mouth, pulling it out to speak. “Sounds like Omar’s list is bothering you.”

I took a deep breath and was amazed at how quickly the weight of my chest forced the air out. “A little.”

“Who else is on it?” I told her as she worked on another piece of chicken. “Considering our earlier conversation, the Indian suspects worry me the most.” I agreed. “You’re going to have to get a federal search warrant to go out there.”

“You know, Balzac once described bureaucracy as a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.”

“What’d your buddy Balzac have to say about inadmissible evidence?”

“Not a lot. I think he considered the subject beneath him.” She shook her head as I continued to smile at her. “What else you got?”

“We’ve got a few registered bona fides.”

“Antiques and curio weapons?”

“Do you believe Omar has his registered?”

“That would be the insurance thing we talked about.”

“Mike Rubin was one.”

“Well that’s two on our list.” I put my chicken down and wiped my hands. “It’s really going to piss me off if Omar turns out to be right.”

“At least you don’t have to go on a fucking picnic with the prick this afternoon. What time am I supposed to be out there?”

I looked at my pocket watch. “Three.”

I didn’t catch the look, because by the time I got back to her she had returned to the clipboard; the coleslaw spork jutted from the corner of her mouth like a fishing lure. “You really did miss me.”

It was true. I had.

I parked the Bullet in front of the Sportshop. I was damned if I was going to be caught walking on Main Street again, it was too emotionally dangerous. I passed the fishing department, went through the acres of fleece wear, and stopped in front of the center counter. There was a skinny, redheaded kid reading the Courant, and it took a while for him to notice me. I was the only other person in the place. “Can I help you?”

“Dave around?”

“He’s in the back.” I waited. “Do you want me to go get him?”

“If you would.” He looked uncertain. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal anything.” He rounded the corner and hightailed it for the stock room.

I looked over at the gun rack along the right-hand wall and thought about the statement that guns made this country what it is today and wondered if that was good or bad. We were a combative breed. I was not hard on us, though; I didn’t need to be, history was. Ten major wars and countless skirmishes over the last two hundred years pretty much told the tale. But that was political history, not personal. I was brought up on a ranch but, because of my father, the romance of guns had somehow escaped me. In his eyes, a gun was a tool, not some half-assed deity. Guys who named their guns worried him and me.

I walked down the aisle and looked at the shining walnut stocks, the glistening blue barrels. There were beautiful hand-engraved, over-and-under fowling pieces next to ugly Armalite AR-15s that looked and felt like a Mattel toy. Small chains wound their way through the trigger guards with little bronze locks at the end of each row. It was like a chain gang for weapons. Some of them might be good, some of them might be bad, but there was no way to tell until somebody picked them up. By the time I got back to the front of the aisle, Dave was waiting for me.

Dave had a studious quality framed in the metal-edged glasses, which emphasized his pale eyes. He looked like a basketball-playing owl in an unbuttoned shirt. He was originally from Missouri and had a matter-of-fact quality to his speech that I had always found entertaining. He also knew how to keep his mouth shut. “You’re looking for a gun?”

“Naw, I got plenty.” I looked past him to the kid, who was hovering at the counter.

“Matt, why don’t you go help them unload the truck, okay?” He disappeared. “Something important?”

“Maybe.” I explained the situation without giving out any names, motives, or qualified information.

“Sharps?”

“Or anything pertaining to…?”

He held his chin in his hand and looked down the row of rifles and shotguns. “We’ve got a few of the replicas.”

“Italian?”

“Yeah.”

“Pedersoli?” I was showing off.

He released his chin and pushed the glasses farther up on his nose. “As a matter of fact, they are.” We walked down the aisle, and he unlocked the end chain. I expected them all to make a run for it. “These are early Pedersolis, not long after they bought out Garrett.” I nodded sagely. “I don’t believe they changed the production line much.” I nodded sagely some more. It was fun being an expert on Italian buffalo rifles, having a specialty. He handed the rifle to me. It was similar to Omar’s in size and weight, but that was where the similarities ended. The metal on this one had an antiqued, cloudy-blue appearance, and the wood stock seemed hard and plastic. Comparing it to the museum piece I had fired this morning was inevitable but not fair.

I set the hammer to the safety/loading notch before opening the action just as if there were a fired case in the chamber, preventing any unnecessary stress on the firing pin. Amazing the things you learned hanging around with Omar. It was smooth but nothing like the one from this morning.

“What’s the accuracy on these things?”

“Actually, pretty good.”

I placed the narrow butt plate against the deep bruise on my shoulder. It fit my wound perfectly. I raised the barrel toward Main Street and envisioned Italian buffalo sitting at a street-side cafe, drinking Chianti. “Five hundred yards?”

“Oh, God no.”

I let the buffalo go. “Won’t get there?”

“It’ll get there but not with much accuracy. Not with these repros.”

I handed the rifle back to him. “Sell many of ’em?”

“A few; here and there.”

“Mind telling me who bought them?”

He slowly exhaled, blowing out his lips. “I could go off the top of my head, but I can get it out of the computer and you’d have an exact list.”

“Great.” He locked the guns back, and I followed him to the counter and the computer. “You ever sell any of the real ones?”

“No.”

“How much is one worth, a really good. 45–70?”

The exhale again. “As much as a vacation in Tuscany.”

“How about ammunition… do you sell much for these?”

“Who knows?”

“Can you get that for me?”

“It’ll take longer.”

I was asking a lot, and I knew it. “It would be a great help.”

“Can I get it to you tomorrow?” He reached over and turned on the printer.

“That’d be fine.” He watched the paper roll through the printer for a moment, and then tore loose the list and handed it to me without looking at it. “You don’t want to see?” I asked him.

“None of my business.”

I folded the sheet in half and stuck out my hand. “Thank you, Dave.”

Ruby had said there was a cold front on the way and, by tomorrow morning, there was supposed to be more than four inches of the white stuff. I tossed my jacket onto the passenger seat. If the warm weather wasn’t going to last long, I was going to enjoy it while it was here. I fired her up, rolling down the window and resting my arm on the door. It felt good to have the extra elbow room.

You couldn’t blame the computer; it probably did the list of three names in alphabetical order. The first name on the list was Brian Connally-Turk.