A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

8

“Have I told you lately how much I hate mauve?”

“Not lately, no.” We were in our usual spot in the Durant Memorial Hospital lobby, waiting for the medical musketeers Isaac Bloomfield, his understudy David “Boy Wonder” Nickerson, and Bill McDermott. I listened to the clock ticking and took in the carpet and matching walls. “It’s probably supposed to be soothing.”

“Like a bowel movement.”

“Better than scours.”

She stood and walked across to the hallway leading past the receptionist desk where Ruby’s granddaughter, Janine Reynolds, was filling out paperwork and trying to stay awake.

I was having the same problem and was even thinking about stretching out on the sofa for a few winks when my undersheriff returned with hands on hips and looked down at me over her still-multicolored eyes. “We didn’t lean on her that badly.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“She kept looking at me when we were asking her about Sarah out on the road; did you notice that?”

“I did.”

She reached down and took the photo from my shirt pocket, her familiarity with my person and clothes breeding indifference. She studied the photograph. “I don’t look anything like this woman.”

“No.”

“So why was she looking at me?”

“I don’t know.” I studied the question. “You had a gun, she had a gun. . . .”

“You had a gun, but she hardly looked at you.”

“Maybe it’s a cultural thing—she wasn’t used to seeing a policewoman.”

She snorted. “A Mexican in Texas? She’s probably on a first-name basis with the entire law-enforcement community.”

I pleaded exhaustion and slumped deeper into the worn sofa molded into the shape of sorrowful anxiety. “I don’t know and I’m dead tired.”

“How are we supposed to inform them that we’ve got her—hang a note on the razor wire?” It was quiet again, and I could feel the tension in her body as she sat on the sofa next to me. Two minutes later, she was sound asleep.

Clear conscience.

I must’ve nodded off, too, but uneasy and half awake, I listen to my parents arguing about religion. My mother, a devout Methodist, is seated at the breakfast table with my father. She looks the way she always does in my dreams, backlit, the sunshine in the kitchen window striking the sides of her pupils, making her blue eyes that much more transparent, like her blue willow china, overwashed, but never broken. She is like that, more beautiful with each passing year. We are all surprised by it, but for her it is her life and she accepts it; nothing astonishing, just a honing of her appearance. Never a small woman, she has retained her tall figure and her face remains unwrinkled, the hollow of her cheeks and the sculpting of her brows defining the strongest of her features—those eyes.

She rests her coffee cup in the saucer, and the only sound in the warm, springtime room that Sunday morning is the click of ceramic against ceramic.

My father whispers, but his voice carries to the stairs where I sit in my pajamas. “You force him to continue going and he’ll hate you for it.” There is a silence, and I strain to hear their voices. “He’s of an age where he needs to make decisions like this for himself.”

“He’s too young to be making decisions like this for himself.”

“Older than you think.”

I tuck my naked heels against my rear and wait on the wooden steps my father had made in the house he had built.

“He’ll grow to hate you for it.”

The tick of the china again, indicative of a poise neither he nor I have. “He doesn’t hate.”

“Resent, then.”

A silence. “You’re sure this isn’t a theological difference. . . .”

“I don’t have a theology.”

“Oh . . . Yes, you do.”

• • •

My head snapped back at the sound of somebody swallowing and awakened to find Saizarbitoria standing over me while sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

“Hey, boss.”

I yawned, careful not to jostle Vic’s still-sleeping head on my shoulder. “Hey.”

“You were talking in your sleep.”

“I say anything interesting?”

“Something about blue willow.”

He sipped his coffee again, and I glanced at the clock, still dragging its hands around the wee hours of the night. “What are you doing here this late?”

“News from the rabbit-choker state.”

“Yep?”

“Tim Berg said to tell you that some guy named Vann Ross Lynear died.”

That was a bit of a shock, even if he was approaching a hundred years old. “That’s a surprise.”

“Fell off his roof without any clothes on.”

Vic’s voice sounded against my shoulder and then she snuggled in deeper. “That’s not a surprise.”

I glanced at her and then back up to my deputy. “Anything suspicious?”

“You mean other than he fell off a roof without any clothes on?” He glanced down at me. “He didn’t say, but he intimated that you shouldn’t return to Belle Fourche anytime soon, that there’s a warrant for your arrest.” He finished his coffee. “You roughing up the church folk over in the Black Hills, boss?”

“It was a misunderstanding about soda pop.”

He glanced toward the reception area where Janine had succumbed and now rested her head on her folded arms. “Remind me to not get in your way at the water cooler.”

I thought about what Wanda had said before things had gotten interesting down at the entrance to East Spring Ranch. “Does Tim know that Roy Lynear and his bunch were in South Dakota yesterday?”

“Not that I am aware.”

“Would you like to make him aware?”

He looked around for a trash can. “Not at two in the morning.”

“Any sign of Orrin Porter Rockwell?”

“Faded into the pages of history so far.”

“Cord?”

He had found the trash and chucked his cup. “Locked up in protective custody with Dog, a copy of My Friend Flicka lying on his sleeping chest.”

“How was the coffee?”

His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw bulging like the hocks on a horse. “Wretched. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

• • •

Wanda, as I’d suspected, would be fine. She’d sustained a little damage to her shoulder and throat, but other than that she’d only had a mild concussion and would be held overnight for observation purposes.

I was restless and didn’t feel like going home or to the office; it was past the middle of the night, and I was driving around town like a teenager. Staring at the blinking red light, I sat there at Fort and Main and thought about my life. I guessed that’s what people did at three in the morning—thought about their lives. Parents—gone; wife—gone; and a freshly married daughter who might as well have been gone, too.

Five o’clock in Philadelphia; too early to call.

I missed Dog.

There was an ambient light in the cab now, and I was starting to think I was having a visitation when I noticed it was the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler in my rearview; he was probably intimidated by the stars and bars into not honking his horn at the crazy sheriff who had been sitting at the blinking stoplight for the last three minutes.

I was startled by a knock and looked out to see a man standing in the road in an IGA ball cap.

Rolling down the window, I placed an elbow on the door. “Howdy.”

He looked a little uncertain. “Hi?” He glanced back at his truck, idling behind us, and the vacant streets of the county seat. “Is there some kind of trouble?”

I rubbed my face with my other hand. “In my line of work—pretty much all the time.”

He didn’t seem too sure as to how to answer. “Oh.”

I looked across the street at Wilcox Abstract, housed in a building that had been driven into twice by drivers not paying attention to where their cars were going. “Do you think the biggest troubles in life are a result of doing or not doing things?”

He edged back just a bit. “I really wouldn’t know.”

“Me either.”

He swallowed. “Hey, Sheriff?”

“Yep?”

“Did you know that there’s somebody in the back of your truck?”

I opened my door, stepped out into the street, and unsnapped the safety strap from my Colt: the tonneau cover was unfastened from the left corner. “You’re sure?”

The trucker nodded. “Yeah, there was this hand sticking out, trying to get that cover shut.”

I resnapped the safety strap on my sidearm and spoke in a loud voice. “Mr. Rockwell?”

A muffled reply came from under the tonneau. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to come out now?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’d prefer you did.”

His hand appeared at the corner, and he pushed the cover back further, smiled at me, then turned to the truck driver. “Damn your eyes, sir, as an informer.”

The trucker looked at me. “I should be going.”

He looked both ways to make sure he wasn’t going to get run over, which might have been a trifle cautious in that it was pretty desolate in Durant at three in the morning. Rockwell and I watched as he backed up the big truck and drove around us, took a left, and headed out of town.

The old man marveled at the size of the thing as it passed. “My Lord, big as a house. . . .” Pushing himself up the rest of the way, his long hair and beard looking more unkempt than usual, he turned to look at me. “You, sir, drive a great deal.”

“How long have you been in there?”

“Since this afternoon.”

I undid the rest of the snaps, lowered the tailgate, and reached a hand up to help him down to street level. “I’d imagine you’re hungry.”

He looked at me. “You are one big son of a gun, are you not?” He straightened his pants out and gave a shiver. “A little cold and thirsty, mostly, but I could eat.”

I thought about taking him back to the jail, but in all honesty I didn’t want to awaken Cord. I gestured toward the passenger side. “Climb in.”

He went around the truck as I shut the door behind me and put on my seat belt. When I looked up, he was still standing by the door. I hit the button and stared at him. “Is there a problem?”

He glanced at me and then at the door handle. “Don’t know how.”

We had to find out what booby hatch he’d escaped from. “Just pull sideways on that black thing.

He did as I requested, and the truck door bumped open. He slid in and climbed up on the seat. “Amazing, truly amazing.”

“You drove in the truck on the way back from the Lazy D-W, where you tried to steal the horses.”

He shook his head. “We only intended to borrow them.” He pulled the door closed behind him but not strongly enough for it to latch. “And at that time I never operated the mechanism.”

I sighed. “Well, you’re going to have to open it again and close it harder.”

He stared at the inside of the door.

“It’s the lever toward the front; pull it and push out.”

He finally got the door secured, and I drove us over to the Maverik at the on-ramp to I-25. “You’ll like this place—it’s owned by Mormons.” I got out and reminded him, “Lever on the front.”

I introduced Orrin Porter Rockwell to the wonders of the frozen burrito, microwave oven, and root beer, in that order. We now stood at the cash register, where I slid a fifty across the counter to the pimpled kid working the late shift. “Sorry, all I’ve got.”

Rockwell reached across and laid a few fingers on the bill, studying it. “Ulysses S. Grant on the denomination of the Union?”

“For quite some time now.”

The kid took the bill, studied the portrait of the eighteenth president of the United States, and then the old man. “Friend of yours, pops?”

“He was a drunkard.”

The kid used a marker to identify the bill as genuine. “I wouldn’t know.”

Rockwell got the door shut this time and was happily munching on his burrito as I stared at him. “So, you were in the truck when the woman crashed her car?”

“Which woman was that?”

“Wanda Bidarte Lynear.”

He stared at the dash, and I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know her.” He thought about it. “Sounds Spanish.” Turning, he focused the pale eyes on me and threw a thumb toward the back of my truck. “Nice and warm back there, under the tarp, but not as nice as this.”

“Uh-huh.” I continued to watch him eat. “How about Vann Ross Lynear; have you ever heard of him?”

“No, sir.”

“How about Roy Lynear?”

He continued eating as I watched, but he paused if for only a second and then shook his head. “Don’t know him either.”

I reached over and pinched Rockwell’s arm.

“Ouch.” He looked at me. “And why, may I ask, is it you did that?”

“Just to make sure you’re actually here—I’ve been having a little trouble with that lately.”

He paused and then nodded knowingly. “Visions?”

I thought about Henry Standing Bear and smiled. “That’s what a friend of mine has been calling them.”

“Perhaps you are the One; you certainly seem to have the size for it.”

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“The One, Mighty and Strong.”

I laughed. “I’m not a Mormon; I’m barely a Methodist.”

He went back to eating his burrito. “Pity.”

I continued to watch him for a while longer and then pulled the truck into reverse, backed out of the convenience store lot, and took the on-ramp to I-25 South. “Well, let’s go introduce you to Roy Lynear then.”

• • •

“Oil?”

The rippling effect of the Powder River set the keynote for the topography of the southern part of my county, where the Bighorn Mountains relaxed their grip and allowed the hills to subside into prairie.

The area had been the source of one of the largest oil holdings in the United States, but that time had passed and now the Teapot Dome reserves were only a testing ground, leased out to numerous oil companies for the development of experimental methods.

I followed Rockwell’s eyes to one of the pump jacks in the distance beside the front gate of the East Spring Ranch. “Yep.”

The nodding donkeys kept time to the geothermal beat, but it was unlikely that they were pumping much oil. The entire area had been put up for sale by the federal government, but there hadn’t been any takers; the other major naval oil reserve in Elk Hills, California, however, had fetched over three and a half billion—the largest privatization of federal property in history.

The Teapot, on the other hand, was pretty much empty.

Standing outside the chain-link fence, I tossed the station wagon’s keychain in my hand and thought about what a bad idea this was.

I caught the keys and looked at the fob—a plastic, prism-like portrait of Jesus that fluctuated as I tipped the thing back and forth. First, it was the Messiah appearing thoughtful and prophetic with His eyes down, and next He was looking to his Father with blood trailing across his face from the crown of thorns on his head—it was the kind of kitschy macabre stuff that was sold in trinket shops in Mexico.

Flipping through the keys, I found three short ones that were similar—all of them marked Master Lock.

Rockwell, who stood beside me, studied the fence and then the chintzy fob in my hand. “I did not think the Methodists, even with their many faults, were given to brazen idolatry.”

I tipped the holographic image back and forth for his entertainment. “Not mine.” Reaching up, I undid the highest lock, then the middle one, then the bottom, and pushed the gate sideways on the casters.

There were no sirens, no lights, nothing.

We climbed back in the Bullet—Rockwell didn’t have as much trouble this time. I pulled forward, then got out and closed the gate but left it unlocked just in case we had to make a hasty retreat. I climbed back in and turned to stare down the freshly graded red-scoria road that led into the dark. I was now at the portion of this particular exercise in stupidity where I was going to have to make up my mind as to what, exactly, I was doing.

I figured I had about three hours before the sun came up. Evidently, I had been thinking pretty hard, because Rockwell heard it. “What are we doing here?”

“That’s a really good question.” I laughed and glanced at him. “Officially, we’re here to notify one man that his wife—and another man that his mother—has been in a car accident.”

“This Wanda Bidarte Lynear?”

“Yep.”

He looked down the darkened plain. “Am I correct to assume that there is something clandestine about our arrival?”

“Boy howdy.”

“Oh, good. I used to specialize in such activities.” He nodded his head and smiled, and I shook my own.

I pulled the three-quarter-ton down into gear. There was a glow on the horizon to our right so maybe we didn’t have that three hours I had been assuming. A worn track led east, but the main road veered left, and I figured it was best to see where it led. About a half mile north we came to a draw that went to the right where there was a newly built road toward an old ranch house and barn with a few cottonwoods surrounding it. There were a bunch of outbuildings and a number of Quonset huts and prefabricated steel buildings that were popular in our area because they were inexpensive and could be quickly assembled.

I figured the ranch house and barn were from the twenties, but the rest of the place was most decidedly recent.

The only lights evident were a dusk-to-dawn arc light in the common area between the house and barn and a block of illumination cast from the open door of one of the very large steel buildings. It looked like there was movement in that area, and shadows appeared to be passing back and forth inside.

I wondered what it was that they could possibly be doing under the cover of night as I pulled the Bullet to the right alongside an old post-and-pole fence that protected myriad wash lines with an abundance of women’s and children’s clothing hanging from clothespins; it looked, from the assortment of items, as though there must’ve been close to a dozen women and thirty children in residence.

I cracked open the door and looked at Rockwell. “You might want to stay in the truck; I’m not sure what kind of reception we’re going to get.”

He snorted, and this time had no trouble finding the door handle.

I walked toward the entrance of the metal building. The bonnet on a 357 Peterbilt truck was tipped forward and at least a half-dozen men were working on what appeared to be a massive, portable drilling rig.

I recognized two of the men right off—George, Roy Lynear’s son, and Tomás Bidarte, the other man I’d met at The Noose bar. I was surprised to see how adept the Hispanic poet appeared to be at working on the big diesel.

I didn’t see the father but figured he was there somewhere.

Orrin Porter Rockwell joined me in the doorway, and it wasn’t long before another one of the men, one I didn’t know, nudged George, who raised his head, jumped down from the running board of the truck, and advanced with a torque wrench in one hand.

“What are you doing here?” He looked to the left and smacked the two-foot tool in the palm of his other greasy hand. “And how did you get in?”

I waited a moment and then didn’t respond, at least not in the way he wanted. “Mr. Bidarte?”

At the sound of my voice, Tomás raised his head. It was easy to see the similarity between him and his mother, weight notwithstanding; it was the look, the same look she had given the grave decorations at the front gate. There was something about the lack of movement, an old-world stillness that carried no intention, just a waiting quality that was slightly unnerving. “Yes?”

“Mr. Bidarte.” I turned to George. “Is Roy Lynear here, also?”

“What’s it to you if he is?”

I wondered if anybody who had ever met George had anything but the urge to punch his teeth down his throat. “I need to speak to your father.”

He smirked, which appeared to be his signature expression. “What’s it like to need?”

A sonorous voice carried from our right. “Who is it, George?”

“That sheriff.” He gave Rockwell the once-over. “And some hobo.”

Rockwell looked at me, and I was glad that I’d disarmed him.

“It’s Sheriff Longmire, Mr. Lynear.”

After a second, the elder spoke again. “Well, come around here, Sheriff.”

I walked past George, careful to get the point of my shoulder as close to his chin as I could as I passed, and walked around two banks of rolling tool cases plastered with stickers, almost all of them in Spanish. Rockwell followed me, but the old guy seemed to be unable to take his eyes off of Bidarte, who remained on the running board of the dismantled truck.

Roy Lynear was seated in another of his custom-built La-Z-Boy chairs that usually were meant to accommodate two, if not one and a half, but at present was filled to capacity with the great man himself. He was enthroned in a space that was like a miniature living room with a vintage Navajo rug spread out underneath the faux-leather chair. Lynear had what looked to be a motor manual for the drilling rig open in his lap and, of all things, a diet soda resting on his knee. “Hello, Sheriff.” He closed the book. “A surprise visit in the middle of the night?” He glanced past me at Rockwell.

“You don’t appear to be sleeping, so I’m guessing I’m not disturbing your rest.”

He waved at the drilling rig. “The water here is putrid, so we’re digging a new well. I can assure you that all the proper paperwork has been filed and the appropriate permits are in order.”

“I have no doubt.” I looked back at the derrick and the 550-horsepower Caterpillar engine and accoutrements. “That’ll dig a heck of a well.”

“We’ve found it best, living in the areas that we are forced to live in because of our religious beliefs, to be self-supportive. The cost of contracting these types of activities is financially prohibitive.” He gestured toward the book. “With our limited funding, we are forced to buy the equipment we can and make do.”

I studied the Peterbilt. “I worked for a summer as a roughneck—granted that was quite a while ago—but that looks impressive.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” Lynear laughed and gestured toward the book again. “Especially since it won’t run.” He set the motor manual on a side table that I was sure had been placed there explicitly for that purpose. “Now, who is your friend?”

It felt silly saying it, but until we found out just who the crazy man was, I was forced to use the name he’d provided. “Well, this is, umm . . . Orrin Porter Rockwell.”

The fat man, in a state of fascination, hefted himself forward in the cushioned chair and peered at the man beside me. “And a damn fine resemblance.” An embarrassing moment passed, and then he turned back to me. “I was unaware that your department was in the habit of traveling with a troupe of reenactors.”

I ignored the statement and got down to one of the reasons I was there. “I was sorry to hear of the passing of your father.”

He shrugged. “The man was quite old, and I think there comes an age where you shouldn’t be climbing around on your third-story roof.” He narrowed an eye at me. “I understand you met my son Ronald and a few of his people, including Mr. Lockhart and Mr. Gloss, in South Dakota.”

“I did.”

“I also understand that there’s currently a warrant for your arrest.”

“I heard that, too.” I took a step forward and was aware that the men who had been working on the truck had all joined George at the edge of the rug behind us and that Rockwell had turned to face them. “And, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Mr. Lynear.”

“And that would be?”

“Do you have a wife by the name of Wanda?”

“Big Wanda is one of ours, yes.”

“But not a wife?”

“Mine, no.”

I waited a moment before continuing. “She identified herself as a wife of yours.”

He shook his head. “No. Wanda and I were never officially married, but I’m assuming you have news of her? We were afraid since she seems to have gone missing.”

“Who would be her relative or next of kin?”

“This is all sounding rather serious.” He looked past me to the men. “Tomás here—whom you’ve met—he’s her son.”

I turned and looked at him. “Mr. Bidarte, your mother has been in a traffic accident.”

His eyes stayed steady on me. “How?”

I moved toward him. “Would you like to step outside, sir?”

George stepped forward. “You’ll tell us what happened, and you’ll tell us here and right now.”

I ignored him and spoke to Tomás. “Mr. Bidarte?”

His head had dropped, but his eyes stayed with mine. “Sí, you can tell me.”

“We were at the front gate of the ranch when Ms. Bidarte pulled up, I’m assuming from getting groceries in Casper. We spoke briefly about a missing woman, Sarah Tisdale, and I asked Ms. Bidarte for some ID. I noticed she was carrying an unlicensed pistol in her purse and before we could do anything she put the car in reverse and drove away. She went off the road and rolled the station wagon at a slow rate of speed. She’s okay, but we’ve got her up at Durant Memorial for observation.”

Bidarte took a deep breath and studied his boots. “I see.”

“This is just the kind of harassment that we had to put up with in Texas, and now an innocent woman is hurt.” George leaned over, effectively blocking my view of Bidarte as some of the other men crowded in. “Where is her car?”

I stepped forward and placed a hand on George’s chest, pushing him out of the way and speaking to Tomás. “I’m really sorry, but I need to ask you some questions that are of a personal nature. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to step outside?”

George slapped my hand away. “You talk to him here, where we can all hear what it is you’ve got to say. The last one of us that talked to you . . .”

“That’s it.” I stepped in and watched his mouth freeze in an open position as my nose stopped about two inches from his forehead. “You utter one more word in this conversation, and I will consider it an obstruction and place you under arrest—not one word.”

I turned back and took Bidarte by the arm, leading him toward the opening where we would be out of earshot, if not sight. Rockwell followed me and then turned to look at the group, George Lynear in the front, his face as red as a blister.

In the half-light of the open doorway, I could see Tomás’s eyes shining. I tried to reassure him. “She’s fine.”

It took a while for him to reply. “Yes.”

“Is there any reason you can think of as to why your mother would have run from us like she did?”

He swallowed and scrubbed his eyes with the balls of his thumbs, his face growing stony. “She is a simple woman from the provinces. She had been abused by some soldado back in Mexico when she was a girl and my brother was killed by some security men from PEMEX; it’s possible that she . . . That when she saw the uniforms . . .”

I nodded. “That might’ve been a mitigating factor, but what seemed to set her off was my mentioning Sarah Tisdale.” He said nothing. “She reacted as if she knew the name and possibly the woman.”

His jaw clinched, and I knew we were done.

I watched as he crossed his arms over his chest and then spoke softly to him. “I’m sure you’ll want to come up to Durant and see about your mother.”

“Certainly.”

I walked him back into the shop and something strange happened—Rockwell extended his hand, and Bidarte, who paused for only a moment, shook it. He then reapproached the big truck, not speaking to any of the men, climbed back onto the running board, and submerged himself in the work.

I took the extra steps into the group and turned to look at Roy Lynear. “I noticed the number of children’s clothes on the wash lines, Mr. Lynear. I trust that if those children are not going to the public schools here in Absaroka County, they’ll be registered with Child Services so that county officials can see to their needs?”

He sighed. “I suppose that’s a final and parting shot?”

I hitched a hand up onto my sidearm. “I wouldn’t say final.”

Rockwell followed me as I turned to go, and it might’ve been the look that he gave George Lynear that caused the loudmouth to break the rules I’d laid down.

“I still wanna know where our car is and how you got in here.”

I could’ve ignored him, I could’ve let it go, but I didn’t. Instead, I grabbed his nearest hand and drew his arm up into a reverse wristlock that placed him firmly against the facing of the shop opening, his chin pressed against the tin, forcing him to look skyward. I snapped the cuffs on him and yanked him next to me. “You’re under arrest.”

The others stood there looking at us but made no move to stop me, and that’s when I noticed they weren’t even looking at me but at Orrin Porter Rockwell. I glanced at the old man and could now see he casually held a .38 revolver at his side.

I walked George over to where I could see his father, fished the religious fob and ring of keys from my pocket, and tossed them onto his lap. “Wanda’s keys, one of which is missing as the car has been impounded for evidence; you can come and get the groceries.” I hefted his son’s arm, so that he had to stand on tiptoe. “And this you can pick up anytime after the judge sets bail.”

With George’s cuff chained to the D-ring on the floor of the Bullet, I drove us out of the compound and up the canyon road until we got to the flat above. A glimmer of light was starting to cast a pinkish glow across the horizon to the east and the high spots of the rolling hills were just starting to blush with the growing day.

Still in a huff, I turned to look at Rockwell. “What are you, the Houdini of guns?”

He looked at me blankly.

“Give me that pistol.”

He looked unhappy about it but pulled the .38 from his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. “Careful, it’s loaded.”

I popped the lid on the center console and thumbed the cylinder open, dropping the shells inside; afterward, I tossed the sidearm in there and closed the lid. “Where did you get it?”

He nodded his hairy head toward the bed of my truck. “Out of the box in the back of your conveyance; there are shotguns, rifles, and all sort of armaments back there.”

I’d forgotten about the weapons I’d taken from the youth of South Dakota. “Jesus.”

Rockwell nodded. “He works in mysterious ways, does He not?”

When we got to the main gate, I undid the clasps, pushed it open, and drove through. Thinking about what I’d just done, and not being particularly proud of it, I sat there with my hands gripped on the wheel. In a fit of remorse, I opened the suicide door, reached in, and uncuffed George.

I pulled him from the truck and stood there looking at him, his eyes growing wide with the thought of what might happen next.

I let him think for a few seconds, watching sweat trickle down from his hairline, then walked him back to the gate, and placed him on the other side. I closed it, the chain-link still rattling as he stood there staring at me.

He wiped the sweat from his face and took no time in locking the three massive padlocks. I replaced the cuffs in the holder on my belt. He took a step back—I suppose just to make absolutely sure that he was out of reach, the signature smirk returning. “You come around here again, and I’ll be waiting.”

I sighed and pulled my jacket back to reveal my .45.

He stood there for a moment, his eyes opening even wider, and then started backing up, finally turning and running down the road.

I yelled after him, “When you get back, tell them you escaped—they’ll be impressed.”