Junkyard Dogs

5

“What kind of a horse’s ass promise was that to make?”

He had a point.

Henry was seated on the old sheriff’s leather sofa, was petting Dog, and smiling. I studied the marred surface of the chessboard and the open squares where I could possibly hide my king long enough to forestall the inevitable. The wind was continuing to blow outside, but it felt close and warm in room 32 of the Durant Home for Assisted Living. “Well, what was I supposed to say?”

The old sheriff picked up the cut-glass tumbler of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve and examined the twenty-three-year-old bourbon, finally placing it on the prosthetic knee that had replaced the original since the forties.

“I never made a horseshit promise like that to any wife of anybody that ever worked for me, I can tell you that much.” His index finger shot out from the glass, sighting on me from across the chessboard. “You go around makin’ bullshit promises like that, you’re courtin’ disaster.”

I moved my king and glanced at Dog, asleep with his head in Henry’s lap and taking up two of the three cushions on Lucian’s sofa; it seemed that Dog and the Cheyenne Nation were the only ones who ever sat on the thing.

“Check.”

As I reset the board, Lucian refilled our glasses. He rattled the ice in his, the mahogany eyes scanning his room as the sound of the wind stiffened, and he looked out the sliding doors. He sat like that looking like a line drawing in a Louis L’Amour novel—page 208, Twentieth-Century Lawman, Lucian Connally. “Let’s see, we only had five altercations worthy of mention when I was sheriff and four of ’em involved you.”

“Yep.”

He’d always had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen, even in comparison with the Basques, or the Crow or Cheyenne, for that matter. The old sheriff dug into his vest pocket for his pipe and beaded tobacco pouch, which had been a gift from the Northern Cheyenne tribal elders. He looked at Henry for confirmation. “Still, I’d say his tenure as sheriff has been a lot harder on him than mine was.”

The Cheyenne Nation smiled but said nothing.

I thought about my impromptu physical examination earlier this morning as a gust blew the pines outside so that they looked like they were raising their skirts and then pushed on the glass with a groan. More snow later, for sure.

I thought about Hatch, New Mexico; about a little adobe house I’d constructed in my mind with chilies hanging in the window and the lilt of Spanish voices drifting through the warm breeze. A place where there were no electric outlets on the parking meters to plug the engine block heater of your vehicle into, and where Gore-Tex and fleece were foreign words.

Lucian stuffed the bowl of the pipe full of Medicine Tail Coulee Blend tobacco, returned the pouch to his vest, and produced his old Zippo lighter. “You gonna move to New Mexico?”

I looked up at him, a little surprised. “Why do you say that?”

He lit his pipe, took a few puffs, surveyed the board, my next move, and spoke to Henry. “’S what he threatens all of us with, every winter.”

The Cheyenne Nation nodded. “Yes, it is true.”

The thick, double-paned glass flexed with the wind again, and it felt good to be inside with their company.

“So, what’s really on yer mind, other than the change in the seasons?”

I lifted my tumbler and took a sip of the caramel liquid, allowing the medicinal burn to heal as much of me as it could from the inside. I paused, giving a moment of trepidation to the naming of my anxieties. “Bullet fever.”

He continued to study the board, then moved a rook of his own and nodded. “The Basquo?” I nodded back. “How bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

He let out with a long, slow exhale sounding like a locomotive stopping at a station. “You gonna keep him working?”

“For another two weeks—he gave notice today.”

Henry looked up.

Lucian glanced at the Cheyenne Nation and then back at me. “Well, hell. What’s he wanting to do?”

I hooked a knight out to greet his rook. “Go back to Rawlins; corrections.”

The old sheriff grunted, then set the pawn in sacrifice to my knight, his bishop reclining on the baseline.

Henry breathed a laugh. “You want to run off to New Mexico, and he wants to run off to prison. It seems to me you are getting the better deal.”

I turned and studied Lucian. “Where’d you want to run off to when those Basque bootleggers shot you?”

“To the county hospital to see if the sons-a-bitches could save my leg—and you can see how that turned out.”

We all took sips of our respective bourbons, but Henry was the first to speak. “Sometimes things happen and places get sounded for us; things get touched that perhaps should never be touched.”

This time Lucian pointed the pipe stem at me, something he did so often that I sometimes wondered if his finger had a safety. “Now I’m a big one for thinking—but I think you can give a man too much time to think. The Basquo’s a thinker, and if you give him enough time he’ll think himself out of his job.” He glanced at Henry. “Whatta you think, Ladies Wear?”

The Bear lifted Dog’s head and stood, downing his bourbon in one swallow. “I think it is time to go to jail.” He crossed to the kitchenette, and Dog padded after him.

I smiled across the board at Lucian and moved my own queen out into play. “So, you don’t think it’s such a bad thing to take Sancho on a little snipe hunt with this chase-a-thumb?”

He shrugged. “At least until you can find something else for him to occupy his mind with.” He puffed on the stem of his pipe and changed the subject. “Hey, I heard Geo Stewart’s family took him out sleddin’ yesterday.”

I pulled out my pocket watch and studied its face in the dim glow of the painted hide lampshades. I figured Henry was right, and we needed to get out of there soon or we’d be facing one of Lucian’s signature bologna sandwiches with instant coffee sprinkled on it for seasoning as our dinner. As it was, we were looking at either a frozen burrito from the Kum & Go or a potpie from the holding-cell kitchenette.

“The Indian says we gotta go.” I walked past Henry and Dog.

He shook his head. “You ain’t gonna finish the game?”

I placed my empty tumbler in the sink and returned to collect my hat and coat. “I guess my mind’s somewhere else.”

Lucian set his glass back on the small table, and I could tell he’d just as soon we stayed. “You know those Stewarts got more lives than a tin bear at a shootin’ gallery.” He looked at all of us and chuckled. “You know why Geo Stewart always wears a scarf or keeps his collar buttoned up on his shirt?”

“Nope.”

“Got a scar ’round his neck, runs from ear to ear.”

I leaned against the door. “I noticed it.”

“Back in April of ’70 we had a bad snow, dropped about forty inches overnight, and Geo finds himself short on supplies—mostly Four Roses, or Red Noses as we used to refer to it, and jumps on his motor toboggan and heads into town hell-bent for leather.”

Henry asked. “Motor toboggan?”

Lucian shrugged. “ ’At’s what they used to call ’em; military surplus, made outta someplace in Wisconsin.”

“What happened?”

Lucian leaned back in his chair with his palms on his thighs. “Mike Thomas . . .” He paused for a moment. “He still got that spread out near the Stewarts?”

“Yep.”

“Well, the snow got so deep that it filled up the cattle guards, so Mike’s father had him string a strand of barbed wire across the ranch road to keep the stock in.”

“Oh, no.”

“Geo hit it at about forty miles an hour.” He chuckled.

“Mike and another artist fella, Joel Ostlind, found him that afternoon, and they had to use a digging spade to get him loose from the road where his blood had froze. Doctors said that the cold was probably what saved him.” I opened the door for Henry and Dog but, just before closing it behind us, he added, “Another good reason for you to not move to New Mexico—it’s warm down there, and you can bleed to death.”

On the way back from the old folks’ home, as Lucian referred to it, I conferred with the Cheyenne Nation, and we decided to partake of the best of both worlds and pick up a burrito at the Kum & Go and take it home to the jail to warm it up.

We were both surprised to find the much-used Olds Toronado parked out front and discovered Gina Stewart parked behind the counter. The same dirty parka was draped over her shoulders, and she was munching on some peanut butter crackers while watching a thirteen-inch black-and-white television, which was up on the cigarette shelves. She didn’t even glance at us as we walked past the height indicators that were taped to the doorjamb to help identify burglars. I had spent a lot of time in the gourmet portion of the store and knew that the frozen burritos were stacked like tiny bundles of firewood in the fast-food section at the back.

Henry studied me as I peered through the glass. “You are actually going to eat this stuff?”

There was the shredded beef and cheese, the bean and cheese, and my old standby, the chicken and cheese. There was always the cheese with cheese, but I never felt full without the little bit of protein from the supposed-to-be-meat filling. In all honesty, I tried not to read too closely when I partook of this type of fine dining. Armadillo and cheese would be more than I could stomach. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Yes, I do.” He wandered down the aisle to look for something more suited to his epicurian tastes.

I pulled a chicken and cheese out for me and an extra shredded beef and cheese for Dog and called after him. “Snob.”

I put the veritable cornucopia of freeze du jour on the counter along with a tall-boy can of Rainier, pulled out my wallet, and waited for the young woman to see me. After a moment, she looked up, annoyed that someone was interrupting her evening, but when she saw me she brightened a little. “Oh, hi, Sheriff.”

I laid a twenty on the Plexiglas that protected the plastic counter and read the poster that informed me about the available career opportunities in the country’s third-largest convenience store chain with, easily, the most sexually suggestive name. “Hi, Gina, what are you watching?” I thought I could make out Cary Grant’s voice and possibly Deborah Kerr’s.

She chewed on a strand of her blondish hair. “It’s that movie where the man and the woman are supposed to meet at the Empire State Building, but she gets hit by a car.”

Must be the season for it, I thought.

She rubbed some crumbs off her jeans and dropped the empty cracker wrapper in a trash can behind the counter. “I think it’s supposed to be romantic—you know, for Valentine’s Day. I’m not supposed to be watching the TV during business hours, but the manager put it up there, and we don’t have television at the house.”

She paused as she looked past me to where Henry was opening another of the coolers along the back wall. “I get bored, and it makes me feel better when I watch a movie, but not because of the movie, though.” She thought about it, and I watched her profile as she looked past my shoulder and continued to study the Bear. “I think about all the other people around the state that are watching the same movie, and it’s like we’re watching it together. I mean they’re lonely, they’re bored, and we’re all watching the same thing.” Her eyes came back to mine, and her voice dropped. “You have to keep your eye on those Indians; they steal.”

I raised an eyebrow but ignored the remark. “It’s more than just the state.”

“Huh?”

I leaned back and traced the cable coming out of the display stand above me that then disappeared into the broken corner of one of the acoustic ceiling tiles. “It’s cable, Gina, which means you’re watching the movie with the whole country.”

She smiled. “That makes me feel even better.”

I smiled back. “How’s Geo?”

She thought for a moment. “I think Grampus’ fine, but I don’t know. Since I missed my shift on Monday they made me come in and cover tonight.” She leaned a little forward and confided. “I don’t like working nights; a lot of creepos come in here.”

Henry joined us with a bag of mixed salad and an unsweetened iced tea. “Present company excluded?”

She stared at him blankly. “Huh?”

I looked at him. “Gina here says she has to keep an eye on you Indians because you steal.”

He nodded. “We do, but only small stuff, unlike you whites.”

I pointed to the items I’d hunted and gathered. “I’ll treat to save you from petty theft.” I turned to Gina. “How much?”

Her fingers tripped across the keyboard of the cash register—she seemed relieved to have escaped the conversation. “Nineteen dollars and thirty-seven cents.”

I slid the twenty a little closer so that Gina would notice. I couldn’t think of anybody in our little community that I’d identify specifically as a creepo. “Creepos like who?”

She took the money and handed me my change. “Ozzie Dobbs for one. He’s always coming in here, standing around and looking at my butt, and hitting on me. It’s totally gross.”

That was surprising. “Really.” I took the change and stuffed it in my pocket.

A Volkswagen Jetta rounded the corner at Main, and the driver took advantage of the ice to hit the gas and drift the vehicle outrageously sideways. I raised my arm and hit the remote on my truck to blip the lights and draw attention to my unit, whereupon the driver slowed and drove on with a little more circumspection.

Henry’s voice rumbled. “Rachael Terry—she is a wild one.”

“Yep.” I nodded, making a mental note to call Mike and Susie. I looked back at Gina. “Ozzie Dobbs, really?”

“Yeah, he comes in here once a week at least. That’s the only reason I don’t mind covering other shifts—at least then he doesn’t know when I’m working.” She picked up the beer and the tea and stood them in a plastic sack. Her eyes strayed back to the television. “He always wants to buy me things, which is nice ’cause Duane is tight as the bark on a tree.” She dumped the frozen burritos and the salad on top. “You know, most people warm these up in the microwave before they eat them.”

I picked up the package. “Buy you things?”

She shrugged her narrow shoulders, and the parka fell off. She was wearing an oversized, gray sweatshirt that had UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS in orange stenciled across her chest. “Yeah, one time he offered to buy me anything in the store if I’d give him a kiss.” She glanced around. “Like I’d fuckin’ do that for anything in here.”

The lights on Main Street were swinging in the wind and blinking yellow, the way they always did after midnight, and it was as if the whole town, like a pinball game, had gone tilt. It was odd and depressing, thinking of somebody like Ozzie Dobbs targeting Gina; sometimes it meant something, but most of the time it was just the flotsam and jetsam of the human tide. “I’m concerned about the younger generation.”

Henry nodded. “Do you think she paid for those crackers she was eating when we came in?”

I was looking forward to my burrito and figured I could rummage a couple of extra blankets from the linen closet at the jail, since on seriously cold nights it sometimes got a little nippy in the all-concrete holding cells. I wondered if I was getting to be like those old cons who couldn’t sleep unless there were bars on the doors and windows—now that was a really depressing thought.

When we got back to the office, the flakes were basting themselves against a familiar, forest-green Chevy parked in the visitor’s spot. From the sculpted drifts, it had been there awhile.

Both Henry and I could see that Ozzie Jr. was in the driver’s seat, just sitting there, staring; speak of the devil soon to arrive. I shut down the Bullet and climbed out with our plastic bag, ambled my way around the front with Dog at my heels, and joined the Bear as we stood there looking at Ozzie, whose eyes were open but who still hadn’t moved. I could hear the radio and could see the condensation in the windows from his breath. Henry and I looked at each other, the vapor from our breath whipping into our faces.

I tapped on the hood of the one-ton Chevrolet, and Ozzie’s eyes shifted to us. I stepped closer and could see that he was dressed in the same clothes he’d had on earlier today but that there were smears of something dark on the sleeves of his jacket and the front of his shirt.

I slipped by the Cheyenne Nation. My hand fumbled with the door handle of the truck before I flipped it open and stuck my head into the cab. The heat was on high, the interior of the truck was stifling, and Roy Orbison was singing “Only the Lonely.” It was blood on his shirt and jacket with some on his jeans and even on the brim of his hat.

“Ozzie, are you all right?” His eyes shifted to mine in a dull and listless way. “Are you hurt?”

His voice was slurred, and I could smell the liquor. “Walt, I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

I put a hand on his shoulder and saw that there was an empty bottle of expensive tequila on the seat beside him along with a collection of cheap valentines spilling from a bag. “Hurt who, Ozzie?”

“He was with her, Walt.” His eyes darted around and toward Henry. “Hello.”

I grabbed his chin and swung his face back to me, aware that for legal purposes, he had to say it. “Who did you hurt, Ozzie?”

“He walked her back like it was some kind of date.”

“Where, Ozzie, where did this happen?”

Tears streamed from his eyes, and he sobbed, his lower lip pulsing in and out with his breath. “I’m scared, Walt.”

“Ozzie.”

“I didn’t mean to hit him that hard, I swear I didn’t.”

I took his arm. “Come with me.” He didn’t resist, and I took his keys. Henry helped me get him up the steps. I opened the door, flipped on the lights, and we seated him on the bench by the dispatcher’s desk. “Henry, could you watch him?”

I snatched Ruby’s phone from the cradle and hit the second auto-dial. Vic answered on the third ring, her voice a little groggy but deep and sultry. “And what fresh hell is this?”

God she sounded good, half asleep and snarky. “I need you at the office, now.”

She snapped the receiver down on the other end, and I hung up, quickly punching the Red Cross emblem on Ruby’s color-coded phone. Henry was kneeling in front of Ozzie, holding him up with one hand. “Ozzie, where did all this happen?”

He paused, but I guess I’d asked enough times that he finally got it. “My house.”

“Is Geo at your house?”

“Yes.” He slumped against the back of the bench, but the Cheyenne Nation kept him steady.

“Ozzie? What’s your address?”

“101 Eagle Ridge, the one on the hill.”

“911.” I recognized Chris Wyatt’s voice, and I told him what I needed and where.

There was a pause. “Walt, where the hell is that?”

The development was relatively new and still mostly unoccupied so even the EMTs didn’t recognize the street addresses. “It’s in the Redhills Rancho Arroyo subdivision.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I hung up the phone and hustled over to the water-cooler to get a paper cup full for Ozzie. He reached out with a shaking hand to pet Dog, who was sniffing the blood on his pants.

I sat on the edge of the bench, glanced at Henry, and handed Ozzie the water. “Was it Geo Stewart that you hurt?”

He looked at the cup of water but didn’t make any attempt to drink it. “I don’t have any friends.”

“Ozzie?”

“I really don’t.” He listed a little toward me, and Henry righted him. The small man looked at the Bear in appreciation. “Thanks.”

The Cheyenne Nation nodded. “No problem.”

“I mean I know lots of people—acquaintances, you know?”

I was forceful with the next question. “Is he hurt?”

He paused. “Yes.”

“How bad?”

He began crying again. “Walt, I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

I nudged the paper cup toward his mouth. “Take a drink of water and tell me what happened.”

The cup hesitated there for a moment. “Walt, I think I’m going to be sick.” He burped, and then he heaved. “I’mhh . . . I’m gonna be sick.”

Henry hoisted him up, ushered him into the hallway bathroom, and flipped up the lid. Ozzie no sooner sat on the floor before he leaned forward and spewed forcefully into the toilet. He seemed capable of the action without hurting himself, so I draped a washcloth onto his shoulder and stepped back along with Henry, closing the door to give Ozzie a little privacy. “If you need anything, we’re right out here.”

I could leave Henry in charge, but it wasn’t his job. I had to wait until Vic got here to babysit Ozzie, then I could take off. I leaned a hand against the doorjamb, tipped my hat back, and thought about how I hated these kinds of cases.

“Are your nights usually like this?”

I threw him a look. “Pretty much.”

Dog stood in the hallway as well and looked at the two of us uncertainly. I crouched down and put a hand out, and he hurried over. I pulled him in with my arm, and we all squatted there until my foot wouldn’t take it any longer and I slumped against the wall. I sat with Dog’s head in my lap, and the three of us listened to Ozzie Dobbs puke his guts out.

“I can stay with him until Vic arrives.”

I sighed deeply. “That’s okay, she’s usually quick.”

He continued to study me. “Then I will go with you.”

“No need in the both of us going.”

I heard the front door jangle and the couple of thumps as Vic’s Browning tactical boots struck the steps on her way up the stairs. She vaulted across the dispatch area and was standing in the hallway in front of us in her fur bomber hat, down jacket, PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT hoodie, pajama bottoms, and duty belt, complete with cuffs, extra mags, and Glock. “S’up?”

I struggled to my feet as Henry stood. “I did not know you slept in pajamas.”

“Gun belt, too. I’m kinky that way.” Another round of regurgitation erupted from behind the door, and she raised an eyebrow at me. “If you called me from a sound sleep for a DWI then I’m going to kick you till you’re dead.”

I left Dog with Henry, Henry with Vic, and Vic with Ozzie. The roads were still relatively dry, and with the lights and siren I was able to make good time to the red hills east of town, especially since there wasn’t a single other vehicle on the roads this late. I blew through the blinking red lights and straightened out on Route 16, bellowing and bringing all ten cylinders up like a pack.

I took the turn toward Geo’s place but then steered off at the entrance to Redhills Rancho Arroyo, which was announced by a monstrous gateway of hewn logs about the size of my truck. I eased off the throttle so that I could make it through and past the empty guard shack. There was a slight downslope that led along the creek to five rambling million-dollar structures. It was an educated guess, since I’d never been to the Dobbs household, but the lights were on at the one squatting on the precipice of the ridge.

It was, of course, the mansion with the best view of the mountains.

I slid the truck into the driveway, grabbed a wool muffler that was on the seat, unclipped my handheld radio from the dash, and quasi-leapt into the drifts of snow that had collected on the concrete. I made my way to the door beside the wooden and windowed garage doors that probably cost as much as my house.

It was locked, so I pulled my Maglite out and made my way around to the back on the sidewalk that circled through the landscaping surrounded by nonindigenous, Colorado red-rock walls. The large sliding glass door was opened to a deck with light cascading from inside the house that painted stripes across the snow-covered lawn; there was a blood trail to my right.

When I got to the top of the steps, I could see where a few drops of blood had splattered across the travertine tile. There was a golf club lying on the floor, and it had blood on it as well. I stepped in the doorway with my heart palpitating like a friction motor, but there was no Geo.

Somewhere in the house I could hear someone crying, but it was muffled and distant. It was cold inside with more than a little snow blown in on the tile—I closed the door against the slamming of the wind. There was no blood on the thick carpet that led upstairs and, all in all, there was more blood on Ozzie than in the house.

I slipped my flashlight back into my duty belt. “Mrs. Dobbs?” There was no response, but the crying continued. I mounted the suspended steps that overlooked an expansive living room to the left and continued to the second door on the right. I didn’t really want to intrude on the woman, but I needed a more detailed description of what had happened.

I knocked. “Mrs. Dobbs?” I heard a shuffling, and then the sobbing stopped. “Mrs. Dobbs, it’s Walt Longmire. Can I speak to you?”

I listened as she padded to the door and turned the knob. When she saw me, she started crying afresh. “Oh, Walter . . . Oh, my God.”

I leaned down so that I could be on her eye level. “Mrs. Dobbs, where is George Stewart?”

She began really sobbing now, and her hands clutched for the lapels on my coat. “Walter, it was horrible. Ozzie Junior started screaming and George was shouting back at him and then he pushed him . . .”

I tried to get her to look me in the eye. “Mrs. Dobbs, where is Geo?”

She continued to study my duty shirt as she reconstructed. “Ozzie Junior fell, grabbed the golf club, and I swear he only swung it to warn George, but George stepped toward him and . . . and I just ran from the room.” I nudged her chin up with my hand and finally got her to look me in the face. “Walter, Ozzie killed him.”

I thought about the blood trail that I’d followed on the deck steps. “Mrs. Dobbs, did the fight take place in your kitchen?”

She caught her breath and nodded. “Yes.”

“And that’s where you left the two of them?”

“Yes.”

I nodded and tried to smile a little reassurance into her. “Well, your son is at my office, and there’s nobody down in your kitchen. In my profession, dead people tend to stay where they drop, so I think that Geo came to, noticed that nobody was around, and went home.”

“Oh, Walter, do you think so?”

“Yep, I do. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot, but there’s really not enough blood down there to indicate a serious injury.” I straightened. “But if he’s out there wandering around in this cold and snow with any kind of head wound, I have to go find him. Now, the EMTs are going to be here anytime now, and I need you to tell them to sit pat till I call in to them on my radio, okay?”

She sniffed. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you go down in the living room and wait by the front door?” I looked at her seriously. “And don’t go in the kitchen.”

She wiped her eyes with her fists. “I won’t.”

The weather had stiffened, and it was worse on the ridge above the Redhills Rancho Arroyo’s back nine, with beads of snow sandblasting horizontally and my muscles grinding together like ice floes in a wind-lashed sea.

I couldn’t pick up enough of the blood trail but found a small piece of Geo’s Carhartt flapping on the barbed wire fence where he’d climbed over. I straddled the old three-strand attached to posts so aged they looked as if they might’ve grown there, pulled the tail ends of the muffler up from where it was wrapped around my hat, and played the beam of the big flashlight across the drifts.

I could still see the boot tracks in the foot-deep snow—he hadn’t continued straight but had tacked against the wind. I twisted my hat down harder, so that the aperture between it and my scarf was like the visor on a knight’s helmet, and pressed my face against the inside of my upturned collar. My stomach growled, and I thought about the two burritos lying on Ruby’s desk; Henry had probably fed them to Dog.

I climbed the ridge and looked down at the path that skirted the junkyard/dump and saw where it ended at the back of the Stewart compound. With the abandoned vehicles and trailer houses, it reminded me of Khe Sanh in Vietnam—just a hundred degrees colder.

My radio crackled. Static. “Unit 1, we’re 10-23 at 441 Eagle Ridge.”

I plucked the radio from my belt and hit the button. “That you, Chris?”

Static. “Yeah. Mrs. Dobbs said to contact you for information about the victim.”

I ducked my head to avoid the wind. “Well, get over to George Stewart’s place by the dump and wait for me there. I’m pretty sure that’s where he’s headed.”

Static. “Roger that.”

I replaced the radio back under my coat. The trenches that Geo’s boots had made continued down the canyon edge and arced toward the house. I followed as quickly as I could, but the snow continued to scour slick under my boots and the grade became slippery. I slid a little to the side in an ungainly split and then continued my descent, second-guessing my choice of leaving Henry Standing Bear at the office.

I was about halfway down the grade when I came to a second fence and a copse of naked apple trees crouched by a smaller path that led down the edge of the ravine toward the junkyard. Buried in the hillside across from the frozen idyll was an old cellar door that must’ve been the exit from the clandestine tunnel.

The spot where it had all started with an apple and a kiss.

The drift was at least a foot and a half deep in front of the doors, and they lay there undisturbed like peeling gray gates to the underworld. I couldn’t see the boot prints any longer, so I backed up, crouched down, and panned the beam of the flashlight across the surface of the snow. The only thing I could see were the craters where my boots had broken through the hard crust of the surface. I stood there in a continual riptide of flakes that traveled quickly across the polished snow.

It was as if he’d disappeared.

I peered at the cellar opening again. It was strange, but there was a relatively new clasp and massive padlock hanging against the door, one of those locks with the rubber covering to protect it. There was nothing, though, to give any indication that he’d stood there, unlocked and opened the ancient doors or even continued in that direction. I turned the beam back toward the main pathway and caught sight of one snow-filled print that wasn’t mine. He must have turned and continued down toward the junkyard.

It was a narrow path, just wide enough for a man. There was a wooden gate about two-thirds of the way down, nothing that would keep anybody out if they were serious. The footing was worse than before, and I had to take my time but soon arrived at the level space of the old quarry in the oldest part of the lot. I could date Detroit design by the surrounding stacks of automobiles, massive, skirt-fender beasts from the bulbous forties and sleek, high-finned quarter-panels from the futuristic fifties.

In the junkyard’s protected environs, the wind had lessened, and the snow was wetter so Geo’s tracks were easier to follow. I wondered why, if he was trying to make it back home, he had detoured here.

I made my way down the aisles of stacked vehicles and had just turned the corner at a ’52 Lincoln when I saw eyes looking at me from the gloom of dark and distance. I raised the Maglite into two pairs of bronze iridescence.

The mutt wolves had their teeth showing as they made their deliberate way toward me between the stacked automobiles. I had been the jolly fellow who had freed them from the depressing dump office and taken them home to be fed, but now I was an interloper that they’d found in their assigned territory.

I made my voice stern. “Easy. Easy Butch, easy Sundance . . .”

They showed no sign of stopping, and even though I despised the thought of shooting them, I couldn’t run. I hoped that maybe a warning shot would scare them off and reached down, unsnapping the safety strap from my Colt and fixing my hand around the grip.

At that movement, they froze.

My hand stayed on my sidearm, and I spoke between the snowflakes. “Well, you guys are smarter than I thought.” They didn’t advance, but they didn’t run, either. I stood there for a moment and then shone the flashlight back onto the prints that turned a corner ahead and continued off to the right.

I stepped forward, but they still didn’t move. “All right, let’s call this one a truce. You guys go your way, and I’ll go mine.” I resnapped the holster and made my way around the corner of the Lincoln. They continued to watch me.

I made a cursory cast of the beam back toward the two dogs, but they remained immobile. Then I noticed that there were two sets of prints in this aisle. The new set were different from the junkman’s, larger and with a more outdoor tread, an over-boot of some sort—probably Sorels. For comparative purposes, I placed my rubber-covered foot alongside—smaller than mine, probably a ten or an eleven.

I stayed to one side and followed both sets of tracks to another left. The snow was heavy now, but the wind had died. I looked up at the flakes that made me feel as though I were falling down and saw that some snow had been swiped away from one of the doors of an old, slope-backed, mostly intact Mercury Coupe.

The door hung open, and I could see one of Geo’s antiquated logger boots hanging from the sill, the extended length of untied cord laces drifting back and forth across the open window of the vehicle on which the Mercury rested.

I hustled through the odd lumps of snow-covered junk and parts, finally resting a hand on the door handle of a partially crushed ’47 Chevy that was at ground level.

Geo was slouched forward with a shoulder firmly planted against the steering wheel where the Mercury’s horn would’ve been if it had still had one. He wore the welder’s cap with the upturned flaps, the double troughs having now filled up with snow. The condensation of his breath had frozen his beard into a solid mass and thinned the blood in it so that it seemed transparent and pink. Thin icicles stuck out from his downturned face like porcupine spines.

I fed a fingertip into my teeth and pulled my glove off, wrapping my hand around the junkman’s wrist—the flesh was blue, cold. He looked down at me with the remainders of a faint smile, but it appeared that the glimmer of life was gone from the rime ice at his pupils.

It was also about then that I felt Sundance clamp his jaws into my right butt cheek.