Land of Wolves (12 page)

He nodded. “I agree.”

“Do you need a loan?”

“A broke banker, pretty ridiculous, huh?” He flushed a little. “I think I’ve got enough cash if I don’t need to pay you back tonight.”

“That’s fine.”

He extended a hand. “Sheriff, please don’t judge me too harshly from my behavior this evening. I’m a little upset about my son, and sometimes the pressure of all of it just gets to me. Please accept my apology?”

I shook the hand. “Certainly.”

He took a last look at me and then pulled the Wrangler into gear. “I just want to see my child, you know?”

With that, he pulled out, making a U-turn and waving at the convenience store attendant and then wheeling across the street to the Best Western as I started for my truck and Dog, my eyes drifting back to the pool of light that illuminated the southbound ramp of I-25.

“Yep, I do.”

“It says I have a message.”

Ruby’s voice trailed in from the outside office. “Well then, answer it.”

“How do I find it?”

“It should be right there on the left.”

I studied the screen. “What left?”

She appeared in my doorway. “It is in no way helpful for me to have to come in here and assist you in the simplest tasks.” Crossing my office, she turned and looked at the computer. “You don’t have a screen saver?”

“That’s going to be my next email.”

She pointed. “See that little icon down there on the bottom?”

“Which icon?”

“The one that looks like a stamp.” Grabbing the thingamajig, she moved it and a little arrow magically appeared. “You just left-click it and it’ll open your emails.”

“Left-click?”

“The mouse, you left-click the mouse and it opens your email.”

“What if I right-click?”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Any more questions?”

“Why do they call it a mouse?”

She left without answering, and I moved the thingamajig as she’d instructed, very careful to left-click.

An entirely new screen appeared, and I could see an abbreviated version of my email response boxed in the left-hand corner. I shouted to the outer office. “It worked!”

Ruby’s voice came back in response. “We’re all so proud of you, Walter.”

“What now?”

“Left-click the email you want.”

“Right.” I did as she said, and the thing grew to encompass the screen so I could now read my daughter’s four-word response:

I love you too.

“It worked again!”

“Hallelujah.”

“What now?”

There was a moment and then Ruby appeared in my door like the magic arrow, making a beeline for my seat and then grabbing the thingamajig and manipulating it again. “You just hover the curser at the top here and click on the arrow facing this direction and then type your response.”

“What if I click the arrow that goes in the other direction?”

“Don’t.”

“Right.”

She left, and I stared at the screen, composed a response and a request before placing my two middle fingers over the keys. When I was finished, I called out again. “How do you send it?”

There was another pause, and then she appeared once more,
walked to my side, and pushed my hands away. “See the little paper airplane up here in the left-hand corner? You just click on that, and it sends the email.”

“Paper airplane, that’s clever.” She stared at me. “Left-click?”

“Always left-click, until otherwise notified.”

“Right.”

Ruby disappeared, and I sent my email, feeling very proud of myself. “Hey, that wasn’t so bad.” There was a ding, and I looked at the screen. “I got another email!”

There was no response, and I carefully left-clicked the box and was rewarded with a magnificent photo of my daughter and granddaughter sitting in the back of a hay wagon, Cady looking to the side with her striking profile and Lola looking straight at me with those deep-souled eyes.

I remembered taking that photograph.

“Wow.”

Another face appeared in my doorway, and Saizarbitoria glanced around. “Is it safe to come in?”

“Safer than it is out there.” I gestured toward the computer, my new pal. “Hey, I can do emails.”

“That’s great, Boss.” He stepped in. “There’s a bit of a problem.”

“What?”

“Did you go off on some tirade about werewolves with Jon Rupert?”

“The TV idiot?”

“Yes.”

“No. I had a tirade on clinical lycanthropy, a condition Jon Rupert couldn’t even pronounce much less understand, but that was after they stopped filming.”

“Evidently not, because it’s being included in the episode they’re airing tonight.”

“I said ‘bullshit,’ and they said you can’t say that on the air, so I assumed they’d stopped filming.”

He sat in my guest chair. “Boss, when was the last time you checked the FCC rulings on profanity? 1964?”

I laced my fingers in my lap. “I might be a little behind the times.”

“You can now say the word
shit
on television.”

“Even broadcast television?”

“There is no more broadcast television, Boss.”

I thought about the TV set back at my cabin that I hadn’t turned on in a long while. “I wondered why mine had stopped working.”

“Well, they’ve got you spouting off about the most detailed aspects of clinical lycanthropy—did I say that right?”

“Yep.”

“So, they say there’s some kind of cover-up going on with the sheriff’s department.”

“And what are they basing that on?”

“Your knowledge of clinical lycanthropy. Look Boss, I know you, so it doesn’t seem strange to me, but most sheriffs wouldn’t be able to tell you what clinical lycanthropy is if their lives depended on it.” He looked out the window. “What do you want to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

He turned back to me. “Nothing?”

I shook my head. “Until Joe Meyer, the state attorney general calls, there really isn’t anything to do. They got me talking about a psychiatric condition that has nothing to do with the death of Miguel Hernandez, so if they want to air it, feel free.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “Where are we on the Hernandez case anyway?”

“Isaac found mule hair traces on his jeans, which explains how he got up high enough to hang himself.”

“So, he used a mule to commit suicide?”

“The mules were tied up when I found them at his camp.”

“Oh.”

“The mules couldn’t have tied themselves.”

“So, it’s a murder.” He stood to go. “Which is why you don’t give a crap about this stupid werewolf story on cable television.”

“Can you say the word
crap
on television?”

As he departed, he called back. “I’ll check on that.”

Ruby took his place and held a Post-it out to me. “Abarrane Extepare called and said that his camp tender, Jimenez, was in town getting supplies and that if you wanted to speak with him and not have to drive up the mountain or out to the ranch, it might be a good time to catch him.”

“How was Abe’s English?”

“Exemplary.”

I took the piece of paper with the camp tender’s cell number. “Did he say anything about his son-in-law?”

“No, why?”

“I met him at the Maverik station on the way out of town late last night, and he said he was on his way there to collect his son. I just thought he might’ve mentioned it.”

“We don’t have enough to do besides keeping tabs on the familial affairs of the broader Extepare family?”

“Hey, Ruby, could you c’mere?”

I gestured toward the photo on my screen. “How do I make that my screen saver?”

She reached across, manipulating the mouse thingamajig and left-clicking the living daylights out of it as two of the most
important things in my life expanded on the screen. “How do you want to set the sleep settings?”

“I don’t know.”

“When do you want the photo to go away?”

I glanced at the two faces, the one looking back at me. “Never.”

I always loved the old
SETTINGS FOR
YOUR TABLE
sign that had stood on the roadway outside the IGA since I was a kid. The giant crossed spoon and fork made shade for Dog who was always happy to go to the grocery store because, as far as he knew, that’s where they keep all the ham.

I’d called the number on the phone and left a message for Jimenez. It went straight to voice mail, so I figured he hadn’t gotten in range just yet. My supposition was confirmed when I saw an elderly Hispanic man in a do-rag wheeling into the IGA parking lot probably talking to Ruby back at the office on his phone.

I walked toward him as he finished the call. He looked to be about a thousand years old with wrinkles on his wrinkles, but handsome nonetheless even with a prodigious and colorful black eye.

“Howdy.”

He cracked open the door of the early eighties Dodge D100 with more rust holes than body. “
Hola, hola,
Sheriff. How you doing?”

“I’m good, how ’bout yourself?”

“Okay, okay.” He shut the door behind him and smiled, a striking set of what I assumed were dentures sparkling white in the sunshine. He shook my hand like an irrigation pump. “More work these days, but work is good.”

“Agreed.” I spotted a bench on the sidewalk in front of the grocery store where we might be able to talk without being overheard. “Let’s have a seat over here.”

The small man followed, and we sat. “Plenty of snow still up on the mountain, and I am thinking that we will have good spring.”

I unzipped my jacket and nudged my hat back. “We already are.”

He nodded. “
Sí, sí
.”

“Seen any wolves up on the mountain?”

He shook his head. “No, no. I no see no wolves.” He smiled again. “You sure you see one and not some dog?”

“Yep, I saw one, but only one.” Having passed the pleasantries, I got down to business. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Miguel Hernandez?” He nodded. “How well did you know him?”

“Not too well, not too well. He work for us a couple of years now.”

“What was he like?”

“Moody, he was moody man—read too many books.”

“Do you know if he had any problems here in town with anybody?”

“What kind of problem?

“I don’t know, arguments he might’ve had, fights or anything?”

He laughed, fingering the discolored swelling around his left eye. “He up on the mountain, who he gonna argue with, the trees?”

“I heard he was in a fight at the Euskadi Bar in town.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“What about Abarrane, did he ever argue with him?”

He studied me. “They have arguments sometime, sure.”

“About what?”

“Money, time, the sheep—same stuff everybody argue about.”

“How big were the arguments?” He shrugged, saying nothing. “I was told recently that Abarrane is a little tough on the hired hands.”

“Who tell you that?”

“I’m not at liberty to say at the moment.”

He stared at me some more. “I work for the man for twenty-three year now—you think I stay with him he not good to me?”

“That’s not what I asked, Mr. Jimenez.”

He huffed and puffed a bit. “Why you try to blame this on Mr. Extepare?”

“I’m not blaming anyone, but there’s a man who’s been killed and I’m trying to find out who did that.”

“Not Abarrane.”

“Then who?”

He stood, smoothing his wool bibs. “I no talk to you no more.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Jimenez, but we can either have a nice chat here on this bench out in this lovely spring air or we can go over to my office—either way this conversation isn’t over until I say it is.”

He stood there for a moment and then sat back down. He didn’t say anything but crossed his tattooed arms and looked out into the parking lot.

“Thank you.” I waited a moment and then continued. “So, am I to understand that Abarrane has a bit of a temper and has physically abused his hired help in the past?”

Begrudgingly, he responded. “Not like you talk.”

“Then what?”

“These men, the new ones, they no good, no good. They no want to work. We come there, and the camp all gone to hell and sheep scattered all over the mountain—that no good.”

“You mean Miguel Hernandez?”

He gestured openly. “All of them.”

“Let’s confine ourselves to Hernandez. Did you ever see him arguing with anybody besides Abe?”

“Yes, he argue with everyone—he rather argue than breathe.”

“He ever argue with you?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

His head dropped, but then he looked away. “He sometime stick his nose where it no belong.”

“Concerning?”

“I . . . Not at, um . . .” His eyes returned to mine. “. . . liberty to say.”

I let that one sit for a spell. “Is it true that he was hurting himself, cutting his arms with a knife?”

He nodded his head and looked away. “
Sí, sí
.”

“Just one more question.” He continued to study the parking lot as I leaned forward, examining his face. “How did you get that black eye?”

“If you can throw together a couple of sandwiches for me too, that’d be great.”

Ronnie, the deli guy, started cutting the meat on the slicer and looked up at me. “Nobody cuts ham this thick, Sheriff.” He grinned. “What are you doing, feeding a wolf?”

“Watch what you’re doing before you lose a thumb.”

He finished wrapping up the pound of ham and then went about making my sandwich. “Horseradish?”

“Absolutely.”

Knowing my habits, he reached back and grabbed a bag of salt and vinegar chips and an iced tea, depositing them in a white paper bag, and then began making the next one. “Philly hoagie?”

“How did you guess?”

He chin pointed. “She’s standing behind you.”

I turned to find my undersheriff. “Howdy.”

She cracked open a Diet Coke I was sure she had purloined from the cooler. “Hey. Any luck?”

“The camp tender said there was another herder up on the mountain range, Jacques Arriett, and that there had been some problems between Hernandez and Arriett and that I might want to go speak with him.”

“How do we find him?”

I patted the breast pocket of my shirt. “I have a map Jimenez drew for me.”

She sipped her soda. “So, we’re going on a picnic?”

“A jug of wine and thou . . .”

Ronnie nodded at Vic and held up some peppers. “Hot and sweet?”

“Yeah, just like me.”

She leaned against the glass and looked up. “Anything else?”

“Jimenez was sporting a beauty of a black eye.”

“That’s the camp tender, right?”

“Yep.”

“Who clipped him?”

“He kind of intimated it was the other herder, Arriett.”

“Basque?”

“French-Basque, the genuine article. Think we should get Sancho to go with or instead of us?”

She made a face. “Why does he get to do all the cool stuff? Besides, he’s got an abandoned vehicle, a lost dog, and somebody stole one of the
CLEAR CREEK TRAIL
signs.”

“Spring is officially upon us.”