Wait for Signs: Twelve Longmire Stories (6 page)

I nodded and glanced at her lap. “Seven men standing in the road in Hidalgo del Parral shot more than forty rounds into his roadster.”

“You worked for the History Channel before you were sheriff?” I didn’t say anything, and the smile lingered on her face like fingerpicking on a warped-neck fretboard. “You’re okay-looking, in a dad kind of way.”

I widened my eyes. “That’s a disturbing statement for a number of reasons.”

She barked a laugh and raised one of the combat boots up to lodge it against the transmission hump, but realized she was revealing the pistol from the drape of the blanket on her lap and lowered her foot. “My dad never talked about it, Vietnam . . . He handled that Agent Orange stuff and that shit gave robots cancer.” Her eyes were drawn back to the windshield and Polson. “He died last week and they’re already splitting up his stuff.” The mile markers clicked by like the wand on a metronome.
“He taught me how to listen—I mean really listen. To hear things that nobody else heard. He had this set of Sennheiser HD414 open-back headphones from ’73, lightweight with the first out-of-head imaging with decent bass—Sony Walkmans and all that stuff should get down and kiss Sennheiser’s ass. They had a steel cord and you could throw them at a
talented
program director or a brick wall—I’m not sure which is potentially denser.”

It was an unsettling tirade, but I still had to laugh.

“You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Nope, but it all sounds very impressive.” We topped the hill above Billings and looked at the lit-up refineries that ran along the highway as I made the sweeping turn west, the power of internal combustion pushing us back in the leather seats like we were tobogganing down a hill. The tires ran silent and floated on a cushion of air headlong into the snowy dunes and shimmering lights strung alongside the highway like fuzzy moons.

She turned away, keeping her eyes from me, afraid that I might see too much there. “You can just drop me at the Golden Pheasant; I’ve got friends doing a gig who’ll give me a ride the rest of the way.”

Nodding, I joined with the linear constellation of I-94.

I had a vague sense of the club’s location downtown, took the Twenty-seventh Street exit, rolled past the Montana Women’s Prison and the wrong side of the railroad tracks, and then sat there watching the hundred and fifty coal cars of a Burlington Northern Santa Fe train roll by.

When she finally spoke, her voice was different, saner. “It belonged to my father. When I was leaving for Tennessee, he
gave me a choice of those headphones I was telling you about, but I figured I’d have more use for the gun.” She placed her hand on the dash and fingered the vent louvers as the two of us looked at the plastic strip on her wrist. “I got in some trouble down there.” Her voice died in her throat, but after a moment she started again. “I got picked up by a few guys over in South Dakota earlier tonight and they tried stuff. They seemed nice at first . . .” She gestured with the pistol, still under the blanket. “Anyway, I had to pull it.”

I turned down a side street and took a right, where I could see the multicolored neon of the aforementioned pheasant spreading his tail feathers in a provocative manner. I parked the truck in the first available spot and turned to look at the girl with the strange eyes, the sifting snow providing a surreal scrim to her backlit face.

“I didn’t shoot anybody.”

“Good.”

She smiled and finished the dregs of her coffee, wiped the cup out on her blanket, and screwed the top back on the thermos. She placed it against the console, but the movement caused the revolver to slip from her leg and onto the seat between us.

We both sat there looking at it, representative of all the things for which it stood.

I leaned forward and picked it up. It had been a nice one once upon a time, but years of negligence had left it scuffed and rusted, emerald corrosion growing from the rounds permanently imbedded in the cylinder. “How ’bout I keep this for you?”

She didn’t say anything for a long time but finally slipped through the open door, pulled the guitar case from the bed of my truck, and stood there in the opening.

The plaintive words of Haggard’s “A Place to Fall Apart” drifted from the speakers, and she glanced at the radio as if the Okie from wherever might be sitting on my dash. “I’d give a million dollars if he’d go into a studio, just him and a six-string guitar, no backup singers, no harps—and just play.”

I watched her face, trying not to let the eyes distract me. “Maybe you should tell him that sometime, but I wouldn’t look for him in Muskogee.”

The wind pressed the blanket against her, urging departure, and I was struck by the sudden vulnerability in her face as she closed the door, the words barely audible: “Merry Christmas.”

She continued to clutch the blanket around her as she turned. Dragging the guitar case, she walked away without looking back and disappeared into the swinging glass doors with swirls of snow devils circling after her; all I could think was that I was glad I wasn’t in Polson, Montana, and in possession of a set of Sennheiser HD414 open-back headphones.

I thought about the things you could do, and the things you couldn’t, even in a season of miracles.

I tossed the decrepit revolver into my glove box, sure that whoever might have pulled the trigger on the thing had as equal a chance of getting hurt as the person at whom it was being pointed.

Twenty minutes later, my daughter climbed in the cab. “Please tell me we’re not staying at the Dude Rancher.”

I smiled, and she pulled the shoulder belt around in a huff as Merle softened his tone with one of my favorites, “If We Make It Through December.”

She ruffled Dog’s hair and kissed his muzzle, and it must’ve taken a good thirty seconds before she remarked, “Did you get a new stereo in the truck, Dad? It sounds really good.”

“Many calls that night, did Scrooge make with the Spirit of Christmas Present. Down among the miners who labored in the bowels of the earth. And out to sea among the sailors at their watch, dark, ghostly figures and their several stations.”

“What do you want to do, Sheriff?”

I paused, repeating the lines in my head, and glanced at the young Wyoming highway patrolman. I envied him his insulated coveralls—mine were still folded up behind the seat of my truck. I ducked my head down and peered around the flipped-up collar of my sheepskin coat and from under the brim of my hat.

The highway patrol had closed the interstate and the driver of the big eighteen-wheeler had negotiated the off-ramp but had only gotten as far as the first turn on the Durant county road before he slid off and slowly rolled the truck over like an apatosaurus looking to make a giant snow angel. “Go home, troop.”

The emergency lights from his cruiser were flashing, and
the both of us turned blue and red like a rotating color wheel on a Christmas tree as he shook his head. “I’ll stick around and—”

“Go home. I’m sure that family of yours in Sheridan would like to see you sometime before Christmas day.” We’d been talking while the EMTs checked the rather nonplussed truck driver, who said the insurance would cover the damages. He didn’t appear injured, but they’d hauled him away to Durant Memorial as a precaution.

The trooper had been transferred from the Evanston detachment and had been enjoying the new duty, at least up until tonight. He’d done a stint in the first Gulf War and was now married with three kids and trying to make it on state wages—he didn’t mention which was tougher. I looked out toward the closed highway across a landscape that, if it didn’t look like the North Pole, was getting very close to looking like Barrow, Alaska. “You don’t get going soon, you might not make it.”

He glanced back at his two-wheel-drive Interceptor—good for a hundred and forty miles an hour on dry pavement and in current conditions good for about twenty. “What about you, don’t you have people?”

I looked back at my snow-covered truck and nodded toward Dog, who I could see through the sweeping windshield wipers was sitting in the passenger seat. “My only in-town family this holiday.” I pushed his shoulder toward his unit but not so hard that he’d slip. “Go.”

He looked at me, then at the overturned tractor and sheared-open trailer with its contents scattered across the snowy ditch. “Thanks.”

“You bet.”

“And Merry Christmas, Walt.”

I watched as he got into his vehicle, carefully executed the three-point turn, and disappeared, making a tunnel in the suspended flakes.

Over the last two days, we’d had blizzard conditions with twenty-four inches of snow, forty-mile-an-hour gusts, and a visibility of about a quarter mile. The mercury hadn’t risen above twelve degrees, and the last time I’d checked, it was fifteen below.

Maybe I’d put my coveralls on after all.

I started the long trudge toward Saizarbitoria, who was driving Vic’s vehicle while she was in Philadelphia for the holidays because it had four-wheel drive. The second unit of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department was parked at the other end of the inverted behemoth.

The way the eighteen-wheeler had landed, the back end of the trailer had remained flat, while the culverts had twisted the front and torn the thin metal sides. It was as if some giant had picked the thing up and pulled at it from both ends like a holiday cracker. Along the sides were painted the words
TOYS-R-US
.

NOT-2-NIGHT-U-R-NOT.

I tugged my hat down and pulled open the door of our eight-year-old unit. Dragging my coat in behind me, I closed the door. Saizarbitoria was talking on his phone. “. . . No, he was really good and he knew his line—once he got started.”

Evidently he was talking to Vic, who wanted to know how last night’s Durant Community Theater production of
A Christmas Carol
had gone. The varsity basketball player who was supposed to play the Ghost of Christmas Future had come down with something, probably nerves, and had left the production in
the lurch. I was the only one that Mary Jo, the director, could think of who was tall enough, so I’d been called in to play the role. I had accepted only when she assured me that it wasn’t a speaking part; I would just have to point. She hadn’t mentioned that I had to wear a floor-length black robe with a hood and that all of my scenes would be done in the dark.

Then, in a fit of apology, she’d given me a line that had belonged to the young man, a part of a voice-over narrative passage from the middle of the play.

Ian McKellen would’ve wept.

“Here, you can ask him yourself.” The Basquo handed me the phone.

I held the device a little away from my ear, a lesson learned after having communicated with my undersheriff in like manner before. “What?”

“I heard you almost crushed Scrooge.”

I sighed. “I only slipped once.”

“I heard he had to help you up.”

I cleared my throat “Just a little.”

“You don’t think that kind of blew the fucking concept—Scrooge helping death up off the floor?”

I felt the blood rising in my face. “We made it work.”

“I heard the audience laughed their asses off.”

I glanced at Sancho and wondered what else he’d told her. I pulled a glove and held my fingers in front of the vent in the dash, which was blowing life-giving warmth. “There were a few chuckles.”

I listened to the sounds of the not-so-silent night between Wyoming and Philadelphia. “Look, I know it was live theater and you have to allow for a certain amount of improvisation, but
contrary to popular belief, people aren’t supposed to laugh in the face of death.”

“Sure they are.”

“Let me hear your one line.”

I cleared my throat and recited,
“Many calls that night, did Scrooge make with the Spirit of Christmas Present. Down among the miners who labored in the bowels of the earth. And out to sea among the sailors at their watch, dark, ghostly figures and their several stations.”

There was a long pause. “Not exactly ‘
God bless us, every one.
’”

Everybody’s a critic and, even with my limited theatrical experience, I felt the need to stand up for my singular contribution to the play. “It’s a good line.”

“What the hell does it mean?”

I could feel the nerves reawakening in my hand as I considered. “I think Dickens was saying something about the people who have to work through the holidays, and how the spirit of Christmas is always there, doing what it’s supposed to do no matter what, reminding people of their humanity.” She didn’t have a smart-aleck response for that, but I waited the requisite three seconds before changing the subject anyway. “How’s your family?”

I imagined her lips pursing as she blew into the phone. “I haven’t gotten over there yet.”

“You’ve been in the city for two days, and it’s Christmas Eve.”

Her voice took on a familiar edge, sharpening as it always did when she talked about her family. “I’m working on it, all right?”

I glanced over at Santiago and then back to the phone as if I expected to see her face. “Okay.”

After a few moments, she spoke again. “I heard you had a slider.”

I looked through the windshield at the crumpled truck and trailer as the wipers slapped another eighth of an inch of snow off the glass. “Yep, I was just getting ready to send everybody home when the HPs called it in.”

“Just you and Sancho on?”

“Yep.” I glanced at the young man, who looked like one of Dumas’ musketeers. “I sent the Ferg home along with Ruby and told the Gold Dust Twins that they could shut down the Powder River Junction detachment at four.”

“Where’s Henry?”

“Disappeared, for the moment.” I yawned, in spite of myself. “I’m planning on sending Sancho off here in a few minutes.” He started to speak, but I held up a warmed hand and silenced him. “Why don’t you call me back later?”

I listened as she readjusted the receiver. “You’re sleeping at the jail?”

“Eventually . . .” The gusts rocked the vehicle. “Call me back later, okay?”

“Yeah, hey?”

I waited. “Yep?”

“. . . I miss you.”

I glanced back at Saizarbitoria as he occupied himself with the accident reports clipped on his aluminum board and attempted to keep the drops from his thawing facial hair from hitting the paper. “I miss you, too.” It was quiet on the phone, then I heard a soft click and she was gone. I handed my deputy
his cell back and watched as he snapped it shut and tucked it behind the embroidered star on the breast pocket of his coveralls. “What’d the wrecker say?”

He shook his head. “Not for another forty-five minutes at least.”

I checked the distance between us and my vehicle. “Does Vic have any of those emergency beacons in the back with the flares?”

He thought about it. “Yeah, the yellow ones on the sawhorses.”

I nodded. “I’ll tell you what, set one up next to the guardrail, tie it off with a couple of those rubber straps, and give me a few more flares for the roadside—then you go home.”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll just wait with—”

“Don’t be stupid, you’ve got a wife with child, and this night is notorious for the miraculous arrival of children.”

“What if you get another call?”

I nudged the mic on his dash with my knee. “We haven’t had another call in over an hour, and, with the way it’s coming down, anybody in their right mind is at home, in bed, with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.”

He looked at me. “What is a sugarplum, anyway?”

I pulled my gloves on. “It’s a plum, with sugar on it—I’m speaking from a purely onomasiological basis.”

He nodded, and we both got out. He handed me the extra flares and left to secure the one at the guardrail, and I began tromping my way along the bypass, tasting the sulfur as I dropped them on top of the ones we’d lit earlier, now smoldering and dying.

By the time I got back to my vehicle, I’d made the decision
to put on my winter gear. I pulled the coveralls from behind my seat and felt around for my rubber overboots; then I tossed everything onto the seat cover that my daughter had given me for Christmas last year.

Dog sat in the passenger seat beside the gift that Cady had sent this year, the special one that could be opened on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition that had started when she was just a little girl and I had given her a special dress that she could wear to her grandparents’ house the day before Christmas, because I knew that she could never wait for the opportunity to sport new clothes.

I peeled off my coat and stuffed it in the back, flipped my hat onto the dash, and hung my duty belt on the steering wheel. I quickly unzipped the front, legs, and sleeves of the coveralls, and then stepped in and zipped them the rest of the way up.

Snow was blowing past me into the cab as I pulled on the overboots and latched the clasps. I reached for my hat and spoke to Dog, who watched me the way his kind had always watched my kind from just outside the light of our fires. “I know you need to get out, but let me get everything settled and then I’ll take you for a short walk. Okay?” He didn’t say anything but curled around and settled with his head on the small cardboard box postmarked from Old City, Philadelphia.

I took the Maglite and a radio from my Sam Browne but left the rest of my equipment on the belt, including my .45 Colt; I was pretty sure there wasn’t going to be any gunplay tonight. I checked the frequency on the handheld, adjusted the volume, and deposited it in my inside breast pocket, the rubber antenna pressing against my neck. I slipped the flashlight in the long pocket along my thigh and gave Dog one last look. “I promise.”

I discovered my insulated winter gloves in the pockets of
my Carhartts, tugged them on, and drew the wrist cinch straps tight as Santiago pulled Vic’s unit alongside my truck, which I had dubbed the Bullet. I got out, slammed the door behind me, and pulled my hat down. The gusts almost took it again, so I pulled it down tighter, wishing I’d remembered to order those cowboy ear mufflers with the stampede strings that would have kept the ever-prevalent Wyoming wind from carrying my headgear to Nebraska, or turning my ears to jerky.

Sancho didn’t even bother with the window, since they had long since stopped working in the blizzard; instead, he cracked the door open, which sounded like a glacier splitting. “You’re sure about this?”

“If I need you, I’ll call you; it’s only forty-five minutes. What could happen?” He studied me until I raised my arm slowly, my index finger pointed toward town like the ghostly specter I’d portrayed the night before.
“Many calls that night, did Scrooge make with the Spirit of Christmas Present. Down among the miners who labored in the bowels of the earth. And out to sea among the sailors at their watch, dark, ghostly figures and their several stations.”

“Bravo.” He smiled through the ice in his Vandyke and mimed clapping his hands. The effervescence had returned to his eyes, and he slowly shook his head. “Merry Christmas, boss.” He shut the door and slowly drove back up the road toward town.

I stayed in character till the coast was clear and then carefully made my way around the truck in the continuous blue strobe of the light bar. I opened the door, and Dog leapt from the cab into the wind-sculpted drifts. I watched as he took a great mouthful and ate it, deigning to return to the side of the truck
only long enough to give it the one-leg salute. As he prowled the ditch and sniffed the few boxes that were scattered between the Bullet and the wrecked trailer, I leaned against the front fender and thought about my performance.

In over a quarter century of law enforcement, I’d faced about every type of intimidating situation I could imagine, but nothing had prepared me for the moment when I took those six steps to the center of the Durant Playhouse’s stage and, in the glare of the lights and under public scrutiny, attempted to deliver the three sentences I’d been repeating for the previous forty-eight hours.

Like a mule deer in the headlights, I’d opened my mouth and nothing had come out.