A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery (16 page)

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.