An Obvious Fact (25 page)

I sipped my beer at the Ponderosa Café and watched Henry and Vic talking with another long-haired individual I didn't know. This guy looked a little different from the rest in that he was carrying a guitar case.

Things had settled back down into a regular August high plains summer day: the streets were pretty much cleared of tourist biker traffic, the vendors were striking their tents, and the whole town of Hulett had that after-the-carnival feel to it, as if the world had packed up and left the place behind.

Melancholy.

Or maybe it was just me.

I'd wanted to head home, but Stainbrook and the feds had asked us to stick around for the depositions that would assure Nance spent the rest of his life in rooms without light switches. Heck, I would've stayed in hell for that. Truth to be told, Hulett was a beautiful little town when not in biker season, and I was attempting to enjoy the down time, aside from being on the phone in negotiation with the Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time about moving sofas and helping to paint ceilings.

“You're tall, and you don't have to use a ladder.”

“I could bring Henry; he doesn't have to use a ladder and he actually knows how to paint.”

“One of you can sleep on the new sofa after you go pick it up.”

“Right.” I held Bodaway's phone against my ear and reached over and petted Dog. “I've got a weapons recertification in Douglas and a parole hearing to sit through down there in Cheyenne, so we'll be heading that way soon.”

“That Western Star thing?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, Daddy, isn't it time to let that go?” It was silent on the line for a few moments. “So, have you seen Lola?”

“Other than when we passed her on our way in to make our statements to the feds, no.”

“Do you suppose she's in Rapid City at the hospital?”

“It's where I'd be.”

“It's where you've been.” There was another pause. “So, everybody goes to jail?”

“Prison.” I sighed, wishing I were in another line of work so that my daughter and I would have nicer things to chat about on the phone. “Nance is lawyered up, but he's never going to see the light of day. And they picked up his daughter in Rapid City for tax evasion, but it's looking more and more like she didn't have anything to do with all this; she and Bodaway were just in love. . . . Go figure.”

“What about Billy ThE Kiddo?”

“Conspiracy and a number of other charges, but he's singing like Janice Joplin and he'll probably get away with suspended sentences and have another outlaw pelt for his resume. By the time he's done spinning it, he'll probably have saved all
of the ATF and us single-handedly. There were some producers here already, looking to develop a new reality show with the inked idiot.”

“You're kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“What about the Nazi thing?”

“Not for public consumption and probably not good for ratings—part of the deal he made with the ATF; besides, it would all be inadmissible. I'm not worried about it, though, his type always ends up getting what they deserve eventually.”

“Who killed the ATF agent Post?”

I sighed and continued on, figuring lawyering wasn't that much more pleasant than sheriffing after all. “Nance. They found Kiddo's pistol in Bob's collection in his private little shooting gallery downstairs, along with a bunch of others, like trophies—blowback on the barrels and still carrying his fingerprints. I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't connect him to a whole slew of other homicides before it was all over.”

“But it is all over.”

“Yep.”

“So, when are you heading home?”

“Henry and Vic just got back from returning her rental car in Rapid City. They seem to be talking to a couple of guys from the garage band that's been playing here all week. We still have to hook up the motorcycle trailer, but then we'll be heading home.”

“Be careful and don't get any more guns pointed at you, 'kay?”

“Sure thing, Punk.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.” I pressed the button and disconnected—whatever happened to hanging up the phone?—and placed the mobile on the table as the two came ambling over; I noticed Vic holding a CD, still in the cellophane. “I can't believe that guy talked you into buying his music.” I glanced past them and could see roadies still packing up the band's equipment. “I hope you told them to broaden their musical horizons; you can't get far in life just doing covers of Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

Henry nodded. “Unless you are Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

“What?”

Vic held out the
Best of
CD. “They
are
Lynyrd Skynyrd.” She glanced behind, but the band members were gone. “At least they were.”

I finished my beer, smiled, and quickly backtracked. “I thought they sounded awfully good for a garage band.”

• • •

The Cheyenne Nation decided that in celebration of winning the Jackpine Gypsies Hill Climb, he would ride Lucie home with his trophy tied to the headlight a la Marlon Brando in
The Wild One
. We were to follow in the T-bird with Rosalie and Bodaway's Harley in tow on the trailer.

We watched as he checked the tie-down straps on them and then put on a pair of goggles and a Bell Boss helmet and straddled the four-cylinder Indian. “Are you sure you want to ride that thing all the way back to Absaroka County?”

“That is what it is for.”

I glanced at Vic and gestured toward the sidecar. “Would you like to join him?”

She walked back and cracked the door of the Baltic blue
convertible and ushered Dog into the back before flipping the seat and climbing in. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The Bear shrugged, kicked the vintage Indian to life, and throttled away as I walked back and climbed in the Thunderbird, pulling out from the Hulett Motel and circling the parking lot in a wide arc after him.

It was late in the afternoon, and the sun had already reached its zenith, slanting its rays in a golden horizontal that highlighted the landscape to its fullest effect. We rolled out of town, following the Indian on the Indian, and I couldn't help but feel a certain anticipation for the geologic wonder just ahead.

“What the hell is that?”

Bad God Tower must've had a peek at her as we topped one of the tiny hillocks and drifted south. I didn't say anything but just eased the big Thunderbird through the curves until we topped the last hill and swept down an easy slope on route 24 that opened into the wide straightaway where Henry and I had stopped on the way into town.

“Holy shit.”

It was the effect that Devils Tower had on folks the first time they actually saw it. Photographs don't really prepare you for just how impressive the first United States monument is. I slowed the convertible, allowing Vic the full impact of the Matho Tipila as the Cheyenne referred to it. “It's something, huh?”

As we drifted slowly along, I saw that the Cheyenne Nation had pulled onto the turnoff to Devils Tower, possibly to idle a little in the majesty of the natural wonder; I then saw that it was an unnatural wonder that had caught his attention.

Slowing down still more, I stopped the convertible alongside the road at a little distance, allowing them some privacy.

Vic was paying no attention, her focus still on the tower as she unbuckled and kneeled in the passenger seat, her hands on the doorsill, to study the geologic wonder. “Wow.”

Even Dog moved over to the right side of the backseat for a gander, but my attention was drawn ahead, where a red 1948 Indian sat in a wide pullover parked opposite a gold '66 Cadillac.

“Can we go see it?”

My attention was drawn back to Vic. “Um, probably not now.”

“C'mon. . . .” She turned in the seat toward me but stopped when she saw the tableau up ahead. “Hmm.”

The Bear was still seated on the motorcycle now with his helmet off, but Lola Wojciechowski had pushed off the grille of the Caddy and was standing in a provocative manner with hands on swiveling hips.

“Boy, I wish I was a fly in a sidecar right now.”

“Not me.”

Vic turned and slid back in her seat, and Dog, recognizing the emotionally charged situation even from afar, registered a low whine. My undersheriff reached back and ran her hand across his muzzle. “Easy, boy.”

“Are you talking to him or me?”

“Both.” We sat there in the silence with a light breeze drifting from Devils Tower, the smell of the juniper and jack pines better than incense. “I wonder what they're talking about?”

“I think it's more of a ‘who.'”

Lola moved closer, even going so far as to drape a wrist
over the handlebars of the big Indian motorcycle. Henry didn't move, and she upped the ante by arching her back, her black leather jacket and cropped white T-shirt riding up, displaying the ring in her belly button. “Boy, she's playing it for all it's worth, huh?”

“Maybe, but I don't think he's in the game.”

There was a little more conversation, but you could tell that Lola wasn't getting what she wanted.

After a few more exchanges, the Bear placed his helmet back on his head, pulled the goggles down, and slipped on his gloves. He cocked his head at something she said and then stood, kicking the Indian to life. He gave her a jaunty salute as she hugged herself with one arm, and then he throttled up and pulled out.

I fired up the Thunderbird and slipped it in gear, easing the convertible and trailer onto the state route. As we approached Lola, she stepped onto the road and held up a hand like a traffic cop.

“Just keep going.”

As much as I wanted to heed Vic's advice, the gentleman in me slowed and stopped as the dark-haired woman with the silver shot through it rounded the front of the T-bird, laid an arm across the top of the windshield, and smiled down exclusively at me. “Hi.”

“Hello, Lola.”

She finally glanced at Vic, extending the other hand across me and bringing the scent of perfume, leather, and utter abandonment into my nostrils as they politely shook. “Lola Wojciechowski.”

Vic batted her eyelashes, and her tone was buttery
strychnine. “I've heard so much about you.” She glanced back and then cracked open the passenger side door, stepping out and allowing Dog to follow. “We're taking a short walk.” She glanced at me. “A short walk, and then we'll be right back.” My undersheriff and my Dog strolled into the high grass, both of them gazing at the monolith in the distance.

“Kind of got you on a short leash, doesn't she?”

Tipping my hat to provide a little personal shade, I glanced up at her. “What do you want, Lola? I've got to catch up with Henry.”

She grinned the killer smile and studied me. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

“For what?”

“For everything—you were very nice to me, and I don't get that a lot.”

I didn't say anything.

“See, still nice.” Her eyes played over to Devils Tower, and I was beginning to lose my patience. “You probably think I need to be in jail, huh?”

“Not my problem.”

She studied the landscape some more and then nodded. “I play the percentages, Sheriff—it's how I survive.”

“And what were the percentages on having sex with Brady Post just before he died?” Her turn to say nothing, but she did swivel her head back to study me. “I'm fighting the thought that Nance put you up to it so that he could kill Post, postcoitus. What's it like to have sex with a man knowing he's going to die?”

She smiled and shook her head in a dismissive fashion, the silver streak falling over her forehead like a lightning bolt as
her scary green eyes focused on me through the tangle of lush hair. “You're all dying, whether I decide to screw you or not.”

I hit the starter on the Thunderbird and, ready to go, leaned back in my seat.

She grinned the wicked grin again and cocked her head, giving the impression that she was willing to hop in and give me one of her free samples, samples being all that Lola ever gave for free. “I'm not sure why it is that I'm thanking you, though.” Her expression became a little graver. “You never did find out who ran my son off the road.”

Hearing the motor on the big bird idling, Vic returned with Dog and let him climb in the back before taking her seat and closing the door after her.

I shrugged. “I would've thought it was an obvious fact, Lola—you did.”

Delivering a pitch-perfect performance, she laughed and shook her head. “You're crazy.”

I pulled the young man's phone from my pocket and handed it to her. “Either because he had Chloe Nance on the back of the bike or because you wanted him out of Bob Nance's gun business, you and that Cadillac of yours were what sent Bodaway off the road that night. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and think you didn't know about the culvert that did the majority of the damage, but those are the facts, for what it's worth.”

Her expression remained the same as she palmed her son's phone, staring at it.

“Now, if you don't mind, and even if you do, we'd like to go home.”

She smirked a little and still held on to her vehicular
namesake as if it were a life preserver. “If you believed that, Sheriff, you'd have me in jail.”

I took a deep breath in an attempt not to be cruel, but some situations are deserving of it and some people, too. “Not really, because when I think about your son lying down there in the Rapid City Regional ICU, I figure there's nothing that the ATF, I, or the law could do to you that could possibly compare to the punishment you've constructed for yourself.”

I slipped the lever into gear, but she still didn't move, maybe because she couldn't.

“Good-bye, Lola.”

She had no resort but to let the shiny chrome molding of the windshield slip from her grasp as we pulled away, and I wasn't tempted to look into the rearview mirror, not even once.