Biker (18 page)

“Phone numbers?” Calloway said.

Pratt recited Cass' from memory. “Can't tell you Ginger's. It's in my cell phone and I don't have a charger. I'll pick one up on the way and charge up in the car, but I can tell you how to find them. Ginger's husband Nathan is a big-shot builder. He can't be hard to find. Munz Construction.”

Big sigh. “All right. I'll try and get in touch with them.”

“You have to get them into police custody, Heinz.”

“That ain't gonna happen. All I have is your word and there's no heat on this guy Moon. He's been off the books since 1992. I'll do what I can.”

Pratt dry-swallowed. He heard the front door to the bar open. “You know me, Heinz. I'm not an alarmist.”

“Believe me, I'm taking this very seriously.”

“Okay. Thank you. I'll phone you as soon as I get back.”

“Don't get arrested for speeding,” Calloway advised and hung up.

Vern appeared in the doorway. “How's it goin'?”

Pratt smiled and spread his hands, expanding his chest against the confines of the bandages, hearing the chair squeak. “I feel a thousand percent better 'cause I slept. Vern, I need to buy, steal or borrow a set of wheels. I've got to get back and I should have left yesterday. Doc said you had a Rambler you might let me use.”

Vern put his hands behind him and shuffled his feet. “Well now I hate to tell ya this, son, but last night the sheriff dropped by after you fell asleep and before Dr. Keith left. Sheriff started asking about that Indian out front and Dr. Keith told him everything.”

Pratt sat down on the bunk. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah and in fact here he is.”

A tall man in khakis and a Sam Browne belt pushed through the door. His big head came to a bald point. A whisk broom hung from his substantial nose. He confronted Pratt with his hands on his hips.

“Mr. Josh Pratt, how you doin'?”

Pratt stayed where he was. “Sheriff.”

“Now tell me you were plannin' on letting me know about that meth lab Vern says you found.”

Pratt glanced at the old Indian. Vern stared at the floor. Well fuck it. Vern had to live here. Pratt didn't.

“Sir, I was going to phone you as soon as I alerted my client to a threat on her life.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Well I just got back from Moon's little meth lab in the hills and we got cadaver dogs out there, 'bout shit when they got a whiff of that well. Whooo-eee. That must have been some battle. You look like shit.”

Pratt grinned. “You should have seen me last night.”

“I'm looking at you right now and I'm seein' jailhouse tats. Now when I went to check on you, you didn't have a record so I called a few friends of mine in the Wisconsin Highway Patrol. My friends have long memories. You did time at Waupun for all sorts of nasty stuff. You used to ride with the Bedouins. You look to me like forty miles of bad road.”

“Sir, I'm not that person no more. I came to Jesus in prison.”

DeWitt shook his big head with a smirk. “Lots of prison conversions these days. The blacks flock to Islam. You crackers always find Jesus.”

Pratt didn't know what to say so he said nothing.

“Can I see some identification?”

Pratt dug out his wallet, removed his driver's license and handed it over. The sheriff stared at it for a long time. No one spoke. Vern shuffled his feet. A beam of light coming through the dusty window froze motes in the air.

Finally DeWitt handed the license back. “Mr. Pratt, you're under arrest. Stand up and put your hands behind you.”

Pratt goggled. “What for?”

“Killing an endangered species.”

CHAPTER 33

“Oooo-WEE!” Sheriff DeWitt exclaimed, opening all the windows in his Crown Vic. “You stink!” The roasted outside air did little to alleviate the pong.

“I could use a shower,” Pratt said.

“You don't have to talk, Pratt,” DeWitt said from the front seat of his Crown Vic, his left wrist draped over the wheel, arm along the seatback. “But you being a private investigator and all can appreciate that you're going to need police cooperation from time to time. You see where I'm headin?”

“Yes sir.”

“So if you don't mind, what were you really doing out there?”

“Sir, I was searching for a missing person on behalf of my client.”

“What missing person?”

“Sir, that's privileged information.”

“Don't give me that crap. You're not a lawyer. You're just a bottom-feeding peeper far from home with no friends.”

“Sir, I'm going to have to talk to my lawyer first.”

“Your choice.” DeWitt took his arm off the seat back and focused his attention on the road. The Robbins County Jail was located in the basement of the Robbins County Courthouse, a Greek revival temple built of Rocky Mountain granite sitting like a wedding cake in the center of a manicured green lawn overgrown with oak and ash two blocks from Vern's. An emerald in a sandbox. The Sheriff drove around to the back, where a ramp led down to the lower level and the sheriff's offices. DeWitt parked in a marked spot, got out, opened the rear door and helped Pratt out of the vehicle. Pratt had his hands cuffed behind him.

The sheriff held the door as he ushered Pratt into an air-conditioned front office with a yellowish linoleum floor, a linoleum counter top and yellowish acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Yellowish light flickered from three fluorescent installations mounted flush in the ceiling.

A bulletin board on one wall was jammed with overlapping notices and mug shots of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted, including several jihadi types. A “Lost Dog” Xerox. Postcards from friends, clipped cartoons and the odd picture.

With an arm on the shoulder, the sheriff directed Pratt to a middle-aged Indian woman in a deputy's uniform. “Marie, please book Mr. Pratt in. The charge is killing an endangered species.”

The woman set aside her Peter Brandvold Western and waited while the Sheriff released the cuffs. She put a deep metal pan on the counter, wrinkled her nose and stepped back with a disgusted expression.

“Empty your pockets please.”

Wallet, change, watch, buck knife, phone, pen, pad, ibuprofen, parking receipt.

“Shoelaces.”

Pratt bent down and undid his laces. He placed them in the tray.

“Step over to the wall please and put your hands on the marks.” Two black palm prints five feet off the ground. Black shoe prints for his feet. While Pratt leaned against the wall Marie patted him down efficiently and professionally. A lanky deputy stood nearby with thumbs in belt.

Marie painstakingly wrote a list of Pratt's property and had him sign a receipt. She sat at a keyboard and seconds later the printer disgorged a booking warrant. She produced an ink pad and fingerprint form. “Please do all five fingers in the indicated boxes.” She took his hand and used each finger like a rubber stamp.

“You know what one of those fingerprint scanners cost?” the sheriff said. “Fifty bucks. That's right. Fifty bucks. I am sore tempted to reach into my own pocket. Norm, would you take Mr. Pratt to his accommodations?”

The lanky deputy held the door for Pratt. A short corridor ended in a metal door that led to the lock-up, three side-by-side cells. No windows. One was occupied by a heap of rags that rattled like Venetian blinds in a wind. Pratt went in the middle, an eight-by-ten iron box with a stainless steel bed, sink and toilet. A sign on the cinderblock wall said, “ALL TELEPHONE CALLS ARE MONITORED.”

“There you go,” Norm said, sliding the cell door shut. It locked automatically and could only be opened electronically.

“What about my phone call?” Pratt said.

“Let me check with the sheriff.”

The deputy departed the cinder block chamber, the door hissing shut behind him. Pratt sat on the bunk. The bundle of rags in the next cell shifted position and gears, reaching down for a low grinding sound. A moment later the deputy reentered the jail holding a wireless land line no doubt hooked into the department system. Norm handed the black phone through the bars, went down to the end of the room twenty feet away, sat in a wooden kitchen chair with its back to the wall, pushed off and hit the wall with a thwack. The deputy pulled a rolled-up magazine from his hip pocket and began to read.
Field & Stream
.

Pratt went to the far side of the cell, turned away and dialed Bloom's number.

“Bloom Law Agency!” Perry brayed. Every word capitalized. Bloom was in a meeting. Pratt told Perry it was an emergency.

A minute later Bloom came on the line. “What?!”

“I'm in the Robbins County Jail, Hog Tail, Wyoming. I killed a mountain lion. It was self-defense. They got me locked up on an endangered species rap. Is that for real?”

Pratt could practically see Bloom staring at the phone as if it were a strange insect. “Why the fuck you kill a mountain lion?”

“I had no choice. It was self-defense. Moon trapped me in a dry well and dropped it on my head.”

“Oh Jesus. What are you into?”

Pratt gave him the brief version. He could hear Bloom sucking air through his teeth. Even the abbreviated version was hard to take.

“Jesus,” Bloom said.

“Yeah. Can you get me out of here? And I want you to call Cass and tell her to come get me.”

“I can't. I'm in court every day this week. I know a good lawyer in Cheyenne, Mason Mazin. I'll give him a call. Give me Cass' number and the sheriff's department.”

Pratt gave Bloom Cass' number, then put his hand over the mouthpiece and called to the deputy. “Hey deputy, what's the number of this office?”

He relayed the number to Bloom.

“Okay. Hang tight. I promise you, you'll have representation by the end of the day.”

“ASAP, buddy. Every second I'm in here that kid gets farther away.”

“Don't worry. You have my word.”

“Thanks, Danny.”

“Okay, talk to ya.”

The deputy heaved himself forward, bringing the kitchen chair's front legs down with a bang. Pratt was dialing Cass when the deputy stuck his hand through the bars.

“One call's all you get.”

Pratt handed it over. “All right. Thanks.”

The deputy took the phone and left the jail area.

Pratt was alone save for the sawing pile of rags in the next cell. Pratt did fifty push-ups. He tried to do sit-ups but he was afraid his stitches would pop. He lay down on the thin mattress and went to sleep.

Werewolves and fire. He woke with a start. He had the feeling he'd been out for several hours despite the lack of windows or clocks. The dude in the next cell sat on his bunk Indian style regarding Pratt with keen interest. Rags draped the wizened homunculus like laundry on a pole.

“You remind me of someone,” the creature said in a phlegmy voice.

Pratt could find no speech. A mystic sine wave rippled through the building, momentarily distorting Pratt's thoughts and flesh and plucking at his bones like a mandolin player. The old dude reminded Pratt of someone too. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The dude's light bulb-shaped head poked up out of a black turtleneck pullover three sizes too big. It was covered with dog hair.

“You look like a turtle,” Pratt said.

The ancient face creased in a beatific smile. “My name is Herman Hightower.”

“Josh Pratt. How ya doin'.”

“Doin' okay. You know what you remind me of?”

Pratt waited, forearms on his knees. “I'll bet you're going to tell me.”

“A cougar.”

Pratt touched the stitches on his forearms. “Funny you should say that.”

“When you killed that cougar you absorbed its spirit. And you killed it in a good way.”

“I guess the whole town knows, huh?”

Hightower shrugged, barely visible through multiple layers of clothing. “It's all they been talking about. You drove Moon away. No one else even had the guts to try.”

“You think the sheriff knew Moon …” Pratt quickly lowered his voice and moved to the grille. Hightower moved close too, bringing a miasma of graphite body odor.

Pratt whispered, “You think DeWitt knew Moon was running a meth lab?”

Hightower shook his hairless head. “No way. The sheriff is a good man. But he knew Moon was around in the same way a prairie dog knows there's a coyote waiting for him. A force, an atmosphere that affects everyone. You feel anxious but you don't know why. Well he don't feel anxious anymore.”

The door squeaked open. Deputy Norm came through, followed by a bantam rooster who could not have been taller than five five in his stocking feet, wearing hand-tooled leather boots with a three-inch lift, a light gray seersucker suit, a string tie with an opal the size of a robin's egg surmounted by an elegant squarish head, extravagant white handlebar mustache, hedgerow brows and matching Stetson. His engraved silver belt buckle depicted a bull rider whoopin' on a Texas longhorn. He wore a gold signet ring with a ruby the size of a dime.

The cowboy stepped up to Pratt's cell. “Josh Pratt? I'm your attorney, Mason M. Mazin.”

“Glad to see you, Mr. Mazin. Danny must have called you, huh?”

“Norm, can we let Mr. Pratt out of here now?”

CHAPTER 34

Sheriff DeWitt was seated at the booking desk when the deputy brought Pratt and Mazin out of the cells. Mazin nodded to him.

“Sheriff.”

The sheriff nodded back. “Mason. Marie, give Mr. Pratt back his personal belongings. And Mr. Pratt, I'd appreciate it if you'd stick around for a few days in case we have any more questions. You with me, counselor?”

“That is entirely at Mr. Pratt's discretion but as his lawyer, naturally I advise him to cooperate fully with law enforcement.”

Marie produced the metal bin, checking the items off against a list one by one as she named them and handed them over. Pratt signed the receipt and redistributed his goods back in their pockets. He swallowed two ibuprofens, washing them down at the bubbler. Mazin indicated an exit up a flight of stairs through the front of the building. They emerged next to the main entrance of the courthouse into the afternoon heat, oppressive even in the shade. Mazin headed down the concrete path to the street toward a black Ford Excursion with a set of Texas Longhorns mounted on the hood. The license plate read, “CWBOY.”