Cold Dish (39 page)

“I was wondering where it had gone off to.”

“You’re gonna need it to hide that half ear you’re gonna have.”

I sighed some more. “Vic?”

“Up at the DCI compound.” He said it with the same derisive conviction he had for the highway patrol. He looked out the window at the frozen sky. “What’d the little pissant get shot with?” I felt around in the jacket I still had on and tossed the gun onto the desk with a satisfying clatter. I was showing Lucian that I could be tough, too. Next thing you knew, we’d be breaking out the bourbon and calling Ruby a twist; then the real fun would start. He looked at the little revolver. “That ought’a do it.” His eyes came up to mine. “How bad?”

“Not bad enough to keep him from jumping in the driver’s seat and leaving us in the lurch.”

I leaned forward on the desk and told Lucian about the Vasques, size nines, and about the conversation I had had with George before I had gone back for Henry. He neither responded nor remarked until I was through; just sat there looking at me. I was remembering what a good lawman he was when he finally spoke. “Well, he’s gotta get doctored somewhere.” He cleared his throat. “Seems to me you just left the place where you should ’a started looking for him.”

“You don’t think he’s stupid enough to go to the hospital?”

“He was stupid enough to be up there fishing in a blizzard, stupid enough to try and shoot you and Ladies Wear, stupid enough to try and make a run for it.” He stopped, shook his head, and folded his arms over his chest to signify the particular gaps in my line of thinking. “I’d say the depths of his stupidity have yet to be plumbed, and yours is comin’ up fast on the inside turn.”

I had gotten a lot of tirades like this when I was a deputy under Lucian, but I didn’t take them personally, much. “So, we’ve got the hospitals and doctors’ offices, but they have to report any kind of gunshot wounds.”

“You couldn’t get ’em to answer a bell, how long you think it’ll take ’em to file a report?”

He had a point. “You want to take a ride?”

“I’m saddled and, if you’re waitin’ for me, yer backin’ up.”

It was like working with Louis L’Amour.

Ruby stopped me as we tried to make our way out of the office. “Do you think you should make an attempt at cleaning up?”

I looked down at the stains and rumples that made up today’s and yesterday’s ensemble. “Lets the citizens know they’re getting their money’s worth.”

“You have dried blood all down your back.”

 

I dodged out the door before she could say anything else, with Lucian cadging along after me. I gave the old sheriff a hand as he pulled himself up into the truck. He took out his pipe and a small, beaded leather pouch of tobacco and began filling the cherry-wood bowl. I noticed the pattern on the small bag and recognized it as the same as the Dead Man’s Body on the Cheyenne Rifle. I informed Lucian of this. He looked at the pouch anew as the smoke drifted around his head and his dark eyes and out the window he had just cracked. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Going back to the hospital was risky business, but it was a chance I was going to have to take. Lucian waited patiently as Isaac Bloomfield looked over my hands and examined my ear while I questioned him about any other gunshot wounds that might have popped up last evening. He said there had been nothing suspicious to report, but that if anything came up he’d be sure to get a hold of me as quickly as possible. I asked about Henry, but all he did was kind of chuckle and said the nurses were taking very good care of him. I feared for Janine Reynolds’s virginity. Much to Lucian’s dismay, he, my entire ear, and myself left shortly thereafter. We continued our search to the drugstore downtown where they reported that they had not sold a single Band-Aid since yesterday afternoon. It was a tough economy on the high plains. I turned and looked at him as I started the truck. “Veterinarians?”

“Taxidermists.”

I’m not sure why, but it made sense. “Which one?”

He pulled on his pipe and studied the problem; one thing we had no shortage of in Wyoming is taxidermists. “How ’bout that outfit of Pat Hampton’s down on Swayback Road?”

I wheeled the Bullet into a U-turn and headed south; a few vehicles slowed and the drivers gave me irritated looks. Lucian shot them the bird, and I slapped his hand down as he snickered and told me to turn on the lights and siren to show them we meant business. I figured he just wanted to run them again, so I did. I navigated the entrance ramp of the highway at the south side and, since there wasn’t any snow on the road, took the truck up to about eighty-five. He didn’t say anything, just looked ahead, and I figured I was going to hear about it. I was right, but it wasn’t what I thought it would be. “What you did up there?”

“Yep?”

“That was a hell of a thing.” I nodded and looked ahead too. I didn’t tell him about the Old Cheyenne.

 

Pat Hampton’s was an odd mixture of taxidermy and game processing. It was said that no matter what you wanted to do with an animal, Pat could assist you. When we pulled up to the ramshackle complex of dilapidated buildings, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Pulled around to the far side of one of the buildings, covered with mud and with the side caved in, was a black Mazda Navajo with the plates, Tuff-1.

“Bonzai.” The old sheriff smiled and pulled the pipe from his mouth as I eased the Bullet up to the other side of the building. “You got a gun I can borrow?”

I unlocked the 870 Wingmaster from the dash. “This kid is a victim.”

He looked at the shotgun. “Fugitive from justice.”

“Lucian, do me a favor and don’t shoot anybody.”

He jacked the pump action and fed a shell of double-ought buck into the breech. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with shootin’ folks, long as the right ones get shot.” The next five minutes promised an inordinate variety of excitements. I pulled out my .45 and checked it, like I always did, then reholstered it, snapping the leather strap over the hammer. The old outlaw smiled. “Front or back?”

I looked at the accumulation of buildings, trying to figure out which was which. “I’ll take the front.” The Remington waved in my direction as he navigated the door, and I was acutely aware that he had not put on the safety. I walked across the muddy slush of the lot to what looked like it might be the front as Lucian swung-stepped his way around the corner of the ratty, brown-painted building. There were boot prints leading up to the aluminum screen door that had only some battered strips of screening still attached. There was a plastic sign in the window, flyspecked and bleached by the sun. In swirling letters it read, SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.

There were ancient blinds in the windows, but there was a small, diamond-shaped pane in the door that was unshaded. I poked my head through the empty frame of the screen and looked through the dirty glass. I could see an odd combination of living room and reception area with sofas, a console television, and some sort of strange reception desk. I noted the hallway leading to the right, after you got past the desk, and figured that was where I should go once I’d gotten through the door.

“Sheriff ’s Department!” I pounded on the door with the flat of my hand. “George, if you’re in there? Let’s not make things worse!” I listened as a shuffling noise came from the center of the building. I took a deep breath and checked the knob. It was locked. I banged on the door again. “Sheriff’s Department, I’m coming in!” I took another couple of breaths and unsnapped the strap from the top of my holster. I only had a certain amount of time before Lucian came in the rear, but I figured having only one leg would slow him up in kicking his own door down. I carefully swung back the screen-door frame so as to not get caught in it and pulled the Colt from my holster, clicking the safety off and holding it in the air. I leaned back and put everything into a fourteen E width.

I guess I was expecting a little more resistance from the rotting, hollow-core door, because I followed it rather rapidly as it folded up into two main pieces and blew us into the room and onto the sofa at the opposite wall. I heard a loud thumping at my right and pushed off the couch, cleared the doorway at the hall, and ran toward the noise. When I got to the entryway at the opposite end, somebody was coming the other way but didn’t see me until it was too late. I just kept running and carried him back into the room as I led with the point of my unarmed shoulder. I heard the air leave his body as we went back through the doorway, and he felt familiar. Hello, George.

We bounced off a large table at the center and slid to the cool, tile surface of the floor. I steadied myself against the countertop with one hand and stood. It was George all right, and he was out again. He was only partially dressed and still held his pants in his hands. There was a large wrapping of bandages at the middle of his right thigh and another set around his head that was holding his jaw secure.

I stood the rest of the way up, pulled out my handcuffs, and secured George to the table. As I finished this, there was noise down the hallway, and an explosion that was unmistakable as the sound of a 12 gauge shotgun being discharged filled the air. I started to head down the corridor when another young man with a pale face came bursting through the doorway with what looked like a rifle in his hands. When he saw the barrel of the .45 about a foot from his nose, he pulled up short and froze. “Sheriff’s Department, you don’t move.”

His hands went straight up, along with the rifle. “I won’t.”

“You just did.” He looked confused for a moment. “Drop the rifle.” He hesitated for a second. “You got a problem?”

He was still frozen. “It might go off.”

“All right, you keep it pointed away from me and set it down on the table.” He did as requested, and I told him to stretch forward and place his hands on the counter, palms down. He did this, and it seemed like he was going to cry. I had a moment to look at him; he was just about George’s age. It all figured.

“Lucian! You all right?” There was a little more clatter, and he answered from the distance, “Yes, goddamn it!”

I went around the corner of the table and looked at the kid’s rifle and propped the butt against my hip. “A pellet gun?”

His face turned toward mine. “It’s all I had, and I didn’t want to hurt anybody . . .”

Lucian appeared in the doorway, shotgun at the ready. “Damn door was locked.”

I sat on the edge of the table and stuck the pellet rifle under an arm as I put my sidearm back in the holster and looked at the kid, trying to place him. “Well, where’s Pat? He away?”

Lucian planted one of his formidable claws at he back of the kid’s neck. “Yeah.” I watched as Lucian’s grip tightened. “Hey!” His voice strained.

“You say ‘sir’ . . .” Lucian leaned in over the boy’s head. “Yes, sir.”

The voice was even more strained. “Yes, sir.”

“Lucian?”

He let up a little bit and looked at me questioningly. “What? I ain’t hurtin’ the little pissant.” He rolled his eyes, stepped back to the doorway, and poked the kid with the barrel of the Remington before resting a shoulder against the facing. “Don’t you forget that I’m here, son.” Even from my perspective, I could see that the safety was still not on.

“He’s down in Casper, buying a truck.”

“Are you Petie Hampton, Bruce’s boy?”

He smiled at being recognized. “Yes, sir.”

“I thought you were in school down in Colorado?”

The smile hung there. “I’m home to hunt for the weekend.”

“How did George know you were coming up?”

“I called him last week; he was going to go with me.”

I pulled the pellet gun from my underarm and broke the barrel down, used a fingernail to pull the pellet in the tiny gun out, and let the small, mushroom-shaped projectile fall to the floor. I tossed the rifle onto a desk filled with taxidermy supplies, which made a tremendous noise. “Okay, Petie. We’ve got two options here. Number one is me reading you your rights and taking you up to town and booking you on at least resisting arrest and with a criminal conspiracy charge that’s gonna look really good on your transcript, or you and I just have a little chat and we don’t tell your school or your daddy and uncle what you’ve been up to.”

It didn’t take him long to answer; maybe the college thing was working out. “What do you want to know?”

It was about that time that there was a clamoring at the other end of the table; George Esper must have awakened, heard a little bit of what was being said, and decided once again to make a break for it. The table moved about six inches, even with my weight on it, when George reached the end of his stainless-steel tether. A low moan emanated from below the other end of the table as Lucian walked around and looked down at him. “Son, I have met some sorry little bastards in my life . . .”

“Lucian, don’t abuse the prisoner.”

He looked up with his mouth pulled to one side. “Hell, I ain’t the one that shot ’im and broke his jaw.”

“He shot himself.”

“Yeah, that’s your story . . .”

I turned back to Petie, who had not moved, but whose eyes seemed a little wider. “What’s the story on Houdini down here?” He looked confused, so I nodded toward the moaning. “George.”

He cleared his throat. “He called me this morning, real early. He said he had a hunting accident and that he didn’t want to go to the hospital because it was going to cost a lot.” I nodded. “He showed up, with his jaw and all? I started thinking that there might be something else going on.”

“You doctored him up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He got here when?”

“About an hour ago.”

“What all did he have to say?” Petie looked at the ceiling, and I sighed. “Petie, I think you are considering lying to me, and I would advise you against it.”

“He said he ran his car off the road.”

“Anything about his parents?”

“He said they were in Deadwood.” Well, that answered a few questions.