Junkyard Dogs (25 page)

I popped the tablets into my mouth and opened the root beer. “Was there anything else about his appearance that might’ve been distinctive? Anything at all?” I sipped the soda and felt the horse pills go down.

Claudia Lorme’s face, or what I could see of it, looked sad. “No, I don’t think so.”

Very early the next morning, Dog watched as I staggered from the bench in the office reception area, stumbled over my blanket, and answered the phone. It was David Nickerson saying that during the morning rounds, when he’d checked on Claudia, she had come up with a distinctive aspect of the abductor’s appearance.

I leaned on Ruby’s desk and widened my eyes against the pain. A little flat light was shining through the windows to the east, and the thin fingers of the tree limbs looked as if they were intertwined in an attempt to hold on to whatever warmth there might’ve been out there. “What’s that?”

There was a brief pause, and the young doc jostled the phone. “She says his thumb was bandaged.”

Saizarbitoria had the misfortune of the first watch and had walked in with a fancy cup of coffee from the kiosk out by the new Wishy-Washy Laundromat at a little before seven. I couldn’t see much, and my face still felt like it might fall off, so he drove my truck up the mountain.

“So, do you think Felix Polk kidnaps Carla Lorme because she sees him answering the phone at the bar?”

“Yep.”

“Which means that Felix Polk is the one who received Ozzie Dobbs’s phone call just before somebody shot him, which places Mr. Polk at the top of our to-do list?”

“Yep.”

“Because he’s the only guy we know of who is missing a thumb?”

“Yep.”

He slowed as we made the steep grade alongside North Ridge and toward Grouse Mountain—the snow piled on the side of the road was almost at the top of the twelve-foot reflector poles. It was early, and there was no one else on the road. “So, how long have you known who the thumb belonged to?”

I fessed up. “Since day one. Felix Polk came in and asked for his thumb back.”

“So why did you have me running all over the place trying to find out whose it was when you already knew?”

I opened my eyes and sort of looked at him. “I was trying to give you something to do until something else came along.” He didn’t look back at me but continued to stare out the windshield.

I could see his mouth moving as he thought, but he didn’t say anything out loud. I looked through the side window. I was tired and my eyes hurt, but my mind was like a dynamo and refused to curl up and lie down. I took another breath and glanced at Saizarbitoria. You can’t see things like what I’d seen and not have it change you, any more than the Basquo could have what happened to him and think it wouldn’t change him.

When my eyes refocused, he was looking at me as if I’d said something.

“What?” His face remained immobile, and he turned back to the fog-blanketed road. “You said something. What’d you say?”

“Stay alive.”

His eyes drifted halfway between the windshield and me. “What?”

“I said ‘stay alive,’ and I don’t just mean physically. Don’t let this one instance rob you of who you are and of everything you’ve got.”

He leaned forward, peering through the gloom as if concentration would block my words. Neither of us said anything more, until I pointed out the barricaded roadway that led into the canyon where Felix Polk’s cabin sat.

“The gate’s locked.” The air was cold but felt good on the scoured skin of my face.

“Looks like we walk in.” I gestured back to Dog still seated in the backseat but poised to jump in the front if I opened the door. “Stay.”

We tromped around the pipe blockade the Forest Service made the private property owners erect and started down the lane. The snow was piled high on either side where he must’ve used the front blade on the Jeep to keep the roadway passable. There were two tracks from Polk’s Wagoneer running down the center, and the Basquo and I took a tread apiece to keep the slogging to a minimum.

The humidity in the air had frozen on all the surfaces of the trees, and it was like some forest prism. “The tracks look relatively fresh, if the snow’s been steady.”

Sancho nodded. “Yeah.”

At least he was trying.

There was a larger opening farther down the road and a spot where you could turn around if you had to, then the darkened archway that led along Caribou Creek.

“How far to the place?”

“About a hundred yards, up on the right against the canyon wall.”

He looked around. “Lots of trees.”

“Yep.”

“You want to split off and come up from the back, and I’ll head straight in?”

I stopped for a moment and flipped the collar up on my jacket—the snow was filtering through the ground fog. The two of us stood there with our breath hovering in our faces. “Nope.”

“How come?”

“Because my foot hurts, I’m tired, and my face still feels like I’ve been bobbing for French fries.”

He shrugged. “You want me to hike in and go in the back?”

“Nope.” I gave the Basquo what I thought was a gentle smile, but with the amount of feeling I had in my features, who knew what I looked like. “He’s just a fellow who broke into a garage to steal his own truck thirty years ago and had the misfortune of pinching his thumb off in a log splitter. He might be the guy we’re looking for and, then again, he might not.”

Sancho nodded and pulled at the black hair on his chin. “Your call.”

We both listened to the wind as it clawed its way over the top of the canyon. “We’ll go straight in.”

The trail led slightly uphill and turned a little so that we couldn’t see the cabin. There were some logs along the road where Polk must’ve cut up some of the dead standing trees but had yet to haul them to the splitter.

Saizarbitoria was working with younger legs, but I had the inside curve, and we approached the Wagoneer at about the same time. The vehicle was parked in the center of the road with the bladed front pointed toward the cabin.

There was eight inches of snow on the hood, and I felt the surface where the heat had melted the snow to a skin of ice under the accumulation of powder. I looked up and took a reading on the flakes hanging in the air between us—ten, twelve hours at the least since the vehicle had been moved. That would’ve put it in the abduction ballpark.

“What are you thinking?”

I looked at the Basquo and glanced up at the shadow of the cabin, where you could see the overhang of the porch. “Could be he plowed this road last night so that he’d be able to get out this morning.”

“Could also be that he was out kidnapping bartenders.”

“Could be.” I wiped the snow from a side window but couldn’t see a ski mask lying there or Carla Lorme. “Could be not.”

The wind was grazing the tops of the trees, causing them to undulate like hula dancers. The snow was sifting through the low-flying clouds, and it hung in the air like glitter.

“What the hell are you people doin’ out there?!”

So much for sneaking up on the man.

“Mr. Polk, it’s Walt Longmire.”

“The sheriff ?”

“Yes, sir. You mind if we come up?”

He laughed. “Well, you better, before you get so covered up with snow that you can’t move.”

I didn’t look at Sancho but continued past the Wagoneer and toward the cabin. He trailed behind me and soon we were standing on the porch, which was covered with piles of snow curving over the gutters like hanging avalanches.

Felix Polk was dressed in what appeared to be his daily uniform—Carhartt overalls, thermals, and a flannel shirt/ jacket. I noticed he was in his stocking feet. “You here to sell tickets to the sheriff’s ball?”

I smiled at the old joke and gave the standard reply. “We don’t have balls.”

“That’s too bad for you. Come on in.”

We stepped into the living room of the cabin and the immediate warmth of the fireplace to our left. There were three doors adjacent to the main room, two bedrooms to the left, and a bathroom in the back and to our right; all the doors were open. “Mr. Polk, this is my deputy, Santiago Saizarbitoria.”

The man did not, I noticed, stick his hand out to Sancho. “That’s a mouthful. You Mexican?”

Sancho studied the Nazi flag over the fireplace, looked at me, and then pointedly at Felix Polk. “Basque.”

The machinist looked unsure. “What’s that?”

I answered. “High-altitude Mexican.”

He still looked puzzled and gestured to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Oh, just more than life itself.”

We followed him, and I thought I might have seen something stuffed at the small of his back. Polk poured us a few mugs and sat at his kitchen table as he had previously when I’d enlisted his help in my intrigues. “What’s wrong with your face?”

I tipped my hat back and unbuttoned my coat. “I had a little adventure with some pepper spray.”

He nodded but didn’t look particularly concerned. “So, what brings you fellers up this high?”

“Mr. Polk, I’ve got a—”

Santiago interrupted. “You mind if I use your bathroom, Mr. Polk?”

He sipped his coffee, and I noticed that the bandage on his thumb was smaller but still evident. “Felix. I told your boss here, just Felix.” He gestured toward the doorway. “Powder room’s back there.”

Sancho disappeared, and I figured he was casing the other rooms to see if Carla Lorme might be stashed in plain sight. I stretched my face and looked at Polk in the silence of the kitchen. “Lots of snow last night.”

“That’s for sure.” He seemed uninterested in the conversation and smirked into his mug. “I was about to throw together a little breakfast; you fellers want anything?”

“No, thanks. I think we’re fine.”

He looked up and smiled in a personable way. “You’re sure? I got eggs I picked up from a woman over in Tensleep, fresh as the day is old.”

“That’s okay.” The Basquo reappeared, and I turned back to Polk. “Felix, we had a situation where a woman was kidnapped last night.”

Once again, he didn’t look overly concerned. “Really?”

Sancho stood, leaning against the refrigerator, and ignored the mug of coffee meant for him. “Yes, sir, and the only remarkable distinction that we have is that the man who participated in the abduction had a bandaged thumb.”

Polk’s eyes drifted to mine and then back to Saizarbitoria. “Uh-huh.”

The Basquo unzipped his jacket and hitched his thumbs in his gun belt. “Well, you have a bandaged thumb, Mr. Polk.”

The machinist made a comical face but kept his eyes on my deputy. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

Saizarbitoria was on a roll, so I let him continue talking to Polk. “Were you here last night?”

His eyes switched to me but had lingered on Santiago long enough to telegraph his displeasure at Sancho’s line of questioning. “Where the hell else would I be in a blizzard?”

“Is there anybody who can corroborate that statement?” The Basquo’s voice sounded a little strident, and I judged that some of it was general annoyance and some of it was aimed at Polk.

“Statement, huh?” He put his coffee down. “What? You here to arrest me?” I studied the man’s face, and it was like there was something wild playing behind it, attempting to break through the skin.

I scooted my chair back and cleared my throat to get his attention. “Felix, we’re not accusing you. We’re just trying to get an accurate understanding of your whereabouts last night, say around nine o’clock?”

He looked me directly in the eye. “You go to hell.”

We all sat there in the statement’s afterlife. There are few enough things I do really well, but one of them is the ability to outwait someone in conversation. Polk looked sideways at his arm and then spoke. “I plowed my road out last night just before dark, and that’s the only time I’ve stirred from this cabin.” He looked back at Sancho. “And no, there aren’t any goddamned witnesses.”

Santiago shifted his weight against the refrigerator, and I thought for a moment he was going to try and slap his cuffs on the man. “You seem agitated, Mr. Polk.”

“Damn right I’m agitated. I lose my thumb and suddenly become public enemy number one.” He stood, carried his mug to the counter and refilled it, momentarily out of the Basquo’s line of sight—and then he winked.

I sat there for a few seconds, making sure I’d seen what I thought I’d seen.

He moved back toward the table but stood there with his mug and stared at Saizarbitoria in defiance.

“Felix, did you just wink at me?”

He looked surprised and worried at the same time. “What?”

It was quiet in the kitchen.

“Did you just wink at me?”

“No.”

It was a blatant lie, and I could see from the expression on his face that he knew I knew it. “Felix, you did. Just now, when you were pouring your coffee.”