He shook his head. “The stripper, the one that evidently packed up all her stuff into her car and drove off without telling anybody, the one that we haven’t found any sign of foul play, the one that has a history of packing up her stuff and heading out for the road less traveled?”
“Just like Linda Schaffer and Roberta Payne.”
He captured his lip with his teeth and then released it. “Who?”
I readjusted the ice pack on my head and stretched my jaw against the tightening there. “Linda Schaffer vanished from the Kmart parking lot seven months ago, and Roberta Payne disappeared from the Flying J truck stop three months ago.” I studied him. “You didn’t know about those women?”
“They were in Holman’s reports?”
“Yes.”
He looked over his shoulder at the cruiser again. “I need to see them.”
“They’re your reports.” I waited a moment before continuing. “You really didn’t know about them?”
His hand brushed the brim of his hat. “Vaguely, but I rely on my men to tell me the things I need to know.”
“Why wouldn’t Gerald Holman have told you about two missing persons cases?”
“I’m not saying he didn’t, I just don’t recall.”
“What about Richard Harvey?”
The sheriff of Campbell County inclined his head. “We don’t talk much.”
I nodded but left it at that. “I’ll run the reports by tomorrow. I want one last look at them.”
“I’ll make you some copies.”
“There’s an idea.”
—
Things had quieted down, and I had even made the effort of going over and saying hey to the oil refinery workers, especially the one with the multiple holes in his head. They’d gotten the staple out, and an EMT had him bandaged up. We shook hands, and I wondered about the nature of things as I stooped to pick up the scattered posters on the floor of the bar/café.
I stared at another photocopied version of Jone Urrecha and wondered absently how many photographs her sister had of her. I crouched there by the booth and asked myself if my fixation on this particular young woman was irrational. The statistics said that all three women were most certainly dead, even though Jone was missing only five weeks. They say statistics by their nature don’t lie, but in my opinion they sometimes do and damnably at that.
Scooping up the posters, I stood and was confronted with Haji, who was also holding a collection of the copied sheets. “Hey.”
“These slid over near the bar, and I think you want them.”
I shuffled the papers and placed them under my arm. “Where are you from, Haji?”
He smiled the crooked smile. “Mumbai, just to the south.”
“You related to Rankaj Patel?”
“He is my father’s brother.”
“Mind if I ask how you ended up here?”
His face darkened as he stood the coatrack back upright, pushing it against the wall. “I worked the summertime in Yellowstone Park and then found job here with my uncle for the winter.” He studied me. “All of my papers are in order—”
I raised a hand in supplication. “I’m sure they are; I was just curious.”
He glanced around. “With the oil and gas industry, no one wishes to work at bar job. I am of hopes to buy motel self?”
“Buy a motel yourself?”
“Yes, in attempt of the American Dream.” I started out the door, but he stopped me. “You are a sheriff?”
“Yep.”
“And the old man with you, he is sheriff, too?”
“Yep.”
He nodded. “Lots of sheriffs in Wyoming.”
“I guess that’s true, as of late.” I reached a hand out, and we shook and I held on to his hand while percolating an idea. “Hey, you don’t happen to play chess, do you, Haji?”
He stared at me for a moment. “Why you ask that?”
“Well, it’s where the game originally came from . . .”
He smiled. “The Gupta Empire in the northwest in the sixth century; no one knows this . . .” He folded his arms in an attempt to look stately. “I am champion of the South-Western Administrative Province.”
“Do you have a board around here?”
“No.”
I nodded, figuring I was in for another trip to the Kmart. “I’ll get you one.”
“You wish to play?”
“No, not me . . . But if I get you a board, would you set it up and leave it there on the bar?” He looked at me strangely as I handed him my ice pack and exited the Aces & Eights.
—
It was really getting cold out, but I knocked on the door of room 6 and waited. There was some noise inside, and she shuffled toward the door before finally speaking through the cheap wood. “Who is it?”
“Walt Longmire, the sheriff who just got his ass kicked?” The door opened just a little, the chain still holding it secure, sort of. I held out the posters and slid them through the opening. “I thought you might want these.”
She took them and then placed her face closer to the opening—I could see that she’d been crying. “They took my stapler.”
“Yep, well . . . You have to have a concealed/carry permit for those things here in Wyoming.”
She smiled. “I nailed him, didn’t I?”
“Stapled him, to be exact. Don’t feel so bad about it. I did something like that in Vietnam once.” I waited a moment. “I’ve got to go back to Kmart tomorrow to pick up a chess set with which to distract my old boss, and I can pick you up another one. Smaller caliber, perhaps?”
She laughed again and tossed the posters behind her.
There was an awkward silence.
“Well, I just wanted to drop those off and make sure you were all right.”
“Thanks.” I started to turn but heard her unhook the chain, and she opened the door a bit more. She was wearing a pair of blue nylon shorts and a Boise State T-shirt with the snorting pony on the front. In deference to the cold, she hugged herself to cover the protruding aspects of her anatomy and placed one foot over the other. “I mean it, thanks. Look, I’m kind of vulnerable right now and I need a good word.”
“Excuse me?”
Her head dropped, and the tears collected in her eyes. “I’m coming to the end of my rope, and I need something to hold on to, something to give me hope—tell me you’re going to find my sister.”
“I, well . . .”
She sobbed. “Tell me you’re going to find her alive.”
“I . . .”
Her face grew fierce and then slowly lost all emotion. “Please.”
Usually capable of reading a dangerous situation, recent activity excluded, I stood there like a tower of crumbling stone, the only strong keystone in me, the two words I knew were the wrong ones to say. “I will.”
She watched me to see if I was telling the truth and then wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “You wanna come in?”
I stood there, making sure I was hearing what I was hearing. “Um, thanks but no . . . My head hurts, and I’m pretty tired.”
“That’s okay, it’s an open invitation.” She stepped back in, closing the door behind her.
As I stepped over to room 5, I noticed a handwritten note taped to the door that read You have been changed to room 4. The writing looked familiar, especially the emphasis on the period, which had stabbed a small hole in the paper, but I was too tired to analyze it, figuring Lucian and Dog had grown weary of my night-owl tendencies and had given me the boot.
It was just a few steps to number 4, and I found it conveniently cracked open.
I pushed the door the rest of the way in but then, fumbling for the light switch, I had my right hand caught in a reverse wristlock that turned me around and pulled me into the darkened room. A Browning tactical boot slammed the door closed behind us as my assailant dragged me back onto the bed, wrapped her legs around me, and bit my ear from behind, releasing it only long enough to whisper, “Good thing you fucking said no.”
Boy howdy.
5