I glanced up at the twenty-five-foot statue. “You remember Mary Barsad?”
“The woman from out in Absalom that ended up not killing her husband; the one who had the horse that Cady rode at the wedding?”
“Wahoo Sue. Yep, that’s her. Hershel was this old cowboy who worked for her, the one that Wade Barsad, her husband, killed.”
“Oh yeah, the one who gave you the old rifle.”
“The Henry in the office safe, yep.”
“Next to the Cheyenne Rifle of the Dead.” She reached up and fingered the holster on my shoulder. “You’re putting together quite a collection of antique weapons.”
“Yep.”
As we climbed into my truck, Vic pulled the duty notebook out of her coat and looked at the address that we had gotten for Sadie Payne. “So, I’m assuming we’re headed over to the she-devil’s house?”
I carefully wrapped the leather straps around the four-point holster and opened my center console, gently placing the Colt Walker on the foam padding. “We are—after we meet with Schaffer at Jack’s Tavern.”
“Payne’s daughter has been missing for only three months and she’s trying to get her declared dead? I don’t think we’re going to be well received.”
I tried to close the console, but the bulk of the Colt, powder flask, ammo box, and surrounding leather was more than modern truck designers possibly had had in mind. “Probably not.” I suddenly felt very weary and slid my gloved hands onto my lap.
Vic attached her seat belt and then reached back and petted Dog before looking over at me. “You all right?”
“Hmm? Yep, I’m fine. Just thinking about that Bret Bussell.”
She looked through the frost that had accumulated again on the inside of my truck windshield from Dog’s breathing. “A little young for that shit, isn’t he?”
“Maybe—sixty-five and older have a 14.3 rate per 100,000, but young adults from twenty to twenty-four are pretty close behind at 12.7.”
She stared at me. “Why do you memorize that shit?”
“My father had a photographic memory, and I got some of it.” I started my truck and pushed down on the lid with my elbow and it somehow clicked shut. “It’s just that it sometimes takes a while for it to fully develop.”
7
As per Mr. Schaffer’s request, we were to meet him at Jack’s Tavern, a sprawling watering hole on the south side of town that housed a massive dance floor, pool tables, and dartboards. There was a spot for motorcycle parking that was under cover, which probably hadn’t gotten much use since October, so I parked the Bullet and Dog there just to keep from having to push off the six inches of snow that were likely to be covering it when we got back.
“Don’t you ever worry about him getting cold?”
“Who?”
“Dog.”
I was confused by the question. “No . . . No. He’s got a coat on him like a Kodiak; the only time I worry for his comfort is in the summer.” I pulled open the door to Jack’s Tavern and ushered her in. “He’s tough, like me.”
“You’re not so tough.”
I held a finger to my lips. “Ssh . . . Don’t tell anybody.”
Vic and I picked a corner booth on the unused dance-floor side of the place and quietly sat, unnoticed by the bartender. “I guess he didn’t want the thin blue line showing up and queering the deal with the buyers.”
“I guess.”
She leaned in, even though we were the only ones in the bar, which was as big as a warehouse. “A biker bar?”
“Maybe he’s a biker.”
He was.
Ten minutes later, the man who slid in the booth with us was a young forty with a cleft chin, a little Dizzy Gillespie cookie-duster under his lower lip, and lots of ink. Mr. Schaffer wore a do-rag, sunglasses, a black leather jacket, and biker boots, and wasn’t what I was expecting any more than the bar he had chosen.
“Hi.” He immediately stuck a fingerless gloved hand out to Vic. “Mike Schaffer, how are you, Ma’am?”
She smiled, and I could see why he’d focused his attention on her first. “I’m good—you ride your bike over?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up, having taken no offense. “Too cold, even for me.” He took off his sunglasses as his eyes shifted to me and he extended his hand. “Mike Schaffer. You the sheriff?”
I shook the hand as somewhere in the bowels of the massive building the Marshall Tucker Band began trying to get us to see what their women had done to them. “That’s me.”
“Corbin said you guys wanted to talk to me?”
“You’ve gotten to know Patrolman Dougherty pretty well?”
Schaffer nodded. “Oh yeah, he’s a great guy. My son, Michael Junior, thinks he’s like T. J. Hooker or something.”
I glanced at my undersheriff, who waved me off. “Cop show on TV in the eighties where they specialized in sliding over the hoods of cars and shooting without the benefit of aiming.”
Mike nodded. “He has a lot of contact with Michael on e-mail, but I didn’t want to take him out of school to come over here, so I left him with my sister; that, and I just didn’t want him reminded about what happened to his mother.”
Vic tapped the file that rested on the table between us with a fingernail. “Linda?”
“Yeah.” He looked a little unsure for a moment. “Corbin said there were some developments but that you hadn’t really found anything more?”
“No, we haven’t specifically, but there have been a couple of other women who’ve gone missing and we’re wondering if there might be a connection.”
He leaned back in the booth and caught the waitress’s attention, her smile brightening as she approached.
“Mickey, how you doin’?”
“Tracy, are you playing the Marshall Tucker Band for me?”
“I am.” She placed a hand on her hip. “It’s slow enough that I’m waitin’ tables myself, so I thought I’d cater to the clientele.”
He gestured toward Vic and me. “Chief cook and bottle washer Tracy Jacobs, this is Sheriff Longmire and his fine partner Vic; they’re looking into Linda’s disappearance.”
She looked at us. “You find her?”
“Um, no . . . We’re just continuing with the investigation.”
She pulled a pad from her apron. “Something to drink?”
Schaffer made a grand gesture. “Beer and a bump all around—I sold my house today.”
I started to interrupt, but Tracy pursed her lips, looking a little downcast. “Damn, I thought you were maybe moving back.”
“Nope, the check-cashing place bought it. I guess they’re going to tear it down and add on to their parking lot.”
I nodded toward Vic. “Just a couple of coffees for us, thanks.”
She walked away, and I turned back to Schaffer. “No offense, but we’re still on the clock.”
“That’s cool.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with an Airborne insignia on it from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “You guys mind? It’s one of the only bars in Wyoming that still let you smoke, and I’m a little edgy from all this talk about Linda.”
I changed the subject, just to give him a chance to settle himself. “Airborne?”
He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke skyward. “Fifth—Special Forces; you?”
“Marines, Military Police.”
“Figures.”
Vic asked. “Why is that?”
He smiled. “General enormity.” He studied me. “Vietnam?”
“Yep.”
“Iraq for me; you ever been?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “Got married, did two tours, then I quit, went back to school, and got a real job where I didn’t have to get shot at.”
I smiled back. “Sounds familiar.”
He slid down his side of the booth and put his legs along the bench. “Maybe, but I bet you didn’t lose your wife.”
“In fact, I did.”
“Sorry.” He looked out at the empty dance floor, and I watched the sadness overtake him like a pack of hounds; I knew those hounds and had felt their gnawing. “Sometimes I get to where I feel like I’m the only one getting it in the shorts in this life, you know?”