He blinked once, and then his eyes sharpened, followed by a curt nod.
I yanked my head up to look at Lucian, who had crossed to check on the man behind the bar. “Dead?”
The old sheriff nodded. “Or doin’ a damned fine impersonation of it. How’s the New Mexican?”
“Alive, but he’s going to need some dental work. Take some of these bar towels and go over there and sit with him and keep him from going into shock. I’ll get on the radio in his car and call in the troops.”
I could’ve used the cell phone or the phone in the bar, but I figured by the time they got me patched through a 911 operator, I might as well have gone out and gotten on the detective’s two-way. The snow which had covered the vehicles had just about stopped, but now there was a ground fog that obscured the landscape.
Whiteout. Like South Dakota. “Well, hell.”
I stood there for a moment, feeling something out there in the blank, white parking lot—almost as if something was watching me. Ignoring the feeling, I walked over to the detective’s cruiser and yanked the door open—it sounded like a glacier cleaving. I threw myself inside and turned the key, thanking the heavens that Harvey, like most Wyoming residents, had left it in the ignition.
I punched the mic and reported shots fired and an officer down at the Sixteen Tons Bar, whereupon the dispatcher asked me the location. “It’s in Arrosa, about fifteen miles east of Gillette . . .” So much for speeding the process.
Static. “There are a number of communication towers down in that area and with the weather conditions and the amount of responses we’ve got out it might be a while before they get there.”
I keyed the mic again. “The officer is stabilized, but in pretty rough condition, so get us an EMT van and a couple of units as quickly as you can.”
Static. “And who is this again?”
“Sheriff Walt Longmire of Absaroka County.”
Static. “So you’re not Campbell County personnel?”
“No, but Detective Richard Harvey is, and he’s lying on the floor bleeding, hopefully not to death.” I threw the mic against the dash and clumsily cut the ignition, figuring if I was hauling the detective into town I was going to do it in my truck, which had four-wheel drive.
Climbing out of the cruiser, I pushed at the bandage on my neck where I’d irritated it and stood there in the fog with the feeling of being watched overtaking me again. There was a breath of a breeze, and I looked across the parking lot where the fog had parted like a curtain and at the concrete-block building and the American flag that flapped feebly against its own pole, attempting to get my attention. I stood there for a moment longer and then charged into the bar.
Lucian was with the detective and was holding the side of his face with the towels. “Bartender’s still dead, in case you were wondering.”
“Lucian, wasn’t the guy from the post office sitting on one of these stools before the shooting started?”
The old sheriff glanced around. “The horse’s ass with the ponytail?”
“Yep.”
He gave it a quick thought. “He was there earlier, but I don’t remember him being in the place when the bartender shot Harvey here.” He sighed. “You think he ran out before or when the shooting started?”
I stopped to pick up the detective’s .357, undeterred by the bloody molar and chunk of jawbone lying beside it, and then moved toward the back door. “I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”
“What the hell do you want from me then?”
I gestured toward the wounded man. “How’s he doing?”
Lucian looked down at the steady eyes peering up from the gory mess of a face. “He was trying to talk, but I told him to shut the hell up and wrapped those towels around his face along with a couple of sponges from the counter over there.” He looked up at me. “You gotta hand it to these New Mexicans; they can bleed with the best of ’em.”
I placed a hand on the door. “Help’s on the way, but it may take a while with the ground fog out there. So collect as many teeth as you can and just try and keep him from bleeding to death.”
“You goin’ out there into the rain, sleet, and snow and gloom of night?”
“Late afternoon.” I nodded. “The postman’s the only one who can still talk, and he’s not here and that speaks volumes.”
“What do you want me to do when the troops arrive?”
I pushed the door open and stood there, waves of cold and bad feelings enveloping my exposed flesh. “Find me.” I stepped out into the monochromatic landscape.
—
The postman’s tracks traced to the left around his doomed office, the divots partially filled in but still visible. You couldn’t even see the road for the frozen fog and the snow had started softly falling again—it was like walking into cotton batting, the flakes swallowing all sound.
I went around the building, almost tripping when I stubbed my boots on one of the covered parking curbs, and looked down at the area where the postman had evidently paused to watch me as I’d called in backup. That must’ve been the feeling I’d had.
It was possible that Rowan had just wanted to make himself scarce in a room full of flying bullets, but then why hadn’t he returned? And why had he stood out here and studied me as I’d called in? I pulled the big Colt from the back of my pants and stuck it in my sling again, one gun possibly proving to not be enough.
The footprints led to the rear of the post office, where the back door hung open about eight inches.
I glanced at the only vehicle parked behind the building—a battered CJ 7 Jeep without a straight piece of sheet metal on it sat with a good eight inches of snow on the hood. I thought about checking for the keys or pulling the coil wire but figured the thing was derelict. I sidled up beside the back door of the building and gently swung it open with the barrel of the detective’s .357—the storage room was empty.
Stepping inside, I made a quick sweep of the area, and then, dipping the Colt into the narrow aisleways and following the prints, worked my way down a couple of rows of eight-foot metal shelves.
There was a basket half overturned on the floor not unlike the one that the postman had given to me containing the collective mail of Jone Urrecha, so I nudged it over the rest of the way. It was empty, except for a sticker that had rolled up and was half stuck to its side. I stooped down and plucked it from the basket and read the typed address, a label redirecting mail for Linda Schaffer, the clerk from Kmart, to a box at this post office.
I stood and looked around at the mountains of paper ready to avalanche on me should I decide to start digging and wished I had Dougherty with me. It was just as I’d had that thought that the cell phone in my pocket started buzzing and I pulled the thing out and looked at it; Dougherty. I punched the button. “Hey, troop. I was just thinking about you . . .” There was no reply. “Dougherty?” There was still nothing. Evidently the reception was good enough to allow a call to go through, but not enough to retain it. I glanced around the post office, finally spotting a phone on a nearby desk. I picked up the receiver, satisfied with the dial tone, and punched in Corbin’s cell number.
“Hello?”
“Dougherty, it’s Walt Longmire.”
“Yeah, I just called you.”
“I know, the transponders down here are covered with ice and malfunctioning; nothing is working. Did you find something?”
“I’ve been going through those files and came across a transcription that wasn’t in the computer, somebody else he talked to.”
“Who?”
“A woman named Izzy—does that ring any bells?”
A faint alarm went off somewhere in the periphery of my head, but nothing I could place. “Izzy?”