Ennis was out by the Escalade, getting useless statements from a few more of the dwindling crowd of karaoke patrons, when his radio crackled again. “Man with a gun at Last Chance Bar. Subject is very 10–51, threatening to kill somebody. Bartender requests an officer.”
It was turning into quite the festive evening. One of the Libby uniforms, Janet Salisbury, was listening. “Gun? You want me to go with you?”
Hallstrom had emerged from the bar and was talking to Wick and his friends. The other deputy had been following him around with a Nikon digital camera and was still taking pictures of everything in sight, now including a couple of laughing girls who pantomimed lifting up their tops.
Salisbury spoke with Hallstrom, who waved her off. “Go on, I’ll finish up here. If we ever get a goddamned ambulance here, I’m gonna call it a night.”
The Last Chance Bar was seven miles north, right up against the border station. There were only two vehicles in the parking lot when Ennis and Salisbury drove up. Their headlights illuminated a short, stocky woman leaning against a battered Toyota pickup, smoking a cigarette. She lifted a hand in greeting.
“He still here?” Ennis said.
She shrugged. “Yeah, but I haven’t heard anything for a while. Surprised you guys showed up, tell you the truth. Couple weeks ago I had this Canuck, went crazy and started punching the keno machines. Just beating the hell out of them. I called and couldn’t get nobody out here then.”
Janell Rector was a little shy of five feet, had short brown hair and biceps that would shame a good share of the mill workers in town. If she was nervous about the guy inside with the gun, she didn’t look it. Ennis knew she had once flattened a logger twice her size with an aluminum softball bat she kept behind the bar. He hadn’t heard about the crazy Canadian, but he felt a flash of sympathy for the guy.
He nodded at the door. “So who is it?”
“The gunslinger? One of the Winnett brothers. Roy.”
Ennis blinked. “Married to Alana?”
Janell gave him a thin smile. “You heard, too, huh? Don’t know how much longer that’s gonna last, though. Doesn’t sound like reconciliation is in the cards. He said something about shooting her.”
“When did he get here?”
She didn’t have to think about it. “Right at ten.” She looked at her watch. “He’s been here an hour, but didn’t haul out his pistol until just a little bit ago. Knew I should have cut him off of that whiskey.”
Ennis rubbed his chin. He’d gotten the call to Westy’s at ten-thirty, which couldn’t have been more than five minutes after the shooting. “He came in at ten? You sure? Had to have been a little later.”
She shook her head. “Nope. I watch Law & Order and it comes on at ten. It was just starting when Roy came in. It was one I hadn’t seen, too.”
“Janell, I think Roy shot a guy at Westy’s, couldn’t have been earlier than ten-fifteen. So you’ve gotta be wrong.”
Her eyes widened. “Shot a guy? Who? Don’t tell me...”
He nodded. “Dean Jackman. I got the call right after...”
Her brow furrowed as she took a drag on the cigarette. “Ten-fifteen? Couldn’t have been Roy, then. I told you: He was here before that and he’s been here since. Or, those numb-nuts at Westy’s took their time making the call.”
The folks at Westy’s had conflicted about a lot of things, but all agreed that the bartender had called 911 right after the shooting, and Ennis was in no doubt about when he’d heard from dispatch.
“Anyway,” Janell said, “you gonna go in and get him, or should I just call it a shift?”
Ennis surveyed the bar. Approaching drunken men with guns was one of his least favorite parts of the job, particularly if they’d already shot someone. Janet Salisbury cleared her throat, hitching up her gunbelt.
“We could call for backup.”
“We could,” he said. He pictured Hallstrom out here in his cowboy suit, the other green deputy with his camera. “Let’s see what the situation is.”
Ennis walked back out to the rear of the parking lot and around its perimeter, trying to get a look inside the tavern from a safe distance. He stopped and waved Salisbury over.
Janell had been good enough to prop the bar door open. From here, Ennis could see the guy slumped on his stool, head on the bar. Roy Winnett was a small man, balding, his worn plaid shirt untucked. He wore faded jeans and what appeared to be a pair of buckskin slippers, the kind you’d slip on to get the newspaper. On the bar next to him: a handgun the size of a leaf-blower and a half-full bottle of Bushmill’s, both within easy reach.
“Well, let’s gauge his mood,” Ennis said at last. “Get over behind the cruiser.” When Salisbury was in place, he yelled.
“Hey, Roy! Roy Winnett!”
The figure on the barstool didn’t stir.
“Roy, you awake?”
Nothing. Ennis worried briefly that the man had killed himself, but Janell would have heard the shot. He unholstered his Glock and carefully approached the open door. He positioned himself to one side and leaned over for a look. Like every bar in Montana, this one was half filled with electronic keno and poker machines, relentlessly replaying their calliope fanfares to the empty bar. Ennis understood why the Canadian might have wanted to punch them.
“Hey, Roy,” he called softly. “You doing okay, partner?”
Still no sign of movement. The pistol on the bar was a real cannon; from here, Ennis was pretty sure it was a Desert Eagle with a ten-inch barrel. Probably either .357 or .44 magnum, in either case perfectly capable of penetrating any exterior wall of this cheaply built tavern — not to mention the driver’s door of a Cadillac Escalade. He signaled Salisbury to come up, then took a deep breath and stepped forward as quickly and quietly as he could. He reached the gun and slid it down the bar. When it was safely out of reach he bent to smell the muzzle: nothing but Hoppes gun oil. It didn’t have the acrid aroma of having been fired recently — but that was no proof it hadn’t been. He released the magazine: eight fat .44-magnum bullets, full capacity for this weapon.
He touched Winnett on the shoulder and was rewarded with a loud groan.
Salisbury was at the door, looking as relieved as Ennis felt.
“Passed out, huh?”
“We timed that right,” Ennis said. “Help me get him to the car.”
“Well, that didn’t take long,” Hallstrom was saying. He had his hands on his hips again, regarding the insensate Roy Winnett, who was sprawled across the bunk in the first of the Worland Police Department’s two holding cells. “About what I figured: This Jackman guy is porking his wife, so old Roy here does a Raccoon Racoon on his rival.”
Ennis winced at this not-quite-apt reference to the Beatles tune.
Hallstrom winked, jingling his car keys. “Gotta love a small town. Get those statements typed up and fax ’em to me tomorrow. We’ll take the pistolero here back to Libby with us, get him arraigned when he’s sobered up. I’m heading home.”
“Couple problems,” Ennis said.
“What?”
“Barmaid says Roy showed up at the Last Chance a few minutes before Jackman got shot at Westy’s. She’s quite sure of the time. And that Desert Eagle: I don’t think it’s been fired tonight. We should probably check it out.” He nodded at Winnett. “Him, too.”
Hallstrom gave him a wintry smile. “That right? You got any other clues?”
Ennis shrugged. “Just saying: Sober witness puts him someplace else when Jackman was getting shot. Also, no brass at the scene, on him, or in his truck; if he got rid of it that’s pretty careful behavior for an intoxicated man.”