Saizarbitoria shook his head as we slid around another sweeping corner.
“He’s supposedly a very interesting case, a specific form of psychotic schizophrenic where the subject is overcome by a culture-bound syndrome and hears voices-sees…” I couldn’t help but pause. “Sees apparitions. He refers to them as the ‘Seldom Seen’ and believes that he’s actually possessed by evil spirits that force him to sacrifice others.”
“Sounds like the old Basque priest at the Catholic Church who believes in fairies.”
I nodded. “The versions vary from tribe to tribe, but these spirits are purported to be malicious, supernatural beings. The people they inhabit supposedly have malevolent spiritual powers but are shunned by their own people.”
There was some chatter on the Feds’ radio about the mobile unit coming down from Baby Wagon, and I was glad to hear it. The Basquo slowed for another curve, and I could feel the Chevrolet fishtail. He glanced at me. “You believe that stuff?”
I was just as glad that he hadn’t been privy to my experiences in this very area of the mountains more than a year ago, when I had seen and heard my share of strange things. “I believe there were spiritual signposts that these tribes put into place so that no matter how dire the situation, the members would never be tempted to do things the tribe considered absolutely taboo.” I felt tired and slouched into the seat. “Imagine beginning to see people, things that no one else can see, and in punishment the real people around you begin drawing away-leaving you to these… spirits.”
“Isn’t that kind of like pitting the monsters of your imagination against the monsters of human nature?”
I smiled. “You have been reading your Dante.” I stared out the side window and wasn’t smiling when I made the next statement. “Wonder who would win.”
At the next bend, I could see a few dusk-to-dawn lights over the cabins that comprised South Fork. “I want you to drop me off at the main lodge; I’ll just stay up here tonight.”
He hunched his shoulders. “You’re going to be in even more trouble.”
“I know.” I looked down at my lap. “Could you call and tell them I won’t be coming to dinner after all?”
He glanced at me again as we gently slowed, listening to the sleet being thrown by the tires. “Why do you want to stay?”
“I just don’t feel good about leaving those guys up here by themselves in this weather.”
He nodded and turned in the drive. “I’ll stay, too.”
I looked at the headstrong Basquo, at the same time thinking about the promise I’d made his wife a couple of months back about keeping him out of harm’s way-even if harm was just keeping him up on the mountain for a night. “No, you won’t. Go home.”
He pulled the Suburban up to the porch at the front of the lodge, and we both peered through the windshield into the darkened windows-there were only a few lights on. “Looks like you might have to go down, too.”
After a moment, though, Holli emerged from the kitchen, passed the counter to the glass doors, and squinted in our headlights. She pulled on a coat, pushed open the door with an arm over her eyes, and shouted. “Can I help you?”
I rolled down the window of the SUV and hung my head through. “Holli, it’s me, Walt Longmire.”
She approached, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Hey, Sheriff.”
I shifted my hat back; the sleet smacked the ground around us like shrapnel. “The Feds call you?”
“About the food?”
“No, they’re going to need beds up here for the night.”
“Nope.”
That was odd.
She stuffed her hands in her pockets only to bring them out a moment later. “How many?”
“About a half dozen, and one for a prisoner.”
She zipped her fleece over her stained apron and pulled up the collar. “Unfortunately, I have rooms. A lot of my guests couldn’t make it in.”
“You have seven plus one?”
“Who else?”
“Me.”
She looked past the hood of the Suburban to the cabin nearest the lodge. “I can stick you in the hired hand’s bunk. It’s small, but it’s got a single in it.”
“That’ll do. Thanks.” I pushed open the door and stepped out with the sandwich in my hands. “Kitchen closed?”
She looked sheepish. “I’m afraid so. Good thing you brought your own.”
I began unwrapping it. “I’ll wait up for the Feds.”
“That’s okay, Walt. You get some sleep. I’ll get Beatrice to do that, wherever she’s gone off to.”
Holli flipped a few fingers at Saizarbitoria as I closed the door, and the Basquo waved back but he still sat there, parked.
I thought about how I’d seen the waitress turning left as she got back on the main route. “Last time we saw her, she was headed toward Ten Sleep.” I took a bite of my moveable feast.
“Well, damn it, I guess she decided to go home.”
The club sandwich was good, and I was starved. I swallowed a bite and reached in the open window to retrieve my cup of lukewarm coffee from the holder on the dash. “Maybe she misunderstood or got scared of the roads.”
The lodge owner nodded, not very happy with the situation.
Sancho called out from the driver’s seat, “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’m sure.” I took another bite of my sandwich and backed away from the truck to allow the Basquo to escape. I had taken a step back when I felt something in my mouth other than bread, turkey, bacon, lettuce, and tomato. I handed Holli my cup of coffee.
“Something wrong, Sheriff?”
I reached into my mouth and pulled out what I thought might’ve been one of the little, flagged toothpicks that held the sandwich together but instead found a bobby pin with one of the small, cellophane flags attached.
I held it up for both of us to see.
“Jeez, Walt, I’m sorry.” Holli ran a hand through her thick hair. “Not mine.”
We both laughed, but the laughter died as I held the thin piece of metal up and could see that the protective tip had been removed from one end and that it had been bent into two opposite-facing right angles near the head-so that it looked like a key.
4
It had taken us only a few minutes to get going once we discovered the makeshift handcuff key, but it was taking an agonizingly long time to get back to Meadowlark Lodge-we’d run off the road three times already.
I held the mic from the Feds’ radio close to my mouth. “Come in, unit one, this is unit two; Agent McGroder, this is Sheriff Longmire. Over?”
Static.
Sancho risked a look. “This isn’t good.”
“No, it’s not.”
I braced a hand against the dash as we made the turn at Powder River Pass on the Cloud Peak Skyway, almost ten thousand feet above sea level. The storm had gotten serious, and the sleet now pounded the top of the Feds’ Suburban like a snare drum. Sancho was doing his best, but the puddles of slush that pooled in the tread swales of the mountainous road made every turn feel as if we were attempting to corner an overloaded rowboat.
I pulled out the Basquo’s cell phone, but there were no available bars. He glanced at me. “Anything?”
“Nope.” I’d had Holli make the 911 call down the mountain with the landline she had in the lodge, but we weren’t likely to get cell reception again until we got back to Meadowlark.
“Line of sight, or it could just be interference from the storm.”
“Yeah, but they’ve also got those satellite phones, so somebody ought to be able to get through to them.” I pressed the button on the mic again. “Unit one, this is unit two. How ’bout it, McGroder? Over.” I waited a second and then depressed the button again. “Anybody?”
Static.
Sancho gained a little speed on the straightaway as we sluiced past the cutoff to county roads 422 and 419 where Shade had buried the remains of the boy. After a few minutes we could see the lights of something in the gloom of the darkened sleet up ahead. “Are those headlights?”
“No, it’s something else.”