I heard a groan of metal as the vehicle slowly moved the stack of cars clockwise, its wheels spinning on the packed snow like Mexican fireworks. Something caught my eye, and I looked up to see a Subaru sedan teetering at the top of the stack.
“You have got to be kidding.”
I threw myself to the left as the car slid a little toward me and then toppled over from twelve feet above, top down.
I slid completely into the open space between the hood and the grille guard as the Subaru crashed onto the tow truck like some giant samurai trying to stomp me to death. The majority of the car hit the cab of the Ford but then pivoted on its top and slid down toward me as I tried to make myself as svelte as possible in the space between the grille and the guard.
The Subaru slipped to the side and fell away as the tow truck continued on its merry path of destruction, driving us back in time down the aisle of cars through the nineties, the eighties and, finally, the seventies. Towers of cars kept falling, but the granny gear was bound and nonetheless determined.
We had to be approaching the sixties where Dog held Sundance at a stalemate, and I hoped that they’d have the common sense to run for their lives. All I could do was lie there behind the grille guard and hope it held up against whatever we ran into, which at the moment looked like a particularly solid stack of vehicles that included a defunct ice-cream truck, a Buick station wagon, and a powder blue International Scout.
I had plenty of time to contemplate the impending collision as the tow truck ground on, but the vehicle that arrested my thoughts was the Scout on top. There was something about that particular model of car.
And there was something else, something important. That was the way my mind had been working as of late; I’d think of something important but neglect to write it down, and then the only thing I could remember the next day was that it was, indeed, something important.
I looked up at the black sky and watched as the flakes of snow swirled and danced down out of it, but my eyes slipped to the faded, dry pigment of the Scout. The color reminded me of the summer sky, and I thought about the warmth of the sun’s cascading rays, about waves of grass stalks, and women in cotton dresses.
The Ford crashed into the stack of vehicles like a wrecking ball, bucking and kicking until the International slipped sideways from the top of the crushed station wagon. It fell onto the hood of the tow truck and the upper edge of the massive grille guard—powder blue, just as if the hoped-for summer sky were falling.
EPILOGUE
I had been trying to keep my head down for the last three days; not that I hadn’t had to do that before, being married once and having a lawyer for a daughter, but this was for medical purposes.
I had a round, donut-shaped pillow that I used to rest my face, which Ruby had acquired when she’d had a bout with hemorrhoids; this provided no end of levity for the staff of the Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department.
“It seems appropriate; I mean, he is the biggest pain in the ass we have on duty.”
The eye doctor whom Andy Hall had sent me to in Billings had opted for the pneumatic retinopexy, during which an air bubble was injected into my eye that pushed the rip in my retina back so that a laser could seal the tear. Consequently, I had to stay in one or two positions for the next few weeks so that the air bubble continued to push the retina and wouldn’t cause cataracts or high pressure in my eye.
“Just what he needs is more hot air.”
They also said I wasn’t allowed to fly anywhere, which was the one thing I was thinking about, if for no other reason than to escape the grief I was getting. I had about six weeks of medical leave saved up, but I’d gotten bored at home after two days and had decided to come into the office and just rest my head on my desk and try to assist Henry in getting my daughter’s wedding plans cemented.
“I don’t think most people have noticed any difference in your performance.”
I wasn’t supposed to, but I raised my head and looked at Vic. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I bought a house today.”
The Bear was studying me, but I ignored him. “Where?” “The one I was looking at, the one on Kisling.”
I lowered my head onto the pillow to further avoid Henry’s gaze, but it did little to avoid his voice. “I thought that one got sold.”
“The other buyer couldn’t get a mortgage, so the realtor called me, and I got it for the asking price. Then John Muecke at the bank called and financed it, so I didn’t even have to borrow the money.”
“Wow, imagine that.”
I knew that he was actually talking to me and, if he didn’t cut it out, I was going to be forced to throw my circular pillow at him. I cleared my throat and spoke into the surface of my desk as I reached down and petted Dog, who was sleeping on my boots. I changed the subject and not too gracefully. “So, did the ballistics on Gina’s gun match up with Ozzie?”
It was quiet. “Did you hear me? I said I just bought a house.”
“I did. Congratulations.”
There was a longer pause, and her voice changed. “Yeah, the .32 was a dead match, and so was the equestrian needle she used to kill Geo that we found in with her stuff. As near as we can figure, she changed the clock in Duane’s room to throw him off and even wore his boots out into the junkyard when she killed Geo. She must have worn the same boots when she killed Ozzie.”
I was going to be in trouble for changing the subject, but trouble was the better alternative to her finding out the truth. “Who’s transporting Gina?”
She continued talking in a strained tone of voice. “Me.”
“Don’t you need to get going?”
“I guess so.” Quiet again. “David Nickerson got her patched up. She’s milking it for all it’s worth, but in twenty minutes she’s headed for the more luxurious female facilities in Casper where she’ll await trial.” There was a rustling of papers. “I’ve got the faxes from San Quentin. The PO says that during Polk’s—”
Henry interrupted. “Are we calling him Polk or Poulson?”
“We’ll just call him Polk.” Vic sighed. “Polk’s only contact after he was in San Quentin was with his old buddies from the Aryan Brotherhood, who told him that they knew the whereabouts of his granddaughter. Of course, they knew that she was dead and had gotten Gina to be the substitute. She’s got a history with The Order, a motorcycle gang associated with the AB. If I was going to place a bet, I’d say that this was to be Felix’s blood in, blood out, and Gina was supposed to watch over the operation for the guys inside. Polk would be allowed to go into semiretirement as long as he kept providing product for the Brotherhood.”
The Bear folded his arms and covered half his face with a hand. “So they were not really related.”
“Nope.” Vic shifted in the chair by my desk. “Polk had a daughter, but she died of an apparent suicide two years before he got out, and the real granddaughter died in a car accident shortly after that. Polk never knew about the granddaughter, and as near as we can tell, Gina started writing to him to establish some sort of bullshit family bond. Polk was about to go rogue, and the whole fake granddaughter thing was a way to keep tabs on him.” She rustled some papers, and I assumed she was reading from a report. “The PO says he disappeared about ten months after release, which would’ve placed him here about seven months ago and that coincides with Gina’s contact with the Stewarts.”
I ignored the temptation to raise my head. “Did she really meet Duane in Mexico?”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “She might’ve met him in a Mexican restaurant, but that’s about as far south as that goes. She’s a poster child for fucked-up—in and out of foster homes, finally living on the streets, and prostitution. Then she got hung up with this motorcycle gang. The only way a female gets anything in that gang is by putting out sex, information, drugs, and all of the above.”