The Classic was parked by the scales along with a phalanx of tow trucks, all from different decades, but no one seemed to be around.
“Pull over here and park it.”
He did as I requested without comment. It was possible he was dreading the rest of the long winter even more than I was and that his words were also gone to Nebraska with the wind.
I took a sounding. “How’s Marie?”
It took a moment, but the words slowly surfaced. “More tired than she was when she was pregnant.”
“I bet.” I had thought about telling him a few months ago how tiring it would be when the little rascal was out and about but had decided to keep that nugget of wisdom to myself. “How’s Antonio?”
He continued to look at the zigzag patterns of snow, his face away from me. “He sleeps . . . sometimes.”
“It can get a little wearing.”
I watched his breath on the window. “What?”
“Babies, they can get a little wearing.”
He still didn’t move. “Yeah.”
“Have you figured out whose he is?”
He sat there until he turned his head far enough forward so that one eye drifted my way. “What?”
I leaned against my door, readjusted my old .45 so that it wasn’t poking me, and looked at the Basquo. “All right, what’s on your mind, Sancho.”
He contemplated the Remington twelve-gauge locked onto the transmission hump, and we sat there listening to the dry rhythm of the wind gusts as they pushed against the outside of the truck. His voice sounded like it was coming out of a barrel. “I’m thinking about going back to corrections.”
Santiago had started his law enforcement career in Rawlins at the state prison’s maximum security wing. I’d had him for less than a year but liked him and wanted to keep him. “Why?”
It took him a moment to respond. “I think I’m better suited working in an environment where I know everybody’s guilty.”
I smiled. “At least judged to be guilty by a jury of their peers.”
“Well then, in an environment where I can treat everybody as if they’re guilty.” I didn’t say anything. “Look, I know you’re going to try and talk me out of doing this . . .”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
“Nope.” I tipped my hat back and looked at him. “You decide to go, I’ll give you a recommendation that’ll turn the state attorney general’s head, but the only thing I ask is that you give it a few weeks and not make your move too quickly. It seems to me you’ve got an awful lot on your plate right now and—”
“I’m giving you my two-weeks’ notice as of today.” He turned back to the glass.
So much for the wise ol’ sheriff routine.
I closed my mouth, took a breath, and continued to inspect him for remnants of the man I’d hired fourteen months ago. It was a tough business coming to terms with your own mortality, and some people, once they are confronted with its face, never forget its features. “Okay.”
We returned to the silence, and then he spoke again. “I’ve talked it over with Marie.”
I thought about Martha and how she’d never adjusted to the life. “Okay.” The word was like a bad taste.
“You still want me for the two weeks?”
I thought about all those years, all those times I’d thought about quitting. “You bet.”
I cracked open my door, and even in the cold, the smell was like a wall.
I had noticed that Duane had approached the driver’s side of the truck, but Sancho hadn’t. When Duane tapped on the driver’s side window, Santiago started, which made Duane jump back in turn, whereupon he lost his balance and fell onto the frozen ground, which was pooled with a slick of motor oil and frozen rusty water.
Sancho turned and looked at me. “Jesus.”
I opened the door the rest of the way, and Dog jumped out. I gave Duane a hand up. There were tattoos on his knuckles and under his thermal hood was a T-shirt with the inscription, MESS WITH ME, AND YOU MESS WITH THE WHOLE TRAILER PARK. The humor didn’t seem to match the young man’s sensibilities, so someone must’ve bought it for him or maybe I was underestimating Duane.
“You guys here about the hand?”
I nodded. “We heard it was just a finger.”
He looked nervous, but then he always looked nervous when we were around. He still smelled vaguely like marijuana. “Yunh-huh, yeah, a finger.”
I heard a low growl and looked at Dog, who was sitting on my foot. He was transfixed and looking directly at the junkyard’s quasi-office where, in one of the claw-scarred, Plexiglas windows, Butch and Sundance were seated at attention with only their heads showing. They were as big as Dog but not as bulky. He growled again, low enough to quake my own lungs, and I swatted at him.
“Stop it.” He easily evaded my hand and looked at me, hurt at my admonishment. I threw a chin toward the two Heinz fifty-seven variety wolves. “They’re behaving, so you better be good or I’ll put you back in the truck.”
I glanced at the two sets of eyes that studied us, aware that even if they were behaving, it didn’t mean they weren’t planning. There was something about the way they sat there quietly that reminded me of what my friend Henry Standing Bear says about the quiet ones being like the Cheyenne, waiting until you were in a compromised position, then moving to action. For now, they were behind closed doors, and I was just as glad.
“Are you watching the office for your grandfather?”
“Yunh-huh.”
“Where’s he?”
He gestured with a thick hand. “That way.”
I nodded and started off. “Make sure to keep Butch and Sundance in the office, okay?”
“Okay.”
Piles of garbage were heaped to the surrounding hillsides on our right and as Double Tough, another of my deputies, would have said, the unfettered smells were bad enough to gag a maggot off a gut wagon. All in all, it looked pretty much how I was beginning to feel.
The Basquo caught up but kept a hand over his mouth and nose. “How about I stay in the truck?”
I shook my head. “Nunh-unh.” I waited for a response, but there wasn’t any. “If this is your last two weeks, then you’re going to be the primary on this one.”
He sighed, and his shoulders shrugged a little as he stuffed the small evidence kit under his arm. “It’s freezing. How come we don’t just drive the rest of the way in?”
“Because I’ve already lost two tires to scrap metal and wayward drywall screws in this place, and I’m not about to lose another.”
I flipped the collar up on my coat and stuffed my gloved hands even deeper into my pockets. The high plains was a place of extremes with a people of extremes—most of my work involved the sentient and venal aspects of human nature—but even with the wet and the real, we generally didn’t get body parts.
As we walked toward the hill, there was a cracking sound from the road that led to the dump’s interior. Saizarbitoria looked in the direction of the noise and then back to me. “Are those shots?” There was more than a little concern in his voice.
“Yep. A .22, I’d say.”
He picked up his pace, and I followed along like a one-man posse. I’d gone about three steps when I remembered Dog—he was still watching Butch and Sundance. “Hey.”
He looked at me, back to them, and then followed.
I nudged him with my leg. “What’re you, a tough guy?”
When we got over the hill, it was as I’d expected. Geo Stewart, Durant Memorial Hospital patient-at-large, was dispatching rats with a Savage automatic varmint rifle at an alarming rate. At least, I assumed it was rats. He turned to prop the stock on his knee so that he could remove the tiny magazine, gave us a brief nod of his head to indicate that he was aware of our presence, and then scooped a handful of rounds from his stained and tattered Carhartt. “Hey, Sheriff, long time no see.”