An Obvious Fact (15 page)

Unsettled at being interrupted, he caught himself. “Excuse me?”

Vic's smile narrowed, and her jaw muscles bunched just a bit. “You come over here to mind-fuck me, Bob? Because if you did you're going to end up getting fucked yourself.” She gestured toward the elaborate walkways and towers. “This golfing with guns is fun, but I've been trying to hit shit that was shooting at me since I was in my twenties, so if, indeed, you are trying to mind-fuck me—go fuck yourself, because I fuck back.”

He stood there for a stunned moment and then, at a loss for anything else to do, turned and looked at me. I grinned. “She does and not gently.”

He stood there for a moment more and then, without another word, turned and walked away.

“Hemingway—that's where the quote came from.”

Nutter laughed. “Bullshit that you know that.”

I glanced at the chief. “She's got a T-shirt from the Philadelphia Warrants Department with that quote on it.”

Vic grinned. “I love that shirt—it's one of my favorites.”

My undersheriff's partner came over and extended a hand toward me, the late-in-the-sky sun playing off her curly blonde hair and Pacific-colored eyes. “Cornelia Evans.”

“Nice to meet you.” I turned toward Bill. “This is Chief Nutter, and I assume you've already met my undersheriff, Victoria Moretti?”

She leaned in closer to the Terror. “Hey, generally we split and do mixed doubles for the finals; is that okay? You know, Sadie Hawkins. You can pick first.”

My undersheriff looked baffled. “Huh?”

I translated, gesturing toward Nance and Carlton. “Ladies' choice.”

“Oh.” She smiled and glanced at the two men. “I'll take the old guy, the surgeon.”

“Carlton's good, but he's getting a little long in the tooth. Are you sure you don't want Bob?”

“No, he's a prick.” She made the statement as if it were the time of day.

It took Evans a few seconds to regain her composure. “Okay then.” She stuck her hand out. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” They shook, and Evans continued on her way toward the two men to deliver the news.

After a brief conversation, the older gentleman came over to meet his new partner, and in a soft, Southern accent murmured, “Well, hello young lady; how should we go about vanquishing these upstarts?” Vic smiled as they shook hands, and he glanced at me. “Walt Longmire, the much-vaunted sheriff of Absaroka County, Wyoming.”

“You and I have a connection, Dr. Carlton.”

“And what might that be?”

“Back in the late eighties you had a patient in Billings, a young girl of Japanese descent, who was in an automobile accident and had to be helicoptered down to Children's Hospital in Denver.”

He clutched his chin like it was a knuckleball and took a second to think. “
Amaterasu
, shining over heaven. As I recall it was a difficult case, and the helicopter didn't make it to Denver.” He didn't say anything more, and I could see that he was unsure about asking.

“It didn't, but she did. Came into my office a while back at Christmas—she lives in San Francisco. Maybe we'll have a beer sometime, and I'll tell you the whole story.”

“I would enjoy that.” He turned back, smiled at Vic, and gestured toward the course. “In the meantime, young lady, we have work to do.”

• • •

It was decided that the two teams would face off at station four and shoot with random pulls just to make things a little more interesting. If needed, the two teams would go into a second round or even a third if things stayed tight.

Nance and Evans were going to shoot first, and, evidently,
Bob wasn't into the whole ladies-first thing since he strode up to the platform and lifted his shotgun into a median position.

He barked the call. “Pull!”

It was a tough one, the first target being the high house and coming from the left. He nailed it and then drew down on the one that had just taken flight from the low house and his right. The thunder of the 12 gauge echoed against the Black Hills, and the second clay exploded.

Chief Nutter nodded. “Bob's good—there's not too much doubt about that.”

“Yep, but let's see if the surgeon can carve him up.”

Carlton looked every bit the national champion as he raised the barrels and focused in on the upcoming targets. If you were doing diagrams on how to shoot skeet, you could've done worse than the figure the older man presented—classic was the only word for it.

The first clay came out of the high house again, and Carlton smashed it. Then the next came from the same direction but at a lower trajectory; the surgeon quickly adjusted and shattered that one as well.

He cocked his head as he turned back toward the crowd, and I noted that there was more applause for him than there had been for Nance—evidently the doctor was a fan favorite.

Evans shot well but barely clipped her first clay with an overenthusiastic shot; she then tagged the second.

Vic carefully placed the plugs back in her ears and stepped up onto the station without a shred of self-consciousness. The trigger hand sat at her side like a coiled spring, her slender fingers flicking every so often, and she carefully loaded the Remington.

The puller regarded her. “Ready?”

My undersheriff's hand relaxed and came up in a graceful arc, snapping the shotgun together and in place, her soft voice once again like a pin dropping. “Pull.”

The two clays came from the low tower to her right simultaneously, and Vic peppered them with 12-gauge shot.

Carlton shook his head as he stepped up; he hit his first target but cleanly missed his second shot. I could see him apologizing to Vic as he stepped from the stand.

I watched as Nance coached Evans, but the two-time national champion missed one and we were tied.

There was a brief conversation at the stand, and the pullers and judges got together with Nance and Evans as Vic and Carlton stepped over to where we were.

I smiled at her. “How you feel, deadeye?”

The Terror pushed her cap back and pulled her earplugs. “I'm cool, but I could use a drink.”

Nance approached with a couple of judges; Evans was not with them. He leaned on the rail again. “Frank, Connie's graciously elected to step down, and if you're willing to do the same, Miss Moretti and I can go head-to-head Tour Pro style.”

The older man stepped to the side. “I'm afraid all I'm doing is holding my partner back, so I'm happy to acquiesce.”

Nance smiled and glanced at Vic. “Tour Pro style then?”

“Fuck yeah.” Vic bared her teeth, especially the extended canine. “What's that, anyway?”

Nance didn't say anything but turned away toward the range.

Carlton watched him go and then shook his head. “You shoot multiple times. They'll place a row of rounds in front of
you and as you fire, you break the shotgun down and fire again, sometimes as many as a dozen rounds instead of the two.”

She studied me. “Like tactical with pop-ups?”

“Pretty much.”

She snapped a finger and pointed before walking away. “Hendrick's—stirred, not shaken.”

Chief Nutter and Carlton both looked at me. “Dirty martini, her favorite. Olives with the juice and onions.”

Carlton nodded. “Fighting scurvy, is she?”

Nutter watched Vic's nether parts as she stalked toward the shooting stand. “Somehow, I don't think scurvy would stand a chance.”

Gentlemanliness be damned again, Nance strode to the platform and stood, blocking Vic's way as my undersheriff casually placed the butt of the Remington in her cupped hands again, the barrels lying easily against her shoulder.

It was easy to see why Nance chose this form of shooting for his finale. He handled the mechanics of reloading impressively and didn't miss a single shot until the last set, where he missed the lower clay completely but then caught it with the second shot—scoring an eleven and a half.

There were cheers from the crowd. Like him or not, it was damn fine shooting.

I didn't see how Vic was going to be able to do it.

The Terror ignored Nance's smirk, stepped to the station, and stretched her neck to one side and then the other as I'd seen her do at hundreds of weapons qualification shoots down at the academy in Douglas.

Nance moved to the far side of the narrow table but then
stopped and stood there, just barely in Vic's line of sight. I waited for the attendants or judges to make him move, but they didn't.

Vic's hand dropped again and twitched once.

The puller seemed hesitant but then asked, “Ready?”

She gave the barely perceptible nod and then brought her hand up in the elegant arc again, slipping two of the shells from the table, loading the shotgun, and raising the barrels in one infinitely supple move. Her head dropped like a mongoose ready to strike, and her lips pursed. “Pull.”

Like a machine-fed shotgun, she adjusted her aim, dropping the barrels and reloading after each twin pieces of destruction, moving down the course like a ballerina working the barre. The closer to her opponent she came, the wider his eyes grew. Science was meeting art, and art was kicking science's ass.

I've seen some shooting in my life, but I don't recall ever seeing an exhibition like the one Vic was giving just now. There was a rhythm to her that was otherworldly, a matching of flesh and metal resulting in a series of explosions that echoed off the hills like a paradiddle of percussive beats. You could feel the crowd leaning forward as her momentum grew until two of the next-to-last targets dove with the wind. There was the briefest of pauses as she dipped the barrel, but the Terror's aim was true and the clays exploded as if she'd reached out with a talon and crushed them one by one.

I'd like to think that Nance jarred the table by accident. Vic's last two shells fell over and, like a ship hitting an iceberg or a dirigible bursting into flames or two locomotives
slamming into each other on an elevated trestle, they rolled off the edge of the table in agonizingly slow motion.

The crowd buzzed, but without pause, Vic cracked open the Remington with one hand and stooped but could catch only one shell, which she slipped into the breech, slamming the 12 gauge erect. The first target sailed, having been caught by the wind again, but the other launched in a direct trajectory, and I'm sure the Terror was smiling that subtle little smile that made only one wrinkle at the corner of her perfect mouth as they crossed paths just above the bead sight on the Remington.

She blew both of them out of the sky with the single shot.

As I slipped the champion into the bed in our room at the Hulett Motel, she slurred her words just a touch, having succumbed to her fifth dirty martini. “Get in here wi'me.”

I sat beside her. “I can't. I have to go find Dog.”

She clutched my arm. “He can climb in'ere, too.”

I glanced at the smallish bed. “I don't think there's room.”

She stuck her tongue in my ear. “You can have som'ma my room.”

“I just want to make sure he and Henry are all right, considering the company they're keeping.”

Releasing me just a little, she turned her head and smiled at the monstrous loving cup on the nightstand that barely left room for the lamp. “You seen my trophy?”

I pulled away a little and nodded. “Yep, I have.”

“I won that.”

“I know you did.”

“'Ma helluva shot.”

“Yep, you are.”

“Get in'ere.”

I stood, her hand still holding my wrist. “I'll be right back.”

She ran her tongue along the web of my thumb and curled her legs. “Promise?”

“Yep.”

Her eyes strayed to the nightstand again. “Y'see my trophy?”

“Yep.”

“I won that.”

I pulled my hand loose and retreated, not quite sure if I could turn my back on her just yet. “I'll be back.”

“Promise?”

“Yep.”

She slumped into her pillow with a smile, her eyes closing. “'Kay.”

Slipping the door shut behind me, I stepped out into the cool, clear air of night. It had been quite a party up at the Golf Club at Devils Tower clubhouse.

And as far as I knew, it was still going on.

Nance had taken the loss better than I'd thought him capable, and the bar had been open to all. I'd had a beer, but the Terror, flushed with victory, had imbibed like a sailor on shore leave; actually, she put them to epic shame.

I made the corner of the motel in time to see the two miscreants who'd attempted to steal Rosalie, Henry's motorcycle, now attempting to find the hood release on Lola, which was parked next to the Pennington County sheriff's Tahoe. “You know, you guys need to find another line of work. Honestly.”

Eddy the Viking was the first to speak. “We were just wanting to look at the engine. It's got the 430 Interceptor motor in it, right?”

I shrugged. “I guess. I'm not much of a car guy, but the man who owns it is, and if he catches you monkeys fooling around with his vehicle, he's likely to kick your asses so long you'll be wearing them as hats.”

They looked at me blankly.

“Your asses.”

They still stared at me.

“As hats.”

They didn't move.

“Never mind.” I walked past them, deciding that I'd rather take in the air than drive the two blocks with the trailer in tow. I pointed at Irl Engelhardt's cruiser. “Get out of here before I lock the two of you in the back of that thing with the radio tuned to the rap station in Rapid at high volume.”

I crossed the motorcycle-ridden street, passed the art gallery at the corner, and, cutting through a beer garden to the alley behind the Ponderosa, tried my best to get there without getting anything spilled on me.

I sidestepped around a row of bikes and could see a large crowd. There was a lot of yelling, which even conquered a really bad garage-band rendition of “What's Your Name.” As I got closer and could see over the rabble, I caught a glimpse of a tattooed, platinum-haired man in one of those blue service-station jackets, who was pushing someone hard enough to collapse his rib cage.

Figuring there were enough people around so I really didn't have to get involved, I slid along the side in hopes of making it to the Ponderosa.

As I took another step, I could see between the two guys in front of me that the pugilist who was losing the battle was
none other than Patrolman Corbin Dougherty. Frozen for a split second, I watched the rookie's eyes get wide as the biker kept after him.

It was pretty much every police officer's nightmare—to be surrounded in unsure territory with no backup and facing a much greater physical opponent. There were two equalizers, however—that piece of metal on his shirt and the even bigger piece of metal in the holster at his side. The first one having failed, I watched as he began reaching for the second.

There was a crate of some kind behind me, so I stepped up and pushed off it between the two guys in front of me. I rolled my right fist like a cudgel and brought it down in a full swing with all my body weight into a blow that came from above, striking the antagonist in the side of the head like a falling tree limb.

The guy looked like he had a hard head, so I didn't figure it would kill him, but it might've come close. He dropped like a poleaxed steer, pausing for only a second at his knees and then falling the rest of the way onto the gravel surface of the alley, face first.

I landed somewhat clumsily but then righted and turned a full circle just to make sure that no one was going to rush me in retaliation, even going so far as to look for a little reinforcement from Brady Post, the ATF agent, but he wasn't there. Everybody looked a little stunned, but none of them appeared to be ready to make a move, so I turned and focused on the patrolman. Dougherty sat there with his opponent lying between his legs as I held my left hand out, quietly flexing the feeling back into my rapidly swelling right. “Fight's over.”

He took my hand, and I pulled him up as he wiped some
blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of a wrist. “I'd say.”

Quickly dusting him off, I turned to look at the assembled pack of onlookers who were just now getting their bearings, their challenger still doing his best impression of a biker-skin rug. “Break it up and get out of here before we run all of you in.”

One of the ones in the back shouted, “You some kind of cop or something?”

I zeroed him out as he tried to duck behind another guy, and I held up my badge wallet, letting it fall open to display my own piece of trusty metal. “Absaroka County sheriff. Beat it. Now.”

There was more mumbling and a few veiled threats, but they moved off, leaving the tattooed man still lying facedown and showing no signs of getting up. So much for the camaraderie of the road. He was breathing, but I stooped anyway and felt the pulse at the flames inked at his neck, satisfied that he was still among us.

I looked back up at Dougherty. “What happened?”

He shook his head. “I was walking down the alley, and he ran his shoulder into me, so I turned around and said something. It just got stupid from there.”

I nodded, thinking something about the cold-cocked fighter looked vaguely familiar; I pulled him over by the shoulder, revealing the somewhat warped head of Billy ThE Kiddo. “Oh, hell.”

“You two know each other?”

“We met earlier today.” I glanced around for some help as I checked him for any weapons. “I don't suppose you could call in some backup to help you get him to the jail?”

“Why can't you?”

I stood, convinced that Billy wasn't carrying. “Because he's got a restraining order against me.”

The patrolman glanced at the man at our feet. “I can see why.” He pulled the mic from his shoulder and called it in, then turned to look at me. “Get out of here.”

I started off. “You bet.”

He called out as I hurried away, “And thanks!”

• • •

The Pondo was crowded, but I saw two of my favorite life-forms seated on a bench in the far right-hand corner. I threaded my way through the throng and was glad to see that Lola wasn't there.

Finally reaching the elevated cable spool that served as a table, I slid onto a stool opposite the Cheyenne Nation and my faithful companion, who smiled and wagged his massive tail. The Bear looked up from what I assumed was a sparkling water with a lime slice and then at the half-filled wineglass in front of Dog. “I am attempting to get your dog drunk, but he is not cooperating.”

I caught the eye of a waitress, gestured toward a Rainier at an adjacent table, and then turned back to the two of them. I reached over and ruffled the hair behind Dog's ear. “He's generally smarter than we are.”

“I heard Vic won the shooting competition.”

“She did.”

“Is that what took you so long?”

“Well, that and we were running interference with the highway patrol for you and Lola.”

“So, that is what took so long.”

“That . . . and a few other things.” I glanced back toward the alley. “Do you think it's a hundred yards between here and that beer garden on the corner?”

He studied the swollen knuckles on my right hand. “Why?”

“Nothing.” I turned back, tucked my fist under the table, and studied him, taking in his lackluster demeanor. “What's up?”

He brushed his hair away from his face and taking a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, tossed it on the table between us.

“What's this?”

He said nothing but sipped his sparkling water and eyed me as I picked it up and unfolded it.

At the top were the printed words DNA Genetic Ancestry, University of Arizona. I read down and could see that the registry listed Native American first, Plains Indian second, and Northern Cheyenne third, to be specific. “Yours?”

He set the glass back down. “Bodaway's.”

I stared at him. “I thought you were sure.”

“So did I.”

“I thought he was Southwest—Apache.”

“So did I.”

Reading the rest of the sheet, I could see that the breakdown of the young man's heredity and genealogy matched Henry's very closely except for the part that was Polish or Mazovia by way of Kujawy. The date of the testing center's findings was less than a month earlier. “She did this in anticipation of meeting you here?”

“So it would appear.”

I flipped the piece of paper back on the table as the waitress came over and set the Rainier down. “Buck fifty.”

I handed her two and waved her away. “It's just a piece of paper that says you and he share a genetic ancestry, but it isn't absolute proof that he's yours.”

“No, we would need a blood test for that.”

I spun the paper around and looked at the registered blood type, O—the same as Henry but still a pretty common type. “Does she want you to take a test?”

“No.”

“You should. Do it and then you'll know—till then she's messing with your head.”

He sipped his water and, leaning over, nudged Dog with his shoulder, whereupon the beast reciprocated by licking the side of the Bear's head. “What if he is mine?”

“Then you have a son.”

He smiled. “Is that the way it works, Grandpa?”

“No, well yep. . . . But it's worse than that, Henry. Vic talked to the doctors at Rapid and their considered opinion is that Bodaway's injuries are serious enough that they don't think he's coming back.”

His big hand covered the bottom of his face, and he mumbled through his fingers, his eyes still on me. “No chance?”

“They seemed to indicate none.”

He breathed a laugh that would've frozen sagebrush. “That would be about right. I would have had a son for thirty years, and the weekend I was to first meet him he would go into a coma with no hope of awakening.”

“Do a blood test.”

He let his hand fall to his lap. “I am not much of a test taker these days.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

He looked away. “Go by my feelings.”

“Just so you know, that's usually what you warn me not to do.”

“Am I usually right?”

“Only ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“So, we have an obvious fact.”

We talked for another twenty minutes until I felt the pressure of a revolver muzzle pressed into my right ear and heard a very angry voice. “Did you hit me?”

Fortunately, Henry's first move was to grab Dog's collar or else the hundred-and-fifty-pound brute would've launched off the bench to sink his teeth into the arm of the individual I figured was holding the .38 in my ear. Instead, Dog pulled back his lips in a promise.

I raised the beer and took a sip, attempting my best Leo Gordon. “Have a seat, Kiddo, and I'll buy you a beer.”

He nudged the two-inch barrel farther into my ear canal with his left hand and repeated the question. “Did you hit me, motherfucker?”

Setting the Rainier down, I slowly turned, and he traced the muzzle across my cheek until it now rested on the bridge of my nose. His face was red, and all I could think was how did he get away from Dougherty and where did he get the sidearm after I'd checked him. “Why, yes, I did.”

If it was possible, his face grew even redder, and I was calculating what my next tactical move would be. The saloon was crowded, and I didn't want anyone else to be hurt, which meant I would have to kick him at the same time I grabbed the revolver, shoving it upward, flipping it, and pushing it into his
body so that if he did pull the trigger, the only one who would be hit with a round would be himself.

“You sucker punched me, cocksucker?”

It was a risky business, but the alternatives weren't so great.

I was about to make my move when a hand shot out, bent Billy ThE's up and back, snatched the revolver out of his hand before either of us could breathe, then cried havoc and let slip the Dog of War.

When primates are properly motivated, we can move with the best of them, and Billy ThE Kiddo was highly motivated. Scrambling backward, he pulled a neighboring table down in front of him, which succeeded in deflecting Dog to the right just long enough for Kiddo to turn and lunge for the alley.

Most everybody in the bar, realizing that a were-monster had been loosed, vacated the immediate area in what I assumed would be an attempt to acquire torches and pitchforks.

Having the advantage of four legs, Dog caught his balance, turned to the left, and shot for the alley where ThE was desperately attempting to flee.