An Obvious Fact (8 page)

• • •

Amazingly enough, Torres's phone fit the Bear's charger. Henry plugged it in and set it on the nightstand between the beds. I studied the small screen as he stripped off his motorcycle gear. “Isn't it supposed to do something?”

“It is probably so dead that there is no power to the screen yet.”

“How long does that take?”

He climbed in his bed in his underwear and a T-shirt. “You know, I think I am going to buy you one of those things one of these days.”

A dim red light appeared on the screen inside a graphic of a depleted battery. “It's charging.”

He flipped off the reading light on his side. “It will take almost an hour to fully charge; are you going to watch it the entire time?”

“Technology fascinates me.”

He grunted and rolled over, and I could see the road-rash scrapes on his back through the thin shirt. “You do not have to keep me informed as to the progress. Good night.”

“Good night.” Dog rested his head on the bed and looked at me. I patted the spread, and he was up in an instant, occupying a full half of the surface area. “Hey, Henry?”

“What?”

“Why don't you want to help this woman?”

“She is a manipulator, and I do not think she has done anything in the last thirty years besides sharpen her skills.” He waited a moment before adding, “Not all fair maidens are worthy of rescue, Walt.”

“Maybe she is this time.”

He studied me over his shoulder and then, reaching out, turned off my light. “I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.”

I sighed, stood, and undressed, hanging my clothes on the chair by the desk. I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and then stood there looking at myself, trying to figure out what to do next. Corbin Dougherty needed my help, Lola Wojciechowski needed my help, maybe even Bodaway Torres needed my help. On the other hand, Special Agent Brady Post didn't need my help, and Henry Standing Bear didn't appear to want to be involved with anything that included
the
Lola.

Sometimes it was like that, I suppose; some people become so important in your life that they're almost like a trademark,
but then they're gone. Sometimes they might reappear, but they're nothing at all like what you've assembled in your mind since their departure; sometimes you can't even stand them anymore, because they break up the legend and nothing dies harder than a good, personal legend.

I looked at the crumbling giant in the mirror, nowhere near as young as he used to be. Maybe if I were thirty or even forty I might think about hanging around Hulett, but I'm not. Plus, it was the Bear's call since he knew Lola, and the Bear was softly snoring in the next room, blissfully unconcerned.

So tomorrow I'd watch him attempt another hill, and then we'd load up and go home. It was that simple—that, or I wanted it to be.

By the time I got back to the bed, Dog was taking up a full two-thirds, and I was relegated to the one-third left, clutching the mattress like a mountaineer in a hanging bivouac. I had just closed my eyes when I heard a buzz.

Flipping the light back on, I looked at Bodaway's phone, but it was dark. Then I noticed it was Henry's cell lying next to it that was making noise.

The Bear hadn't moved, so I picked it up and stared at the screen, confirming the fact that I was in deep trouble. I hit the button and took my medicine.

“So, you're not dead?”

I kept my voice low in an attempt to not wake the Cheyenne Nation. “Nope, I, uh . . . escaped with my life. Just now.”

“You know, if you had called me back I would've been worried.” Her voice took on a fake Western tone, emblematic of every bad cowboy movie made in the '40s. “The last time we encountered the good sheriff he was at gunpoint. . . .” Her
voice slipped to serious. “So, who's pointing a gun at you this time?”

“People are always pointing guns at me.”

“Daddy?”

“Lola.”

There was a pause. “You don't mean
the
Lola.”

“I do.”

“Henry's Lola?”

“The one my granddaughter is named after.”

“Don't start.” Another pause. “I assume she's gorgeous?”

“In a rough, roadhouse kind of way.”

“Oh, my.”

“Yep, her son was hurt in a motorcycle accident over here.”

Another pause. “Umm, so how are she and Henry?”

“They're not.”

She laughed that lovely, melodious laugh that reminded me so much of her mother. “Then don't you get involved.”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

“Planning has nothing to do with it.”

“Right.” I smiled and held the phone close, knowing full well that part of it was that she was my daughter, but also just from the sheer joy of knowing her. “Did you call just to give advice to the lovelorn?”

“No, I called to make sure you didn't have any bullets in you.”

“I'm bullet-free. So, how's
my
Lola?”

“Sleeping, finally. She's a night owl. Was I like that?”

I glanced at the time on the phone. “You still are.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I thought I'd better give you a heads-up. Lena said that Vic is planning on flying into Rapid City tomorrow and surprising you guys.”

I dropped my voice even lower. “I hope she gets in early. Henry's talking about skipping the Show and Shine and just heading home after the hill climb tomorrow.”

“He's not going to show Lucie this year?”

“I guess not, so hopefully Vic will get here early.” I smiled into the receiver. “Is my undersheriff's imminent arrival the reason you warned me about Lola?”

“No, I warned you because you're stupid when it comes to females of all shapes and sizes when they are in distress.”

“That's the second time I've been cautioned about that tonight.” I tried to touch on the next subject as lightly as possible. “So, there's still nothing going on with the investigation in Philadelphia?”

“No, and she says she misses Wyoming, but I think she misses you.” I wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so I just remained quiet and listened as her tone changed yet again. “Hey, when are you coming down here to see the new digs?”

“Probably next week. I told Ruby that I was taking a few days off to go spend time with my family.”

She yawned. “Good. We miss you, too, you know?”

“I do. Get some sleep, Punk; that little one'll be up soon enough.”

“Roger that. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Over.”

She giggled. “Over.”

I turned the thing off and laid it on the nightstand just as the other phone there began vibrating. Evidently, it had summoned enough energy to work. Curious as to who was trying to contact the young man, I picked it up. It had buzzed twice, which I had learned means a text message, and I stared at it for
a moment, checking the date and time to see if it was old, but the date was today and the time, two minutes ago.

MEET ME AT THE NINTH GREEN

The sender's name had not come up, but the number was a 310 area code. I just lay there looking at the message, making sure it said what I thought it said. I hesitated, looking at the time of morning and thinking about whether I really wanted to continue being involved with this case, but then went ahead and did what I knew I was going to do—and sent back two letters in return.

OK

I guess it all comes down to the fact that I hate mysteries, and I wanted to know who had attempted a vehicular homicide on Bodaway Torres. I quietly dressed, went to the door, and looked back at Dog. He raised his head and looked back at me, but then lowered it and didn't make another move.

So much for backup.

I closed the door behind me, fingered the Cheyenne Nation's keys that I'd taken from the nightstand, and walked around the cabin just in time to interrupt two scruffy-looking guys attempting to unlock Lucie, the Bear's Indian motorcycle, from the trailer.

The nearest one tilted his Viking helmet back, smiled, and waved as I approached. “How you doin'?”

“Good. You?”

“Oh, we're having trouble with these locks.” He noted that I'd stopped and was watching him. “Um . . . this yours?”

“Might as well be.”

The other scruff, who was holding a tire iron, stepped back. “Then you're saying we shouldn't be doing this?”

“If I were the real owner you never would've heard him, and they would've found your bodies in the Belle Fourche River tomorrow morning.”

The one with the tire iron palmed it a few times, attempting to send a message via Morse code. “He a tough guy, like you?”

“Tougher.”

“Well, how 'bout we see how tough you are.”

I sighed and looked down at the more reasonable of the two. “Look, Eddy, I'm old and tired and if you piss me off bad enough I'm going to have to pull this .45 I've got at the small of my back and shoot you just to show your friend how tough I am.”

He studied me as his buddy started sidling to the left back of the trailer. “We know each other?”

“That Indian belongs to Henry Standing Bear, Heads Man of the Dog Soldier Society, Bear Clan.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right.”

“How come I'm the one that gets shot?”

I gestured toward his buddy, now coming around the back, supposedly out of my line of sight. “He looks too stupid to learn from it, but you know, I just might be changing my mind.” I slipped the Colt from my back and turned to look at number two. He froze when he saw the semiautomatic hanging at my thigh. “Go home, or wherever it is you go; nothing good ever happens this late at night, and the two of you are liable to get killed.”

Tire iron's mouth unfroze. “Is that a real Colt?”

“Yep, it is.” I gestured with my sidearm. “Go. Home.”

“I hear they jam a lot.”

“Not this one.” I raised the weapon. “I said, go home.”

They left, mumbling to each other, something about life not being fair. Figuring I'd pushed my luck borrowing the real Lola's Cadillac all day the day before, I slipped behind the wheel of Henry's Lola and started her up. Dodging through the remaining motorcyclists who appeared to be impervious to both exhaustion and alcohol, I made my way across town toward the only golf course I knew existed in Hulett.

The Devils Tower Club sits on a private mesa above the town, which gave me the first indication as to who might be attempting to contact Bodaway. I turned the vintage bird and trailer in a broad arc, lined up in the diagonal parking at the center of the lot, and killed the engine. To my right was what I assumed to be the clubhouse, a beautiful if predictable structure of stone and massive logs.

There were no other vehicles, just a few carts parked near the building. I quietly got out of the T-bird and walked over to a large, hand-engraved map to look for the ninth green. It was a red moon that shone across the clipped fairway and I struck off, careful to stay on the cart path in the shade of the conifers.

I climbed a rise, and when I got to the top I could see someone standing under a tree by a water hazard, and I listened as the frogs croaked at each other. A trail cut through the trees so that I would come up behind whoever it was. I stopped about fifty yards away and studied the figure long enough to know that it was female.

I got a little closer and noticed she was wearing a set of earbuds, her head bobbing to the music—so much for stealth. I stepped to the side and raised a hand, trying not to scare her.
“Howdy.” I needn't have bothered with that, either—she screamed loud enough to be heard by Mount Rushmore. I held up my hands in surrender. “Hey, it's okay.”

She had an arm in a sling but managed to yank the earbuds out to scream at me some more. “Who the hell are you?”

“Sorry—my name is Walt Longmire.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

I folded my arms over my chest to show her I didn't mean any harm, meanwhile studying the extraordinarily beautiful young woman. “Sorry.”

“Where's Bodaway?”

It seemed like an odd question. “As far as I know he's still in a hospital room at Rapid City Regional.”

“He's still in the hospital?”

I stared at her. “Well, yes. I was under the impression that you were a witness to the accident.”

“Who told you that?”

“Corbin Dougherty, the officer here in Hulett.”

“And who are you again?”

“Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire.”

She didn't seem impressed and swiped a long lock of blonde from her face. “And where the hell is that?”

“About two hours from here.”

“Wyoming?”

“Yep.” I studied her in return. “You're not up too much on Wyoming geography, are you?”

“I'm from California, and I don't give a shit.”

“Fair enough.”

“Excuse me, but do you know who I am?”

“I was under the assumption that you are Chloe Nance.”

“Yeah, but do you know who I
am
?”

One of the great trials in law enforcement is the “do you know who I am” question, which pops up every now and again. Usually it's a county or city councilman from somewhere else or a state representative, but I didn't think she fit the bill. “Um . . . Bob Nance's daughter?”

“Well, that's one thing, and do you know who he is?”

“Not really.” I took a step past her and looked out at the picturesque scenery, only partially marred by little flags and golf-ball washers. “Look, Miss Nance, are you a witness to Bodaway Torres's accident?”

She tried to fold her own arms but then remembered the sling. “Why should I talk to you about it?”

“I'm assisting the investigating officer.”

She sighed and looked away. “My father says I'm not supposed to say anything to anybody, that it'll just lead to trouble with those people.”