Killer View (15 page)

“Did I say anything?”

“It’s all we’ve got to go on: three pinholes in a map.”

“Maybe it’s enough,” Brandon said.

Walt gripped the wheel more firmly. The tension he was feeling had nothing to do with the snow floor he was driving on.

“There was a time I wanted her back,” Walt said.

Brandon took the opportunity to check the GPS and then to look out the window for the umpteenth time.

“If I fire you, I look resentful. Maybe you sue me.”

Brandon reached for the door handle. “I could walk home from here; it’s only a couple hundred miles.”

“It’s the girls I’m thinking about,” Walt said. “First and foremost, it’s the girls.”

“Shit,” Brandon whispered. “Can we stop this?”

“You want to fuck my wife, that’s your business. Your risk. But you’re fucking me along with her, and you should have thought about that.” He glanced over at Brandon.

“You think I didn’t?”

“Ketchum has an opening for a deputy. Bellevue, maybe.”

The suggestion hung inside the car as it raced up the empty two-lane road. Walt felt insignificant and small.

“My guess is,” Brandon said too loudly, acting as if the recent exchange had not happened, “we’re not going to get in there because the road won’t be plowed.”

“It’ll be plowed,” Walt said. He answered Brandon’s puzzled expression. “Mark visited here. He called on a client. And, in this valley, it’s either cattle or sheep. They’ll keep the road open in winter in order to feed. The satellite map had four or five pivots clustered out there. That’s a ranch, for sure.” Walt having said that, an interruption in the plowed bank appeared a quarter mile ahead. He slowed the Cherokee.

“She complains, I’ll bet,” Walt said. “About your trailer being so small, about your work hours.”

“Is that why you asked me along, Sheriff ? Make sure I log in a lot of OT?”

“Yup.”

Brandon winced. He hadn’t expected the truth.

He was squirming inside, right where Walt wanted him.

“Did you notify the Lemhi sheriff ?” Brandon asked.

“I might have forgotten,” Walt said.

“Because?”

“Lemhi’s a different kind of county. You can’t throw a stick without hitting someone’s nephew or cousin. It’s too cozy. I don’t want to give him a chance to rehearse anything.”

“What would he rehearse?”

“How would I know?”

“Then why say that?”

“Something got Randy killed. Maybe it was the poaching, but I’m not so sure. I think it was the coat he was wearing: Mark’s coat. And now that Mark’s been abducted, and we’ve found the same date-rape cocktail in Randy’s blood, I’m guessing Randy’s death was some kind of misfire. So it’s all on Mark and whatever he was hiding up in his cabin, which means one or all of these ranches are involved.”

“No shit.”

“What gets a vet in trouble? One thing keeps coming to me: mad cow. That’s something any rancher, and especially these good old boys out here, would make damn sure to keep quiet.”

Brandon was no longer paying attention to his GPS. He was leaning in his seat toward Walt, hanging on his every word.

“So what they’d be rehearsing,” Walt said, “is some piece of fiction to provide cover for Mark coming out here, and tracking their ranches, and sticking goddamn pushpins in a map to mark their homesteads, something that has nothing to do with whatever was the original reason they called him out here in the first place.”

“Mad cow.”

“It’s got to be something along those lines. Something big. Something that makes the truth too expensive.”

“So why go to the trouble of abducting him? These old boys are plenty used to the rifle. I don’t see them getting all sentimental.”

“Who knows? Could be they wanted to establish if he’d told anyone. How far along he was in his findings. Could still be their plan to kill him. He could be dead right now.”

He wished he could take back what he’d just said. Saying such things gave them weight. He drove through an open gate in a wire fence and bounced the Cherokee across a cattle guard. Thing rattled to beat hell. A pair of steel grain sheds rose from the snow like gray hats to his left. He drove past a hundred-acre field that was probably knee-high with alfalfa in the summer. Black veins of meandering cow trails cut through the deep snow. A herd of seventy or eighty Angus was wedged tightly into the field’s southwest corner, their backs to the wind.

Walt directed the Cherokee toward the granaries, two wood barns, and a two-story gray clapboard house with white trim. He studied the cows for signs of illness but didn’t know what he was looking for: they all looked mad to him.

In the field directly ahead, sheep fretted, dancing nervously back and forth, as Walt’s Cherokee drew closer. White on white, broken by black legs and black heads. Puppets on unseen strings.

“The thing I’d never get used to about living on a farm like this,” Brandon said, sniffing the air, “is the stink.”

“It’s usually not so bad in winter,” Walt said. “I’ve got to admit: that’s funky.” It was a horrid, bitter smell. Sour and permeating. It only hit them now, as they drove close to the buildings.

“A smell like that,” Brandon said, “no wonder they called a vet.”

LON BERNIE MET THE CHEROKEE WITH FOUR DOGS AT HIS side. In his late fifties, with a florid complexion and soft gray eyes, he wore dirty canvas coveralls, a smudged cowboy hat, and large rubber-coated gloves. His nose carried a curved scar the size of a thumbnail, as pink as Pepto-Bismol. A front tooth had been chipped in a bull-riding championship when Bernie was nineteen. He still wore the belt with the oversized silver buckle to dances at the Grange Hall on Saturday nights, after a steak at the Loading Chute.

“I see a sheriff’s car coming, I expect it to be Ned,” the rancher said, tugging off his glove and offering his calloused hand to both men. His voice sounded like a gearbox with broken parts. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Couple questions, is all, if you’ve got the time,” Walt said.

Brandon banged his boots together, already cold. Windchill was pushing the mercury into the single digits. “Ain’t got nothing but time, this time of year.”

Lon Bernie looked out over Walt’s head—the man was a giant— surveying his animals. He reminded Walt of Hoss Cartwright. Walt sensed in him a cautiousness, a reluctance. It felt for a moment as if the rancher might be considering inviting them inside or to follow him on his chores. Something flickered in his gray eyes as Lon Bernie sucked some air through his top teeth.

“Be my guest,” he said.

Walt shot a quick glance over at Brandon. His deputy stopped banging his boots together.

“Mark Aker, Sun Valley Animal Center, did some work for you recently.”

Lon Bernie’s gray eyes iced over. There was no change in his otherwise-pleasant expression. A fog fled his mouth on each exhale. Lon Bernie: a steam engine climbing the hill.

“Had a cow down with the bloat,” the rancher said. He didn’t seem to feel the cold. Walt was freezing. “Mel Hickenbottom was busy up to Challis. He’s usually the one I’d call. This Aker fellow stepped in. You can’t wait too long with the bloat.”

“Well, that’s a good start for us. You remember how you paid him?”

Lon Bernie briefly lost his composure. “I paid him good, I’ll tell you what. It’s a long drive over here, and he charged by the hour. How is it my livestock is any of your business, anyway, Sheriff ? You going to answer me that?”

“The vet’s brother was killed two nights ago. Now the vet’s gone missing. Mark’s last business brought him over this direction.” Lon Bernie’s face remained expressionless. “Mark doesn’t often tend to the bigger animals. That’s his brother’s job. Seems he made an exception. That interests me. The appointment book shows it was Mel Hickenbottom who called the center. Said your sheep were suffering. Your sheep, not your cattle. No mention of bloat.”

“Could be right,” Lon Bernie said, without missing a beat. “Coulda been the way you say. Maybe it was Mel handled the bloat and the Glitter Gulch vet the sheep.”

The nickname for the Sun Valley area was not new to Walt. The valley’s wealth and glamour offended people like Lon Bernie, and there was nothing to be done about it. Most of the resentment stemmed from jealousy and ignorance and was therefore undeserved. Most but not all. Not by a long shot. Lon Bernie was letting him and Brandon know they were outsiders here and therefore unwelcome, business or not.

“Was it the cattle or the sheep?” Walt asked pointedly.

“I said one of my cattle had the bloat, didn’t I? Something’s always sick around here.”

“What specifically was wrong with your sheep?”

“If I’d known that,” Lon Bernie said, “I wouldn’ta needed no vet, now, would I?”

“Did you get an answer? A diagnosis?”

“You ever been around sheep, Sheriff?” The rancher looked to his right and the hundreds of thick wool coats milling about. “Dumb as paint. You look at ’em wrong and they take sick. Or they throw themselves in the irrigation ditch and their coats get too heavy and they drown themselves in two feet of water. I leave ’em to the vets. A couple of shots and they’re right as rain. I pay my bills on time, and that’s about all there is to it. I’m not asking for no diagnosis, just results.”

“The sheep are better now, then? Did Mark Aker have success with the sheep? Or was he working on your cattle?”

Lon Bernie’s eyes went stone cold. A grin twitched at the edges of his cracked lips.

“Maybe what happened,” Walt suggested, “was that Mel called Mark about the sheep, but then, when Mark got here, it turned out Mel had misspoken and it was actually the cattle having problems.”

“You think I don’t know which of my animals is having problems, Sheriff ? You got a dog? A cat? You can’t tell the difference? Not me. A head of cattle had the bloat. That’s all.”

“My brother,” Brandon said, “once had a cow with bloat. Stuck his Swiss Army knife in the cow and about the worst smell I’ve ever smelled came out. But that cow stood up five minutes later and went on her way. He never even called the vet.”

“Cattle’s got three stomachs, son. Depends which one catches the bloat. I put a knife to our cow three times. Doggone pincushion. Got nothing. Then I called Mel. I thought I was the one called your Glitter Gulch fellow, but, maybe you’re right, it could have been Mel. Don’t see how it matters.”

“Mel took care of the bloat. Mark worked with the sheep,” Walt stated. He did not ask.

“Hell, it has been a month or more, Sheriff. What do I know?”

“Have you heard of any illness at your neighbors’ ranches? Sheep or cattle?”

“No, sir, I have not.” The man’s answer came out much too quickly and sharply. He’d been expecting that question.

“Would you happen to have a bill handy?” Brandon asked. “Could we maybe get a look at it?”

“I pay ’em and I throw ’em out, son.”

“It’s ‘Deputy,’ or ‘Deputy Sheriff,’ not ’son,’” Brandon said, making no effort to conceal his contempt. “The vet, Hickenbottom, would have records?”

“Might have. You’d have to ask him.”

“We will.” Brandon withdrew his notebook and scribbled in it.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Lon Bernie said.

“A man’s dead,” Walt reminded. “That’s fuss enough for us.”

The wind picked up. At a certain temperature, it seemed it couldn’t get any colder, but it always did. Lon Bernie still didn’t seem to feel it.

“Ever had any sign of mad cow over this way?” Walt asked, hoping for a reaction.

“That’s never come down from Canada, as far as I know.”

“And the last time you called upon either vet would have been...?”

Lon Bernie cocked his head toward Walt, as if he had only one good eye. “A while,” he said.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Out here, time kinda runs into itself. Drive a man half mad, this time of year. Maybe more than half.”

“Cattle bloat from eating too much green grass,” Walt said.

“A month ago, we had green grass. Early winter this year. Moldy hay’ll do it too. You trying to make a point, Sheriff ? ’Cause you’re going the long way around the barn to find the door.” He looked first at Walt, then at Brandon.

“I’ll tell you what I need: I need the truth, Mr. Bernie. And I don’t believe I’m getting it.”

“You calling me a liar, Sheriff? ’Cause, over here, that’s not terribly neighborly. Listen, I’ve got chores to do.” He never flinched, as he maintained eye contact with Walt.

He turned and walked toward the barns.

The foul smell had not been apparent while Walt and Brandon had been out of the vehicle, but as they drove away from the ranch it filled the car again. Complaining, Brandon rolled down the window.

That seemed to only make matters worse.

Like burning hair.

ROY COATS TRUDGED AROUND BEHIND THE CABIN ALONG a path shoveled through four feet of snow that created a trench with six-foot-high walls. He avoided the piles of frozen dog excrement, as if they were land mines.

The narrator in his head wouldn’t shut up.

Coats called the two cows and the pig by their names: Bess, Tilda, and Pinky. He didn’t think enough of the chickens to name them. He had, on many occasions, launched into rambling diatribes with only these three as his audience. He’d gone on about the injustices to society brought on by the immigration influenza, the disease of poverty eating into society like a cancer. He had stood on the milking stool and lectured for ninety minutes at a time, his voice carrying over their heads and fading into the thousands of acres of empty wilderness that surrounded his homestead. The government had lost its way, focused entirely overseas, when there was cleaning up to do at home. He’d chosen the name Samakinn carefully, never mind that his recruitment had not gone well. A spear was needed. The Romans, the Croats, the Uzbeks, the Hutus all had the right idea: ethnic cleansing. But it started with being heard, being taken seriously. The government thought they could silence their voices by denying their acts. But once the people heard of what they’d done, how powerful they were, the Samakinn’s message would be heard. Supporters would swell their ranks. Change would be at hand. He sought legitimacy, nothing less: credit where credit was due. The doc would make his report—who didn’t believe a doctor?