The Dark Horse (8 page)

Vic read from the file. “ ‘I dreamed of shooting the son-of-a-bitch, I dreamed about it every night and I finally did it. I shot him, I shot him six times.’ ”

It was quiet in the office as I repeated the words to myself. “I dreamed—”

I’d come to terms with the fact that Cady had gone back to Philadelphia, but it didn’t make it any easier. I’d once again grown used to her company: the coffee in the mornings as I tried to get her to let me fix something for breakfast; the workouts at Durant physical therapy; the way she’d breeze into the office like Venus on the half-shell and pull everybody out of their bad moods; the way my deputies, Saizarbitoria, Double Tough, and Frymire, looked at her when they thought I wasn’t watching them; the afternoons in my office where she would sit with her legs curled under her to read another book in her read-a-mystery-a-day plan; the quiet dinners at home.

“Walt . . .” I continued to pet Dog and glanced up at my undersheriff’s unforgiving eyes. “The last part—she says she shot him. She says she shot him six fucking times.”

I nodded and looked at the two of them. Ruby weighed in, and it made me a little irritable to see how quick they were to gang up. “Walt, she repeated the statement en route to the Campbell County jail and once again to the investigators and then to DCI. All in all, she confessed four times.”

Vic shook her head at me. “Walt, this is a forcible felony with purposeful and premeditated malice.” She paused for a moment. “Back in Philly, we used to call it a whack-job.”

It was two hours later in Philadelphia but still early enough for me to make a phone call. I was being tough and not calling as much. I was doing really well and had held myself in check for a day at a time, only phoning her every other day. At least, I
thought
I had been doing really well, until the irritated Daaaa-dee on the other end told me otherwise.

I went back to studying the floor and quoted the passage of the legal description of homicide that Vic’d omitted. “You forgot of sound mind and discretion.”

She interrupted, tossing the report back onto Ruby’s desk. “Mary Barsad could be nuts, and I’m sure that’s the tack that the defense attorneys are going to take, but she shot him in the head six times; she shot him till she ran out of bullets, and she shot him just to watch his head bounce on the mattress.”

I studied the veins in the marble step and thought about the veins in Mary Barsad’s temples and then about the thoughts that resided there, the things that visited her while she slept. I could feel words creeping into my mouth, words that weren’t my own. “. . . But then begins a journey in my head, to work my mind when body’s work’s expired.” I thought I’d said it to myself, but when I looked up they were both looking at me like I was the crazy person in question.

Ruby was the first to say something. “Walter—”

“Twenty-seventh sonnet.”

“Christ.” Vic had redirected her look from Ruby back to me. “Look, Shakespeare, I know you’re looking for something to do since Cady left, but this isn’t it. I hate to be the one to break the news to you after twenty-four years in law enforcement, but some people are in jail because they did it.”

They had continued talking to me but their voices had diminished as if I were falling away from them even as their siren song continued.

Dog stood on the wooden walkway with me and stared into the empty motel room. I held the hollow-core door back with my right hand and looked around. There was a sagging single bed to the left and a dresser to the right, but what was of more interest was the bathroom door at the far end of the room, which was partially shut with the light on.

There were noises coming from the bathroom.

I stepped into the room and set my bag on the only chair beside a wobbly round table. Dog started toward the half-closed door, but I made a noise through my teeth that stopped him. There was the sound of metal on metal, a clanking of something into something, a shuffling noise, and then the door opened.

Juana, the young woman from the bar, stood there silhouetted in the backlight of the bare, sixty-watt bulb. I smiled as I flipped the light switch, illuminating dead flies in the childish cowboy-and-Indian sconce above the bed. Dog wagged. She blinked and didn’t smile back at me or Dog. She held a toolbox in one hand and a pipe wrench like a weapon in the other. “Does he bite?”

“Nope.”

She continued to look at the beast as he did his best to convey an even disposition by continuing to wag. She still held the wrench, which looked massive in her small but steady hand. “I don’t like dogs.”

I picked my bag up by the handles and tossed it onto the bed. It landed against the peeling painted headboard. “That’s too bad; he likes pretty girls.”

She didn’t move. “I fixed your toilet.”

I sat in the empty chair and listened to its recitative of creaks; I took off my hat and rested it on my knee. My head still hurt, and I massaged my eyes in an attempt to drive the headache down my neck. “Glad to be in compliance with the you-gotta-have-a-crapper-in-any-room-you-rent law.”

“I felt guilty about charging you full price—figured you should have a bathroom that works.”

I took a deep breath and looked up at her. She was placing the wrench into the toolbox. Dog sat on the worn, somewhat green carpet between her and the door. “I heard you didn’t work here anymore.”

She smiled and stiff-armed a lean on the dresser; it shifted. “Pat fires me about once a week, but nobody else’ll work for him, especially for the nothing he pays.”

I worked my jaw, lay the back of my head against the cool plaster surface of the wall, and rolled the dice of nationalism. “So, what’s a nice Guatemalan girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“I’m not legal, and this place is under the radar.”

I nodded and looked around. “It’s that.”

She continued to study me. “Are you okay?”

I took another breath. “I’ve got a headache.”

She opened the toolbox and pulled out a small plastic bottle of aspirin, uncapped the container and tapped six small orange tablets into my outstretched hand. “Children’s, so you’ll need three times as many.”

“You keep aspirin in your toolbox?”

“Plumbing gives me headaches.” She started to turn. “They’re chewable, but I’ll get you some water.”

“No need.” I popped the pills into my mouth and swallowed.

She made a face. “How can you do that?”

I half-smiled, which probably looked more like a smirk. “Practice. At a certain point in life, aspirin becomes a major food group.”

She carried the bottle over and sat on the corner of the bed; she was careful to avoid Dog. “You’re making everybody around here nervous.”

“Why’s that?”

A rounded shoulder shrugged. “You just are.” She flipped her hair. “Maybe it’s because they think you’re an insurance man.”

“Hmm . . .” I swallowed again, feeling the aspirins finally hit bottom. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No, but I don’t think you’re an insurance man.”

“What do you think I am?”

“A cop.”

I nodded. “And what does Benjamin think?”

“He thinks you’re a cop, too.”

I yawned and covered my face with my hand. “How do the two of you figure?”

She put the bottle of aspirin on the bed and reached out to take my hat from my knee. “When you’re a fugitive, you get a feeling for these things.” She examined the inside of the black fur felt: “7 ¾-LONG OVAL. TEN X, H-BAR HATS, BILLINGS.” The mahogany eyes, young but deep-stained with experience, looked back up at me. “If you’re federal, and I’m hoping you’re not, you flew into Montana and bought a hat so that you could blend in—or you’re from the FBI field office in Billings or Cheyenne.”

I stared at her, the pain in my head resurging. “What, you taking a mail-order course in how to become a private investigator?”

“Almost two years of law enforcement classes at Sheridan College.” Both shoulders shrugged this time. “Ran out of money.” I sat there without saying anything. “You could be state, maybe an investigator from DCI, but they were already here.”

I nodded. “You and Benjamin have very active imaginations.”

“Or you could be local, but I doubt it—the sheriffs around here couldn’t find their butts with GPS.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, strictly Barney Fife.”

I smiled, this time with my whole mouth. “So, bringing the vast experience of two years of law enforcement education to bear—”

She placed my hat back on my knee and focused on my eyes. “Oops . . . maybe you are local.”

I laughed. “So, did you know her—or him?”

“Both. I cleaned house for them for the better part of a year.”

“What were they like?”

“Night and day.” She leaned forward and rested her folded arms on her knees. “She was great. The house was always spotless when I got there, so I’d help her with whatever she needed help with, painting, planting—she had a greenhouse.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“She had orchids; I’ve never seen anybody around here with those.”

“What about him?”

She made a face. “Loudmouth. If you were around him, you got to hear about just how wonderful he was. No matter what you’d done, he’d done it better. No matter where you’d been, he’d been there. That kind of stuff.”

“I understand he had his fingers in a lot of pies?”

“He owned this place at one point—the motel and the bar. It got to where if you came in for a drink you’d have to listen to him, so people stopped coming. After he died, Pat opened it up again.”

“Who owned it before Barsad?”

“Pat.”

“Were they partners?”

She thought about it. “I’m not sure. Wade’s business dealings were always a little complex.”

“In what way?”

She shrugged. “Wade was involved in everything but had this habit of making lists and stuff on little pieces of paper he called kites.”

“Is that what you called him, Wade?”

She studied me. “Sounds like you already know a little about what he was like.”

“A little.”

“He came on to me one time at their house; I passed, but he got more persistent and I got out a digging trowel to convince him of my lack of interest.”

“Did it work?”

“For a while, but then you had to remind him; he was like that.”

“I heard a few gals weren’t exactly uninterested.”

She was silent for a moment. “A few.”

“Let’s say I was interested, just for argument’s sake; where would I find those women?”

She studied me more closely. “I’m not naming names because I’m not sure, but if I was so inclined I’d check the immediate vicinity of the ranch. Barsad wasn’t one to go out of his way to look for female companionship; looking the way he did, he didn’t have to.”

“Kind of like a journeyman outfielder—he’d catch it if it came near him, but he wasn’t going to stretch for it?”

“Exactly.” She smiled. “There’s an auction over at Bill Nolan’s tomorrow morning at ten—I’d imagine everybody’ll be there. Might be an opportunity to meet all the players.”

I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the armrests of the chair. “You still haven’t answered the big question. Did she kill him?”

She sighed deeply and stood, looking down at me. “Are you from around here?”

“Hereabouts.”

“There’s a myth about this place.”

I didn’t try to hide my confusion. “This town?”

“No.” She crossed to the dresser, fetched the toolbox, and stood there holding it between herself and Dog again. “More like the West, or maybe it’s the world.”

“Maybe it’s my head; I’m not following.”

“The myth is that you’re supposed to be independent—you know, cowboy-up and all that stuff?”

“Yep?”

“I don’t think they mean for that to apply to everybody, especially women.” She nudged toward the door, but Dog didn’t move. She gave me a side glance. “You wanna call him off?”

I made the same noise through my teeth, picked up the bottle of aspirin, and patted the swale of the bed; he was on it in an instant, wagging and smiling. “He was never on.” I extended the plastic bottle toward her. “You want your aspirin?”

She held the door, and I watched her think about what she was going to say and what she wasn’t; then she spoke again, her voice carrying with the soft buzz of the yellow bug fluorescents outside. “Definitely local, or Billings; how else could you have the dog? Either way, you’re a dark horse, that’s for sure.” She closed the door, and I listened to her footsteps in a pair of leather sandals as they became a diminishing echo on the wooden walkway.

In town seven hours, and I’d already been made by an associate degree.

I had rested the DCI file on my desk.

“What the fuck are you looking for?”

“She was diagnosed with chronic insomnia.”

“So?” Vic came in and sat in the chair next to Saizarbitoria, who was eating his lunch on his lap. The Basquo was one of the newer additions to our little high-plains contingency and was still attempting to get over having one of his kidneys filleted only a couple of months ago.

I was easing the young man back, but the going was slow after his injury. I’d assigned him court duty and a number of other less strenuous jobs, but it seemed as if a certain light was missing from the Basquo’s eyes, as if the dark at his pupils was overtaking the spark that had lived there.

Sancho wiped some gourmet mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth with an index finger. His wife, Marie, packed his lunch every day and made what looked like incredible sandwiches. He took a sip of his Mountain Dew. “She was prescribed both Ambien and Lunesta.”

I returned to the faxed sheets in the report as Ruby appeared in the doorway. “Joe Meyer is on line one.”