Downtown Saddlestring, all three blocks of it, was still sleeping when Joe arrived. The only shop open was Matt Sandvick’s taxidermy studio, which never seemed to close. And there were always a few pickups around. Joe heard rumors that Sandvick sponsored a nonstop poker game that helped pay the bills during the summer months when there were no carcasses to stuff, but since Sandvick was a craftsman and took pains to have the right taxidermy licenses, Joe didn’t bother him.
He cruised down Main Street, passing up empty parking spaces in front of the Stockman’s. There were already a few vehicles in front of the bar. Joe drove around the block and turned up the alley that ran behind the row of storefronts. He parked between two Dumpsters in an alcove where his truck couldn’t be seen by passersby on the street.
He swung out of his pickup and clamped his worn gray Stetson on his head and took a narrow passage between the old brick buildings that housed the Saddlestring Roundup on his left and the bar on his right. The door Bud had used that night was on the side of the Stockman’s. Joe avoided kicking empty beer bottles on the ground that would cause attention, and looked in vain on the wall for a buzzer or doorbell. There was neither. Looking around to see if anyone was watching—there was no one—he reached down and tried the latch. It was unlocked.
The door swung inward on moaning rusty hinges, and he stepped inside and closed it behind him. The staircase was dark and close and smelled musty. He let his eyes adjust for a moment until he could locate and flip a dirty light switch, but the bulb above was gone or burned out.
The stairway was narrow, and his shoulders almost brushed the sides as he climbed. He kept his eyes on the landing at the top and his right hand on the grip of his weapon on his hip. He didn’t know if the stairs were part of the apartment. As far as he knew, there was only one residence above the bar.
On the landing, to the left, was another door. There was no indication it was the entrance to an apartment. There was no number on it, or name. The door was solid with no window or peephole and was slightly warped from age. Peeling strips of varnish on the surface of the door looked like dozens of stuck-out tongues. Joe cleared his throat, as much to alleviate his nerves as to signal to anyone inside he was out here. Then he rapped on the door three times, hard and businesslike.
“Bud, it’s Joe. Are you in there?”
He heard no response or movement inside.
“Bud? Are you in there?” He knocked again sharply, hurting his knuckles.
Nothing.
Joe put his hands on his hips and stared at the door, as if willing it to open. He’d considered calling ahead to see if Bud was there, but had decided against it. He’d learned in investigations over the years that it was almost always more productive to arrive without warning. Catching a suspect off-guard sometimes resulted in surprise admissions of guilt or bouts of dissembling that contained the truth inside. One of Joe’s tricks was simply to knock on a door and introduce himself by saying, “I suppose you know why I’m here?” and let them talk. At least a dozen times over the years, people alluded to crimes Joe hadn’t even been aware of until he asked that question.
But he couldn’t ask Bud because there was no response.
He started to turn to leave, but couldn’t help himself and tried the doorknob. Locked. Meaning it was possible Bud was inside, maybe sleeping off a late night. Maybe sick. Maybe hurt. Maybe . . .
Joe leaned closer to the door. Because of the darkness in the hallway, he could see a ragged line of light between the door and the doorjamb. Although it was locked, the seal wasn’t tight and he could see there was no lock bolt, only the dead latch on the knob itself. And because of the gap in the door, the dead latch barely caught the strike plate. Joe wasn’t surprised. Ranchers—or ex-ranchers, in Bud’s case—didn’t think a lot about security and locks. That’s why they surrounded themselves with dogs and guns.
In one move, Joe grasped the knob with both hands and jerked up on it and pushed against the door with his shoulder. It opened. He stepped back and to the side to peer through the inch-wide opening. It was light inside, but not bright. He could see the corner of a rug on a hardwood floor, an empty beer bottle on its side under the edge of a couch, and a spatter of dark liquid flecked across the floor.
Thinking blood, Joe nudged the door open all the way with his hand on his weapon, ready for anything.
Nothing happened when the door creaked open. Bud wasn’t on the floor or on the couch, although Joe could see the sag of the cushions where he’d no doubt spent a lot of time.
He stepped inside the apartment, squinting, all senses turned full on. The place smelled of old grease, dust, sour beer, and Copenhagen chewing tobacco.
The muted light was a result of the morning sun painting the floor through paper-thin yellow blinds that were pulled all the way down. The windows overlooked Main Street. He took a few steps and squatted to get closer to the floor, careful not to let his boot tips touch the spots. As he observed the scene, he let out a long breath. The spots were black and old, maybe paint, oil, or shoe polish.
A coffee table in front of the couch was littered with beer bottles, a spit cup for tobacco juice, and several thick bound manuals stacked one on top of the other. Not books, but bound documents. The top one had several round stains on it where beer bottles had been places. The cover read WIND POWER PROJECT ECONOMICS: SATISFYING THE WORLD’S GROWING DEMAND FOR POWER REQUIRES A BALANCED PORTFOLIO OF ENERGY OPTIONS. Joe nudged it aside to look at the others. A LAND RUSH IN WYOMING SPURRED BY WIND POWER and COMMERCIAL WIND ENERGY DEVELOPMENT IN WYOMING: A GUIDE FOR LANDOWNERS. Written in a shaky longhand scrawl on the cover of the last document was the name Bob Lee.
Joe said, “Huh?” Again, he called, “Bud?”
Nothing. Joe checked the kitchen to his left. There was a stack of dirty plates in the sink, and a half piece of toast on the counter. A half-empty carafe of coffee sat inside a Mr. Coffee setup, and Joe reached out and touched the glass. Cold. In the refrigerator there was a half-gallon carton of milk and four bottles of Miller Lite beer. Joe opened the carton and sniffed. Not spoiled yet.
Bud never used to be like this, Joe thought. He recalled Bud’s immaculate tool sheds on the ranch, with every tool wiped down and in its proper drawer in the industrial tool chests. Bud didn’t even allow oily rags tossed on the garage floor or workbench. And his horse tack was hung neatly and symmetrically in his barn, small saddles to the left, large ones to the right.
Joe entered the bathroom. Dirty gray towels hung from a rod. Joe touched them. Dry. The garbage can overflowed with crumpled tissues. He opened the medicine cabinet. Although there were a half-dozen pill bottles for various ailments and the labels said “LONGBRAKE,” there was no toothbrush or toothpaste and the other shelves were empty. Meaning it was likely Bud had packed up his essential medicines and toiletries to take with him.
Joe confirmed his theory as he made his way through the apartment. Although there were still clothes in the closet, there were large gaps in the hanging garments, like he’d taken some. The covers on the bed had been pulled up over the pillows but not tucked in, as if he’d made the bed in haste.
Joe thought about the milk and the coffee. The piece of toast was dry, but not hard. Bud hadn’t been gone long. Joe guessed the old rancher had left the day before, after breakfast. At about the time Joe was climbing the wind tower . . .
Outside on the street, Joe heard two car doors slam almost simultaneously in a percussive double-tap. He covered the living room floor in a few steps and carefully pushed the edge of the window shade to the side so he could see out.
A sheriff’s department SUV had taken a space recently vacated by one of the early-morning cowboys directly below the window. Sheriff Kyle McLanahan stood on the passenger side of the vehicle, hands on hips, waiting impatiently for Deputy Sollis to adjust his hat and aviator sunglasses in the side mirror on the driver’s side. Joe smoothed the shade back before either the sheriff or the deputy glanced up and saw him.
He walked as
quietly as he could toward the open door and got to it as a series of heavy knocks shook the ground floor entrance door. Sollis shouted, “Bud Longbrake? You in there?”
They planned to come up.
Joe took another quick look outside in the hallway to make sure there wasn’t another door he could escape through. There wasn’t. He was trapped in Bud’s apartment and the only way out was down the stairs the sheriff and deputy were about to come up.
The uncomfortable feeling he’d had that morning bloomed into full-fledged guilt and dread. Technically, he’d entered a private residence without a warrant, and officially he had no reason to be there. He could even be charged with breaking and entering since he’d forced the door open. Although he didn’t know where Bud was or why he was gone, Joe could imagine the sheriff adding on charges and framing the incident as an attempt to hide or destroy evidence, or saying the reason Joe was there in the first place was to intimidate or tamper with the key prosecution witness.
Which wasn’t all that far from the truth, he thought. Although from his standpoint, he simply wanted to ask Bud if he’d really been the informant. And why.
Joe hesitated for a second before shutting the door. He considered greeting the sheriff on the way down with a story about trying to find his ex-father-in-law. But why, if it wasn’t related to the case? Joe was the lousiest liar he knew, and he just couldn’t do it.
At that instant, Sollis opened the door downstairs and Joe started to ease Bud’s door closed. The hinges moaned again, but he hoped the sound was drowned out by Sollis himself, who was telling the sheriff, “Damned if it wasn’t open. Now where’s his place? Top of the stairs?”
Feeling sweat bead beneath his hatband, Joe eased the door shut and prayed the dead latch would spring back and catch again in the switch plate without a sound. He heard a dull click as it locked, and he let out a long ragged breath and stepped back.
He looked around Bud’s apartment. Would he try and hide? Did the sheriff have permission to enter? A key?
The voices of the sheriff and deputy rose as they climbed the stairs. Once they made the landing, Joe recognized McLanahan’s labored breathing.
“Well, knock, damn it,” the sheriff said between gulps of air.
Joe waited, facing the door.
Sollis pounded on the door so hard Joe’s heart raced. He wondered if the sheer force of the deputy’s blows would open the door again.
“Bud Longbrake?” Sollis shouted. “You in there? This is Deputy Sollis and Sheriff McLanahan from the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department. The county attorney wants you to move to a safe place until you testify.”
Joe tried to keep his breath calm and to stay quiet. Did they have a warrant to enter? If so, he was doomed.
“Too much information,” McLanahan admonished his employee in a low growl. “Just get him to open the damn door.”
More fierce pounding. It rattled the empty bottles on the coffee table. Joe watched the doorknob assembly, just waiting for it to give way.
“Bud, open the door,” Sollis boomed. Then, after a beat, his voice not as direct, “I don’t think he’s in there, boss.”
“Then where the hell is he?”
“How would I know?”
“Jesus—if we lost him . . .”
“I could force it,” Sollis said. “This lock don’t look like much. We could say we heard something inside and thought he might be injured or something.”
“That would give us PC,” McLanahan said, but by the tone of his voice he wasn’t encouraging Sollis to do it. Yet.
“Naw,” McLanahan said after a few seconds. “If we damage the door and he isn’t in there, it’ll look bad. We can be back here with a warrant in an hour and open it up. But I think you’re right—he isn’t home.”
“Then where is he?” Sollis asked.
“You dope,” McLanahan said. “I just asked you that question. You think I’ve got an answer between a minute ago and now?”
“No, boss.”
“Holy hell in a handbasket.”
Joe took a deep relieved breath and let it out through his nose.
“Tell you what,” McLanahan said. “You stay here in case he shows up. I’ll call the county attorney and get the warrant going and bring it back.”
Joe thought it interesting that Bud had left without informing the sheriff.
The sheriff’s boots descended the stairs. After a beat, the sheriff called up to his deputy, “We’ve got to find that son-of-a-bitch, and fast. Without him, we’re up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Ten-four,” Sollis said.
Joe waited ten minutes. He thought Sollis might disobey orders or let his curiosity get the best of him and force the door open himself. If he did . . . Joe didn’t know what the hell he’d do if he did. Remarkably, Sollis stayed out. Joe could hear the deputy sigh with boredom, then tunelessly hum the melody for “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places.” Joe tiptoed back into Bud’s bedroom and shut the door. He went to the farthest corner and dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called 9-1-1.
When the emergency dispatcher answered, he mumbled, “Hey, I just left a game at Sandvick’s and some old rancher was there raising hell. I think something’s wrong with him and you need to send somebody.”
“Please identify yourself,” the dispatcher said coldly. Joe recognized her voice. He hoped like hell she didn’t recognize his.
“Ain’t important,” Joe said. “Just tell the cops Bud Longbrake is gonna get himself hurt if he doesn’t learn to watch his mouth.” And with that, he shut the phone.
Joe went back to the door and listened. A minute later, he heard Sollis’ radio sputter to life. The dispatcher relayed what he’d told her. She referred to Joe as “an unknown party.”
Sollis said, “Sandvick’s? That’s right up the street from where I am now.”
“Should I send backup?”
Sollis snorted. “I can handle that old coot. Just let the sheriff know we’ve got our man.”
With that, Sollis’ boots thundered down the stairway.
Joe again crossed the room and parted the blinds. The deputy was crossing Main Street on foot, stopping a car on the street with his outstretched palm while talking on his radio. Sollis reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street and strode purposefully up the block toward Sandvick’s Taxidermy. As he did, he watched his own official reflection in the glass of the retail stores.
Joe let himself out and let the door latch behind him.
16
Joe gathered himself up, fitted his hat on tight, and strolled out of the passageway onto the sidewalk. The morning sun was burning off the fog and the clouds were dissipating. Even in town, the air smelled of pine and fragrant sage from the light rain that morning. It would likely be a nice day after all. He wished he didn’t feel so proud of himself for his deceptive maneuvers.
Buck Timberman was behind the bar wearing reading glasses and working on a liquor order when Joe walked into the Stockman’s. Timberman was in his eighties, but was still an imposing presence. A lean and ropey six-foot, Timberman was a half-blind former basketball and rodeo team coach who took over the bar on retirement twenty-five years before and hadn’t missed a day since. The barman was stoic and soft-spoken and was everybody’s friend because he never made a public judgment or offered an opinion on anything. When customers rattled on about one thing or another—water rights, guns, dogs, neighbors, politics, sports—Timberman nodded slightly as if he agreed and went about his business. Joe had always admired the man.
“Buck,” he said by way of greeting. He sat down on a stool and put his hat crown-down on the bar next to Timberman’s order form.
“Joe,” Timberman said. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
“Black?”
“Yup.”
Timberman poured and went back to his order. Joe checked out the early-morning clientele. Ranch hands, mostly, four of them clustered at the far end of the bar sipping red beer. Keith
Bailey, an imposing ex-highway patrolman who worked part-time manning the entrance gate to the exclusive Eagle Mountain Club resort up on the hill, eyed Joe with a suspicion born of decades of open-road encounters. Joe nodded toward him and Bailey nodded back. An older couple were in the back in a high-backed booth, talking softly and holding hands across the table, likely making up after an argument. The Stockman’s Bar opened at seven in the morning. The tradition had started eighty years before, when local ranchers and cowboys wanted a beer or two after calving all night, or a red beer (tomato juice, Tabasco, and draft) to nurse a hangover.
“How you been, Buck?” Joe asked, after blowing on the coffee. The coffee was hot but weak, little more than tinted water. Timberman didn’t want to encourage his customers to drink coffee, particularly.
“Getting on.”
“Business good?”
“All right, I guess.”
Joe smiled. The rumor was Buck Timberman was one of the wealthiest men in Twelve Sleep County. He worked long hours, spent little, took care of his customers, and bought and stockpiled gold with the profits. Little of his money was spent on new clothing. Timberman wore his usual faded cowboy shirt and frayed red suspenders.
“I’m wondering about my ex-father-in-law, Bud Longbrake,” Joe said. “Has he been in recently?”
Timberman gestured toward an empty stool two spaces away from Joe.
Joe waited for more, but Bud went back to his figures. That was it.
“Buck?”
“That’s his stool,” Timberman said, indicating a space next to Keith Bailey. “He enjoys his bourbon.”
Joe nodded. “I was wondering if he’d been in lately.”
Timberman shrugged, as if he wasn’t sure. Then said, “Most days.”
“Was he here yesterday?”
Timberman placed the tip of his finger on a scrawl so he wouldn’t lose his place, and looked up. “Don’t think so. Day before, maybe.”
“When does he come in? I mean, what time of day?”