Wait for Signs: Twelve Longmire Stories (9 page)

I thought about how the Army and the Marines had lost a hundred chaplains between them during WWII—the third highest mortality rate behind the infantry and Army Air Corps—and how, on the USAT
Dorchester
in 1943, four chaplains had given their life jackets, and in so doing, their lives, for others.

“I’m sure he’s very proud of you.” I paused a moment. “When I was in Vietnam, I remember thinking how I was glad that I wasn’t the guy without a weapon.”

He smiled at me, and, as he accepted a
Spirit
DVD for the cause, I could hear that there seemed to be some sort of hubbub going on at the center of the store—probably a fight over the latest Gameboy.

“It takes a lot of guts to be in the thick of it on the front lines with nothing to take cover behind other than your convictions.”

The young ensign nodded and looked at his highly polished shoes as the doors opened and shut two more times.

I glanced back at him and was beginning to think I’d overstepped when he spoke again. “Hey, I just sometimes wish that something had happened to me over there other than getting backed over by a truck. You know, something that I could be proud of when I talk to the old man.”

I looked over his head and could clearly see that something was happening inside the store as employees seemed to be converging and customers appeared to be moving away, some of them exiting very quickly and rushing by us into the parking lot without a thought of a toy for a tot. “Well, careful what you wish for. I’m betting you’ll be going back.”

“No, I’m getting stationed stateside: Naval Base Point
Loma, California.” He shrugged again. “I guess they decided I wasn’t battlefield material.” He looked sad at the idea. “At least it’ll be warmer.”

The doors opened again, and this time I could hear people screaming and yelling. The young officer took a step toward the store.

“Something going on in there?”

I leaned sideways and could see a tall man push someone in a blue and yellow Best Buy vest and start toward us with something under his jacket. “I’m not sure.”

The employee who had been shoved grabbed the man by the shoulder, but the large guy turned and made a quick, jerking move with his free hand and the employee hugged his arm and fell on the floor.

The big fellow took off at a dead run toward us, but as I started to move around Burch, he sidestepped directly in front of me. “What’s going . . .”

The large man, still holding something under his parka, charged through the sliding glass door into us.

Burch was stormed over and fell backward into one of the concrete parking impediments, almost taking me with him, but I was lucky enough to latch onto the guy’s arm. I spun him around into the steel-reinforced glass beside the door, and his nose made the sound of a saltine cracker being neatly snapped in two. The laptop computer he’d been holding fell from his coat, along with the nylon-handled knife he’d had in the other hand.

He stood there for the briefest of moments and then took two and a half staggering steps before falling backward onto the hood of the Jeep, the irises rolling back in his head. I kicked the
knife toward the ensign, who was working himself up onto his hand and knees.

Turning and grabbing the thief by the coat front, I lifted him a little further onto the hood of the Wrangler, pulled the handcuffs from my belt, and secured one of his wrists to the Jeep’s side-view mirror.

I reached down and helped Burch to his feet, scooped up the wicked-looking blade, and placed it in the sling hand. “Hey, that was something.”

He crooked his neck and looked up at me, stretching his eyelids as he massaged his recovering shoulder and stared at the knife in his hand. “What?”

People spilled from the store now, employees and customers alike, attempting to get a look at what had happened. I raised my voice to be heard over the general noise: “The way you took that guy out—that was something.”

Pulling my cuff keys from my belt, I slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “The Billings PD should be here in about five minutes give or take.”

I stooped again, this time picking up the damaged computer and handing it to the store manager with the nametag that read
DALE
. “Did you see that? Boy howdy, that was something else.”

Dale looked at the chaplain, who was still shaking his head and looking a little confused. “He did that?”

“Single-handedly.” I glanced at the young man’s sling and resisted making further comment.

It was about then that I felt someone grab my arm, crowding in close. “Daddy, you are not going to believe what just happened. This guy was stealing a laptop and then security
confronted him and the guy started yelling and pulled out this knife . . .” Cady looked past me to the man lying on the hood of the Jeep, still unconscious. “Oh, wow.”

I reached down and took her shopping bag, pulled Cady’s receipt out, and tore the end off. I plucked the pen from my shirt, scribbled a number down on the paper, and handed it to the manager. “Call Chris Rubich from the
Gazette
right now and you can get this in tomorrow’s paper; it’s good advertising and you’ve got a heck of a human interest story here.”

He nodded his way back into the store with the number in his hand and the laptop under his arm. I propelled my daughter past the gathering crowd but paused long enough to catch the eye of the chaplain, still trying to gather his wits. “Heck of a job—just a heck of a job.”

I steered Cady past the Wrangler into the parking lot through the swirling snow and toward my three-quarter-ton as she whispered, “Did you have anything to do with that?”

“No.”

“Daddy?”

“No, I didn’t.” I loaded her in, started the engine, and began backing out as a Billings City Police car with siren trumpeting and light bar twinkling sledded across four lanes of opposing traffic and beelined for the Best Buy entrance.

As I waited, Cady leaned down and pulled out an interactive child’s reader from one of her shopping bags. “Damn it, I meant to put this in that ensign’s toy bin but you rushed us out of there so fast.” She unhooked her seat belt. “I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”

She climbed out the passenger-side door. “I won’t be long,
Dad. Honest Injun.” She grinned at me and tossed her head, strawberry blond hair in full sway.

I sighed and watched in the rearview mirror as she ran, careful to avoid the Billings patrolmen as they loaded the would-be thief into the back of their cruiser. She paused and spoke to Burch, put the reader in the T
OYS FOR
T
OTS
box, and laughed.

Dog whined, and I reached back and petted him. “It’s all right. She’ll be here in a minute.”

Three delayed slaps of the windshield wipers and she’d returned.

She climbed in, shut the door behind her, and rehooked the belt as I slipped the truck into gear and pulled into the light traffic of King Avenue. There were about two inches on the road, and it felt like we were driving on a thick bed of quilt batting. Cady seemed preoccupied with the falling snow darting through the headlights like neon guppies, but I had to admit that my mood had improved.

We were through the underpass and rolling quietly onto the blanketed surface of I-90 when, with a knowing smile, Cady reached up and clicked my Peerless, stainless steel handcuffs onto the rearview mirror.

It was Memorial Day weekend, and I was having dinner with Henry and Cady at the Busy Bee Café. Still recovering from my experiences chasing after escaped convicts in the Bighorn Mountains, I fingered the oversize ring on my thumb and watched the turquoise wolves chase the coral ones on the silver band; then I plucked it off and stuffed it in my shirt pocket under my badge.

I’d been sheriffing solo since Vic had flown back to Philadelphia for the long Memorial Day weekend to help her mother with the arrangements for Cady and her brother Michael’s upcoming wedding. It was complicated. Boy howdy.

Generally, Cady and Vic just shared a cup of coffee in the Denver airport as they traded time zones during their assorted holiday layovers, but on this stint Cady had driven Vic to the airport in Billings. They’d had more time to talk and had engaged in what I’d feared could be a wide-ranging conversation.

Cady sat still. “Vic looks really good.”

I sipped my iced tea and joined Henry in studying Clear
Creek’s fast-flowing water as it riffled by the café in a torrent of melt from the Bighorns. “Yep.”

The Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time leaned in with a few strands of strawberry blond hair slipping in front of her face, reminding me so much of her mother. “She bought a house?”

“Yep.”

“So she’s sticking around.”

I turned my head, aware that Henry wasn’t the only one occupied with fishing, and studied my daughter. “I didn’t know that she had been talking about going anywhere.”

She brushed away my remark with a fan of her fingers. “I just wasn’t sure if she’d stick.”

I considered the statement. It was true; the high plains were a place of transition—people came, people went, few stayed. Economics had a lot to do with it, but so did the loneliness of the topography. It was as if the land hollowed out spaces in people until they treated each other with that same distance—some never came to a truce with that within themselves. Vic had threatened to run off with the Feds and a number of other agencies, and had even thought about Philadelphia again, but those threats seemed to come less and less often. “I think she likes it here.”

“I think she likes parts of it.” Cady took a sip of her diet soda, part of her continuing effort to fit into a size 2 by the July wedding. “How old is she again?”

Reaching for my glass, I almost tipped it over but caught it in the last instant. “We’ve . . . never discussed that.”

She nudged the Cheyenne Nation with her shoulder. “How old is she, Bear?”

He shrugged. “I have found in most relationships with
women it is best to remember their birthdays but forget their age.”

“Look who I’m asking.” She rolled her eyes and redirected them, looking into the golden light reflecting off the buildings on the east side of Main Street. The stores were staying open just a little longer than the usual five p.m. in the hopes of plying the tourist trade that the American Indian Days Parade and Powwow had engendered. Most of the crowd had adjourned to the county fairgrounds, but the barely beating heart of commerce sprang eternal.

I glanced at Henry, who continued watching the water.

She leveled her cool, gray eyes on my face. “So, what’s going on with you two?”

Tipping my hat back, I turned to give her a stare. “That would be in the none-of-your-business file.”

She slid down in her chair and twisted the hair that had escaped her ponytail around her index finger. “How come I can’t ask you about your personal life, but you can ask me about mine?”

The Cheyenne Nation grunted but said nothing, avoiding the table’s verbal minefield.

I nudged my glass and glanced around to make sure that no one else was within ear reach, but the only other patrons on that remarkably clear, warm, and velvety early evening were a threesome of cowboys at a table by the front door, and Dorothy, the owner and proprietor, who was busily putting our dinners together. “I have never asked you about your personal life, ever.”

She thought about it and then grinned. “I kind of volunteer it, don’t I?”

Henry smiled. I didn’t say anything.

“Sometimes too much?” She fingered her napkin, and I noticed that her nails were blush pink and not their usual dark red. She must be practicing bridal etiquette.

From the radio behind the counter, Hank Williams was crooning “You’re Gonna Change (Or I’m Gonna Leave).” I thought maybe I should soften my response. “It’s normal—women ask about relationships, but men hardly ever do.”

She slipped on the smile she always did when she didn’t particularly believe what I was saying—I had gotten that smile since she was six. “Never?”

I glanced at the Bear and watched as he turned to Cady, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Hardly ever.”

“I don’t believe that.”

I shrugged and sipped mine as Dorothy arrived with two deluxe chicken-fried-steak sandwiches piled high with fries, and another plate with a small mound of cottage cheese and a couple of cherry tomatoes. I asked, purely for form’s sake, “The usual?”

She placed the plates in front of us and raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

I pointed at the marginal board of fare on Cady’s plate. “Not that.”

Dorothy smirked. “I’ve named that Chef’s Choice.” She put a bottle of no-fat, low-calorie balsamic vinaigrette in front of Cady and glanced around. “How are the sheriff’s department, Indian scout, and learned counsel tonight?”

“Hopefully slow.” I checked my pocket watch. “Especially since—with the exception of Ruby at the office and Saizarbitoria down at the fairgrounds—I gave the rest of the staff the night off.” I returned the watch to my pocket and unrolled my napkin, depositing the flatware by my plate, not because I needed it but
because I thought I’d better put the napkin on my lap. “And Ruby’s off in three minutes.”

Dorothy’s attention was drawn back to Cady, who had reached for the salad dressing. “How are you, sweet pea?”

“I’m good.” She rearranged the tomatoes. “Business finally slowing down?”

Dorothy sat on a stool adjacent to the counter and rubbed her ankle. “Yeah, finally. It was crazy all day, especially during the parade. This is the first chance I’ve had to sit down. I think everybody’s out at the Powwow now.” She reached over and tugged on the Bear’s hair, and I tried to remember if I’d ever seen anybody do that except her. “Damned Indians. I suppose people would just as soon eat fry bread and cotton candy.” She glanced at me and then back to Cady. “Your father lure you away from that young man of yours?”

“Just till I’m sure he’s feeling better after his mountain adventure.” My daughter’s eyes held on me for a moment, and I could see the worry there. “And besides, I figured I’d stick around a little while and see if I could get some preliminary wedding work done. You know I want you to make the cake, right?”

“Planning on it. I’m consulting with Vic’s uncle Alphonse next week about the recipe.” She let go of her leg and stood up. “You’re getting married up on the Rez, right?”

I felt a private little sorrow overtake me about the eventuality of losing her but continued eating.

“Yeah, Crazy Head Springs.”

“That’s a pretty spot. Have you gotten permission?”

Cady nudged the Bear’s shoulder. “I’ve got an
in
.”

Dorothy laughed and kissed the top of Cady’s head. “Congratulations, honey.”

Cady glowed. “Thanks.”

The owner/operator glanced at the three cowboys, whom I recognized as Matt Hartle and two of the wranglers from Paradise Guest Ranch; Matt raised his coffee mug as the others smiled at us.

“I better go refill the Wild Bunch over there.” She placed her fists on her hips. “You folks need anything else?”

Cady volunteered. “I might switch over to coffee, when you get the chance.”

Dorothy winked and disappeared.

Cady began nibbling at a forkful of cottage cheese but stopped just long enough to give the Bear and me a warning look. “Don’t say it.” She caught another curd on the end of her fork and then used it like a baton to get my attention. “I still don’t believe that women ask more about personal issues than men. I mean, maybe men hide the question more, but it’s there.”

Henry said nothing, so I spoke for the two of us. “Okay.”

She ate the bit of food. “But the two of you believe it.”

I paused with the sandwich only inches from my mouth. From all my years in law enforcement I knew that the only thing that happened more than not getting to eat was having your meals interrupted and abandoned. I looked at Henry, and we both turned and answered her in unison. “Yep.”

Buck Owens swung into “Before You Go,” and Cady sang along in her fine voice in a pretty good imitation; I was starting to think we had a soundtrack on our hands, but then she suddenly stopped, looked at the two of us, and I knew we were in trouble. “How about a bet, a sporting wager?” She continued before I could say no. “For every woman who asks either one of us about our relationships or every man who doesn’t, you two
get a point. For every woman who doesn’t ask us about our relationships or every man that does, I get a point.”

Knowing my daughter’s level of competition in all things, I knew this was a bad idea and said so.

She wheedled. “Come on, Daddy. It’ll be fun.”

Henry leaned over and gave her the horse-eye, up close and personal. “One to nothing then.”

Cady glanced at Dorothy pouring her a cup of coffee behind the counter, and then back to the Bear. “We haven’t started yet.”

I was shaking my head when the walkie-talkie on my hip chattered to life.

Static. “Unit one, this is base.”

I slumped in my seat, dropped my sandwich in dramatic fashion, and sat there for a moment.

Static. “Walt?”

My daughter, who could never resist pushing buttons, plucked the device from my duty belt and keyed the mic. “Yo.”

Static. “Cady?”

I took the radio from her. “It’s after five—go home.”

Static. “Tommy Jefferson says one of his horses has been stolen out at the rodeo grounds.”

I gazed at my half-eaten meal and sighed. “Not the divorce horse again?”

Static. “Of course.”

*   *   *

The much-storied case of the divorce horse was the kind of situation familiar to most rural sheriffs, one of those disputes you ended up getting involved in even though it had nothing much
to do with law enforcement. Tommy Jefferson and his ex-wife Lisa Andrews were Cady’s age. He was a New Grass from Crow Agency, Montana, who had lived with an aunt in Durant so that he could go to our high school and who had subsequently developed into a world-class Indian horse relay rider. She was a blond whirlwind of a barrel racer. Their romance had been epic; seven years later, their divorce was a long and familiar story.

Tommy had had a bad habit of loitering at equine sales and was already a frustrated horse trader before their marriage, but it only got worse as he and Lisa joined incomes and as he intensified his use of diet pills in an attempt to keep his racing weight down and his energy level up. It had gotten so bad that Lisa began to think that Tommy was more addicted to horses and amphetamines than to her.

When he brought home a vicious, Roman-nosed, cloudy-eyed little sorrel the color of store-bought whiskey that had a propensity to wander and bite and that took all his time, effort, and attention, Lisa had had enough, and their separation and divorce became a pitched battle. The train wreck that was Tommy and Lisa’s lives was played out in every under-the-breath conversation in the county and on the Rez.

My part in the saga had started when Tommy, who had returned to the Rez and to methamphetamines big-time, decided to call the sheriff’s office in order to get Lisa to answer his calls. It seemed logical to his chemically addled, emotionally distressed mind that since she was living in Absaroka County, it was my duty to ask her to answer her phone. As a rural sheriff, there are times when the law enforcement side of the job has nothing to do with the right-thing-to-do side of the job.

So, I’d dutifully made the trip down to Powder Junction
where they had shared a house, only to discover Lisa, clad in a bikini bottom, a T-shirt, and a potato-chip cowboy hat, sunbathing in her yard. I asked her if she would please answer the phone, because Tommy had been trying to get in touch with her for days.

She took a sip from a can of beer beside her towel and said, “Had it disconnected.”

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

“He was calling here twenty times a day, and I couldn’t take it anymore.” She adjusted the straw hat and sighed. “You know he’s still using, right?”

“Um, it’s becoming apparent to me.” I stood there on the other side of the chain-link fence that separated her yard from the sidewalk. “Well, he’d like you to call him.”

Lisa put the can down. “No thanks. I jumped that crazy horse, Sheriff—and I have no intentions of getting back on.” She squirted more suntan lotion out of the bottle and began applying it to her arms. “Anyway, I yanked the cord out of the wall.”

Then she’d served him papers, and that’s when things really got weird.

Tommy began calling me, the county clerk, and Verne Selby, who had been appointed judge in the case, about all kinds of strange things, insinuating that this was obviously a matter of racial discrimination. Anti-Indian bias had led to the current impasse between him and Lisa.

When I stopped taking his calls, he resorted to the fax machine. I would come in mornings to find thirty- and forty-page letters from Tommy, most of them incoherent but each one ending with the request that the communication be dated, stamped, and placed in the official record. Of all the faxed letters, the one that leaps to mind as the strangest was a four-pager instructing
the clerk, judge, and me on what it was we should bring to Thanksgiving dinner up on the Rez—how I should bring pie, but not rhubarb since his aunt Carol usually had that covered. Like we were all family.

A standard divorce with a file over fourteen inches thick.

Vic had measured.

“Divorce Horse.”

Vic had coined the term.

*   *   *

I keyed the mic again. “Well, then nobody stole it—nobody in their right mind would steal that horse.” I looked at the food on my plate, questioning the choice of giving the majority of my deputies the night off. “Isn’t Saizarbitoria out there?”