Cold Wind (17 page)

“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.

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?”

Timberman’s face told Joe nothing beyond what he said, which was, “He’s usually here by now.”

“So you haven’t seen him this morning?”

Timberman shook his head. He nodded toward Bailey, who shrugged as well.

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Could be.”

Joe sighed and smiled. This is why everyone trusted Buck Timberman.

Joe leaned in toward the barman, speaking very low. “Did Bud talk a lot about his ex-wife Missy?”

Timberman looked away, but nodded almost imperceptibly. He didn’t want the cowboys at the end of the bar to see him answering the game warden’s questions. Now Joe understood.

“You heard what happened, right?”

Another nod.

“Do you think Bud hated her so much he’d try to pin something on her?”

Timberman shrugged noncommittally.

Joe said, “I’m not asking you to tell me something I’d ask you to repeat in court. I’m just trying to sort things out for myself. I know Bud to be a kind man, but pretty mule-headed at times. He’d focus on things until they got done. I remember when I worked for him, he’d bring up the same section of loose fence at breakfast every day to his ranch hands until I’d go out and fix it myself just to shut him up. I’m wondering if he was focused on getting back at Missy.”

“He did have some choice things to say about her from time to time,” Timberman conceded.

“Me, too,” Joe said.

Timberman reacted to that with a slight smile—no more than a twin tug up on the corners of his mouth.

“Word is,” Joe said, “Bud’s the star witness for the prosecution.”

Timberman said, “Hmmmm.” Then: “Maybe I ought to cut down on my Jim Beam order. I might not be pouring as much in the next few weeks.”

Joe finished his coffee. “Did Bud ever talk about wind turbines?”

Timberman looked up, puzzled. “Everybody does these days.”

Joe sighed. This was hard work getting anything out of Buck Timberman. “Did he seem to have any opinion of them either way?”

“Not that I can recall. More?” Timberman asked, chinning over his shoulder toward the pot.

“You’ve got more?” Joe said, not meaning coffee.

“Not really.”

“Then I’m fine.”

Joe slid off the stool and put a five on the bar.

“Don’t worry about it,” Timberman said, waving at the bill as if trying to get it out of his sight.

Joe left it, and said, “If you see him, give me a call, will you? My wife is pretty concerned about what’s going on.”

The slight nod. Then, “He lives upstairs. I’ve rented the rooms to him for a while. He pays in cash and on time, and there haven’t been any complaints.”

“Does he entertain guests?” Joe asked.

“Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

“No one recently, then?”

“No, sir.”

“Thanks for the coffee, Buck.”

“Anytime, Joe.”

Joe hesitated before opening the door to go outside. He glanced up the street, to see Deputy Sollis striding back angrily from Sandvick’s Taxidermy, barking on his radio.

“One thing,” Buck Timberman said softly, and Joe realized he was talking to him.

Joe turned and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Timberman had left his order on the counter and stood in the crook of the bar close to Joe and as far away from the four cowboys as possible.

“Nice-looking lady in here a week ago. She and Bud seemed to get on pretty well. She said her name was Patsy. Don’t remember a last name.”

Joe shook his head, not following.

“Before she met Bud, she asked me if I knew where she could find your friend.”

Joe felt his scalp tighten. “Nate Romanowski?”

“That’s the one,” Buck said.

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to tell as far as I’m concerned.”

Joe nodded. Then he got it. “You said she got along with Bud, though. Think she asked him about Nate?”

“Couldn’t say for sure,” Timberman said, but Joe could read between the lines.

“Interesting,” Joe said. “Will you let me know if Patsy comes back?”

Timberman nodded his slight nod before turning and going back to his order form. Cutting down on his order of Jim Beam.

Justice of the Peace
Tilden Mouton held the preliminary hearing. After a recap of the charges and the evidentiary testimony by Sheriff McLanahan but without an appearance by Bud Longbrake, Mouton bound Missy over for arraignment before Judge Hewitt on Monday.

The funeral for Earl Alden
took place at the Twelve Sleep County Cemetery on a warm still morning. It was a small affair.