Текст книги "Nowhere to Run"

Автор книги: C. J. Box

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

16

With Marybeth at work and the girls at school, Joe had the revelation that he’d never been alone in his own house before. It was remarkably quiet. He felt like both a voyeur and a trespasser as he limped through the rooms carrying a plastic five-gallon bucket filled with tools and equipment. His only company was Tube, who, since they’d returned two days before, had not let Joe out of his sight. In fact, Tube trailed him so tightly that the dog would bump into the back of his legs if Joe stopped.

At dinner the previous night, Joe had queried Marybeth and his daughters for their wish lists of repairs, maintenance, and projects. He listed the chores on a legal pad and finally begged them to stop after he filled the first page and after April requested he build “a wall of separation” between her bed and Lucy’s in the room they shared so she “wouldn’t have to look at her face, like, ever.” He was embarrassed there was so much to get done, which was a testament to his long absences over the past two years. In addition to his own list-painting the house, fixing a leak in the garage roof, cleaning the gutters, shoring up his leaning slat-board fence, sorting out his long-neglected Game and Fish office-Joe figured he had at least a week’s worth of projects ahead of him. By then, he hoped, his in-house sentence would be over and Governor Rulon would lift his order of administrative leave.

Certainly Marybeth had welcomed him home and was pleased he was getting to all of the neglected projects, but Joe could feel tension building between them. Marybeth ran the house and family, and she did a good job of both. She had become used to him not being around. Joe’s presence, especially since he was at home during the day, disrupted her management and routine. He sympathized with her and found himself feeling sorry for himself as well. Joe didn’t like being inside so much.

Although the home they owned on the quiet residential street in Saddlestring was much more conventional and convenient for Marybeth’s business and the girls’ school and activities, Joe still pined for past houses in the country. He’d even mentioned to Marybeth when they pulled into the driveway from Billings that it seemed the neighboring houses on each side had somehow encroached a few feet closer to theirs. This was not the first time he’d had this impression, and it made him doubt his sanity.

After he turned off the water to the toilet so he could reset the float to make it stop trickling constantly, Joe parted the curtain and checked to see if his neighbor, Ed Nedney, was still out in his yard. He was. He was out there reseeding a one-foot patch of slightly bare earth in his backyard with a rake so it would grow to be as perfect as the rest of his yard. Nedney was a former town administrator who’d retired solely, Joe believed, to keep his lawn and home immaculate and because it gave him more time to disapprove of Joe’s home maintenance regimen.

Joe had watched Nedney through the window all morning while he himself was on the phone making arrangements for his father’s body with a Billings funeral home. He didn’t look forward to discussing the costs with Marybeth later that night. Marybeth’s business transition was facing hurdles now that the downturn in the economy had finally reached Wyoming. The buyers were slowing down the process and making noises about pulling out of the sale. Since the sale had been negotiated, half of her retail clients had either closed shop or taken their financial management in-house to save money. Marybeth had laid off two of her four employees and was in the process of prospecting for more clients while running her office on a day-to-day basis. Because the state had frozen salaries, including Joe’s, money was tight.

In a calming and well-practiced baritone, the funeral home director had explained the costs and options for cremation and urns.

The cremation alone would cost $1,835. Joe contained his alarm.

He told Joe, “Our charge for a direct cremation (without ceremony) includes basic services of funeral director and staff, a proportionate share of overhead costs, removal of remains, necessary authorizations, minimum container, minimum urn, and cremation. Another option that has proven very meaningful to families is to have a traditional service followed by cremation. The cost for this type of service is three thousand nine hundred fifty dollars.”

Joe wondered if it would be bad form to ask how the cost compared with that of a burial, but assumed a burial would cost more. Plus, he couldn’t ask his girls and wife to attend the funeral for a man they’d never met. Meaning it would be a burial with one mourner-him. Cremation was the only option.

“That’s kind of expensive,” Joe said. “We can do the cremation, but it’s more than I thought it would be.”

“The process must be thorough to maintain dignity,” the funeral director said in a well-practiced response. “Now we should talk about an urn.”

“Okay.”

Joe thought of his father’s last laugh. Now he thought he knew what it was about.

“If an individual weighs one hundred eighty pounds at the time of cremation, they will require an urn one hundred eighty cubic inches or larger,” the man said. “Do you know the weight of your loved one?”

Joe said, “I’d guess one-sixty.”

He could hear the funeral director tapping on computer keys. “You have many, many choices of urns,” he said. “Many people these days like to purchase an urn that would mean something to the departed. We have urns available from forty-five dollars to five thousand, so it would help if you could give me the parameters of your budget.”

Joe hadn’t thought about budgeting the funeral. He thought, How much is he worth to me, this man who walked out on our family so many years ago and never even bothered to make contact with his wife or sons?Then, ashamed of his conclusion, he said, “We don’t want to make a big deal of it. Simple is best.” By simple, he meant cheap.

“Very well,” the man said. “Maybe I can help you make a decision. As I mentioned, the trend is toward themed urns. Did your father like to golf? We have golf urns ranging from fifty dollars to two thousand dollars. Fishing? Fishing urns are very popular here in Billings, as you might guess. We have fishing urns in metal, ceramic, glass, and biodegradable. Did your father like to fish?”

“No.”

“And we have cowboy boot urns, another popular choice in Montana and Wyoming. Hunting urns as well. Did your father like to hunt?”

Said Joe, “My father liked to drink. Do you have urns resembling a bottle of gin or Old Grand-Dad bourbon? Or maybe one shaped like a suitcase? He was fond of packing up and leaving.”

The funeral director paused for a few beats before he said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

“Sort of.”

With excess pomposity, the funeral director said, “We laugh so that we will not cry.”

“Yup, we do,” Joe said, and ordered a simple ceramic urn for $100 and the funeral director promised to FedEx the remains to Saddlestring within a day.

When the toilet was fixed, Joe called Sheriff Baird in Carbon County. He wasn’t in his office, but the dispatcher said, “Oh, it’s you” and patched Joe through to Baird’s county pickup. From the first word, Joe knew McLanahan’s version of events was accurate.

“It’s the fabulist,” Baird said.

“I’m not sure what to say to that, sheriff.”

“Don’t say anything. When you start talking, it costs me too much damned money and time.”

“The Grim Brothers must have covered their tracks,” Joe said. “They knew you’d be looking for them, I guess.”

“Then they did a hell of a good job, because my team couldn’t confirm a single thing you said. Do you know how much it costs to mount an eleven-person search-and-rescue team and outfit them for the mountains? Do you have any idea?”

Joe looked out the window. Ed Nedney was standing on the dividing line between his perfect lawn and Joe’s matted and leaf-strewn grass. Nedney was shaking his head and puffing on his pipe.

“I’d guess quite a bit,” Joe said.

“Damn straight. Plus, I had to personally call the parents of Diane Shober and tell them their daughter wasn’t found. That was not a pleasant experience.”

Joe felt his neck get hot. “I never claimed I saw her. You must have put that out.”

“Yeah, stupid me,” Baird said. “I believed what you told me. I’m spending way too much time trying to defend your story. The state even sent a man to interview me this morning.”

Joe felt a twinge in his belly. “What do you mean, the state?”

“DCI. They sent an agent over here to ask me questions about your statement, even though he had a copy of it with him.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know, McQueen or something. He didn’t give me a card.”

“Was it McCue?” Joe asked, leaning into the phone. “Bobby McCue?”

“Yeah, that’s him. An odd duck. I don’t like the state looking over my shoulder.”

Joe shook his head. “He came to talk to me in the hospital. Same guy. I can’t figure out what his game is or who he’s really with.”

Baird snorted. “That’s all I need is some damned rogue investigator running around down here. Maybe I’ll have to sic the FBI on him.”

“The FBI?”

“Let me find that message,” Baird said. “I grabbed it at the office before I left.” Joe could hear paper being unfolded. “Special Agent Chuck Coon called. He wants me to call him back regarding what we found or didn’t find in the mountains.”

“I know Coon,” Joe said, remembering that the governor had also mentioned federal interest. “He’s a good enough guy, but I don’t know why they’re interested.”

Said Baird, “DCI, FBI, the National Enquirer. You sure as hell know how to stir up a hornet’s nest. For nothing, I might add.”

“They’re up there,” Joe said. “The Grim Brothers, Terri Wade, and the mystery woman. You just didn’t manage to find them. They know those mountains better than anyone alive, and they probably watched you the whole time. Luckily, you had numbers and firepower on your side so they left you alone.”

Said Baird, “They sure as hell did.”

“Come on, sheriff. You’re well aware of all the break-ins and vandalism over the last couple of years. You’ve heard from ranchers who’ve pulled their cattle from leases. You knowthey’re up there.”

Baird was silent.

“Look,” Joe said, “I’m sorry you couldn’t find them. And I’m sorry about your budget. But those brothers will stay up there and something else will happen unless they’re located. We both know that.”

Baird said, “I don’t know a damned thing, Joe, other than I’m pulling into the parking lot of the county building right now where I’ve got to go inside and tell the county commissioners that I’ve blown the entire annual discretionary budget of the sheriff’s department and it’s just September. You want to drive down here and explain it to them with me?”

Joe said, “I can’t leave my house right now.”

“Thought so.”

“But I wish I could,” Joe said. He sounded lame even to himself.

“I need to hang up now. I’ve gotta go let the commissioners peel the bark off me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You sure are.” With that, Baird punched off.

The woman who answered the phone in the state Department of Administration and Information Human Resources office in Cheyenne said, “I’ve got three minutes to help you or you’ll need to call back.”

Joe glanced at the digital clock on his desk. It was 11:57 a.m.

“You go to lunch in three minutes?” Joe asked.

“Two minutes now,” she said.

Joe closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, and asked her to confirm that either Bobby McCue or Robert McCue was employed by the State of Wyoming. Joe knew that although additional information couldn’t be given out regarding personnel information, the state was obligated to provide the names of employees because it was public record.

“Spell it,” she said. Joe tried M-C–C-U-E to no avail. He suggested M-C–C-E-W, then M-C-H-U-G-H. No hits on her computer system. “You’ll have to try back later,” she said.

Said Joe, “I realize it’s noon and noon is your lunch break. But can you please give me five more minutes? I promise I’ll buy you lunch next time I’m in Cheyenne.”

Through gritted teeth, she said she had to go and she did.

At 12:01, Joe called the Department of Criminal Investigation and asked for Bobby McCue’s voice mail.

“We don’t have an employee with that name,” the receptionist said.

“Thank you.” Joe slammed down the phone and moaned. Tube raised his head and cocked it inquisitively.

Joe threw back the curtains and shoved the window open. Nedney looked up, surprised.

“Hey, Ed,” Joe said. “Get off of my lawn.”

Nedney looked down at his feet. The tips of his shoes had crossed the property line.

“Hey, you’re trampling my grass,” Joe said.

“Is that what it is?” Nedney said, slowly removing the pipe from his mouth, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

“Good one,” Joe conceded and closed the window and put the drapes back in place, already sorry he’d taken his frustration out on his neighbor.

As he limped through the kitchen with his bucket of tools, bound for the mudroom to fix the door that wouldn’t shut properly, he felt he was being watched. Joe paused and slowly turned around. Tube was right with him, as always, but the sensation hadn’t come from his dog.

Had Nedney entered his backyard?

Slowly, Joe raised his eyes to the window over the sink that overlooked his back lawn.

Nate cocked his eyebrows at him from outside. Through the glass, Nate mouthed, “Hey.”

Joe grinned. It had been a long time.

17

Joe and Nate worked together on dinner. Joe had pronghorn antelope backstraps in the freezer from the previous fall, and Nate rubbed the meat with sage, garlic, salt, and pepper and prepared it for the grill. Joe roasted green beans in the oven and boiled potatoes on the stove for mashing later. Nate said, “This is uncomfortably domestic.”

Said Joe, “This is the least I can do since I’m rattling around the house all day. At some point in the very near future, though, I may need to learn how to do something besides grill red meat every night.”

Nate cocked his head to the side the way a puzzled falcon did. “Why?”

Joe chinned toward the kitchen window where Nate had stood earlier and said, “Why’d you scare me like that?”

“I couldn’t let anyone see me come in the front door,” Nate said, shaping a long sheet of foil to wrap around the meat to catch the drippings. “I’m still a wanted man, remember? I saw your neighbor out front, and by the look of him he seems like the type of guy who would call the cops on me because I look suspicious.”

“You’re right about that,” Joe conceded. “But haven’t things cooled down now since Coon took over the FBI field office?” Joe asked. Coon had replaced Special Agent Tony Portenson, who’d finally gotten his wish and had been reassigned to the East Coast as a reward for breaking the Stenko case the fall before. Although Nate was officially still a fugitive, Coon had told Joe that he planned to redirect the agents previously assigned to capturing Nate to other cases. The same way prosecutors had discretion, bureau chiefs had some leeway on the priorities of their offices, Coon had explained with a slight wink.

“Let’s just say I haven’t heard of any intense efforts to find me lately,” Nate said. “I’ve got a friend or two in the federal building who keep me informed on things like that.”

Joe said, “I don’t want to hear any more.”

Nate smiled and winked. Nate had connections everywhere, and Joe didn’t want to know who they were or how they knew Nate. The less he knew about Nate’s background, means of support, or day-to-day life, the better, he thought. As it was, he knew he could be brought up on charges for harboring a fugitive.

While Joe plucked the potatoes out of the pot to cool, he told Nate the story of what had happened in the Sierra Madre. Nate was intensely interested, but listened in silence while nodding his head. Finally, he said, “I’ve got a couple of questions.”

“I’m sick of answering questions about it,” Joe said. “Nobody seems to believe me, anyway.”

“I can see why,” Nate said, raising his eyebrows. “So I’ll boil them all down to one.”

Joe nodded.

“When are we going up there to find those bastards?”

Before Joe could answer, the front door opened and Marybeth stepped in, trailed by April and Lucy. All three froze when they saw Joe and Nate in the kitchen.

“Oh, my,” Marybeth said, her eyes wide.

“Who is that?” April asked Lucy, taking in Nate from his ponytail to his scuffed boots. Joe saw Marybeth grimace involuntarily at April’s reaction. And he saw April’s face harden into a mask when Sheridan ran across the room and hugged her master falconer.

At the table later, Joe listened as Nate and Sheridan, who’d arrived late due to basketball practice, debated what kind of falcon should be her first to fly. Although she’d lost her passion in the sport for a while because she was angry with Nate, his presence seemed to have rekindled her interest. Sheridan thought she should start out with a prairie falcon, while Nate suggested she get and fly a merlin.

He said, “Merlins are pretty little falcons, and they don’t get enough credit. They’re small but fast and surprisingly strong.”

Sheridan shook off the idea. “merlins are birds for beginners. They have short wings and they just kill small things.”

“You area beginner. Besides, Merlins can be trained quickly and flown within a few weeks. They’re more loyal than long-winged falcons.”

Sheridan made a face. “You told me once loyalty had nothing to do with it. You said it was about creating a special partnership between falconer and falcon. You said if one needs the other one too much, the special partnership is ruined and the falconer might as well get a dog.”

Nate looked to Joe for help. Joe shrugged. It was usually him on the receiving end of Sheridan’s arguments, and he enjoyed seeing Nate become prey to his own words.

“Well, I’ve got a dog,” Sheridan said, gesturing at Tube. “Now I want a falcon. A real falcon. You said yourself a prairie is second only to a peregrine as far as you were concerned.”

Nate said, “But a merlin. ”

“Forget merlins,” Sheridan said. “Can you help me get a prairie falcon?”

Nate sighed.

“I thought so,” Sheridan said.

Joe noticed the amused look on Lucy’s face. Lucy had been following the exchange, as well as carefully observing April stare at Nate the whole time. Lucy said to April, “Be careful your eyes don’t pop out and fall on your plate. You wouldn’t want to accidentally eat them.”

April, the spell momentarily broken, flushed red and hissed, “Shut up, Lucy.”

“Girls,” Marybeth said, and smiled a quick smile at Nate and Joe.

Joe thought, There is a LOT going on here.

After the dishes were cleared and cleaned-it was the first time Joe could remember all three girls helping without being asked, apparently to impress their guest-Joe went out on the front porch. The sun had slipped behind the Bighorns an hour before, and because of the elevation, the temperature had already dropped twenty degrees. Although it was barely September, there was already a fall-like snap to the air. He’d noticed earlier that fingers of color were probing down through the folds of the foothills, and the leaves on the cottonwoods of the valley floor were starting to cup. V’s of high-altitude geese soared south along the underbelly of a moon-fused cloud. All were signs of an early winter. Nevertheless, he thought he’d suggest to Nate and Marybeth that they sit outside in the back. He knew Nate had more questions and he wanted to answer them out of earshot of the girls. Marybeth should be there because she so often provided insight he never considered, plus she said she’d spent a few hours earlier that day doing Internet searches trying to locate what she could online about Terri Wade, Diane Shober, and the Grim Brothers.

Joe went back inside the house to check the humidor in his office, hoping he still had some smokable cigars. But because he hadn’t filled the humidor well with water for months, the two cigars that remained crackled drily between his palms and were irredeemable.

He nearly ran into Lucy in the hallway when he came out. She was in her nightgown, and he anticipated a complaint about April when she said, “I think I saw someone in the backyard.”

“Was it Nate?”

“No, Nate’s in the kitchen talking with Mom.”

As she said it, there was a heavy thump against the siding outside, as if someone had tripped in the dark and reached out to prevent a fall. Joe continued down the hall with Lucy padding in bare feet behind him. Sheridan stuck her head out of her bedroom doorway and said, “What was that?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out.”

There were a number of possibilities. Maybe Nedney had seen Nate and called the feds or the sheriff; one of Nate’s friends or enemies had followed him here; a reporter from the National Enquirerinvestigating the Terri Wade story had located the witness; Camish and Caleb had tracked him down to finish the job. Or maybe something more innocent: high-school boys trying to spy on his daughters. The last possibility made Joe angrier than any of the previous theories.

He looked up to see Marybeth rising from the table and Nate striding across the living room. He’d hidden his.454 on the top shelf of the coat closet.

Joe bypassed the.40 Glock in his office drawer and snatched a 12-gauge Mossberg pump from his gun rack. He used the piece for goose hunting since it took 3-inch Magnum shells, and he jammed three into the magazine and worked the slide to put one in the chamber. His six-battery steel Maglite slipped into his belt.

Joe turned to Marybeth, who hovered in the hallway as if positioning herself between her daughters and any outside threat. He said, “Make sure the curtains are closed in the back bedrooms and the girls are in our room in the front of the house.”

He waited while Marybeth shooed Sheridan, April, and Lucy across the hall in their nightgowns into the master bedroom. April sulked, Lucy went willingly-practically skipping-and Sheridan shot a look at Joe and Nate as if she wished she were with them instead of with her sisters and mom. When the girls were across the hallway, Marybeth leaned out and silently mouthed, “Okay.”

Although the operation had gone quickly and smoothly, Joe thought again of what his mother-in-law had said to him. How his job endangered his family. Here it was again. His girls were usedto this sort of thing, and that wasn’t normal or right, was it?

Nate said, “Let’s go out the front and come around to the back on both sides.”

Joe nodded, said, “I’ll take the left side.”

As they slipped out the front door into the dark, Joe whispered over his shoulder, “Take it real easy, Nate. I live in this place. No shooting or pulling off ears if it can be avoided.”

Nate grunted his understanding. Then: “When we get in position, I’ll make a noise to get their attention. You be ready on the back side and come up behind them.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s take this slow.”

“Of course.”

Joe kept low to avoid being illuminated by the house windows and the lone streetlamp on the corner of the block. He went left, reminded painfully of the injuries in his legs. Once he was on the side of the house, he’d be in shadow. He avoided the concrete path and kept to the grass to avoid making noise. There was a narrow strip of grass between his house and Ed Nedney’s, and he’d turn at a ninety-degree angle at the corner and follow it to a six-foot wooden gate that led to his backyard. There, he’d wait for Nate’s distraction before opening the gate.

He turned the corner. Ed Nedney’s front porch light clicked on and Nedney stepped out on his landing, apparently to light his pipe. A match flared and lit up Nedney’s face, and he turned his head and saw Joe with the shotgun. Nedney froze, the match paused a few inches from the bowl of tobacco. He started to speak, but Joe held his index finger to his lips and hissed, “Shhhhh.”

Nedney’s eyes were wide. Joe thought, he has a decision to make: obey Joe’s command or say what he was going to say. The match burned down in Nedney’s fingers. Another time, two years ago, his neighbor had come outside to find Joe marching another man across his yard at gunpoint. Nedney hadn’t liked the experience one bit.

His neighbor inhaled to speak, but Joe shot his arm out and pointed his finger at him, gesturing for him to go back inside. Although he was clearly angry, Nedney tossed the match aside, turned on his heel, and scuttled into his house. Probably to call the police or start drafting covenants for the neighborhood forbidding residents from lurking around in the dark with shotguns, Joe thought. Joe hoped Nate was in position so whatever was going to happen would happen quickly and he could warn Nate to keep out of sight in case the police were coming.

He paused at the back gate and tried to see into the backyard through gaps in the wood slats. He got a glimpse of the two large cottonwood trunks, Lucy’s bike propped up against a planter, and a small swatch of the cracked concrete porch. He couldn’t see who had made the noise, but the hairs on the back of his neck were up and he was sure someone or something was back there.

Of course, he thought, it could be innocent. Possibly neighborhood kids playing around. Or an animal-a stray dog, a coyote down from the foothills, a badger looking for dog food to eat, even a deer or bear. A few years before, Joe had been called out to shoot tranquilizer darts at a mountain lion perched in the fork of a mountain ash tree. And there was the occasional moose, elk, antelope, wolverine.

Behind the fence in the backyard was an empty field dotted with sagebrush that smelled sweet in the late summer and perfumed the dry air. That was the way Nate had approached their house earlier and Joe peered through the gap in the fence to see if the back gate was open. It was. He knew Nate had closed it earlier, which eliminated the animal options and indicated someone was back there. Whether the intruder had slipped out while he and Nate armed up and sneaked around or was still there was yet to be determined.

Then Joe heard it, a rhythmic wheezing sound. Somebody breathing, but not easily. Whoever it was remained in the backyard, but Joe couldn’t get an angle through the fence to see him.

From the other side of the house came an eerie high-pitched call mimicking the sound of an angry hawk: skree-skree-skree-skree.

Joe quickly pushed through the gate and was startled when the hinges moaned angrily from lack of oil. He dashed through the opening into the backyard, putting distance between the open gate and himself in case whoever was back there had been as surprised by the rusty hinges as he’d been. There was only one human form he could see, and the man was standing in the muted light beneath the kitchen window with his back to Joe, looking in the direction of the hawk sound. The man was big and blocky, wearing a cowboy hat, an oversized canvas Carhartt ranch coat, and jeans. The left cuff was carelessly pulled outside a cowboy boot and bunched on the top of the boot. What looked like an M1911.45 ACP semiautomatic pistol was hanging down in his right hand along the hem of the ranch jacket.

Joe said, “Freeze where you stand or I’ll cut you in half with this shotgun.”

Joe recognized the hat, boots, and pistol. He raised his Maglite alongside the barrel of his shotgun after twisting it on so he could see clearly down the sights while aiming. The beam was choked down to the minimum size, and he trained it on the man’s head and shoulders.

He said, “Bud, is that you?”

Bud Longbrake, Missy’s ex-husband and Joe’s ex-father-in-law, stood like a bronze statue of a washed-up cowboy caught in a spotlight. Slowly, Bud turned his head a little so he could talk to Joe over his shoulder. “Hey, Joe. I didn’t know you were home.”

His voice was bass and resigned, and his words were slurred.

“I live here, Bud,” Joe said. “You know that. So what are you doing sneaking around in my backyard? Oh, and drop the Colt.”

Bud said, “If I drop it on the concrete, it might go off.”

“Then bend over and put it at your feet and kick it away, Bud.”

“Oh, all right.” It took him a moment to bend all the way over, and he grunted while he did it. He gave the weapon a kick with his boot. Joe thought Bud had gained quite a bit of weight since he’d last seen him, and his movements were stiff as if his joints hurt.

“Okay, turn around slowly,” Joe said. “Keep the palms of your hands up so I can see them.”

Bud did, and Joe put the beam of his flashlight on Bud’s face. He was shocked by what he saw. Bud’s eyes were rimmed with red and his cheeks were puffy and pale and spiderwebbed with thin blue veins. His nose was bulbous and looked as if it had been rubbed gray with woodstove ash. A three-day growth of beard sparkled like silver sequins in the beam of the flashlight.

“You look like hell, Bud,” Joe said, lowering the shotgun but keeping the flashlight on the old rancher.

Bud said, “You know, I feel like hell, too.” He swayed while he said it, as if he’d been hit with an ocean wave at knee level or he was doing some kind of lounge dance very poorly. His arms circled stiffly in their sockets, and he took a step forward to regain his balance. “Whoa,” he said.

“Sit down,” Joe said, propping his shotgun against Lucy’s bike. “Grab one of those lawn chairs.”

“I’ll do that,” Bud said, pulling a chair over and collapsing into it. The whooshof his exhale floated in Joe’s direction, and the alcohol content was so high Joe was grateful he didn’t have a lighted cigarette. He hoped the chair wouldn’t collapse under the ex-rancher’s weight.

Nate remained hidden, and Joe purposefully didn’t look in his direction. Although Bud seemed completely harmless now, it was good to have Nate there monitoring the situation. It was preferable Bud didn’t know it.

Said Bud, “I heard this damned poem in the bar the other night I can’t get out of my head. It’s a Dr. Seuss poem. It goes:

I cannot see, I cannot pee

I cannot chew, I cannot screw

Oh my God, what can I do?

“Dr. Seuss, you say,” Joe said. “I doubt that.”

Bud continued, “. My body’s drooping, have trouble pooping