Текст книги "Dry Bones"

Автор книги: Craig Johnson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

I glanced at Saizarbitoria. “Help him out with this, will you?”

The Basquo nodded, and I glanced back at Double Tough. “Less green green, more hazel.”

As I turned the corner into the main reception area, I became aware of a lot more noise than I was used to and was treated to a mob of television news people from all over the region—K2TV and KCWY out of Casper, KGWN from Cheyenne, KOTA Territory News from over in Rapid City, and KULR and KTVQ from up in Billings.

In the frenzy of arguing with Ruby, they didn’t notice me or the bottle of rye in my hand. The only one who did was Dog, who crept away from the melee with all the dignity of a lion from hyenas and joined me as I backed down the hallway before the fourth estate could catch us.

Pushing open the back door, I held it for Dog and then turned the corner to find Ernie “Man About Town” Brown of Durant Courant fame sitting on the tailgate of my truck. Busted. “Hi, Ernie. How come you’re not inside with all the other riffraff?”

“I’m afraid it’s too crowded in there.” He patted the bed of the truck and Dog jumped in, sitting at Ernie’s side as the newsman produced a biscuit from his shirt pocket.

“How can I help you, Ernie?”

He fed Dog the treat and glanced at the bottle of rye, still hanging from my hand. “Where are you off to?”

“Going to see Isaac Bloomfield, give him this bottle, and find out about the preliminary autopsy on—”

“Danny Lone Elk.” He nodded and pulled out a small spiral notebook with a stubby golf pencil shoved in the wire. “I’ve got his obituary in the paper this morning. You know, his wife died about ten years ago, but he is survived by one son and one daughter.” He smiled and adjusted his trifocal glasses. “You should read the paper, Walter. You’d discover all kinds of things.”

Figuring there was no way out of talking to him, I leaned against my truck. “Yep, well, I figure my copy is lying in there at the reception desk, and I’m not going anywhere near that place.”

He gestured around him. “Just as I figured.” He licked the point of his pencil. “Now, about this announcement that the acting deputy attorney will be making . . .”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Skip Trost?” He nodded. “Colorado Springs kid, born and bred; worked on a number of elections down that way and was picked up by Tom Wheeler to head his campaign when he ran for the senate here in Wyoming.”

“I’ve heard Trost doesn’t have any trial experience.”

He fed Dog another cookie. “He doesn’t.”

I edged a half seat on the tailgate and folded my arms around the bottle so as to not drop it. “A lot of interaction with the media, though?”

He paused over the pad, the tip of his pencil like a wasp’s stinger. “I just need an official statement from you, Walter.”

All the while thinking that this whole shit storm of a witch hunt was being manufactured by some unconfirmed peon trying to make a name for himself, I switched into publicspeak. “The theft of artifacts is an extremely sensitive issue, and we’re just glad to have the cooperation of the U.S. Attorney’s office and the Justice Department in this complex situation.”

“Anything to say about the High Plains Dinosaur Museum?”

“The HPDM is a fixture within the community, and I’m sure that anything that might be construed as an illegal act will be scrutinized to the fullest and everyone within the organization will assist us in any way possible.”

“Anything to say about the Cheyenne tribe’s involvement or the passing of Danny Lone Elk?”

Given the fact that I had one dead man and another half-dead one, both of whom had sampled whiskey out of the same flask, I dissembled: “That’s an ongoing investigation and unavailable for comment at this time.”

He lowered his pencil, and it was not the first time I’d felt he might be reading my mind.

“How’s Lucian?”

The more formal portion of the interview over, I packed up my publicspeak and deposited it. “He’s okay. I’m on my way over there now to check on him and talk to Isaac.”

“Not to change the subject, but do you have any photographs of the T. rex’s head?”

“No, but I’m sure Dave Baumann does. I’m sure the FBI does, too, but I’d ask Dave.”

“Thank you, Walter.”

“You bet.”

He nodded, placed his notebook and pencil in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and raised a fist. “Save Jen.”

 • • •

“You look fit—for a guy who died last night.”

His hands frittered over the sheets on the hospital bed. “Well, that’s good, because I feel like living hell.”

“I guess whatever you drank gave you a pretty good hangover.”

He ironed a hand across his wrinkled face and discovered an IV connected to his arm. “How did I get here?”

“Saizarbitoria and I loaded you onto a gurney.” I placed the bottle of whiskey on the floor beside my chair and got up, walking over and putting his arm back down before he got the idea of pulling the needle from his vein. I stood back with my hands on my hips, satisfied the hospital equipment was safe for the moment. “What do you remember about yesterday?”

“Got sick.” He thought about it. “Had a ham sandwich for lunch and figured it might’ve been that, but then I started thinking it was the flu.”

“Did you drink all the whiskey that was in Danny Lone Elk’s flask?”

He smirked his defiance at me. “What if I did.”

It was about then that Isaac and David Nickerson, who had just been appointed the head of Durant Memorial Hospital’s newly renovated ER, came in the room, both of them holding overloaded clipboards.

I walked back to my chair, reached down, and offered the bottle to the docs, which did not go unnoticed by the old sheriff in the bed.

“What the hell are you doin’ with my whiskey?”

“I pulled it from your bar; don’t worry, it’s not your best stuff.” Isaac took the bottle, and I turned back to Lucian. “They need to test it against the stuff you drank from the flask.”

“Be careful with that bottle; that straight rye is mighty dear.”

David quieted him. “It’s all right; all we need is a test-tube full—I’m a light drinker.”

The doc gestured toward his younger associate. “He’s been able to use our lab to examine the contents of the tumbler, and even though the results aren’t going to be as conclusive as those from DCI, we think we’ve discovered something.”

“What?”

The ER doctor cleared his throat. “Mercury.”

I glanced at the old sheriff. “You said it tasted metallic.”

Nickerson came around the bed and looked across at me. “I’m betting that if we did an autopsy on Danny Lone Elk, we would find he died of mercury poisoning.”

“Why didn’t it kill Lucian?”

“Because this particular form of mercury absorbs into the victim’s system more in an acidic environment, and with Danny’s ulcers, his stomach was chronically acidic.”

“So, both Danny and Lucian were most likely poisoned?”

Isaac put his clipboard at Lucian’s blanketed feet and then came over and took his wrist and checked his pulse. “Possibly, but it could be that the mercury was absorbed from the flask. We have no idea of its age or how long the whiskey had been in there.”

5

“Can a press conference be considered impromptu if you’re wearing pancake makeup?”

Looking at the crowds of people in green and white SAVE JEN T-shirts, who were protesting the perceived jackboot actions of the feds by holding signs that read SAY BYE, FBI!, I leaned against the red brick of the courthouse and sighed. It appeared to me that Skip Trost was facing an uphill battle.

I studied the side of his face. “You’re kidding.”

Vic smiled. “And just a touch of rouge to give him that ruddy, cross-dresser-of-the-people look.”

I glanced at the hundred or so trampling the newly sown grass on the hill leading to my office and spoke out of the side of my mouth: “Hush, this is bad enough without a running commentary.”

“Thank you for being here today for this off-the-cuff announcement, and thank you for the pleasure of being here with all of you this morning.” The acting deputy attorney continued talking over the shouts of the crowd. “It is a privilege to see my friends, colleagues, and local leaders assembled here today for this momentous event—it is a wonderful opportunity to thank them for their dedication in serving as faithful stewards to the people and the wonderful place we call home, Wyoming.”

“Do you think he thinks they don’t know what state they live in?”

Trost adjusted the microphone on the podium and studied the onlookers. “From its earliest days, this state has been bound together by a set of laws and values that define it—equality, opportunity, and justice.”

“For all.”

“Shhhh . . .”

“When is he going to start talking about the dinosaur?”

“Shhhh . . .”

“These traits are codified in our great state, and there are those of us who are called upon to settle disputes but also to hold accountable those who have done wrong. I have long held the opinion that I am a custodian of the law.” He turned around and looked at the courthouse to validate his worth.

“How long has he been in office?”

I mumbled under my breath, “He hasn’t been confirmed yet.”

He gained momentum. “I hope to give a clear and focused message to those who would take advantage of our great state’s magnificent bounty.”

She bounced the back of her head against the wall. “Oh, brother.”

“Yes, a treasure trove of state antiquities that should not be allowed to fall into any single individual’s hands but should be shared by all the people of Wyoming in a communal dedication to the cause of justice and the common good.”

“Coming off kind of William Jennings Bryan, isn’t he?”

Feeling he’d captured the throng, Trost decided to get literary. “Salus populi suprema lex esto.”

She looked at me. “What the fuck was that?”

“Cicero—the welfare of the people is the ultimate law.”

Vic studied the telejournalists, all of them looking a little perplexed. “Think they’ll subtitle him?”

Warming to the subject, Trost nodded his head. “It is time; in fact it’s well past time to address the persistent needs and unwarranted disparities by considering a fundamentally new approach toward the federal Antiquities Act of 1906, which includes a clear prohibition against removing fossils from any land owned or controlled by the United States.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I myself would prefer to see Jen remain, if not here in Absaroka County, then within the confines of the state.” He raised a fist. “Save Jen!”

There were cheers on that one.

“This is our solemn obligation as stewards of the land so that these antiquities might be preserved for our children . . .”

Vic mumbled, “And our children’s children.”

“And our children’s children.” He glanced at us and gestured toward me, and I thought that he might’ve overheard Vic. “I’d like to ask a man that’s well-known and respected by all of you, Sheriff Walt Longmire, to join me here at the podium.”

I pushed off the wall and started forward, speaking under my breath as I passed her, “What, no smart-ass remark on that?”

She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Just waiting till you’re out of earshot.”

Trost pumped my hand as I joined him; he was, indeed, wearing makeup. He had stopped me on the top step to try and keep his height opportunity, but even with the six-inch advantage, I was still a couple of inches taller. He smiled brightly for the cameras and held on to my hand. “Are there any questions?”

“Sheriff, have any criminal charges been brought against the High Plains Dinosaur Museum?”

“Um, not at this time. We’re hoping that—”

Trost reached over and brought the mic closer to his face. “Actually, our office has been planning an intervention to discourage this type of behavior.”

A Billings reporter called out to me, “Sheriff, is it true that the Jen was found on Native American land?”

“Well, it was discovered on the Lone Elk Ranch, and Danny was an enrolled member—”

Trost leapt in again. “The Cheyenne tribe has filed an order to desist under the federal Antiquities Act of 1906 prohibiting the removal of fossils from any land owned or controlled by the United States without permit.”

The redhead from the Casper station yelled at me, “Does the museum have a permit, Walt?”

I shrugged again. “My understanding is—”

The deputy attorney spoke into the microphone. “No, they do not.” He glanced around. “I’m afraid that the sheriff has other duties to attend to, but I’m glad to stay here and answer anything more you might want to know.”

As another flurry of questions exploded, I took my leave and collected Vic, shortcutting to our office through the courthouse. I held the glass door open and ushered her in. “So, how did I do?”

“You were a perfect little meat puppet.” She glanced back with mock concern. “You didn’t mess up his lipstick, did you?”

 • • •

There are signs on the Lone Elk place, but you have to find them.

Kicking at the boards lying at the base of a post and trying to figure out if any of them might be pointing the right way, I kneeled down and turned a few over, reading the names of owners long past.

“Are we lost?”

I lifted my face, narrowing my eyes in the wind that had picked up, and looked at the rolling hills of the eastern part of my jurisdiction. “Never lost, just mightily confused.”

She stood at the fork of the gravel roads and turned around as Dog took a leak on his forty-third piece of sagebrush. “How big is our county again?”

“In square miles?”

“Yeah.”

“Just over nine thousand—about the size of New Hampshire.” I glanced around some more, making some calculations. “If I were to guess, I’d say we were near Hakert Draw at the Wallows, maybe near Dead Swede Mine.”

She walked past me to the edge of the road, Dog following, and looked at the Powder River country, at the vastness of the high plains that seemed to draw your eyes further than you thought possible. “Question number one.” She turned to look at me, scratching behind Dog’s ear as he sat on her foot. “What is Hakert Draw?”

“Well, a draw is formed by two parallel ridges or spurs with low ground in between them; the area of low ground, where we happen to be standing, is the actual draw. Hakert is the name of the rancher who used to own the land.”

She pushed Dog off her foot, walked over, and leaned against the pole. “The Wallows?”

“A few small lakes out here, fed by a number of creeks.”

“Like the killer-turtle pond?”

“Yep.”

“Dead Swede Mine?”

“That one is a little complicated.”

“What, there’s a dead Swede at the bottom of a shaft?”

I picked up one of the boards and stood. “There’s a legend . . .”

She laughed. “What is it with you westerners? There’s always a legend.”

“Supposedly there were three prospectors who snuck into this area after it had been cordoned off by the military as Indian territory. As the tale goes, they found gold, a lot of it, but as is human nature, they then fell in on each other. After the altercation, the only one left was a Swede by the name of Jonus Johanson.”

“He would be the dead one?”

I examined the board in my hands, running my thumb across the ridges made by the engraved letters. “Nobody knows what happened to him, but a man traveling alone, supposedly with a lot of gold, surrounded by scoundrels and profiteers of every stripe . . . I wouldn’t think his odds were very good, but it’s just a story.”

She glanced around, I guess half hoping to see a timber-supported opening in the hills. “If those men found the mine, then it must be true.”

“Not really—it’s probably just an old, shallow-shaft coal mine, a rarity in these parts; but still, as Dorothy Johnson once said, ‘when the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’” Nudging my chin toward the Bighorns, I started back toward the Bullet. “If they found gold, it would’ve been closer to the mountains, but actually there’s really not much geologic evidence of any gold anywhere in the area.” I opened the door and looked back at the two of them. “Fool’s gold, I’d say.”

“Have you seen it?”

“What?”

“The mine.”

“Once, when I was a kid out with my father.” She opened the passenger-side door and let Dog hop in. “We were fishing and I got bored, so I went for a walk over a few ridges.”

She climbed in and stretched the safety belt over her chest. “Through the draws?”

“Yep.” I glanced over my shoulder at the endless series of hills. “You get in some of these big draws and you can’t see the mountains; I was young, maybe six or seven, and not paying attention, and pretty soon I was lost. I got turned around and thought I was heading back, but then I saw an opening in a hillside with timbers and supports.” I climbed into the truck, set the board with the etched names, faded with time and weather, across the center console between us, and fastened my own seat belt. “I was a kid so of course I went over and looked into it, but it was dark.” I shook my head. “Threw a few pebbles in the opening but couldn’t hear anything. Anyway, I got bored again and kept walking.” I closed the door and started the Bullet. “Around dark, my father found me heading down Cook Road in the wrong direction. He was pretty mad, but I distracted him by telling him about the mine. We went back and looked for it a few days later; saw an old lineman’s shack, but I never could find the mine opening again.”

She glanced through the windshield at the fork in the road. “So, where to?”

I pointed my thumb at the arrow on the board that pointed to the left, next to the worn white letters in the reddish wood that read LONE ELK. “The road less traveled, I suppose.”

I pulled out and drove over a few more ridges and then hit a straightaway that seemed to stretch to the horizon.

“But you saw it? I mean, it’s out here.”

“The mine?” I thought about it, but the memories were vague. “Or maybe I just dreamed it.” I smiled at her. “I’m getting like that, you know. I think I know things from my past, but it turns out I just think that I know them; my youth is becoming a mythology to me.”

She shook her head. “Just for the record? You say some of the strangest shit sometimes.”

I went back to studying the road, because ahead is where the trouble usually is waiting. “Comes from having an overly active imagination.”

Vic leaned forward in her seat. “Is that somebody?”

“Yep, I think it is.” I began slowing the Bullet in an attempt to not powder whoever it might be—being afoot was a daring feat this far out.

I eased to a stop and rolled my window down; I could tell the young man thought about making a break for it but then realized that he might’ve waited a little too long—he might outrun two cops, but he wouldn’t outrun the Bullet. “Howdy.”

He shifted the backpack on his shoulder as if it were the weight of the world, and maybe it was, at least to him. His voice didn’t carry much enthusiasm as he studied the hills, one eye swollen, the skin underneath blackened. “Hey.”

“Where are you going?”

He shrugged.

“Just headed out for the territories, huh?”

He turned his head, the long tendrils of black hair whipping across his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Vic snickered as I explained. “Oh, just something the old-timers used to say.” I watched him some more—one tough cookie, as my father would have said. “Reno’s nice; ever been to Reno?”

The eye that wasn’t damaged narrowed, and he was unsure if I was poking fun at him. “Where’s that?”

“Nevada.”

He took his time answering. “Is that where you’re headed?”

“No, we’re headed for your house.”

He sighed and kicked at a chunk of red shale in the road with the toe of a Chuck Taylor sneaker. “That’s the one place I don’t want to go.”

I nodded and glanced at my undersheriff. “Well, we’re lost and were hoping you could help us out.”

He lip-pointed over his shoulder. “S’that way.”

“We might miss it.”

He sighed again, bigger this time, and then trudged in front of my truck and around to Vic’s side like a condemned prisoner. She opened the door and got out, forcing him to the center. He climbed in, setting his backpack on the transmission hump as Dog swiped a tongue as broad as a dishwashing sponge up the back of his head. “’The fuck?”

Dog sat back and looked at him the way dogs have looked at boys for centuries—half-feral kindred spirits.

“That’s Dog; I’m his.”

The kid nodded toward Vic. “Are you hers, too?”

“I’m not so sure that’s an appropriate question for you to be asking.” I pulled out. “Where’d you get the shiner?”

“The what?”

“Black eye.”

He touched his face. “What did you call it?”

“A shiner. The term can be traced back to a couple of origins; some say it was an Irish term for the beating you’d get if you didn’t keep your equipment shiny, others that it was because the discolored, swelled tissue appears to have a shine to it.”

He shrugged. “All I know is that if you make a smart remark to my uncle, you get one free of charge.”

I drove, and he continued to study us; then he turned toward Vic, even going so far as to shift in the seat.

She stared back at him. “What?”

“You’re hot.”

“Um, thanks.”

“My uncle Randy and me were talking about you . . . he thinks you’re hot, too.”

Vic glanced at me. “That’s nice.”

“We watch TV, and he always says that the TV cops are too pretty, that making them look like that is bullshit, but he said you were an exception.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “So, what are cops supposed to look like?”

He nodded my way. “Like him.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” I drove and thought it might be prudent to change the subject. “You know, I used to run away a lot when I was a kid.”

“I’m seventeen, and I’m not runnin’, just goin’.”

I nodded. “Does your family know you’re going?”

“No.”

“Well, then, within the narrow purview of the law, that would be termed as running.”

Crossing his arms, he slumped in the seat. “What, and that’s against the law?”

“Pretty much.” I rested an elbow on the sill. “So, why are you running away?”

“I’m not so sure that’s an appropriate question for you to be asking.”

Vic snickered some more as we made a small rise; at the base of one of the many draws, where the two ridges met, a large, Dutch-shouldered house sat nestled against one of the hills with a sprawling barn and an assortment of outbuildings, corrals, and chutes, along with a small bridge spanning Wallows Creek.

“Is this it?”

He didn’t say anything, slumped, and looked at his lap as if we were taking him back to a gulag. I slowed to look at the mailbox, but there was only a number and no name. “Let’s go find out.”

As I drove the ranch road, I could see a mob of dogs coming out to meet us, mostly border collie and blue heeler mixes. I slowed my truck, trying not to run over any of them, and carefully rolled toward the house. Finally parked, I looked back at Dog, who seemed anxious to get out. “I don’t think so.”

I pulled the handle and stepped onto the gravel as Vic and the escapee did the same on the other side. The dogs barked and snapped but gave room when a loud whistle emanated from the back of the house; they disappeared without a sound. A woman appeared behind the screen door, only to disappear again.

“Looks like we’re not welcome.” I placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder as we approached the porch. “Maybe it’s the company we’re traveling with.”

A moment later, an impressive and shirtless Randy appeared at the door, pushing it open and stepping onto the redwood planks in his bare feet; he leaned a shoulder against the facing, the door open. “Pévevóona’o, Sheriff.”

“’Morning, Randy. Did we get you up?”

He yawned. “Calving.”

The tough cookie shrugged off my hand and traveled under his uncle’s arm into the house as Randy ducked his head below his armpit and called after him. “You run away again?” He turned back to look at us, shaking his head. “Kid runs away once after every meal.”

“A little late in the season, isn’t it?”

“Oh, hell no, he does it all year long.”

We pulled up at the steps. “I meant calving.”

He gestured toward the sun. “Spring. I never could figure out why these ranchers around here would want to birth calves in knee-deep snow in February.”

I nodded. “My father did.”

“I bet you ran away a lot, too.” He gestured back to the house. “We’re out of donuts, but you want some coffee?”

 • • •

We sat on the front porch swing and nursed the mugs that Randy’s sister, Eva, had brought out to us as she hummed a song under her breath; it was a familiar tune, but I couldn’t place it. Randy regaled my undersheriff with tales of the romantic ranching life. “As calving days get closer, I move them into the smaller pastures just so I can keep an eye on them. I go out on horseback and ride among them in the morning and usually at night, too.”

“Old school?”

He glanced at me, but it was pretty obvious he preferred looking at Vic. “Dad never allowed four-wheelers on the place.” He raised a hand, imitating the thumb action of an ATV accelerator. “This ain’t the cowboy way . . .” His hands dropped. “’Course, if it’s a spring blizzard or something, I’ll be out there all night, or at the least every two hours or so.”

Vic shook her head. “When do you sleep?”

“Usually in the saddle.” Randy laughed and gestured to a white-blazed bay standing by a gate. “One time on Bambino over there, I woke up covered with about three inches of snow and we were standing right here at the porch. I swear, if he could’ve, he would’ve climbed up the steps and taken me in the house and put me to bed.” He glanced around at the bucolic beauty of the Bighorn foothills. “When Dad was sober, I think that was the thing he loved the best, the animal husbandry of it.” He paused. “You just don’t hear that word so much anymore, and it means a lot, you know?” His eyes went back to Vic. “Anyway, they get nervous and agitated when they’re about to give birth and start looking for a secluded place to drop their calves. They walk and walk with their tails spinning like windmills until they find that place, and then when they do—boom.”

My undersheriff sipped her coffee. “Just like that, huh?”

I laughed. “Oh no, not always.”

Randy smiled and leaned back in his chair, tipping the runners to the rear. “The cows can have problems sometimes; if you see one calving and the pads of the calf are up, then it’s backwards and you have to go in there and pull it.”

Randy was enjoying the look on Vic’s face as his sister joined us in a rocking chair a little ways off, still humming, and it was only now that I recognized the tune as “Dry Bones.”

“I bring them into the calving shed, lay them down, and then pull the calves, sometimes by hand, sometimes with the calving chains. Sometimes they’re coming forward and have a leg back; you’ll see that because they’ll have the shoulder pushed out. There are all kinds of things that can go wrong, but mostly they don’t and things go pretty smoothly.” His eyes went toward the building where we’d seen his uncle. “Enic is in there with one of them if you’d like to watch.”

“Umm . . . no thanks.” She glanced around. “How many cows do you have?”

Randy looked uncomfortable, glanced at me, and then smiled as he sipped his coffee some more.

I nudged Vic with my elbow. “You don’t ever ask that.”

“What?”

“The size of a man’s herd or the size of his spread—it’s against the code of the West.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s like asking a man how much money he has in his wallet or his bank account; it’s just not done.”

“Oh.” She glanced at Randy. “Sorry.”

He lowered his mug. “That’s okay.” He lip-pointed, just as his nephew had, toward a corral where his horse was tied off. Inside the pen were a couple of calves milling about, crying out now and again. “See those? They’re bums; their mothers don’t want ’em and the bulls don’t make good fathers.”

Vic’s eyes lingered on the little ones. “What’ll happen to them?”

“They’re worth a lot of money, so we’ll bottle-feed ’em till they can start eating solid food.” He leaned back and looked at his sister. “Or Eva will.” He shook his head. “It’s Taylor’s job, but he can’t seem to ignore the siren song of the open road. He wanted to get a job in town, and I thought that might slow him down a little . . .” He rested his dark eyes on me. “Where did you find him?”

“Up on Crook Road, about three miles from here.”

“He goes and just wanders the hills sometimes; I don’t know what the hell he’s doing out there—maybe he’s got a woman.” Randy looked at the broiling thunderheads and inky blackness that stretched the sky toward the mountains like the boy’s black eye and then glanced at Eva. “Hey, could we get some more coffee?” He watched as she disappeared back into the house without a word. “I’m not kidding, he runs away all the damn time; does it about every other day, but it’s gotten worse since his grandfather died.” He rested the mug on the arm of the chair and ran a forefinger over his upper lip. “They were a lot alike; he used to go fishing and hunting with the old man for days. Hell, my parents practically raised him. Eva never got married—never said who the father was.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Been here your whole life?”

He leaned back in his chair again and smiled a sad smile. “I graduated from Bozeman and took a job as a conservationist but figured out before long that I just wasn’t cut out for the academic life. Got married, got divorced—no kids.” He looked at the rolling hillsides. “Dad getting older and Eva having her problems, I just decided to come back.”

We said nothing.

“So . . .” He settled in for the real conversation. “What can you tell me about my father?”

I leaned forward. “Randy, I was hoping we could include your sister in the conversation.”

He nodded and called over his shoulder, “Eva!”

There was a moment in which I suppose she was attempting to make it appear as if she hadn’t been listening at the screen door. “Yes.” She pushed the door open a bit and looked at the porch floor with the coffeepot in her hands.

“So, I’m assuming you’re the one who packed his lunch?” I smiled just to let her know this wasn’t an episode of Perry Mason, as I held out my mug. “The handwriting on the bag was somewhat female.”

She studied me as she approached and poured me another. “What are you saying?”

“The preliminary examination seems to indicate that there might have been some mistakes made with his medications, but we haven’t been able to reach his physician to confirm what all he was taking. I thought maybe you might know if there was medication in the sack, since you fixed his lunch.”