Текст книги "Dry Bones"

Автор книги: Craig Johnson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Provide what?”

He grinned at his work boots. “Whatever they need.”

“So, if I were to contact the Montana Board of Pharmacy, they could provide me with your certification and licensing information?”

He pulled at the collar of his stained T-shirt. “Um, not really . . . I might’ve let that lapse.”

“Uh huh.”

He nodded his head again. “Most of what I provide is holistic, all-natural remedies.” He leaned back against the interior of the trailer and glanced up at me. “Look, man, Danny was having some problems with life and stuff, and I was just trying to help.”

“What kinds of problems, other than those diagnosed by licensed physicians?”

He stared at me. “He was . . . This is going to sound crazy, but he was seeing things.”

I stood there. “Seeing what?”

“People and shit, man.”

I thought about the conversation Danny and I had had all those years ago. “Dead people.”

“Yeah, dead people . . . How did you know that?” He watched me as I broke eye contact with him. “Hey, Sheriff, if you’re having problems, I’ve got some stuff that’ll—”

I cut off the sales pitch. “What I’m interested in are the medicines you were providing Danny Lone Elk.”

“Were?”

“He’s dead, and it’s a possibility that he was poisoned. What were you providing him with?”

He nodded his head—must’ve been a habit. “I was giving it to him for his ulcers; it was the Chinese stuff, which is what I sell to a lot of my patients because it’s cheaper than the American stuff. I mean, that’s where I get most of the drugs I provide.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair and tugged on his ponytail. “Look, Sheriff, I don’t offer dangerous drugs; I leave that to the real pill pushers.”

“Were you giving him anything that might’ve contained mercury?”

“No. Look, Sheriff, I don’t know anything about Danny’s medical history, so—”

“That’s why we have the whole legal prescription medicine thing, so that the doctors and pharmacists can get together and come to a consensus on what’s safe to give a patient.” I leaned my back against the interior wall of the trailer. “What about his daughter, Eva?”

“What about her?”

I glanced at my fingernails, perfecting my nonchalance. “Joe, if I get bored with this conversation I’m going to take you over to the Big Horn County jail and hand you over to my good friend, Sheriff Wesley Best Bales.” I waited as he fought with himself. “I understand it’s fish and Tater Tots on Fridays.”

“I um . . . Hey, it’s legal in Montana.”

I gestured toward some of the bags on the conveyer belt. “Medical marijuana?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m no expert, but it looks like lawn clippings.”

“It’s synthetic marijuana, but you need a carrying agent.”

“Lawn clippings?”

He nodded his head again. “Lawn clippings, yeah.”

“This is that stuff made in China?”

He studied me. “Hey, yeah. You know about it?”

“Enough to know that it’s made from legal substances so that customs can’t do anything about it. Every time the government makes it illegal, the chemists just change the chemical formula and make a new drug.”

He smiled. “Perfectly legal.”

“Perfectly dangerous. Nobody’s monitoring this stuff; it’s part weed, part cocaine, part crack, part LSD and nobody knows from shipment to shipment what those percentages are.”

“Hey, man, it’s still legal.”

“Eva Lone Elk lives in Wyoming where it is not legal at all.”

He picked at a hole in his jeans. “Oh, man, are you really going to bust me on this?”

“Not if you tell me what else you’re prescribing for her.”

“Chinese Cymbalta—it’s just an antidepressant and cheap.”

“I’ll make you a deal.” I pushed off the wall and took a few steps toward the back, pausing a moment for him to stand and join me. “You drop the prescription drugs altogether, and I’ll turn a blind eye toward your illegal bullshit business . . .”

“Buffalo shit, man. It’s sacred.”

I draped an arm over his shoulder and led him to the rear of the trailer, where we stood over the others. “And if I get wind of you continuing to write medications for people or selling this robo-weed, I’m turning you over to the DEA, the Pharm Board, Montana Division of Criminal Investigation, and anybody else I can think of. You got me?”

He nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”

We watched as Robert kept an eye on the half-dozen young men and reached down to pick up a few of the darker bags they had been stuffing into the packing boxes. “What in the hell is this stuff?”

Joe Free Bird spoke up in full sales pitch mode. “Medicinal Bi’Shee poultices for spiritual and physical well-being.”

Bob picked up the nearest bag and read about the all-natural ingredients, making a quick assessment. “Bullshit.”

I patted him on the back as we climbed down. “Nope, but you’re close.”

9

“You know . . .” Bob opened the ziplock bag and sniffed. “I think I’ve been had.”

“Good thing it was a free sample.”

There was a break in the series of cloudbursts that were marking the day, and Robert got out and joined his partner. We all began walking toward my office. “You can leave your potpourri in the squad car, and then we can burn it if it gets cold—frontiersmen used to do that with buffalo chips back in the old days.”

There was a large black Lincoln parked at the curb behind the other Lola, Henry’s Baltic-blue ’59 Thunderbird convertible, and I wasn’t the only one to notice the state plates as we drew near. Bob closed up his bag and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “Uh oh.”

As we got closer, the tinted back window whirred, and Joe Meyer called out to me merrily, “Where the heck is the sheriff of this damn county, anyway?”

“He was in Montana.” I straddled a puddle on the sidewalk and, leaning down, could see two large young men in the front and the elderly statesman seated in the back with a pile of folders in his lap. “What, you brought your homework with you?”

He adjusted his glasses, followed by a helpless gesture, and looked at the piles of paper. “Don’t ever let them talk you into being an attorney general, Walt.”

“I never wanted to be an attorney, let alone the guy who leads them into battle.”

He laughed and looked past me at the two men on the sidewalk. “My goodness, it’s the Bobs.” He leaned forward. “I’ve got two of your younger and less experienced cohorts in here; is there any way I could get you to assist them in exploring the culinary splendor of the Busy Bee Café?”

Robert looked at his partner. “What do you say, Bob?”

The other highway patrolman leaned in. “Are they buying?”

The Wyoming AG nodded his head. “Sure, lunch is on the state.” I started to straighten when he said quietly, “Can we talk?”

“You bet.” As Joe’s watchdogs joined their fellow troopers on the sidewalk, I glanced at the thunderheads gathering in the sky again, cracked open the door of the Town Car, and slid into his mobile office. I pulled the door closed behind me and turned to look at him. “Joe, my son-in-law died on duty last night in Philadelphia, so I am in a horrible mood and looking to take it out on somebody. I just thought you should be aware of that fact before we start this conversation.”

“Walt.” He folded up the papers. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” Giving me his undivided attention, he put the documents aside. “How’s Cady?”

“She had just gotten here with the baby. She’s distraught but doing as well as can be expected, I guess.”

He nodded and patted the folders and looked out his own window. “Well, that pretty much takes the wind out of my sails. I came up here to read you the riot act, but now that just doesn’t seem appropriate.” He watched me, but I said nothing, continuing to stare at the black leather on the seat in front of me—safer that way.

“The kid’s a little headstrong . . .”

I grunted. “I assume you are referring to the acting deputy United States attorney and not to Cady or Lola?”

Joe took off his glasses and looked at the back of the seat with me. “It’s true that he hasn’t been confirmed yet, but it would be nice if you two could work together.”

“Well.” I paused, but then good sense abandoned me and I spoke my mind. “This is a publicity stunt so that man can make a name for himself, and I don’t have time for it, especially not now.”

“We’re talking about fossil remains with a street value of over eight million dollars, and as they say, a million here and a million there . . .”

“Pretty soon you’re talking about some serious money.” I leaned back in the seat and looked out at Saizarbitoria and Double Tough, who were walking by, peering in the tinted windows. I wondered idly what sort of eyeball DT was sporting today.

“You make good press, Walt. Think of it as giving the guy a leg up.”

“How ’bout I give him the boot out instead?”

He frowned. “There are folks in Cheyenne who would appreciate you taking the time to work with him.”

“Joe, you keep leaning on me, and I’m going to call Mary and have her lean on you.”

At the mention of his wife he held up his hands. “Oh, don’t do that.” He waited a moment and then added. “In a week, he’ll be out of your hair. You know, if we can establish ownership of that giant bag of bones, it’ll go to public auction pretty soon.”

I stared at him. “There’s no way the legal shenanigans will be over pretty soon, Joe.”

“They will, if I can get you to help ascertain who has actual ownership—the family, the Conservancy, or the federal government. Then I can do it, and it’ll be out of my hair and out of the public eye.” His shoulders slumped. “Otherwise, this thing is going to drag on in the courts forever. I hate to light a fire under you at a time like this, but there it is.”

“So some venerable organization like the Smithsonian, backed by Exxon/Mobil or Burger King/Pizza Hut, can have Jen?”

“And the owner gets the money.” He sighed. “To the winner go the spoils. We are a capitalist society.” He leaned back and looked at me. “So, concerning Skip Trost, what can I do to make this happen in an amicable fashion?”

I thought about it and stuck a finger out like a baton. “Remind him he’s in my county as a guest.”

“Done. Anything else?”

I left the finger out there. “And don’t you come back up here to slap my wrists over this again.”

He waited a moment and then did a little air clearing. “You know, this is not the way that a sheriff is supposed to speak with his attorney general.”

I took a deep breath and blew it out like a valve. “Nope, this is the way I talk to my old friend Joe Meyer, but if you’d like to see how this conversation would go in a professional manner, I can start over from the beginning.”

“I think I’ll pass.” He studied me a bit longer, then pulled the papers from the seat and set them back in his lap. “Besides, I have to be in Evanston this evening for a meeting at the state psychiatric hospital.”

“Checking in?”

He opened a folder and began reading. “I think seriously about it sometimes.”

I pulled the handle and stepped out onto the sidewalk. “You want me to go down the hill and get the troops?”

“No, I’ve got enough to keep me busy till they get something to eat. They’re good boys—one’s in night school over in Laramie getting his law degree.”

“What about you?”

“Believe it or not, I have my degree.”

“I meant lunch.”

“Oh, Mary made me an egg salad sandwich—it’s in here someplace.” He glanced around, finally spotting a brown paper bag at his feet. “Here it is.” He pulled the waxed-paper-wrapped sandwich from the bag, along with a bottle of water. “Would you like a half?”

“No, thanks. Not really hungry today.” I leaned in the opening, draping an arm on the door, looking at the last of a breed—a statesman and true champion of the people. “You’re a good guy, Joe.”

He didn’t look up but spoke to the documents in his lap. “So are you, Walt. That’s why we do what we do—something I’m sure your son-in-law, after making the sacrifice he has, wherever his spirit is, understands far better than we do.” He turned his face toward me, and I could see the sadness there. “Please tell Cady I am so sorry, and if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, to please contact me. As a matter of fact, have her call me when she can, if you would.”

I nodded.

“Now shut the door so I can concentrate on my work.” He raised a fist without looking at me. “Save Jen.”

 • • •

Cady was seated on the wooden bench in the reception area with her belongings around her. I joined her as she talked with Ruby about the flight she would be taking from Sheridan this afternoon. “I explained the situation, and they made a spot for me.”

I moved a carry-on and sat in its place. “Short visit.”

She turned to look at me as Dog placed his bucket head on her lap. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Don’t be silly.” I put an arm around her and pulled her into inevitable love. “Do you want me to go with you?”

Her voice was muffled against my chest, and her fingers threaded through Dog’s hair. “No, there’ll be all the preparations to make, and I’ll want to spend as much time as I can with Michael’s family. Anyway, Vic is going with me.” Her hand came up and straightened my shirt. “You don’t mind me taking your second in command?”

“Not for this—even wounded she’s awfully capable.” I looked around. “Where’s Lola?”

“In your office, taking a nap with Henry.” She pulled back a little and looked up at me. “I guess we’ll have to postpone the naming ceremony.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I glanced up at my dispatcher and could see she was crying, so I figured I’d better get the ball rolling in a different direction or we’d all be fumbling for tissues. “Hey, what’s on the agenda around here?”

Ruby wiped the tears away and slapped her hands in her lap as if the action would dispose of the emotion. She took a deep breath and adjusted her glasses. “Joe Meyer is here, looking for you.”

“Already took care of the attorney general; he was sitting in his car and caught me—evidently everybody thinks we’re a drive-through.” Cady breathed a laugh, but it was hollow. “Speaking of, I’ll drive you over to Sheridan.”

“That’s okay. Henry says he’ll do it.”

“I saw that he broke out Lola’s namesake.”

“He said that she should go to the airport in style.” Cady swallowed as she glanced out the window. “But I don’t think we’re going to get a chance to put the top down.”

“No, doesn’t look good.” I thought about how the Bear, knowing what was for the best, sometimes stepped in for me. He would be able to talk to her about the pain of a fresh loss, something I was not as capable of doing. “Ruby, what’s the weather going to be like?”

Addicted to the metallic Norwegian voice of our NOAA radio, Ruby always knew the score. “Rain, with the really bad thunderstorms hitting us tonight.”

I turned back to Cady. “Glad you are leaving this afternoon, then.”

She nodded. “I think Michael’s family is going to need me back there.”

“Yep.” I waited a second before adding, “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?”

“I will.”

“No, I mean it.”

She paused a moment and gave me a funny look. “I promise, Dad.”

With a final squeeze, I stood. “Well, I’m going to get one last cuddle with that granddaughter of mine before the three of you take flight.”

She smiled up at me, and I took my leave, Dog staying with her. I quietly approached the doorway of my office and peeked around the jamb to see the Cheyenne Nation reclined in my chair with Lola lying on his chest, slowly rising and falling with each of his breaths, her tiny hands twined into his long hair.

I was about to back out when his voice rumbled, “The best reason I can think of for having children is that it is a marvelous excuse for taking naps.”

I stepped into the room, sat on one of my visitor chairs, and glanced around, not used to seeing my office from this perspective. “You mind if I ask you a question?” He stared at me. “Last night, why did you ask if Michael’s death was a random incident?”

He waited a moment and then said the two words I was hoping he wouldn’t: “Tomás Bidarte.”

We sat there listening to the ticking of my wall clock and the breathing of my granddaughter. “So, you don’t think he’s through after hiring Delgatos to try and kill me.”

“No, and if this is still Asociación Punto Muerto, then the contract on you is yet unfulfilled.”

I could sense conflicting feelings surging through the tectonic plates of my emotions like lava. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say, but it’s a long, red road with no turns when you’re dealing with the Cheyenne Nation. “Just for the sake of argument, why Michael?”

“To hurt Cady and therefore you, and Vic.”

“Why hurt Vic?”

“She is the one who shot him.”

“Two birds, one stone, without ever being in Wyoming.” I thought about it, looking at the floor as if expecting it to swallow me up. “A plague on both your houses.”

“Yes.”

“Continuing with our theme for argument’s sake—do you think he’s done?”

“No.”

“What do I do?”

He carefully stood and crossed around my desk to lower Lola into my arms against my chest where she didn’t even stir. He turned his back to us and stepped toward the windows. “You have two choices: you can either stay here and present yourself and your loved ones as targets, waiting for him to show again—”

“Or?”

He turned to look at me with one very dark eye. “Kill him.”

I stared at him for a long while and then gently laughed, so as not to disturb the baby. “Don’t you think I’m a little long in the tooth to be playing international hit man?”

He didn’t blink. “I can take care of this for you.”

The full realization of what he was prepared to do settled on our friendship. “I would never ask you to do something like that.”

“That is why I would do it.”

There was nothing I wanted more than Tomás Bidarte, the man who had done more damage to me and mine than anybody on the face of the earth, dead, but not like this. “No.”

He stepped back to the edge of my desk and sat, crossing his arms and looking down at me. “You do not have the luxury of doing nothing.”

“I’ll wait and see if our suspicions about Michael’s death are correct, and if they are . . .” I sighed. “Then I’ll do something.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.” Lola stirred, and I hugged her a little closer. “I am sworn to uphold the law, Henry—I’m not a hired killer.”

“No, but you are up against one, and I am offering to stop him.”

“You know, you’re not as young as you used to be, either.” I shook my head. “You’re not my ethical default, Henry, you’re my friend—one of the loved ones you were talking about. I’ll do this, but I’ll do it my way or else my whole life has been a joke.” I looked down at the tiny, sleeping body on my chest. “If I find out he’s behind this, I will bring the concentrated effort of everything I am and have against him, but not until I’m sure.”

“Of what? That he is a killer?”

“That he’s responsible.” Studying the swirls of brown hair that were, at the age of five months, just now creeping over her ears, I kept my eyes on the top of my granddaughter’s head.

He reached out one of his powerful hands, the fingertips gently touching the child. “If something happens to this one . . .” He nodded his head toward the front office. “. . . your philosophy will no longer hold sway.”

I looked up at him, making sure he understood. “No, it won’t.”

 • • •

Watching the Thunderbird pull away in the drizzle, I felt my heart beat against my rib cage like an animal fighting for its freedom. The Cheyenne Nation was going to pick up Vic and, while helping her with her crutches and baggage, talk to her about our suppositions. I had a suspicion that she had already figured out that Bidarte was involved, but better to make sure she was forewarned and forearmed.

A lot of people might underestimate my undersheriff because she was wounded; a lot of people are morons.

Dog whined, and I patted his head. “Just you and me, pal.” I became aware of someone standing behind me and turned to find McGroder adjusting his umbrella. “And the FBI.”

“I hear you had a death in the family.”

I nodded and turned to face him. “My son-in-law, Vic’s brother.”

“I’m sorry. Anything I can do?”

We both stood there for a while, neither of us sure of what to say next. “Well, do you have any connections in Mexico City?”

“Me personally? No.” He took his sunglasses off and shoved them in the case, all the while petting Dog, who wagged like a windshield wiper. “I’m a domestic guy, but I’ve got friends in high places over at the CIA, NSA, and State.” He continued to study me. “You got trouble?”

“Yep.”

“Cop trouble?”

I brought my eyes up and looked toward the horizon like some third lead in a B Western. “No.”

“Oh, real trouble.” He pulled Dog’s ear. “Seeing as how you kept me from bleeding to death up on the mountain, I don’t think I could deny you much. Why don’t you tell me the entire story and I’ll see what I can do.”

I nodded and began the saga of Tomás Bidarte as the three of us walked back up the steps.

“Walt? Walt!” Mike and I both turned as a highly agitated Dave Baumann hurried to the base of the steps and put a hand on the railing. “Jen’s missing.”

Dog barked, and McGroder and I looked at each other and then looked back at him. “What?”

“Jen, she’s missing.”

“You mean the body?”

He looked confused. “What?”

“We’ve got the head.” I turned to look at the FBI man. “Don’t we?”

Baumann flapped his hands. “Not the T. rex, my assistant, the paleontologist, Jennifer.”

I stepped back down and got a read on just how upset he was. “What do you mean missing. Since when?”

“Last night at the museum was the last time I saw her. She didn’t show today, so I tried calling her cell and her home phones, but nobody answered at either one. Then I texted her, and she always answers.” He glanced down Main Street. “I was going to go out to her place, but then I got worried that maybe I should have somebody with me.”

“Does she live out at her father’s at Lake DeSmet?”

“Yes, the old rock shop.”

I turned to McGroder and gestured toward Dog. “You want to go with me? I’m fresh out of sidekicks with opposable thumbs.”

“But I’m having such a good time cataloging all this guy’s crap back in the holding cells.” He paused in mock quandary. “You bet your ass.” He pulled a cell phone from his jacket as all four of us jumped in my truck, pulling out as the rain picked up again, and headed north of town. “Jarod? Yeah, it’s me.” There was a pause. “What? No. Look, I’m headed out of town a few miles and just wanted to check in . . . Yes. Maybe an hour.” There was another, longer pause. “Well, tell him it has to do with the case. No, don’t put him on.” Then the third, and longest pause. “Because the acting deputy douchebag is a pain in my ass.” A short pause. “No, don’t tell him that.” He ended the call and looked at me. “Kids these days.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Baumann, looking a little uncomfortable with Dog sitting beside him. “Did you talk to her after she left the museum yesterday?”

“No, but she sent me a text message that she was looking through her computer files trying to find the one with Danny on it where we agreed to the arrangements about the dinosaur.”

I nodded and took the ramp onto the highway. “Does she live out there alone?”

“Yes.”

“Try her on the phone again, before I burn up the gas to find out she was taking a shower.”

He began calling under protest. “She would never just leave.” He shot a look at McGroder. “Not with them here.” He waited a while and then left a message: “Jen, this is the third time I’ve called you, but I just wanted to make sure you were all right? Hello? Hello?” Shaking his head, he looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Nothing.”

“Was she all right when she left last night?”

He shook his head. “Not particularly, but she’s rarely all right so it’s hard to tell.”

“Was she upset about anything in particular, other than the obvious?”

He glanced at McGroder. “You mean other than these guys taking Jen?”

“Yep.” The agent in charge glanced at me with a funny look on his face, so I asked, “What?”

He glanced back at Baumann. “Um, the deputy attorney might’ve dropped a subpoena on her last night.”

“What?”

He ran a hand through his crew cut. “Well, she was the first one to see the damn thing; I mean she found it, right? He’s probably going to want her to testify.”

Dave threw himself back in his seat as Dog shifted away and looked at him. “Against us?”

The FBI man shrugged. “For, against, whatever.”

“It’s not like she was going anywhere.”

“Look, subpoenas are like hemorrhoids: everybody’s gonna get one sooner or later.” He gestured toward me. “Even the sheriff, here.” He glanced back at Dave. “Don’t take it personally.”

Baumann folded his arms. “I won’t, but it’s Jen and she would have.”

I took the exit at Lake DeSmet and drove the rest of the way past the marina and the housing developments that now dotted the shore of the 3,600-acre lake nestled in the undrained basin between Piney and Boxelder Creeks, its two major tributaries at the base of the Bighorns. Named for Father Jean DeSmet, the first recorded Catholic priest to visit the region, the lake is the result of a massive coal seam fire. After the seam burned, the bottom of the basin collapsed and slowly filled with water from the area.

We drove past the Lake Stop store where McGroder noticed a large sign adorned with Smetty, the long-necked dinosaur that circled the print and winked at passersby. “What the heck is a Smetty?”

“The local monster that supposedly lives in the lake.” I glanced at him as I pulled my truck up to the rock shop. “In the late 1800s the lake had a surprisingly high salt content, and the Indians believed there was a lost tunnel connecting it to the Pacific Ocean. The legend gave rise to a number of stories of a creature similar to the Loch Ness monster, Smetty being the most popular.”

The FBI man turned to the scientist. “So, what are the chances that Smetty is real?”

Dave shook his head as I shut the Bullet down. “None.”

McGroder looked at him a little quizzically. “How come?”

Dave huffed, “All right, setting aside the fact that this thing, probably an elasmosaurus, died off in the later Cretaceous period millions of years ago . . . even if one of these things survived, how the hell would it have lived in there for sixty-six million years?”

McGroder took on the role of devil’s advocate. “I don’t know—what’s the life span of one of those Elmo-sauruses, anyway?”

Dave palmed his face. “About thirty, if they’re lucky—real lucky.”

I held Dog’s collar as the two of them got out. “You stay in here, buddy. At least until we find out what’s going on.”

Mike thought about it. “Maybe it’s a family of them.”

Dave palmed his face again. “These marine reptiles were close to sixty feet long and weighed around fifteen tons.” He gestured toward the waves scalped by the Wyoming wind. “There aren’t and never have been enough fish in that body of water to keep one of those damn things alive for a week, let alone families of them for millions of years.”

The FBI man looked at the water the way men have since they crawled out of it. “Well, you never know.”

Baumann looked at him incredulously. “Yeah, you do. That’s the thing about science; you can figure things out with what we call facts. I swear that’s the reason I don’t specialize in marine reptiles. You’d be hard pressed to find a single, mouth-breathing moron that believes that somewhere on the planet there’s probably a tyrannosaurus walking around, but the vocal minority of so-called experts that believe that some species of sea serpents has survived to the modern day never ceases to amaze me.”

As Dave began winding his way through the mazelike area in front of the rock shop, McGroder watched him depart and then gazed at the massive lake, his imagination transporting him to a place where science refused to carry water. “You never know.”

I shook my head and followed Dino-Dave.

Beginning as an Airstream trailer, the Lake DeSmet Rock Shop had been here for years and had grown exponentially from its humble beginnings to a fenced rabbit warren of tables made from concrete blocks and wide barn planks. There were rocks of all types everywhere, and say what you want about the product, nobody seemed to care that the things were sitting about in the weather. I guess if the rocks had survived for millions of years lying around on the ground, they could probably withstand a little sun and rain. There were signs all over the place, proclaiming GEODES $1 APIECE, MINERALS & GEMS!

Baumann was banging on the warped screen door, paint flakes dropping as he knocked. “Jen, it’s Dave, are you in there?”

“Kind of hard on the FBI, weren’t you?”

“He’s an idiot.” He rapped smartly on the door again.

“What about that fish that they caught off the coast of Africa back in the thirties? Everybody thought those things died off in the Cretaceous period, right?”

“You know, you bring up some of the strangest stuff.” He continued knocking. “It’s not the same—this is not a fish.” He turned back to the door. “You know, I almost wish they hadn’t found that damned Coelacanth—all it’s done is embolden all these crypto zoologists, creationists, and snake-oil salesmen who somehow believe that finding living dinosaurs will somehow invalidate the theory of evolution, which it won’t.”

I studied him. “Wishing they’d not found a specimen? That doesn’t sound particularly scientific, Dave.”

“You know, Sheriff, I’ve always thought of you as being an intelligent man.”

I sighed. “Don’t get me wrong; I agree with all the things you’re saying. It’s just that the scientific method, like the principles of detection, rely on that magnificent process called theory—a thought supported by empirical fact. But that’s the wonderful thing about facts—they keep turning up and, like theories, they evolve.”

He finally smiled. “Maybe I should have you come and do the talks at the museum.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got a pretty good day job.” I reached past him and banged on the door with the force of having done it a great deal more than the curator. “Jennifer, it’s Sheriff Walt Longmire—can you come to the door?”

There was no response.

I knocked again and watched as McGroder walked up. “What’s happening?”

“So far, nothing.”

He stood there for a moment more and then turned and walked away, continuing on around the building.

“Jen, it’s the sheriff. Open up.”