Junkyard Dogs by Craig Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

define the environs of the dump.”
    “Municipal Solid Waste Facility.” Evidently Geo had educated the Doc, too. “To each man, his own paradise.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Well, since we’re on a subject literati—have you seen the moving finger writes and having writ?”
    “I have.”
    The Basquo was talking to Janine at the end of the hallway, so Isaac leaned in closer and, speaking sotto voce, looked up at me. “Walter, you know as well as I do that that thumb is probably the result of some local cowboy having dallied up a little too quick at one of this weekend’s team ropings.”
    “In February?”
    He adjusted his glasses. “Have you forgotten how many indoor arenas we have in the surrounding area?”
    I studied my boots and went to one of my recorded responses. “Well, we’re checking all the leads.”
    He made an exasperated sound in the back of his mouth. “It was in a cooler with crushed beer cans and melted ice from the IGA.”
    “Maybe it hitchhiked there.” I got a smile out of him with that one. “I don’t think we’re being overly zealous in treating this as a possible missing person—or part of a missing person.”
    “Walter, this was some roper squeezing his finger off, putting it in the cooler for safekeeping, and then getting so drunk that he either passed out or simply forgot about it. He’s probably woken up this morning and realized he’s missing a digit.”
    “Thumb.”
    The intensity in his deep-set eyes increased. “And will probably be in here later to consolidate the damage.” He paused and took a breath. “Now, do you want to tell me what sort of criminal conspiracy this is in which you are attempting to involve me?”
    I glanced back toward the front desk, pushed off the wall, and draped an arm around Doc Bloomfield’s narrow shoulders to steer him toward a little more privacy. “You’ve been working with the Basquo on his recovery since the knifing?”
    He nodded. “Yes.”
    “How’s he doing?”
    The Doc paused. “In what spirit is this question asked?”
    “How about physical.”
    We’d walked to the end of the hall and were now confronted with the set of double-swinging doors that led to the ICU. I stopped and retrieved the majority of my arm but left a hand on the Doc’s shoulder.
    “The initial damage was the penetrating wound six inches to the right of the midline with an extending incision and hemorrhagic effect that included the left perinephric fat and the kidney itself. The organ suffered a ninety-five percent loss in its filtering abilities and was removed, but the other kidney will most likely continue to operate at peak efficiency especially because the young man is in inordinately fine physical condition.”
    “Yep, but how’s he doing?”
    Isaac propped an elbow on his arm and cupped his chin in his hand. “Well, there was some additional infection that seems to have affected the left oblique muscles, but other than that, he’s fine.” I nodded but didn’t say anything. “But that’s not really the part of him you’re worried about, is it?”
    “Not really.”
    “He’s exhibiting some psychological neurosis?”
    “I don’t know if I’d call it neurosis.”
    A smile softened his face. “What would you call it then?”
    “Back in the day, Lucian used to refer to it as bullet fever.”
    He exhaled a gentle laugh at the thought of my old boss, who had been the previous sheriff of Absaroka County. “And what, exactly, are the symptoms of bullet fever?”
    “Numerous—the first being a strong urge to find something else to do for a living, preferably in an occupation where people aren’t trying to slice you, dice you, and julienne fry you.”
    “Sounds sensible.”
    “Nobody ever said it was a sane line of work, Doc.” I sighed. “He’s a good kid, tough and brave as a summer day—I just think this is the first time he’s ever gotten a good look into the abyss, and he’s maybe brought a little of it back with him.”
    “It