Messenger: A Walt Longmire Story by Craig Johnson Read Free Book Online

sure?”
    “Positive.”
    “You got the age right?”
    “I think so.” I reached down and ruffled Dog’s ears; he liked the relative cool of my abandoned office and the quiet of a Sunday afternoon.
“I guess you didn’t get a very good look at him.”
    She stretched her jaw in an attempt to loosen her facial muscles and stared at the escapee’s pants on her lap. “You mean did I get the number of the skinny truck that hit me? No.”
    “Then he’s from out of town.”
    She studied the inside band of the pants. “Maybe.” She rested the frozen pouch on the dried bloodstains that were discoloring the neck of her dress. “What?”
    “Are you sure you don’t want to get your nose X-rayed?”
    She dismissed me with a flapping of her hand. “What about the kid?”
    “He just seemed odd.”
    The next statement fairly flooded with sarcasm. “Really?”
    I conjured up the brief image of the scared young man and held it there in front of my eyes. “The way he stood there for that moment: flexing his hands repeatedly, no eye contact, on the balls of his feet . . .”
    “He’s a ’tard?”
    I sighed and felt the bridge of my own nose. “Just . . . odd.”
    “Health Services?”
    I dialed the number and listened as it transferred me to the answering machine; Nancy Griffith asked me to record a message. I declined and placed the receiver on the cradle.
    I pulled the phone book from the top drawer of my desk and leafed through to the G’s. “This stuff is a lot easier when Ruby’s around.” I pinned Nancy with a forefinger and dialed. On the third ring she answered, and I described a young man she’d never seen. “You’re sure?”
    “Positive. The description doesn’t match up with any of our current clients. Have you tried the Wyoming Boys’ School?”
    “In Worland?”
    “Stranger things have happened.” I listened as she chuckled and was reminded that she had sung in the church choir with Martha. “Hey, are you going to the football game on Friday?”
    “Why, is there a problem?”
    She waited a moment before responding. “Does there always have to be a problem when you’re invited somewhere?”
    “Generally.”
    “It’s homecoming, and they’re retiring your number.”
    “Oh.”
    “They’re retiring Henry Standing Bear’s number, too. Didn’t anyone get ahold of you?” There was another pause, but it wasn’t long enough for me to come up with an answer or an excuse. “I think everybody up at the high school would appreciate it if the two of you showed up at halftime for the celebration.”
    “Friday. Um . . . I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, Nance.”
    I hung up the phone and watched as Vic reapplied the now-not-so-frozen peas to her nose. “What was all that about?”
    “What?”
    “Friday.”
    “Nothing.” I continued to think about the odd young man as I looked at the Durant Dogies annual on my desk. “He’s got to live in the neighborhood.”
    “Was she just asking you out on a date?”
    “What?” I glanced back up at her. “No.”
    Her tone became a little sharper. “Then what’s Friday?”
    “A football thing; they’re going to retire my number.”
    She looked amused. “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope. Henry’s, too.”
    “I wanna go.”
    “No.”
    “C’mon, I never got to do that crap when I was a teenager.” She thought about it. “I never dated any football guys in high school.”
    I was momentarily distracted. “What kind of guys did you date?”
    “Thirty-seven-year-olds named Rudy with mustaches and vans—guys that would give my parents heart attacks.” She studied me. “I wanna go, and I want a corsage, just like Babs.” I didn’t respond and slumped in my guest chair. “Please tell me we’re not going to canvas the neighborhood in the short bus with have-you-seen-this-half-naked-retard posters?”
    “I thought we’d knock on a few doors.”
    “That or we just bait a few Havahart traps with Double Stuf Oreos.” She struggled to