Walt Longmire 07 - Hell Is Empty by Craig Johnson Read Free Book Online

and I continued. “There aren’t any working facilities open in any of the lodges around here, so you’re going to have to haul your people back to South Fork Lodge. I think you should secure the scene and get the rest of these prisoners off the mountain.”
    He plucked the Motorola from his hip and clicked the mic. “AT, when can you be ready to go?”
    After a moment, a strong signal came back from the van in the parking lot.
    Static. “Can we eat first?”
    He glanced at me, and I spread my hands.
    McGroder clicked the mic again. “As soon as you’re done, get out of here.” He rested the radio on the table and looked at me. “Six hundred and some miles back to Salt Lake?”
    “Six hundred fifty miles from Durant, about eight hours in good weather.” We both looked out the windows again. “Which you are not going to have until you descend a couple thousand feet.” My eyes stayed on the DOC van holding Raynaud Shade. One of the marshals was proffering bags of food to Benton, who divided it and handed some to the prisoner. “What about him?”
    “He stays.” McGroder sipped his coffee. “But there’s no reason that you have to. If I had a warm bed and hot lasagna an hour away, I’d be leaving skid marks.”
    I glanced at my deputy, who was making a pretense of reading and probably anxious to get home to his wife and young son. “You’re sure you don’t need us?”
    “In about twenty minutes, I’m going to have a mobile task force of two field agents and four marshals to guard only one man.” He stood and extended his hand. “I think we can handle it. Would you mind borrowing one of our vehicles so that we can keep him in yours?”
    I placed my hat back on my head and reared up into a standing position. I could see the relief on Sancho’s face as McGroder handed me a set of keys. It was nice that I hadn’t had to remind him that even though it was his investigation, it was still my county. “When do you want us back at the scene?”
    “Weather permitting, probably early in the morning—say 0800.”
    We shook hands, and I stared at his crew cut again. “Semper Fi?”
    He grinned. “Yeah, you?”
    I picked up my coffee and put the lid back on. “First Division.”
    Wearing a pasted-on smile, he slapped me on the shoulder. “Get some sleep, Sheriff. I’ll see you at South Fork in the morning.” He stretched a hand toward Saizarbitoria but looked at the both of us. “Thanks for your help, Deputy. If I don’t see you again and you’re ever over Salt Lake way, look me up. I’ll get you over to The Pie for a good pizza.” As we got ready to go, he picked up my wrapped sandwich and tossed it to me. “Something for the road?”
     
     
    “Class act.”
    “Yep.” I was contemplating the sandwich in my lap and wondering if I could eat it now and the lasagna later. The Basquo momentarily slid the borrowed Suburban into a turn, then carefully corrected and straightened. “Slick?”
    He nodded but kept his concentration on the road. “Like greased goose shit.”
    “Better slow down.”
    He heeded my unneeded advice, and we rolled/slid along the road at forty-five. “You think the Shade guy did it?”
    “Well, he all but admitted to it when I took him to the bathroom.” I thought about the adopted Crow Indian we’d passed on our way to the borrowed federal vehicle. He had been eating while Benton, still holding the shotgun, watched. The marshal had nodded to us as we’d walked by in the freezing sleet, but it was Raynaud Shade’s eye, the glass one, that seemed to track along with us as we passed. The thing was wayward at best and it was probably just another reflection, but it was as if the dead eye was watching me.
    “What?”
    I turned to look at the Basquo. “Hmm?”
    He continued to study me. “You were thinking of something?”
    I fiddled with the waxed paper. “Did you read the file on Shade?”
    “No.”
    “He was one of the last of the Tukkuthkutchin tribe up in