“Which newspaper?”
He told me the name. I had to think a moment, then I remembered the publication. To call it right-wing was simplistic. At various times it had been an outlet for Birchers, members of the Paul Revere Society, and people who had used armed force to take over a county courthouse on the Mexican border. But that was not why I remembered the newspaper’s name. To my knowledge, it had been the first news outlet in the country to publish the fact that a United States senator from Texas was involved in a huge swindle of the USDA and perhaps even the murder of a state agricultural official. This same senator would become President of the United States. But even though there might have been substance to the story, it was ignored by mainstream media because of the fanatical reputation of the publisher.
“I think you just gave away the ranch,” I said.
He drank from his coffee cup and gazed out the window. “You was the shooter at Mabus’s place, wasn’t you?” he said.
“You never know.”
“I talked with some folks on the res. They seen two guys looked just like the ones shanked me headed up the road to Reverend Sneed’s house. I know where them yardbirds is at, Brother Holland. They’re fixing to have a bad day.”
“If I have knowledge you’re about to commit a crime, I’m required to report it,” I said.
He laughed to himself. “This from the man who capped them two security people on Mabus’s ranch?”
“See you around, Wyatt.”
“Hey?”
“What?” I said, looking back from the doorway.
“The trout start rising soon as the sun gets over the ridge. Sit down and have a cup,” he said.
AT 8:15 A.M. THAT SAME Thursday morning, Darrel pulled into a convenience store down in the Bitterroots, left Greta Lundstrum in the car, and called the office of Brendan Merwood on his cell phone. At first Merwood pretended not to recognize Darrel’s name, but Darrel knew that to be Merwood’s way of dealing with people whom he considered unimportant.
“I’m the sheriff’s detective with the big ears and buzz cut you called a liar on the stand a couple of times,” Darrel said. “I’m also the detective the department sacked as a drunk and general screwup.”
“How good of you to call. What can I—”
“I found out where Johnny American Horse is holed up. I can put him out of commission myself or—”
“Stop right there, my friend. You’ve contacted the wrong party.”
“American Horse used a thirty-thirty without a scope. Next time out, he’ll have a better weapon and blow hair on your client’s walls. You get on the phone and tell Karsten Mabus what I said. My number is on your caller ID. You have fifteen minutes.”
Darrel clicked off his cell phone and got back in his Honda. Greta looked seasick, her makeup on too thick, a dirt ring around her throat.
“You going to stand up, Greta. Get all other options out of your head,” he said.
“One day I’m going to fix you for this, Darrel.”
“You already did.”
“What do you mean?”
You betrayed me, he thought. But he let it go. “How’s the recorder riding?” he asked.
“Like a tumor, if that answers your question,” she said.
Five minutes later, his cell rang. “Where are you? We’ll send a car to pick you up,” Merwood said.
“Are you kidding?” Darrel said.
“You call it, then.”
“Your office. Tell Mabus to bring his checkbook, too.”
There was a pause. “When?”