He had the cherry-cheeked face of the professional optimist, his upper half like an upended hogshead, his hand lifted in greeting, although I had no idea who he was or why he was wading into the riffle and ruining any chance of my catching a trout there.
“Your wife told me where you was at, Mr. Holland. Name is Reverend Elton T. Sneed. I think we got us a mutual friend,” he said, laboring out of the water onto the sandspit.
Where had I heard or seen the name?
In the letter written to the President of the United States by Wyatt Dixon.
“I hope you’re not talking about who I think you are,” I said.
“Wyatt’s a member of my congregation, but I’m troubled about him. The boy needs direction.”
“The man you call ‘boy’ is the residue people clean out of colostomy bags. Except that’s offensive to colostomy bags,” I replied.
Suddenly his eyes became like BBs and the corners of his mouth hooked back as though wires were attached to his skin, turning his smile into a grimace. He studied the trees on the far bank, searching for a response. “I guess my job is saving souls, not judging folks,” he said.
“The FBI came to see you?”
“Yep. But since that visit, Wyatt has told me about somebody he seen with Senator Finley. I get the feeling it’s some kind of past association Wyatt don’t need to pick up again. Thought you might be able to hep me out.”
“My advice is you get a lot of space between you and Wyatt Dixon, Reverend.”
“Man seems all right when he takes his chemical cocktails. Thought I was doing the right thing coming here.”
When I didn’t reply he looked wanly down the stream, his vocabulary and frame of reference used up. “I mess up your fishing?” he said.
“No, it’s fine,” I said.
He nodded. “Been catching some?”
“Let’s wade on up past the beaver dam and give it a try,” I said.
When I handed him my fly rod his face once more broke into an ear-to-ear smile.
MONDAY MORNING I started the paperwork to put up our property as bond for Johnny’s release. Then I looked up Amber Finley’s number in the directory and called her at home. “Is your dad there?” I said.
“He flew back to Washington,” she said.
“Too bad. Look, those guests you had at your house Tuesday evening? Is there any reason Darrel McComb would be interested in them?”
“Darrel is interested in watching women through their bedroom windows.”
“Would this guy Wyatt Dixon be interested in your father’s friends?”
“How would I know?” she replied.
“Could you give me their names?”
“Greta Lundstrum and a couple of campaign contributors. I don’t remember their names. What’s this about?”
“It’s probably nothing. Who’s Greta Lundstrum?”
“The Beast of Buchenwald. Go ask her. She runs a security service in the Bitterroot Valley. Are you getting Johnny out of jail or not?”
What’s the lesson? Don’t call boozers before noon.
THAT AFTERNOON, Temple walked into the office of a company named
Blue Mountain Security and Alarm Service down in Stevensville, twenty-five miles south of Missoula. The office was located inside a refurbished two-story brick building that had once been a feed and tack store. An ancient bell tinkled above the door when she closed it. Through the window she could see the huge blue shapes of the Bitterroot Mountains against the sky.