Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(64)

“Thanks for the tips.”

The security guard pointed into the woods, in the direction of the dining hall. “How’s it going up there? Clegg getting anything useful?”

“Foss kicked us out,” said Pulsifer. “He’s only allowing Clegg and Hawken to interview his workers. You’d better not let Foss see your vehicle, or he’ll go full volcano.”

“Too bad,” said Russo. “I’d love to poke around this place. I’ve never been past the gate.”

“No?” said Pulsifer with a perplexed expression. “What about when that Lovejoy guy got crushed?”

“That’s right,” said Russo, “but that was in the woods. I never got a tour of the compound.”

“Maybe someday,” I said.

“How long are you sticking around?” Russo asked me.

“Undecided.”

“Enjoy your stay.”

No one could be this banal unintentionally, I thought.

*

Pulsifer waited for Russo to leave first; he didn’t explain why. Then we started back down the slippery slope.

Logan Dyer was in his open garage, tinkering with his snowmobile as we drove by. I was surprised to see him outside, since Russo had claimed he’d called in sick.

Pulsifer slowed to a stop and rolled down his window.

Dyer dropped whatever tool he’d been using and ambled out to meet us. His sleek Plotts, which must have been sleeping inside the garage, ventured out into the plowed drive, baying like hellhounds before their master silenced them with a command.

Dyer hadn’t changed out of the clothes he had been wearing the day before, I noticed. His unshaven cheeks looked even scruffier and his eyes seemed even more deeply set into his skull.

“Morning, Logan,” Pulsifer said.

“Hey, Warden.” Dyer leaned on the side mirror. The gesture struck me as presumptuous and disrespectful. If it had been me, I would have told him to get his grimy hands off my truck.

“I understand you’ve met Warden Bowditch.”

“Came by with Mink last night,” he said thickly. “Never met a hero before.”

From anyone else, I might have interpreted his constant references to me as a hero as a sarcastic insult. But Dyer was hard to figure.

“Hello again,” I said.

“So what’s with the cop convention this morning?” Dyer tilted his chin toward the hilltop. “Did one of those perverts ass-f*ck another without permission?”

Pulsifer barked out a laugh. “A cop convention! See, Mike, I told you Logan was a clever guy.”

“Sounds like my ears should’ve been burning,” said Dyer. “But I guess it’s too cold for that.”

“We ran into Russo just now and he said he came out to check up on you. He said you’ve been having migraines.”

“Feels like there’s a golf ball between my eyes.”

I leaned forward. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t recognize that picture I showed you of Adam Langstrom.”

A muscle twitched in Dyer’s hairy neck. “I remembered who he was later. Used to see him around the mountain before he went to prison. My memory needs to be jogged sometimes.”

Pulsifer tugged on one of his earlobes; it was red from the cold. “Have you gotten any coyotes yet this season?”

“Some,” he said. “I got one last week. A thirty-pounder.”

Evidently, his migraines hadn’t slowed down his hunting. I looked past him at the two Plott hounds lying in the driveway, focused entirely on their owner. They were big, streamlined animals with fierce eyes and muscles that rippled beneath their brindle coats.

“With the dogs or over bait?” Pulsifer asked.

“With the dogs.”

“What did you use to get him?”

“Smith & Wesson M&P 15 Whisper.” Dyer turned his attention from Pulsifer to me. He ran a dirty hand through his filthy hair. “Russo said they found that missing guy’s truck. Said there was blood all over it.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Don’t be surprised if a detective named Clegg knocks on your door later.”

“Me? What for?”

“He’s handling the criminal investigation into Langstrom’s disappearance and will want to get a statement from you.”

“Me? I didn’t see nothing.” His speech became harder to understand the more agitated he became.

“You might have,” I said. “You might not have realized it at the time. Everyone going in and out of Foss’s drives by your front windows. And you said your memory needs to be jogged from time to time.”

Dyer took a step back from the window, his shoulders tightening. “Those perverts shouldn’t even be running around loose. Who cares if they kill each other?”

“Not me,” said Pulsifer, reaching for the shift. “You take it easy, Logan.”

We drove in silence for fifty yards, until Dyer’s house had disappeared behind the trees. Then Pulsifer swung his head around to look at me through his mirrored glasses.

“What the hell was that about?” he said.

“What?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. You were trying to rattle Logan. What was up with that?”

“There’s just something about him that seems off to me.”