Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(48)

“Raylan Wagy?”

“I ain’t done nothing,” Wagy cried.

“Incorrect. You and your partner have broken the falconer’s creed. You’ve fucked with another man’s birds.”

“My foot . . . Oh man, it hurts.”

“Good,” Nate said, releasing Wagy’s ear. “Where’s Axel Soledad?”

At the mention of the name, Wagy’s face turned pale. He was obviously scared of Soledad.

“Where is he?”

When Wagy didn’t answer, Nate reached back down and gave Wagy’s right ear a full half twist. He could hear tendons pop.

Wagy closed his eyes and made a cry that sounded like “Skeeee.” It was otherworldly and birdlike, Nate thought.

“I’ll take it completely off if you don’t answer me,” Nate said softly. “That’s what I do. Do you understand me?”

Wagy nodded emphatically.

“Will he be back soon?” Nate asked.

Wagy shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. He doesn’t always tell me. It depends on whether he finds . . . what he’s looking for.”

“Falcons, you mean,” Nate said.

Wagy nodded.

“Then I’ll wait for him right here,” Nate said. He settled into an armchair across from Wagy and placed his long handgun across his thighs. “You stay right where you are.”

Wagy grunted and chinned toward the pitchfork that held him fast. “It’s rusty. My foot will get infected.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nate said with a cruel grin. “Don’t pull it out. I like it there.”



* * *



—

An hour later, Nate asked Wagy, “What’s antifa?”

“We’re anti-fascists,” Wagy replied. “We fight against racism and capitalism. We fight for social justice against the oppressors.”

“In Denver?” Nate asked.

“Everywhere we find it,” Wagy sniffed.

Nate snorted and said, “Maybe you should get a job. It might take your mind off all the unfairness going on out there.”

Then he felt a series of vibrations, one after the other, from his cell phone in his pocket. Without taking his eyes off Wagy, who was now mumbling to himself with his head in his hands, Nate drew out his device. He hated being a slave to cell phones, but his business and the baby demanded that he have one with him at all times.

There were three texts lined up. One was from Sheridan, one from Marybeth, and one from Liv. They’d obviously conspired, he thought. He could envision the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder, tapping out letters.

Sheridan wrote: My Dad is missing and we can’t reach him. We’re getting worried. Can you please come back?

Before reading further, Nate glanced at Wagy. The man was using the distraction to wrap his fingers around the shaft of the pitchfork to pull it out.

In one motion, Nate grasped his .454, thumbed the hammer, and fired a round next to Wagy’s injured ear. The explosion was like a thunderclap and the force of the big round scared Wagy back into the cushions.

“Oh my God,” Wagy cried. “You nearly killed me!”

“Behave yourself,” Nate said. “Don’t even think of stabbing me with that pitchfork. It’s rusty, you know.”

Wagy groaned.

He read further.

Marybeth wrote: I’ve called Sheriff Tibbs and left messages for him to assemble a search-and-rescue team, but he hasn’t called me back. We can’t wait. We need your help.

Liv wrote: Get your ass home.



* * *



—

All three women in his life were telling him what to do, he thought. He wondered how many years it would take for baby Kestrel to join them as the fourth.

Nate sighed and dutifully stood up. When he did, Wagy recoiled. Blood pooled around Wagy’s boot where the pitchfork held him in place.

“Believe it or not,” Nate said, “it’s your lucky day. I’ve been summoned.”

And with that he walked out through the front door and started hiking toward the Power Wagon. He heard a scream from inside the house as Wagy pulled the pitchfork free.





FIFTEEN


Earl Thomas pulled up on the reins to bring his horse to a halt in the trees at the edge of a large clearing. He placed both of his gloved hands on the horn and leaned forward in the saddle to study the grassy meadow before them.

Tim Joannides sidled up next to him on his horse. He’d been complaining just a few minutes before about how uncomfortable he was and was this snow ever going to let up? His horse had taken on the characteristics of its rider, Earl observed. Nervous, jumpy, twitchy, and annoying. When Joannides asked stupid questions, Earl ignored him. He wasn’t a weatherman.

“What’s going on?” Joannides asked. “Why are we stopping?”

“To take a look ahead.”

Joannides’s saddle creaked as he shifted in order to try and discern what Earl was looking at. His horse shuffled its feet as well, again taking on the tics of the rider.

“I see snow on top of the grass,” Joannides said. “So what?”

Earl gave Joannides a sidewise glance, then turned back to study the clearing. Kirby joined him on the other side, so the three of them were abreast at the edge of the tree line. Brad was behind them, leading the string of packhorses.