The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(12)
“He talked to you?”
“He did.”
She nodded, returning her eyes to the water. “How did you accomplish that?”
“I went to his cabin.”
She shook her head and licked her lips, the gray light of the overcast day flattening her refined features. “He doesn’t answer his phone or have e-mail. I even wrote him a letter, but he never answered and I finally gave up. It never occurred to me to just walk up his driveway—seemed intrusive.”
“It was, but he didn’t shoot me.”
“Did you show him the silver dollar?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He’d never seen one. I mean, he knew the story, but he’d never found one on the road like you.”
“What about the radio calls?”
“He says in his entire thirty years in the canyon, he never heard one.” We sat there in the silence of my truck and continued to watch the water. “So, when these calls happen, what do they sound like?”
Her eyes didn’t move, but her jaw stiffened and she pulled the handle and climbed out, quietly closing the door behind her. I sat there for a few moments, giving her time to collect herself, and then got out, rounding the front of my truck, where we both leaned against the grill guard.
She kept her personal blue searchlights on the water, traveling north through the canyon. “This isn’t me, you know? I’ve never had anything like this happen to me in my life, and I guess I’m not dealing with it really well.”
“I think you’re doing okay. If I had dead people talking to me on my radio every night, I’m not so sure I’d be completely rational about it either.” That at least got a smile. “I’ve had strange things that I can’t explain happen to me, Rosey, so I think I know a little bit about how you feel.”
She turned to look at me. “So, you’re haunted, too, huh?”
“I think we’re all haunted, by one thing or another.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Far in the distance, I heard a familiar whoop, and we both turned to see the two aquatic braves fighting the rapids with all the gusto of a war party. Dave Calhoun was in the back, digging in with two oars on either side of the rubber raft, while Henry kept switching sides, paddling with a single oar. The front of the raft lifted, but Henry continued to struggle as the float shot through a water funnel and turned sideways toward a large boulder the size of an automobile.
Rosey stepped toward the edge of the cliff. “Oh my God.”
I shook my head, figuring there wasn’t a lot I was going to be able to do if they crashed into the thing, except possibly fish for parts.
The Bear dug in and turned the front of the raft toward the right side of the boulder as Dave paddled like a steamship, attempting to get them to the side of the rock before they hit it.
Fortunately, the central current caught the raft and shot them alongside the boulder. They flew underneath us around the next corner, but not before the Cheyenne Nation turned our way and, throwing up his hands, screamed at the heavens, “Howouunoni—yehewihoo!”
The sound of the Bear’s voice reverberated off the rock walls as they disappeared, and she turned to look at me. “Do you think you have to be crazy or Indian to willfully do that sort of thing?”
“Maybe to enjoy it.” We listened as the battle cries grew distant, and I figured they’d made it. “So . . . what does he say?”
“Who?”
“The midnight caller.”
She walked back to my truck. “He calls in a 10-78, officer needing assistance.”
“Simple as that?”
“There is a loud static noise and then he identifies himself as Unit 3, which is my number. The first time I got the call, I answered and asked him if he was Troop G or belonged to a different detachment, and if he wasn’t, who was he and how can I help?”
“Then what?”
“Nothing for a few minutes, and then he repeated the call, identifying himself as Unit 3 and once again calling for a 10-78.”
“Did you try and talk to him anymore?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Nothing, he just repeated it again.”
“Verbatim?”
“Yes.”
“Could it be a recording?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“There are slight variations in the cadence, tone, things like that.”
“How do you know it’s Bobby?” She looked at me again. “Hey, I’m an investigator—I’m investigating.”
“There are audio recordings of him at the library in Shoshoni. I went and tracked them down—heck, some of them are on the Internet. It’s him, Walt, I’d swear to it.”
“Do you know Sam and Joey Little Soldier at the college?”
“No.”
“Sam teaches down there and Joey’s his grandson—Sam knew Womack and his grandson appears to be an expert on the man.”
“You think either of them would come up and listen?”
I watched the clouds topping the canyon walls. “I think we better get some corroborating evidence before we try and draw a crowd.” I waited a moment and then asked a more philosophic question. “So, are you saying that he’s still alive?”