The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(17)

I took a deep breath and then billowed the vapor from my lungs like a locomotive gathering steam and pushed off again. The second tunnel was shorter, and a sudden bit of starlight glistened on the macadam roadway on the other side of the darkness. I picked up my pace, figuring I didn’t have much time to get back to the entrance of the first tunnel before Rosey picked me up and we rendezvoused with the Cheyenne Nation to listen for the radio call.

I thought about what I was going to say when it didn’t happen again. Henry and I, like Captain Thomas, had lives and couldn’t spend our nights sitting in patrol cars waiting for phantom calls that never came. Wayman was going to have to talk with someone, someone who understood the things she was going through, and not just a couple of hard rollers like Henry and me.

I sounded tough, especially for a guy who had had his own run-ins with unexplainable phenomena, but I had rationalized all those things to myself and they didn’t bother me near as much as they used to. Nonetheless, I raised my hand and fingered the large silver ring that I wore around my neck on a chain, the one with the turquoise and coral wolves forever chasing each other.

I approached the last tunnel and noticed the curbs on this one were painted yellow, different from the others, and wondered if they had run out of paint. Still listening to my boots echoing off the rock amplifiers in front of and behind me, it was almost as if I could hear a slight disparity in the rhythm, probably because of the difference in distance between the tunnels.

As an experiment, I stopped suddenly, and only a few footfalls echoed after me. Satisfied, I took up walking again and entered the third tunnel. I stopped in the middle, thinking that I should really turn around and get going. It was about then that I heard them again, just within earshot, footsteps my exact tempo—and I hadn’t moved.

“Hello?” My voice bounced back at me, a query mocking my imagination.

There was no answer, but the footfalls receded as I turned and began running back in the direction I’d come. With the pounding of my boots on the roadway, I couldn’t hear the footsteps any longer, but I didn’t need to. I’d heard them for certain this time and was bound to at least catch a glimpse of whoever else was there with me.

Winded, I stopped in the middle of the second tunnel and looked around. I couldn’t see anyone but could still hear someone else, running as I had been.

“Hello?” There was only the echo of my voice bouncing about from all sides as I lurched forward, yanking out the Maglite again and flashing it into the last of the tunnels just ahead—back to go.

It seemed as if there were something crouched down in the middle of the road, but I couldn’t be sure. Picking up speed, I got closer and pulled my sidearm, causing the Womack file folder to fall out and scatter onto the roadway, the slight breeze pushing the sheets of paper like long-dead leaves.

I was right where whatever it was had been when I slipped on something, fell hard onto the pavement, and rolled to the curb. There was a roar as a vehicle in the tunnel blew past me, headed south. I lay there for a moment and then, rolling into a sitting position on the curb, I looked at the receding taillights of the car, just another midnight motorist headed home to Shoshoni or Riverton.

I shined the flashlight beam back to where I’d tripped—I could swear it was as if someone had been in the middle of the road in a hunter’s crouch—but how had whatever it was escaped being run over by the passing car? Shaking my head, I gathered the pages that had scattered across the entirety of the tunnel and stuffed them into the folder, none too gently, annoyed with myself for behaving like a rookie and almost getting run over for the trouble.

I limped toward the open air when my boot hit something on the road’s surface again. Cursing the night, I lifted my foot and looked down to see what I’d slipped on reflecting between the centerlines of the road. I knelt just as the figure had and picked up an 1888 Hot Lips Morgan silver dollar.





6




We sat there in Rosey’s cruiser at the pull-off about a hundred yards from the entrance of the north tunnel and watched the giant tow truck pull away with the Diamond Rio tanker.

Henry had driven the Bullet over to meet us, and we’d been there for about forty minutes. The conversation had dwindled to the point where we all just looked at the green numbers on the dash clock as they ticked ever so slowly toward the appointed time, the unmentioned silver dollar burning a hole in my shirt pocket as if it had a circulatory system of its own.

The Bear’s voice rose from the backseat. “How, exactly, did you hurt your leg?”

I’d had to use Rosey’s first-aid kit to patch up my ankle—evidently, my explanation hadn’t been satisfactory. “I tripped on the curb trying to get out of the way of a car that was going through the tunnels.” I glanced at them. “I figured I had plenty of time before Rosey got back, so I thought I’d stroll down to Boysen Dam, but it took longer than I thought, so I decided to pick up my pace and head back, and that’s where I met the car.”

“In the tunnel?”

“Yep.”

“Did you see anything else?”

I cleared my throat. “Um, not really.”

Rosey had been listening but went back to watching the dash. A moment passed, and then she cracked open her door and climbed out. “We have another twenty minutes, so I’m going to grab some air.” She walked toward the guardrail, placed a boot on the metal, and, leaning both arms on a knee, watched the dark water through the rising mist.