The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(18)

“You are a horrible liar; fortunately, she does not know that.”

I turned in my seat to look at the Bear. “Yep, well . . .”

“What really happened?”

Static. A familiar voice crackled over the airwaves. “Unit 3, Walt? Anybody out there?”

I glanced at Rosey, but she hadn’t moved, so I plucked the mic from the dash and keyed it. “Roger that, Captain America. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Static. Jim laughed. “Yes, it is. I just wanted to check in and see how you guys were doing.”

“We’re good. Rosey’s getting some air, and we’re just sitting here drinking coffee.”

Static. “She’s not there?”

“Nope.”

Static. “Good. Walt, like I said, this is it. If nothing happens tonight, you guys need to fold up the tents and head home.”

“Are you trying to get rid of us?”

Static. “No, but I also don’t want you wasting your time. If this all goes the way I think it is, I’m going to want Trooper Wayman in my office at eleven. Do you think you could tell her that?”

“Sure.”

Static. “I really appreciate you guys coming over and helping out with this, but I think it’s time we circled the wagons and took care of our own, you know what I mean?”

“We do.”

Static. “Well, if you guys have a minute, stop by the office on your way out, and I’ll buy you a bad cup of coffee.”

“Only if you promise not to glue our mugs down.”

Static. “Over and out of my mind.”

“Roger that.” I hung the mic back on the dash and turned to look at the Bear. “You were saying?”

“What happened in the tunnel?”

“You aren’t going to believe me.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the coin and handed it to him through the open slider of the grate that separated us. He stared at it for a moment and then back at me. “This one is marred.”

“Only because I happened to step on it and slip sideways, which, by the way, kept me from getting run over.”

He looked out the window. “It was in the road like the others?”

“Dead center, between the lines. I was running and hit the darn thing, and it may have saved my life.”

“Running?”

“Yep.” I glanced around to make sure Rosey hadn’t moved and, satisfied, I told him about seeing something in the north tunnel.

“A shape?”

“Yep, kneeling down where the silver dollar was.”

“Kneeling, so it was human?”

“I don’t know. . . . I think so. I mean, what else could it have been?”

“Why were you running?”

“My footsteps were echoing in the tunnels, but then I started hearing other footsteps—ones that didn’t match mine. I heard them, and then I heard them running away, so I chased after the sound back to the north tunnel.”

He grunted. “Where the shape was kneeling and placing this silver dollar on the road?”

“Yep.”

He grunted again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have a guardian.” He smiled at me through the grate, and I knew it wasn’t the first time he’d smiled at a white man through bars. “The shape, form, whatever it was placed that coin at the centerline so that you would slip on it and prolong your life.”

“You don’t think that’s a bit of a reach?” I turned in the seat to get a better look at him. “I’m not buying into the ghost thing just yet.”

“All right, but whatever it was, it saved your life.”

“You don’t think it could’ve been just a random, chance kind of thing?”

“No. In my experience with the residents of the Camp of the Dead, they rarely act randomly or leave things to chance.”

“That supposition still depends on the willful suspension of all critical, rational thinking and a belief in things that go bump in the night.”

He continued to smile, to my annoyance. “So, you think it is giant raccoons who have found the bag of silver dollars and are leaving them in the middle of the road to what purpose?”

Suddenly the driver’s-side door opened, and Rosey threw herself in; slamming it behind her, she pulled off her gloves and blew warmth into her hands. “Jeez, it’s getting cold out there.” She turned to look at us both. “What are you guys talking about? It looked pretty intense.”

“Giant raccoons.”

She turned to look at the Cheyenne Nation. “That’s a new one.”

I glanced at the dash and could see that we had another four minutes before showtime. “I’m getting my thermos out of my truck; anybody want a cup of coffee?”

They didn’t answer, so I pushed open the door and limped over to where the Bear had parked the Bullet and fetched the battered Stanley with the stickers on the side that read DRINKING FUEL.

Shutting the door, I started my hampered travels back to the cruiser when I thought I noticed something at the side of the road, near the opening of the north tunnel, a dark shadow that faded away into the uneven surface of the granite wall as I turned.

I took a step forward, but whatever it was, it didn’t reappear. I thought about limping over, but we were coming down to the wire. I opened the door of the Dodge and wedged myself into the front seat. Screwing off the chrome top of the thermos, I poured myself a capful and checked the time.