The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(19)

12:32.

Without taking her eyes off the dash, Rosey asked, “You decided to brew some fresh?”

I took a sip. “Two more minutes.”

“See any raccoons?”

I turned and looked at him. “Maybe.”

I have had some long minutes in my life. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to hear the radio call or I didn’t. I knew I didn’t believe, but what was I going to do then? Rosey was going to have to be confronted, and there really wasn’t anybody in a better position to do it than me. I figured I’d start slow and gentle, trying to get her to see the impossibility of the situation and that she was going to have to come to terms with the fact that there was a problem—the first step in getting it solved.

12:33.

That she was going to have to move past the stigma of psychiatric intervention and realize that it was a difficult job that sometimes took its toll in strange and unpredictable ways. There was nothing normal about a career in law enforcement, and the strains of making life-and-death decisions every day were bound to have an effect. If need be, I’d tell her about my own experiences on the mountain in the snow. It wasn’t anything I’d shared with anyone else, but this was important enough that maybe I could get her to understand.

12:34.

None of us moved, and I waited a few seconds before sipping my coffee in as nonchalant a manner as I could muster under the circumstances.

Rosey reached down and turned up the volume on her radio to the point that the electric hum of random frequency crowded the inside of the cruiser, and I could feel it in the fillings of my teeth.

I fussed with the heat and then figured I’d ask again. “Does anybody want—”

“Shhhh!”

I stared at her but didn’t say anything. Henry stuck a hand through the slider, and gave him my half cup of coffee.

Rosey still sat there looking at the radio.

I turned and looked at it, too.

12:35.

I didn’t move, not wanting to give the impression that these types of things happened with split-second timing.

She glanced at me, but I remained concentrated on the dash clock. She took a deep breath and sat back in her seat, started to say something, and then changed her mind.

I waited till the next minute passed. “Is it usually on the dot?”

She nodded and turned away toward the door. “Maybe a few seconds after, but it’s always 12:34.” She opened the door again and got out, leaving it hanging ajar. “I need some air.”

I glanced back at Henry, then got out with my thermos and cup and pulled his door open for him, leaving ours open as well so that we might hear anything that came in over the airwaves. “Well?”

Rosey had resumed her spot at the guardrail.

“Would you like me to speak with her?”

“No, it’s my line of work.”

He nodded, reached into his pocket, and handed me back the silver dollar. “I’m going to go get my greatcoat out of your truck.”

I looked at the very unhappy and confused woman by the rail. “Yep, it might be a long night.”

? ? ?

“How ’bout a cup of coffee?”

“You think I’m crazy now.”

“Yep, most people take my coffee.”

She didn’t move. “I think I might be losing my mind, Walt.”

“You’re not losing your mind, you’ve just had a few strange occurrences that have put you off.” I unzipped my jacket, reached under my shirt, and pulled out the large ring on the chain around my neck. “You see this ring?”

“Yeah?”

I examined the thing myself, the available light reflecting off the silver. “A little over a year ago, a seven-foot-tall Crow Indian gave this to me.”

“Okay.” She looked at me when I didn’t answer. “That’s nice.”

“Yep, it was, especially considering he was dead at the time.” She stared at me. “Virgil White Buffalo kind of came to my rescue up in the Cloud Peak Wilderness while I was chasing down some escaped prisoners, one of them a very bad man.” I waited a moment before continuing. “I was hypothermic, concussed, and damaged in about a half dozen ways. I needed company, and help, so I guess I came up with Virgil. I had conversations with him, interacted with him . . . but I know he wasn’t there.”

“Where’d the ring come from?”

“I found it.”

“Just like I found the silver dollars?”

The one in my pocket burned like a heated rivet. “Yep, something like that.”

“So, what are you saying?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s important what I’m saying—it’s what you’re saying.”

“And what is it I’m saying?”

“Help.”

Crossing her arms, she pushed her boot off the guardrail and turned toward me. “Excuse me?”

“Rosey, you are one of the finest police officers I know—smart, tough, thorough, instinctive, fair, independent. . . .” I gestured toward the towering granite walls that surrounded us. “Heck, most people wouldn’t even have put in for a duty like this down here at the end of the world, especially with all the stories, myths, and legends that surround this place.” I lowered my arms and looked at her. “But there’s something wrong. Think about it, think about what he says—Unit 3, that’s you. You’re Troop G, Unit 3. Then he calls in a 10-78, officer needs assistance.”