The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(24)

The big trooper eyed me up and down. “You slip, too?”

“No, I’m genuinely stupid and jumped in.”

He glanced at Henry and then back to me. “That’s your story, huh?”

“Yep.”

“We’ll see what Rosey says when she gets a little more coherent.” He sat in one of the mauve chairs, his hands trailing onto his knees. “So, you heard it?”

Henry turned around. “Yes, we did. We all did.”

“Hmm . . . Well, that certainly puts a new timber on things.” He sighed, suddenly looking very tired. “I guess we’re going to have to start looking for anybody that would have the equipment to break onto our frequency, and it’s certainly localized, seeing as how we can’t even get it on our radios up here. With a little luck we should be able to triangulate the position of the transmitter and get whoever is doing this. I mean, back in the old days when you just had radio frequency, this stuff would’ve been hard, but now that we’ve got this WYOLINK system, the name, unit number, and everything should come up, even a GPS or last event providing the location of the sender.”

“None of us were in the car to see the radio or the GPS.” I glanced around the room for options, finally coming up with one. “I’m betting you have an expert on radios.”

“In Cheyenne, at our centralized dispatch center, we’ve got a tech person who’s a whiz.”

“How about to the south, could anyone have heard the radio calls down there? In Shoshoni, Riverton?”

“I don’t know, but certainly if someone had heard the repeated calls they would’ve commented on it, and if it’s on our frequency, then it would have to be another HP.”

“Would you mind checking with other law enforcement to see if anybody’s heard anything? I mean, it would help us confirm where the transmissions are coming from.”

“Sure, I’ll check around, and I’ll have the radio expert give you a call.”

I thumbed at the Cheyenne Nation. “Call him—I still don’t have a phone.”

Thomas yawned. “I will, but I think I’ll do it in the morning.”

? ? ?

“A 10-46.”

“And what is a 10-46?”

The Bear was driving my truck as I read the official, circa-1979 Wyoming Highway Patrol report from the file that Jim Thomas had given us. “Assisting motorist.”

The Cheyenne Nation veered down the Wind River Canyon Scenic Byway, enjoying the way the big V-10 pulled out of the curves. “So, he was assisting a motorist before he pulled out in front of the truck?”

I continued reading. “He cleared the call, and then it was another ten minutes before the accident with the tanker.”

“Still, it would be interesting to know who and what it was that close to the event of his death.”

“No way to tell—they aren’t going to have records that go back that far, especially if it was just a motorist-assistance call.” I glanced up at the road and then to him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I am always interested when someone commits an act such as Womack’s as to what their conversation might have been previously.”

I grunted. “Probably something along the lines of ‘That spare should get you to Farson, where they have ice cream’ or ‘I think I’ve given you enough gas to get you to the Shell station in Shoshoni.’”

He glanced at the files in my lap. “Anything else?”

“Not really. They’re pretty cut and dry and match up with the newspaper articles Rosey found.” I closed the file. “Okay, let’s go out on a limb here.”

“In what direction?”

“Let’s pretend that this is Bobby Womack’s . . . um, spirit.”

“Okay.”

“And let’s say he didn’t take the silver dollars from the bank robbers.”

“Yes.”

“Then why is he handing them out now?”

The Bear drove for a while in silence. “Perhaps he is attempting to show us that he now knows where the money is.”

“Why?”

“To clear his name.”

Watching the entrance to the north tunnel approaching, I gestured for the Bear to pull over a little farther than where we’d been parked last night. “Over here, I don’t want to have to walk too far.”

He slowed and stopped next to the guardrail. “Do you want to get out on my side to avoid going near the water?”

“Very funny.”

There was a buzzing noise, and he reached into the inside pocket of his duster. Pulling out his phone, he stared at the screen momentarily before handing it to me. “The Wyoming Highway Patrol Central Dispatch Headquarters in Cheyenne.”

I took the thing. “How do you know it’s for me?”

“Lucky guess.”

I punched the button and stepped out of my truck and sat on the guardrail facing the water just to spite Henry. “Sheriff Walt Longmire.”

“Sheriff, this is Eunice Wallace of the Central Dispatch Headquarters in Cheyenne.”

“You can’t fool me, there’s nothing centralized about Cheyenne.”

She laughed. “Or organized, for that matter. How can I help you, Sheriff?”