The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(32)

I flipped on my windshield wipers. “But why does she care at this point? We heard it, so she knows it’s not a ghost—so why does she feel compelled to stay there?” I thought back about something I’d heard, something someone had said. “There was something Jim Thomas said about Mike Harlow—that he made mention that no one ever really got out of the canyon, so why not stay?”

“Perhaps Rosey has fallen prey to the same psychosis.”

“You think there’s a geographically specific psychosis?”

He glanced up at the towering granite walls. “It is a unique place, and it is possible that people are responding to it in a particular way.”

Hustling through the curves, I spotted lights up ahead. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

There were a pair of dim headlights, but the vehicle looked too large to be the Toyota and, with its lights pointed toward us, it was going the wrong way. As we slowed, I could see that it was the Coleman oil tanker, the driver probably pulling over to cool his brakes.

The outlaw was out of his truck and was kicking something underneath the tanker, maybe trying to eke out another couple of miles from the old Diamond Rio.

Figuring he wasn’t my problem at the moment, I accelerated through the turn and could see the taillights of the vintage car heading around the next curve. I hit the gas and caught up with Sam in the next straightaway. Switching on the emergencies, I blipped my siren and pulled them over near the rock wall between the reflector posts.

Jumping out, I slammed the door behind me and moved through the eighth of an inch of slush that was trying to decide if it was going to turn to ice or melt. I got up to the driver’s side and tapped on the window. Sam cranked it down and looked at me. “Rosey wants to talk to Kimama.”

“What about?”

I leaned down to look across at her. “She thinks you might’ve been her nanny when she was young.”

Lowering herself over the center console, she squinted at me. “Bucket, have you been drinking?”

“When she was a child, she lived here—well, down in Riverton—and she told me that she had a nanny who was called Butterfly, who used to call her Little Mouse. Does any of that sound familiar to you?”

Her eyes widened, and her hand came up to cover her gaping mouth as she leaned across the car to look at me closer. “The flat-hat, she was a child here?”

“Yep.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure—thirty-five years ago?”

Her hand fumbled across Sam as he reached out and steadied her. “Kimama, are you all right?”

“The flat-hat, where is she?”

I nodded due south. “Back at the tunnel. Why?”

“I must go to her.”

I stepped back. “C’mon, you can ride with me.”

Sam held fast. “No, I will bring her. You go ahead, and we will follow.”

“Okay.” I started to go but then turned and pointed a finger at both of them and spoke in my authoritative voice. “Hey, put on your seat belts.” I carefully jogged back to the Bullet, where Henry was waiting. Closing the door, I started the ten cylinders and turned back south. “Why’d you stay in the truck?”

“Because I could not get out—you lodged it against the cliff.” He looked at the old Toyota. “What did Kimama say?”

“She knows her. Has to—it’s too much of a coincidence. The names, the timing, and she said she needed to see her immediately.”

“The same thing Rosey said.”

I turned on my emergency lights. “Yep.”

“Thirty-six years.”

“Kimama said thirty-five but close enough.”

“That would have been approximately when Bobby Womack died.”

I thought about it as I swerved to miss the slow-moving tanker that Coleman had gotten back on the road, then watched as he steered into the pullout behind me and ground to a stop, probably in an attempt to avoid any more brushes with the law. “Yep.”

The Bear turned to look at me in the dim light of the cab, the greenish glow of the instrument panel reflecting off the sharp angles of his face. “What has changed in the canyon?”

I flipped off the emergency lights. “What?”

“The conversation we had previously about what could have been the catalyst for all this.”

I thought about the conclusion we’d drawn, the one that hadn’t seemed to make sense at the time. “Rosey.”

He turned toward the Wind River. “Rosey.” His voice resounded against the closed window, his breath fogging the surface. “She was there, too.”

More than a few hairs stood up on the back of my neck. “The night Bobby Womack was killed.”

He turned to look at me. “Yes.”

“She was with Kimama?”

“Kimama said that she used to come up into the canyon to visit him while they were having their affair, and if she was babysitting for Rosey she must have brought her with her.”

I sputtered. “Okay, let’s say she was there. What in the world, or out of it for that matter, would’ve started these radio communications after all these years?”

He raised his hands and gestured at the cliffs. “Rosey returning to the canyon.”

I shook my head and laughed. “Henry . . .”