Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(42)
Sun sighed. “I was flying back from a production in Tunisia. Commercial.”
“Tunisia?” Joe said.
“Yes. Unfortunately, most of my motion pictures are now filmed overseas where I can get financing. The Hollywood elites shun me these days because they consider me too right-wing for their tastes, which is ridiculous and unfounded. My newfound interest in special firearms and choosing to live here in a flyover state only bolsters their view of me, I’m afraid. It doesn’t matter if it isn’t true. The fact is they don’t want me in their club anymore.”
“When did you get back here?” Joe asked.
“I didn’t get back until very late last night. I had to take a puddle jumper from Denver to Billings and Renaldo picked me up and drove me home. I didn’t get in bed until four-thirty.”
Joe nodded.
Sun walked over to a large closet, opened it, and fished a thick envelope from the inside breast pocket of a rumpled safari coat. He handed the folder to Joe. Inside were boarding passes and used airline tickets from flights from Tunis to Munich to Chicago to Denver to Billings. They were all in Sun’s name and they’d been used the day before.
“You can check the manifest of the airlines and talk to Renaldo to confirm all of that,” Sun said with a tired wave. Then, flaring and gesturing wildly to Joe, “I got home that late because my private aircraft—that I used to keep on call to fetch me when I landed stateside—got confiscated by fascists because I harvested game animals on my own ranch.”
“I know that’s a sore spot with you,” Joe said.
“Do you think?” Sun said with sarcasm.
“We’ll check it out,” Joe said, “but it sounds like you’re in the clear for this.”
“While you’re checking, talk to David,” Sun said. “He’ll verify that we haven’t shot together in the last couple of weeks while I was away.”
As he said it, Becky Barber brought Emma back into the great room.
She asked, “Is everything okay?”
Joe said, “Yup.”
“Of course it is,” Sun said to Joe. “Because if it were me, Sue Hewitt would be fine and her husband would be on a slab in your local morgue.”
“Dennis!” Becky hissed.
“I don’t like Judge Hewitt,” Sun said. “He’s a tyrant and a bully. But I didn’t shoot at him. I have enough problems as it is around here.”
At that, Becky burst into tears and left the room again with Emma.
“Postpartum depression,” Sun said to Joe while ushering him from his chair toward the door. “Anything seems to trigger it. And she worries that my words will psychologically injure the baby. What about her mother dissolving into an emotional pool of goo at the drop of a hat? What about that?”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sun,” Joe said on the porch. He clamped on his hat to go.
“So when do I get back the stuff you seized from me?” Sun asked.
“That’s not my call,” Joe said. “Judge Hewitt is the one who decides those things.”
“And he’s a little distracted right now, isn’t he?” Sun said without empathy. Then: “Renaldo, take Mr. Pickett back to his chariot.”
TWELVE
AN HOUR LATER, IN A NARROW ARROYO THAT CUT A SHARP gash from the timbered mountains to the basin below, Orlando Panfile bent over a small white gas Polaris Optifuel stove and lit the flame with a wooden match. It took and hissed and he waved his bare hand over the top of it to verify that it was working. Then he balanced an aluminum pot on the top of the stove’s assembly and poured three inches of water into it from a plastic gallon jug.
While the water heated, Panfile opened the small Yeti cooler that also served as a makeshift stool and dug out three hard-frozen chiles rellenos that had been prepared by his wife, Luna. They were stuffed with chiles from their garden that had been charred and peeled, queso asedero cheese, and coated with a crisp egg-and-flour breading recipe that had been passed down in Luna’s family for generations. Each was lovingly wrapped in yellow paper and foil. Each wrap was sealed with a red heart valentine sticker, which made him smile.
When the water finally boiled—he was reminded how long it took at this high altitude—he slid the rellenos one by one beneath the surface and the water instantly stopped rolling. Frozen ziplock bags containing seasoned rice and green chiles were placed into the pot as well. When the water started boiling again, he’d heat his food for five additional minutes and then unfurl the rellenos, dump the rice onto the tin plate next to them, and cover everything with the spicy sauce. It would be as close as he could get to being at his home with his family—his plump wife, Luna; daughters Adriana, Julieta, Ximena; and sons Gabriel and Orlandolito.
Although Luna had prepared, frozen, and packed enough rellenos and other home-cooked food to last him two weeks, Panfile had stared hard at a cottontail rabbit earlier in the day before he decided to pass it up. Fresh conejo en adobo would be a welcome change of pace.
Perhaps tomorrow.
*
HE WAS PLEASED with the location of his camp. He’d found a deep den beneath an overhang within the arroyo where he could store his goods and equipment and have enough room for his sleeping bag. There was a trickle of fresh spring water in the ditch below that he used for washing his face and cleaning his cooking gear. If it rained hard and a flash flood roared down the cut, he was camped high enough on the side of the draw that his gear wouldn’t be washed away.