38

WALT STRUCK THE BRASS KNOCKER SHARPLY AGAINST THE plate on the front door. Despite a career of getting used to it, he was put off by the grandeur of the farmhouse and generational wealth it represented.

Brandon stomped his boots on the porch, trying to feel his feet.

“You sure about this, Sheriff? It’s almost three in the morning.”

“We’re not driving back over here tomorrow.”

“No offense, but you don’t smell so good.”

Walt smacked the door knocker-a brass cowboy boot-against the door again.

Standing beneath the porch roof, they didn’t see a light go on in a second-story window, but the snow behind them lit up from the glow, and Walt stepped back.

The door rattled and opened.

Senator James Peavy wore a pair of blue jeans with a sweater turned inside out. He squinted into the brightness of the porch light. His head of wispy white hair was thin on top, a fact usually hidden by the ubiquitous Stetson.

“Sheriff?” Astonishment. “Deputy?”

“We need a minute of your time,” Walt said.

“You come in here smelling like that, obviously you must,” said Peavy, waving them inside. “Come in.”

The parlor could have been from a homesteading museum. Peavy motioned for them to sit. Walt wanted to stand, but he took a seat on a blue velvet love seat with ruby piping. Brandon took the end of the piano bench, facing into the spacious room. Sheer curtains hung on the windows of air-bubbled, imperfect glass.

Peavy remained standing, an act that infuriated Walt. Perhaps sensing this, the rancher then sat down on the edge of a blue-and-white-crocheted slide rocker. He moved gently forward and back.

“So?”

“Why would Lon Bernie burn fifty head of sheep? And why in the dead of night?”

Peavy’s life in politics mixed with time spent in the great outdoors afforded him a wonderfully expressive face, gracious and kind and handsome. Even half awake, he possessed the countenance of a minister and the composure of a therapist.

“You want to talk about Lon Bernie’s sheep?” he said.

“I’d rather not dance around the issue. Mark Aker’s life is in play. Something’s going on here, and before I tear the lid off this thing I wanted to give you a chance to break it to me gently.”

“So you’re here out of thoughtful consideration, are you? At three in the morning?”

“This was a convenient time.”

“Not for all of us.”

“Radiation contamination,” Walt said.

Peavy scowled, an expression impossible to read as anything but surprise. “Jesus, what is that smell?”

“Help me out here, James,” Walt said. “What’s going on?”

“This is your party.”

“The invitation for me to go to Washington. That was your doing. Why?”

“Because I think you’re underrated, Walt. Sometimes we control the timing of the events in our lives, sometimes not. The vice president is eager for you to serve on a national level. Don’t think this was just me. You have more friends than you’re aware of.”

“One of them’s dead. Another’s missing.”

An uneasy silence. The piano bench squeaked under Brandon ’s weight.

“You called Mark to take care of your sheep.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“I thought it was the hay or grain. Mad cow, or something like that. Come to find out, it’s the water.”

Peavy asked to speak with Walt privately, and Walt told Brandon to stay where he was. He wanted a witness to anything discussed and he said so. Peavy winced, part disgust, part concession.

“Sheriff, if you have a crime to charge me with, please do so. Otherwise…”

“Senator…”

“I understand your concern over Mark Aker. I share it. I know nothing about his disappearance. Do you hear me, Walt? Nothing. As for your suggestion, this other subject, I can tell you this: there is a good deal of money involved when a rancher loses a head or two of livestock. What you’re reporting with Lon, twenty-five, fifty head, that’s not just a backbreaker, it’s a bank breaker. That’s forty-five thousand, plus the loss of the ewe producing for you. Probably a hundred grand, all told. On our margins, that’s your operation, or damn near. Think about that, Walt. Consider that very carefully. It isn’t entered into lightly. You’re assuming the invitation to Washington somehow benefited me. But what if it’s me, or people in high places, trying to protect you? What if that’s how wrong you’ve got this?”

“If there’s a crime, then you’re a victim-Lon Bernie’s a victim. Why won’t you come forward? How can you not come forward?”

The senator arched his brows. “Your explanation, not mine.”

“Then what’s yours?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t need one.”

“Mark came out to these ranches because of sick sheep. He discovered radiation poisoning in the water. He kept his work away from his office because he understood the politics. He tried to warn me about the politics.”

“And you’re not listening.”

“This can’t be you talking, Senator. We’ve known each other forever. I consider us friends,” Walt said.

“If I knew anything about Mark Aker, I’d help you. But I don’t.”

The two men’s eyes met.

“No one is going to help you. I’m trying to protect you, Sheriff. Take the trip to Washington.”

“Protect me?” Walt’s face was scarlet, his voice too loud for the room.

“The Lon Bernies of this world make their own laws. You and I both know a badge doesn’t mean much in this valley. Ironic since we’ve both served the law ourselves. But it’s different over here. You know that. If it wasn’t for the vehicles, it could be a hundred years ago.”

“Maybe they buy off the local sheriff, but I’m not the local sheriff.”

“Worth taking note of.”

Walt stood, took a menacing step toward an unreasonably calm James Peavy, and caught himself, as Brandon rose off the piano bench.

Peavy said, “Maybe by finding Mark Aker you find your answers, I don’t know. But by looking for him, you put yourself at risk, Walt. Hear me on this. Hear me good. This valley isn’t a safe place for you. Go home. Keep to your side of the mountains. You’ll find nothing but trouble over here.”

“But if you’re a victim, why not report it?” Walt repeated, now exasperated. “Since when can someone intimidate James Peavy?”

Peavy didn’t speak again. His expression suggested not resignation but determination, which confused Walt.

He walked to the door and opened it for them. As cold a night as Walt could remember.

39

THE OUTSIDE OF THE ENVELOPE BORE HIS NAME, HANDWRITTEN in a lovely script, although Walt couldn’t actually touch the envelope, as it was sealed in thick, red-tinted plastic. BIOHAZARD was printed on the front in large letters.

The desk sergeant explained that the envelope-hand delivered to the office by Fiona Kenshaw-had tripped the electronic sniffer used on all incoming mail.

Contaminated.

He was working on forty-five minutes of sleep. He’d showered, shaved, changed his uniform, and had eaten the scrambled eggs Lisa prepared for him. She’d slept on the couch, and had let the girls brush her hair and put it into a ponytail, so that she looked somewhat disheveled, as she washed dishes while Walt ate. It felt weird having her in the house. He hadn’t thanked her. Hadn’t said much at all. They’d met eyes at one point during the morning confusion, just before she’d left. Her eyes had said something about feeling sorry for him while all he felt was impossibly guilty. He’d driven the girls to school, because this was their routine. They’d played a word game on the way-the animal game-and Walt found himself not wanting to stop. Maybe just keep driving, his eyes on the two faces in his rearview mirror. When he’d let them out, he’d run around the car to hug them. Both girls appeared embarrassed by the gesture, though neither complained.