Blood Trail - C. J. Box [88]
“I wish you wouldn’t release Moore,” Joe said. “I’d like to talk to him.”
McLanahan laughed angrily. “Not a chance. We already know what happens when you want to talk to people.” The sheriff made a pistol of his hand and pressed his index finger to his temple and worked his thumb twice.
Joe winced.
“I should hold you tonight,” McLanahan said. “But I’m just too damned tired to file the paperwork. So get out of my building and stay the hell at home where I can find you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. And make that son of a bitch Romanowski turn himself in.”
“That I can’t promise.”
The sheriff glared, on the verge of going into a rage but too tired to do so.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, and stomped out of the room.
Reed turned before following McLanahan, and showed a “what can I do?” palms-up gesture, and left the door open behind him.
JOE WAITED miserably at the front desk for the duty officer to find the keys to his van so he could go home. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt so dirty, so gritty, so incompetent.
Finally, after ten minutes, the old deputy returned to the desk and handed Joe the keys.
“I’ve also got a shotgun and a service weapon, a .40 Glock,” Joe said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” the old man said. “Come back tomorrow and get an okay from the sheriff.”
JOE WENT out into the night to find that a fine snow had started. It sifted through the cold dead air like powdered sugar, coating windshields with a film. He breathed in the cold air, tried to clear his head. He found the van at the side of the building where one of the deputies had left it.
As he reached for the door handle, a voice behind him, in the dark, said, “Out a little late for a family man, aren’t you?”
Joe froze, turned slowly to see Klamath Moore leaning against a light-colored SUV, arms crossed. Inside, in the dark, was the profile of Shannon Moore, looking straight ahead through the windshield as if she didn’t want to see what was happening outside.
Joe said, “Is that Shenandoah Yellowcalf in there? Isn’t she getting cold? You don’t even have your motor running.”
“She’s fine.”
“She’s a legend around here,” Joe said. “I just found out about her today. She’s the greatest athlete the reservation high school ever produced. They love her. How can you make her sit in there like that in the cold?”
“I don’t see where that’s any business of yours,” Moore said, ice in his voice.
“I just think you should appreciate her a little more, is all.”
“I appreciate her plenty.”
Joe said, “She enhances your image, for sure. It looks good for you to be married to an Indian. Makes you seem authentic. But you need to remember to introduce her to people. That way folks will think you like her.”
Moore worked his mouth, as if trying to suck something out from between his teeth. Joe saw it as a way not to say whatever it was he wanted to say in anger.
“That was you on the Winchester highway,” Joe said.
“I was home all night. I’ve got a witness.”
“Did you pull the trigger or did you talk Bill Gordon into doing it himself? That’s what I don’t know yet.”
Moore raised his chin, laughed at the sky. Unconvincing, Joe thought. As much an admission of guilt as if he’d signed a confession. But nothing Joe could use.
“You’re nuts,” Moore said. “You’re an embarrassment. Hell, you broke more laws than anyone in this county tonight, from what I understand. Assaulting a cop?”
“What do you want, Harold?”
“Why’d you call me that?”
“Isn’t that your real name? And another question: didn’t you do the same thing to Bill Gordon that you did to your uncle Everett? Make it look like an accident?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice rising, clearly getting agitated.
“Where is Wolverine?”
Moore got suddenly quiet.
“Where is he?