Cold Wind - C. J. Box [16]
“Joe.”
“I’m kidding.”
“This is not the time,” she said, and he realized she was crying.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel horrible. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. Joe, despite what she is and what she’s done, she’s my mother. And she’s your daughters’ grandmother. Do you want them to think their grandmother is a murderer, for God’s sake?”
“No.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said, and he could imagine her wiping at her tears angrily so no one could see her crying. Open displays of emotion in front of co-workers wasn’t her style. “Call me when you know something.”
“I will,” Joe said, closing the phone.
“Sounds like you stepped in it,” Newman said.
Before Joe could respond, Deputy Mike Reed’s helmeted head poked through the hatch. He was red-faced and breathing hard. Joe extended his hand and helped Reed up into the nacelle. When Reed could catch his breath, he reached out and put both of his hands on Joe’s shoulders, looked into his eyes, and said, “The sheriff wants your hide, Joe.”
Joe shrugged. “Won’t be the first time.”
Joe had known and worked with Deputy Reed for a number of years. He liked him. Reed was low-key and dedicated, and had managed to stay out of McLanahan’s web of intrigue and influence. He had surprised practically everyone by filing papers to run against the sheriff in the upcoming election. And McLanahan had surprised everyone by not immediately cutting Reed loose from the department.
“I’m surprised he sent you,” Joe said.
Reed chuckled. “He didn’t want to, but he ran out of guys, and he’s too fat anymore to even think about climbing that ladder.”
“Where are his homeboys?” Joe asked. McLanahan had recruited three young deputies who spent most of their time in the weight room or appreciating McLanahan’s original cowboy poetry recitations. Joe had met most of them and saw they aspired to follow in the sheriff’s footsteps, and therefore they were to be treated with caution.
The deputy looked hard at Joe. “I think you know.”
Reed’s radio crackled to life. Because of the proximity to the trucks below, McLanahan’s voice was strong and clear. “Deputy Reed, have you reached the top?”
“Almost, sir,” Reed said, and winked at Joe and Newman.
“Get a move on,” McLanahan ordered.
Reed took a deep breath.
“I’m surprised you’re still around,” Joe said. “But I’m glad you are.”
“He keeps his friends close and his enemies closer,” Reed said. “He wants to be able to keep an eye on me. So,” he said, looking over Joe’s shoulder at the body spinning by, “it’s true then. Earl Alden. This is gonna be a big deal.”
Joe nodded. He filled Reed in on what little he knew, from the missing person’s report to the riderless horse to the climb up the tower with Newman. He pointed out the hoist and the possible smear of blood. The whole time, Reed simply shook his head in disbelief. Then he called down on his radio and repeated the whole thing to the sheriff.
“We’ll need the evidence tech,” Reed said. “There might be some traces, and we might have some blood.”
McLanahan said, “You want me to send Cindy up there? She weighs what, three hundred? How we going to get her up there?”
“I don’t know,” Reed said.
“Can’t you at least stop that damned windmill from turning?”
Reed looked to Newman, who said, “Yeah. We can disengage the rotor. Joe told me not to touch anything.”
“He was right,” Reed said, and then nodded toward the radio, “but you heard the man.”
“And get that son-of-a-bitch Joe Pickett off there,” McLanahan said. “He’s got a built-in conflict. We can’t have him up there.”
“I’ll tell him,” Reed said.
“You’ll ask me,” Joe shot back.
“Please?”
“Okay,” Joe said. “But first you have to tell me why McLanahan sent his deputies out to my mother-in-law’s ranch. There’s nothing I’d like better than to see her