Cold Wind - C. J. Box [29]
Johnny frowned. “Why would one of us get more than the other?”
“We’d split it right down the middle, right, Johnny?” Drennen said.
“Suit yourself. I was just thinking one of you may have a harder job than the other. But however you want to handle it is fine by me.”
Timberman brought more beers and again she paid in cash. “Last call, little lady,” he said.
“Her name’s Patsy,” Johnny said, as if he were gallantly defending her reputation.
Timberman winked at her. He got it.
“So,” Drennen said, leaning in as well, so the three of them were inches apart. “Who we gotta kill?”
His tone indicated he was half joking.
She said, “Have you ever killed anyone?”
The question hung there for a moment, then Drennen quickly said, “Sure.” But the way his eyes darted to Johnny and back to her after he said it indicated to her he was lying. Trying to impress her. And he knew she probably knew it, so he said to Johnny, “That Mexican,” as if trying to prompt a false memory. He lowered his voice, “That fuckin’ Mexican wrangler they hired. The one with the attitude.”
She nodded.
“Well,” Drennen said, leaning back and puffing out his chest. “Let’s just say he don’t have a bad attitude no more.”
“That Mexican,” Johnny echoed, nodding. “We capped that son-of-a-bitch.”
She said, “His name is Nate Romanowski, but that shouldn’t matter to you one way or another. So, where are you boys camped? I’ll give you a ride.”
It had happened two years before. Chase Talich, her late husband, had gone west from Chicago—where they had fine jobs working for important, if infamous, local men—with his brothers Cory and Nathaniel. The Feds had cracked down in a high-profile show of force that had caused Chase’s employers to flee the area. The last time she’d seen him, he was packing a suitcase in the bedroom. He was calm, as always. He said it might be a couple weeks before he came back. He said he’d call, but he couldn’t tell her exactly where he was going. He said he’d bring her back a cactus or a saddle.
Since Chase handled all the finances and had given her a murderous stony stare the one time she’d asked about them, she was naturally concerned about his future absence, especially because she was two months pregnant. They lived well on the North Side, she didn’t have to work, and her days consisted of shopping, Pilates, and lunching with the other wives whose husbands were involved in the Chicago infrastructure, as they put it. Of course, she had seen references to the “Talich Brothers” in the Tribune, and she knew Chase had been in prison when he was young. But he took good care of her and gave her a generous cash allowance every month and she was treated very well in clubs and restaurants when she gave her name. She was willing to not think much about it. That was her trade-off.
For five weeks, he didn’t call. His only contact was a large padded envelope sent from somewhere called Hulett, Wyoming, with her monthly cash allowance. Not even a note.
Then the Feds showed up. She knew when she opened the door that something had happened to her husband. They told her he’d been shot and killed in a remote part of northeastern Wyoming, practically in the shadow of Devils Tower. Nathaniel, Chase’s younger brother, had also been killed. Only Cory, the oldest, had survived. He was in custody and facing federal and state charges.
Desperate, she went to see her brother-in-law in Denver. Through the thick Plexiglas of the federal detention facility, he told her what had happened. How Chase had been bushwhacked by a local redneck who carried the largest handgun he had ever seen. That’s when she first heard the name.
She’d desperately quizzed Cory. Where had Chase stashed his money? How could she get access to it? How could she raise another child—Cory’s future nephew or niece—on her own with nothing?
Cory didn’t help. He said Chase had kept his finances to himself. Besides, Cory said, he had problems of his own and she’d need to learn how to take care of herself.
It was devastating.