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Authors: J. Carson Black
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Somewhere between twenty and forty.”
Silence once more. Then, grudgingly, “Sounds like ours.”
“What about his teeth?”
“We’re still running that down.”
“Any distinguishing marks?”
“Couple of moles.”
Moles . Thank you for sharing .
“And a bullet wound in his calf. Old. So you’re in Zephyr, Montana? Never heard of it.”
“You been to Kalispell?”
“I wish.”
Bingo .
“You know Montana?” Landry asked.
“No. But I know enough to want to go there—it’s a fly-fishing paradise.”
“You got that right—Montana’s God’s country. My brother has a lodge up here just west of Zephyr.”
“Oh?”
Landry sensed a sudden spring in the SA’s step. “High Mountain Outdoor Adventures.”
Keller said, “Where’s Zephyr?”
“Oh, it’s just a little wide spot in the road . . .” He consulted the map. “Off Highway 93. Not that far from Kalispell as the crow flies. Hard to believe we’d get a guy shooting up a school out here. But I guess nobody’s safe.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Loosening up .
Keller said, “Your brother’s lodge?”
“That’s right, and let me tell you, it’s like heaven up here.” Landry Googled “Kalispell and mountain ranges.” “When I retire I’m gonna join my bro and lead packing trips up into the . . .” He had a choice of two: Swan or Salish mountain ranges. Pick one: “. . . Swan Mountains. We’re kind of a cross between a guest ranch and a hunting lodge. Hang on, I’ll send you some pics.”
“The fishing’s good?”
“Are you kidding? It’s Montana. Hey, if you can help me find out if this is the same guy, shoot, I’m sure Dan will give you a free trip. All you’d have to do is get here.”
“No kidding?”
Thrill to the sight of an FBI agent transforming into a hopeful little boy in the space of twenty seconds.
“Hey,” Landry said. “I’m a man of my word. This shooting has been giving me fits. My sister-in-law has a daughter who goes to that college. She saw her best friend get shot. Still has nightmares. So you better believe it, anything you can do to clear this up. I just want to know, you understand?”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
Landry heard typing on a keyboard. “What kind of trout you have up there? Rainbows, of course—”
“Oh, we have rainbows all right. And westslope cutthroats. You have to see them to believe ’em.”
“Oh, man .”
“Say,” Landry said. “Your guy—the shooter—he wasn’t Muslim, was he?”
Gilding the lily?
“Nah. But he was a lowlife just the same. Tell you what—if there’s a break in the case, I’ll be in touch. These two cases really could be related.”
He hesitated. Landry thought he wanted to say more, but he’d stopped himself. So Landry filled the void. “All’s I can say, bro, this is God’s country up here. What’s your e-mail addy? I’ll send you the pics.”
The agent rattled off his address.
“All right,” Landry said. “We’re good. Anything you can do on your end.”
“Better believe it. Westslope cutthroat trout. Never caught one of those. Never even seen one of those. I always wanted to go to Montana, but, you know . . . an FBI agent’s salary . . .”
“I hear you. You won’t believe how nice it is up here. Dan knows what he’s doing—he’s the man . He’ll set you up, don’t you worry. Knows the backcountry like nobody else. We’ve been in the business since 1926.”
He was enjoying this too much. Time to get off.
“I’ll be in touch,” Keller said.
I’m sure you will.
CHAPTER 9
Jolie Burke awoke to the clamoring voices of the coyotes out on the bajada . She lay in bed thinking that Tejar, New Mexico, was one hard little nut of a town.
Maybe that impression came from the prison looming over the cotton field across the road. Or the old trucks and older people, leather faces shut up tight. Don’t you tread on me!
Jolie loved the land Tejar was on. She knew so much of it by heart—the
Silence once more. Then, grudgingly, “Sounds like ours.”
“What about his teeth?”
“We’re still running that down.”
“Any distinguishing marks?”
“Couple of moles.”
Moles . Thank you for sharing .
“And a bullet wound in his calf. Old. So you’re in Zephyr, Montana? Never heard of it.”
“You been to Kalispell?”
“I wish.”
Bingo .
“You know Montana?” Landry asked.
“No. But I know enough to want to go there—it’s a fly-fishing paradise.”
“You got that right—Montana’s God’s country. My brother has a lodge up here just west of Zephyr.”
“Oh?”
Landry sensed a sudden spring in the SA’s step. “High Mountain Outdoor Adventures.”
Keller said, “Where’s Zephyr?”
“Oh, it’s just a little wide spot in the road . . .” He consulted the map. “Off Highway 93. Not that far from Kalispell as the crow flies. Hard to believe we’d get a guy shooting up a school out here. But I guess nobody’s safe.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Loosening up .
Keller said, “Your brother’s lodge?”
“That’s right, and let me tell you, it’s like heaven up here.” Landry Googled “Kalispell and mountain ranges.” “When I retire I’m gonna join my bro and lead packing trips up into the . . .” He had a choice of two: Swan or Salish mountain ranges. Pick one: “. . . Swan Mountains. We’re kind of a cross between a guest ranch and a hunting lodge. Hang on, I’ll send you some pics.”
“The fishing’s good?”
“Are you kidding? It’s Montana. Hey, if you can help me find out if this is the same guy, shoot, I’m sure Dan will give you a free trip. All you’d have to do is get here.”
“No kidding?”
Thrill to the sight of an FBI agent transforming into a hopeful little boy in the space of twenty seconds.
“Hey,” Landry said. “I’m a man of my word. This shooting has been giving me fits. My sister-in-law has a daughter who goes to that college. She saw her best friend get shot. Still has nightmares. So you better believe it, anything you can do to clear this up. I just want to know, you understand?”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
Landry heard typing on a keyboard. “What kind of trout you have up there? Rainbows, of course—”
“Oh, we have rainbows all right. And westslope cutthroats. You have to see them to believe ’em.”
“Oh, man .”
“Say,” Landry said. “Your guy—the shooter—he wasn’t Muslim, was he?”
Gilding the lily?
“Nah. But he was a lowlife just the same. Tell you what—if there’s a break in the case, I’ll be in touch. These two cases really could be related.”
He hesitated. Landry thought he wanted to say more, but he’d stopped himself. So Landry filled the void. “All’s I can say, bro, this is God’s country up here. What’s your e-mail addy? I’ll send you the pics.”
The agent rattled off his address.
“All right,” Landry said. “We’re good. Anything you can do on your end.”
“Better believe it. Westslope cutthroat trout. Never caught one of those. Never even seen one of those. I always wanted to go to Montana, but, you know . . . an FBI agent’s salary . . .”
“I hear you. You won’t believe how nice it is up here. Dan knows what he’s doing—he’s the man . He’ll set you up, don’t you worry. Knows the backcountry like nobody else. We’ve been in the business since 1926.”
He was enjoying this too much. Time to get off.
“I’ll be in touch,” Keller said.
I’m sure you will.
CHAPTER 9
Jolie Burke awoke to the clamoring voices of the coyotes out on the bajada . She lay in bed thinking that Tejar, New Mexico, was one hard little nut of a town.
Maybe that impression came from the prison looming over the cotton field across the road. Or the old trucks and older people, leather faces shut up tight. Don’t you tread on me!
Jolie loved the land Tejar was on. She knew so much of it by heart—the
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