He didn’t move. “Right.”
We stood there like that, neither of us so much as twitching. “I mean it; I may need you.”
He set the glass down, and I made my way into the hall. There were three doors-the nearest was closed, so I knocked on it. There was no answer, so I knocked again. Someone whimpered, and it didn’t sound the way an FBI agent would whimper. “Beatrice?”
There was more keening, and I leaned in closer to the door. “Beatrice, it’s Walt Longmire, the sheriff from the lodge. Is it okay if I open the door and see if you’re all right?”
There were no more sounds, and I did what I had to do, turning the knob and carefully opening the door. It was dark in there, but I could see a body wrapped around itself and wedged between the bathtub and the toilet.
“Beatrice?” She started when I spoke again. I slipped in sideways and holstered my Colt. “Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, but I had to open with something. “Do you remember me?” Another stupid question. I started thinking I should try some statements. “Beatrice, you’re not hurt.”
She mewled into the crossed arms that covered her face above her drawn knees.
“You’re going to be okay.” Nothing. “Are you hurt?”
I kneeled down and leaned against the side of the tub, the burning in my legs attempting to overtake me. She didn’t appear to be physically damaged but continued to huddle against the wall. I carefully reached a hand out to her. “I’m here to help, Beatrice. I need to know if you’re okay.”
The moment my fingers grazed the sleeve of her jacket, she yanked back and screamed and didn’t stop. Her eyes were wide, and she stared at me with the fierceness that only cornered animals have, animals like the one I’d encountered on the roof of the cabin at Deer Haven Lodge.
I didn’t move at first but finally allowed the leg under me to collapse, and I slid against the far wall, my hat falling into my lap. I sat there looking into the ferocity of her eyes and took all they could give.
7
She sat on the sofa near the fire and was wrapped in a rustand ivory-striped wool blanket that had a band of Lakota ghost ponies woven on the edge as I attempted to bandage Omar’s wound. I placed the affected limb in a sling made from a couple of monogrammed linen napkins from William the Samoan, as Lucian Connally referred to the purveyor of fine tableware.
Omar looked up at me, and I could see that his eyes were starting to clear a little at the pupils. “You’ll help me bury the body, right? I mean, that’s what friends are for.”
I had finished my own ham and cheese and tried not to watch the pot of water on the propane range for philosophical purposes. He was still drunk, but I’d found a French coffee press, unsure who needed the caffeine more, him or me. I had gotten him to sit on one of the fringed leather barstools and retrieved the finally whistling kettle. Carefully pouring the boiling water over the grinds in the glass contraption, I stood there for a few moments thinking about all the things I was going to have to do before heading out after the remaining escaped convicts. Henry had a French press, and from the many times I’d seen my friend go through the procedure at his house, I probably should’ve waited longer for the coffee to brew, but I had work to do. I depressed the strainer to compress the grinds and poured three of the O bar R Buffalo China cups to the brim.
I turned and sat one of the heavy mugs in front of him. “Drink that.”
He nodded, and I picked up the other two mugs and moved toward the sofa. “Beatrice, how ’bout a little coffee?”
She stayed crouched in the Pendleton blanket with her legs curled under her. I had found her glasses, and they reflected the flames of the fireplace; it was as if I were looking into two miniature hatches of a firestorm.
“You want anything in it?” I stood there for a minute more and then crossed the rest of the way and sat on the edge of the cushion beside her. I could see that she was shaking. “If you drink a little something you might feel better.”
The eyes shifted behind the mirrored blaze but didn’t make it all the way to me. I took a chance and held the mug out in her sightline, between her and the roiling fire.
She finally looked at me, and I smiled. “Coffee?”
She took a deep breath, letting it out in a shuddering release that seemed like an exorcism, and the words that came from her were barely audible. “I like tea.”
I felt like laughing but couldn’t risk the energy. “Would you like me to make you some tea?”
She nodded, just barely.
I’m not sure if she really wanted tea or if it was a way of insulating herself for just a little bit longer. I refilled Omar’s coffee with the contents from Beatrice’s cup and, with his help, found a box of Earl Grey bags and submerged one into what was left of the boiling water.
I lifted the edge of my improvised sling to check the patch job I’d done on the big-game hunter-it looked like the bleeding from his shoulder wound was subsiding. “How are you doing?”
“Fuzzy, but I’ll get there.” He yawned, which emphasized the leonine aspects of his features. “He was-I tried to…” He stopped speaking, and the only noise was the popping of the pine logs in the fire.
I studied him. “What?”
He took a deep breath. “Nothing.”
I clamped my jaws shut to keep from yawning in sympathy, thinking about how much further I had to go, wondering how far that was and what I’d find there. I thought about my plan, or lack of one. They were mobile, and unless Omar assisted me, I was not. They were many and well-armed, I was not. The only thing I had going for me was the topography-the simple fact that they would soon have nowhere to go. They didn’t know it, but they had bottled themselves up, and other than Tyrell Ranger Station, the concrete, not-so-portable potties were the only indoors in all the great outdoors.
They would have to stay in the Thiokol for the night, so I could grab a few hours of sleep and maybe that would help me clear my head.
I looked at the shine in my friend’s eyes and thought about how many creatures Omar had killed and in how many exotic locales, only to slay his first human being literally on his own doorstep. I lowered my voice. “There’s a conversation we’re going to have to have, but not in front of her.”
He nodded and slowly sipped his coffee.
When I got back to the sofa, Beatrice was still hypnotized by the fire. I stood there feeling the heat radiating against my back, pulling at my sore muscles, and prickling my skin. The waves of exhaustion washed against me like an ebb tide, causing me to waver a little. I forced the air from my lungs and blinked to clear my eyes to find Beatrice’s looking up at me.
She took the tea and held it in front of her face in clasped hands. “Thank you.”
I waited, but she didn’t say anything else.
“Um, I have some questions.”
“I bet you do.” She looked away from me and back to the fire. “ ‘The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.’ ”
“Pascal.”
She looked at me again.
I tipped my hat back. “I’ve been thinking of moonlighting at the local community college.”
It took a while, but she did laugh and then laughed again. When the words came out of her, they weren’t the ones I was expecting: “He’s not as bad as you think; he’s not a simple misanthrope.”
Aware of the Stockholm syndrome, I still wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Excuse me?”
“I was sure you knew, when I told you I was from Wacouta and you mentioned the Red Wing factory, that there’s a maximum security prison just down the road.”
“No.”
“That’s where I met Raynaud, and I guess I was vulnerable, but he’s so, well, I don’t know, charming, kind of, and he loves me, really…” She froze for a moment, and I was worried that I’d lost her, but then her lips moved and she began speaking again. “My father had just died, and I was struggling with a thyroid cancer diagnosis and a divorce. I was working at a veterinary clinic, and maybe it was coming to terms with my own mortality when I started feeling sorry for the number of dogs that were exterminated for lack of adoptive owners. A friend of mine suggested I start a cell-dog project with the prison. You know those programs?”