Sally and Hawk sat side by side on their bed, tightening up the laces on their hiking boots. “So did Atkins tell you where you’re going?” he asked her, finishing up with a double knot.
“He didn’t say. But I’ve got a bad feeling,” she answered, not meeting Hawk’s eyes.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” he wanted to know.
“No. But I don’t see that I’ve got much choice. For whatever sadistic reason of his own, Scotty must have decided he wants to drag me back up there and give me the third degree. Without you being present,” she added unnecessarily, looking up from her shoelaces to see his reaction.
Hawk shrugged. “He called this morning while you were running. We went over everything that’s happened, again. Looks to me like Atkins will keep after both of us to see if we remember anything about that scene that the police might have missed. But he wants to talk to us separately. Scotty told me he thinks you’re an egotistical busybody with a bad reputation you’ve undoubtedly earned, but that you’re also a smart woman who might be able to tell him something he couldn’t figure out on his own.”
Hawk paused, obviously considering how to phrase what he was going to say next. “I think Scotty’s decided you need a little reminding of what some asshole is doing to women in this town, so that maybe you’ll stop trying like hell to make yourself a target.” He put a hand on her arm. “I have some sympathy for that point of view.”
She looked at him, blank-faced. “I’m well aware of what somebody did to Monette, not to mention one or two things that have happened to me. What kind of cretin do you take me for?”
Hawk squeezed her arm. “My kind,” he said. “I worry. I mean, I’m even to the point where I like the idea of you going off to the mountains with some stud who clearly wants to jump your bones. At least you won’t be home alone.”
She looked at him incredulously. “Oh yeah, Hawk. Let me tell you, my idea of a perfect setup for wicked sex is to put on my boots and go straight to the place I saw a dead body three days ago. And I especially love it when a guy calls me an ‘egotistical busybody.’ Boy, that really gets me hot.”
He tossed her a half grin. “So I suppose there’s no cause for jealousy.”
She tossed the other half of the grin back. “I didn’t say that.”
He frowned.
“Hey,” she said. “I have the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”
“And I have the intelligence of a gnat if I believe that,” he countered.
“Okay then,” she said. “Pure enough for the foreseeable future.”
“Guess it’ll have to do,” he allowed, shouldering his daypack and giving her a kiss sweet enough to push the foreseeable a little further into the future.
Hawk took off, and ten minutes later Scotty Atkins showed up in a dusty brown Toyota 4runner. He’d changed into Dockers and sneakers and one of those trademark polo shirts, bright green this time. “Hard to believe you’re a Wyoming boy, Scotty,” she told him as she climbed into the truck. “You always look like somebody who’s heading out to Forest Hills to watch a tennis match.”
“We Wyoming boys don’t have to dress up to cowboy up,” he said flatly. “We can leave that to the tourists.”
“Speaking of tourists,” she asked, “what’s with the Natrona County plates on this thing?” The Toyota was sporting a license plate that began with the number one, indicating that it had been registered in the state’s most populous county (certainly an irony; perhaps an oxy-moron).
“I just moved back down here from Casper at the end of last year,” he answered. “I’ll reregister the truck when the plates expire. Let’s remember, I’m a police officer. We’re famous for being cheap,” he explained as they buckled in and drove away.
“What were you doing up in Casper?” she asked.
“Living. Working. Getting divorced. My wife’s from there,” he answered shortly.
Presumably he meant ex-wife. The scars still showed. “Were you there long?” Sally didn’t know why she was pressing the point—maybe to postpone other subjects? Acting, uh, like a busybody?
“Ever since I graduated from the law enforcement academy, over in Douglas.” Again, not much elaboration.
“I thought you went to UW,” she said. “I did.” He turned onto Grand Avenue, saying no more.
Sally searched. “What was your major?” she finally asked. This was beginning to feel like a first date. What next—hobbies?
“Biology. I was pre-med.”
“How come you’re not a doctor?”
He looked at her without expression. “I got sidetracked.”
“Yeah,” she conceded. “Me too.” But not on the same path, and not by the same things. Boy, it was a lot of work dragging information out of Scotty Atkins.
They got onto the interstate, heading east, uphill into the pink granite and the pines, in silence. At last Scotty spoke. “Tell me,” he said, “about honky-tonk angels.”
She considered the question. “Are you asking me to answer as an expert on country music, or as a member of the species?”
“Either,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “The music first. As it happens, I’ve performed the song ‘(It Wasn’t God Who Made) HonkyTonk Angels’ probably two hundred times, here and there, in different versions. You’re aware, I suppose, that it’s a takeoff on a song called ‘The Wild Side of Life.’ ”
“I wasn’t,” said Scotty, “until Dickie mentioned something about it. I’m not exactly a fan of hillbilly music.”
“You’re more the Mantovani type,” Sally taunted.
“Pink Floyd,” he retorted. Yeah, she could see it. Scotty was definitely “Dark Side of the Moon” material. All cynicism and attitude and undertow.
“To continue,” she said. “The original song, ‘Wild Side,’ was a huge hit for Hank Thompson, back in 1952. One of the kings of country, that Hank. Famous for immortal songs like ‘The Blackboard of My Heart’ and ‘A Six Pack to Go.’ ”
“How do you know this stuff?” he asked.
“I am a historian and a musician,” she said haughtily, “a professional. Anyhow, ‘Wild Side’ is some old boy’s lament to his wife, who’s ditched him in favor of the glamour of going to bars and drinking and picking up men. Hank’s real torn up about it—can’t believe God would make an angel like her, who fell so far that she ended up in the honky-tonk life.”
“Think about it,” Scotty said. “Dude had a point.”
“Believe me, I have,” said Sally, wondering if Scotty’s divorced-off Casper wife had opted for rowdy barrooms over his patented long silences. “I had years to think about it. And of course, I feel Hank’s pain, and that of all the men who’ve been laid low by honky-tonk angels.”
“Laid low,” said Scotty. “Nice choice of words.”
“Just my stock in trade,” Sally said. “Hank’s too. He was a hell of a songwriter. But all in all, I’m more partial to the girls’ reply. Kitty Wells recorded it in 1953—it was her breakthrough smash record, made Kitty the biggest thing in country music and proved women could make money in the business. The gist of the song was that God didn’t have a damn thing to do with making honky-tonk angels. The culprits were all those men who cheated on their wives and forced the women to give tit for tat.”
“Nice words, once again,” said Scotty.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Sally replied. “But really, you need to hear the music to have a true appreciation for the songs.” And as Scotty drove on up the mountain, Sally sang both versions. She felt vaguely perverse, singing merrily along toward a crime scene, but that was just the way she was and always had been. Put her in a motor vehicle, and pretty soon she was bursting into song.
When she stopped singing, he was nodding. “I get the picture,” he said. “And it’s just as I suspected. All country tunes fall under three headings: jail songs, dog songs, and cheatin’ songs. These are in the third category.”
And here she thought she’d given a virtuoso performance. “That’s totally unfair to country music. You forgot mother, moonshine, and car wrecks,” she said. But then a thought struck her. “It’s strange. I mean, if the guy who raped and murdered Monette was the one who busted into my house and wrote on the mirror, why quote the girls’ version?”
“Not everybody has your exhaustive command of country music trivia,” Scotty observed. “People get confused and mix up quotes. Especially people who are, shall we say, somewhat disoriented to begin with.”
“Or maybe the guy’s just gone into Hank Thompson overdrive, and he’s decided that God might have made honky-tonk angels, but they’re working for the devil now. Which makes your murderer the avenging angel with the flaming sword.” It made sense to Sally.
Scotty considered her theory as they crested the top of Sherman Hill, the highest spot on the interstate, 8,870 feet above sea level on what had once been known as the Lincoln Highway. The summit was marked by a huge bust of Abraham Lincoln, mounted on a thick pillar of pink granite blocks surrounded by a split-rail snow fence. Sally and her friends thought the monument looked like Lincoln had stepped into an outhouse that was sturdy enough to protect those urinating from Wyoming’s famous wind, but built a little too short. Even the slope of Lincoln’s shoulders was right.
At last the detective spoke. “So our killer has a problem with fallen angels. That’s certainly a possibility. But it’s not the only one. It’s also conceivable that the guy who did Monette isn’t the same person who’s been harassing you.” He darted a narrow glance at Sally. “Why do you suppose somebody cut up your underwear and pushed you into that bucking chute?”
Sally’s eyes must have shown the bafflement, and the fear. “I don’t have a clue. I mean, let’s face it, I’ve given plenty of people reason to be pissed at me over the years. At least a few may even hate me. But that stuff . . .” She shook her head.
“So we have to go with the little we do know. Somebody wrote that message on your mirror, and it makes sense to assume that they weren’t addressing your vast knowledge of musical history. What about the personal experience part?” Scotty asked her. “What does make honky-tonk angels?”
The seriousness of his tone steadied her enough to think, and to answer. “Music. Dancing. Booze. Company. Sex. Up here, maybe just getting the hell out of the house on a slow night in a long winter. Or celebrating the fact that it isn’t winter at the moment. In Monette’s case, it seems like she was looking for any old kind of human contact. From all she’d learned growing up, a girl like her couldn’t be real choosy about what kind of attention she got. There are probably a lot of girls who end up in bars for similar reasons.
“Then again, try to see it from her point of view. The guys she picked up could have made her feel like she was at least getting treated better than her mother. Plus, in a strange way, Monette was ambitious. She wasn’t satisfied with just being promoted from shelf stocker to checker. I had the feeling, from what she said to me at the Lifeway Monday morning, that she was aiming a lot higher. You probably can’t imagine how anybody would believe that going to bars is some kind of self-help strategy, but I bet plenty of people think that’s exactly the case.”
Scotty reflected on what she’d said. “So how about you? Why would a woman who obviously has as much on the ball as you do waste her nights closing down the honky-tonks?”
Sally gave him the easiest explanation. “In my case, the music was the main attraction. I was getting paid to spend my time in bars. I figured that sooner or later I’d get discovered as the songwriting genius and charismatic performer I was, and then the golden doors would open.”
Scotty snorted.
“Come on, Scotty. You must have had a dream or two. Every gym rat who ever shot a thousand free throws at a time, and kept score, thought he was headed for Michael Jordanville.”
“I got over it,” he said.
Mr. Conversation strikes again. Sally carried on. “I also did my share of just hanging out, listening to bands I liked, and plenty I didn’t like. Plus, remember, the bars were the places I got together with my girlfriends. Delice and I have been known to have a few beverages and laugh until our stomachs hurt.”
She dug a bottle of water out of her backpack, twisted the top, took a drink, and slanted a glance at him. Now it was time for a little harder story. “I’d be a liar if I said the whiskey and the boys had nothing to do with it. And the music was a part of that too. I said Monette wanted the attention. Hell, so did I.” She fiddled with the bottle cap. “At some point, you get to where there’s nothing left to prove. If you’re lucky, sooner or later you figure out there’s something better you could be doing. For my part, I’ve come to prefer spending my time in silent rooms, reading and writing about the dead. When I get tired of that, I go into big noisy rooms full of college kids and talk about the dead. It’s my calling.”
She took another swig of water and looked him over, wondering. “You’re a Laramie boy. Didn’t you ever indulge in party time?”
“Only when my friends dragged me out. Even heard you sing a time or two,” he admitted. “But I was a jock and a grind. I was a fanatic about staying in shape, and keeping up with my studies. I didn’t even know what scotch was until I was thirty-five.”
“It’s a thirty-fivish kind of drink,” said Sally, who only ordered scotch when she felt both jaded and snobbish. “As you can probably figure, I’ve heard people talking about what a jock you were. And I heard about your knee. It’s kind of surprising that you’re still playing basketball,” she offered in sympathy.
“What Hawk and I play,” Scotty said, “isn’t basket-ball. Half court. No D. If we took on the scrubs from the UW women’s team we might not score a point. Granny hoops.”
“Beats eatin’ donuts and smokin’ cigarettes,” said Sally. “I worry about Dickie.”
“So do I,” said Scotty.
“Maybe you could get him to consider working out a little,” Sally told him.
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Scotty answered. “You and the sheriff have been buddies a long time. I just started working with him.”
“You grew up here. You must have known the Lang-hams.”
“Knew who they were. Especially Delice,” he said, the shadow of a grin ghosting across his mouth and disappearing. “I probably bought a beer or two from Dickie. But we didn’t have much in common, considering the other line of work he was in, and the fact that I was a real straight arrow.”
Sally was defensive on Dickie’s behalf. “Don’t dump on my buddy Dickie. He’s been to hell and back and still has more than most people’s share of wits. Not to mention a sense of humor and a giant heart.”
“Relax. I’m one of the boss’s biggest fans,” said Scotty. “He’s remarkable. It’s not everybody who could sell drugs to half the people in town, take it on the lam, live some secret life for years and come back and get elected sheriff, and then turn out to be both honest and competent.”
“Yeah. A lot of people would assume that he won that election because he had the goods on all those voters who’d scored dope from him. Law enforcement pros like you don’t expect much from the politicians you work for, do you?” Sally challenged.
“Why should we?” Scotty countered. And then, at last, “Sheriff Langham’s a good guy.”
“Got that right,” said Sally.
“But, admit it. He’s pretty close to this case,” Scotty said.
“Sure. He feels for Mary. And after all, he’d do anything to solve it for her. How many wives would take back some cokehead who’d been on the run for twelve years and then showed up one day hollering, ‘Hi honey, I’m home’? You’d have to be either nuts or desperate or some kind of saint. Or maybe just loyal—if there’s one thing about those Langhams, they’re practically zealots when it comes to family.”
Scotty looked at her again, and for a change said nothing. They’d gotten off the highway, onto the dirt road that would take them past Vedauwoo Glen and on to their destination. Gripping her thighs with hands that had begun to shake, Sally knew the literal meaning of the word “dreadful.”
“You didn’t come this way on Monday,” Scotty said, beginning the process of taking her through that miserable experience all over again.
She took a breath. “That’s right. We parked up by Abe Lincoln and then walked along the back side of the climbing rocks, following Middle Crow Creek. We did some meanders, here and there, across meadows.” She felt her temper rising. “Hawk and I were just out for an afternoon stroll, Scotty. I mean, we weren’t looking for the shortest route to Monette Bandy’s body, now were we?”
“Settle down, there, princess,” Scotty told her, his own patience visibly stretching. “Just tell me all about it, as carefully as you can.”
And so she did, as they bumped over earth and rocks, churning up red dust, in that majestic beautiful place. She had no idea whether what she was saying to him now told him anything new, or beamed light into any dark corner. It all sounded to her like something she’d rehearsed and rehashed until she was seeing it in her dreams. Scotty Atkins drove on, past hikers and climbers and picnicking families, all those strangers blissfully unaware of the fact that willful, cerebral Sally Alder, telling her story along that road, wanted nothing so much as to start screaming, and not stop.
By the time they got to the Devil’s Playground, the talking and the struggle against panic had pretty much emptied her out. Scotty pulled the 4runner over and parked at the bottom of the hill she’d watched him walk up, only those few days before. He got out of the truck, but Sally didn’t move. He walked around, opened up her door, took her by the hand, and said, “Let’s go.”
She let him lead her up the hill, conscious of his warm, dry hand holding hers, of the thirsty, uneven ground, red dirt, and pink pebbles she could feel through the thick Vibram soles of her boots. The words popped into her head—the devil is in the details—and she giggled like an idiot at the notion.
But for the life of her, as they came on the ring of blackened stones, where so many Wyoming party animals had built their fires and drunk their beers and sucked at their smokes, she couldn’t make her brain do more than flit around the scene, and leap, like a flea, from one bit of trivia to the next. Oh look, she thought, this is good: The police have cleaned up all the litter. Now that’s what I like in my public servants. But oh, see how all those heavy cop shoes have stomped all over this place. Not a blade of grass longer than an eyelash. It would be next summer, at least, before those ants she’d seen toting that piece of straw would have anything to practice their collective carrying instincts on.
Sally was a flea brain and Scotty was relentless. Dragging her along by the hand, he strode past the fire ring and on toward the outcrop. A sudden, too-vivid mental image of the jumble of rocks, that arm sticking out with the rope around the wrist, made Sally stagger and pull Scotty back. “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t do it, Scotty.
Please don’t make me. I keep seeing her arm and that rope.”
Scotty let go of Sally’s hand, grabbed both her arms above the elbow, shook her. “Get a grip, Sally. I want you to see it. When Dickie and I watched the autopsy, we saw rope abrasions on both her wrists. But she hadn’t been dragged. She let somebody tie her up. And then whoever she was with led her over there, had intercourse with her, shot her, and tried to hide the body. We’re saying it looked like rape, but maybe it was just some rough game that got a little out of hand. We’ve just gotten the results of the blood tests, and it looks like they had some beers and smoked a little weed. One thing led to another, but somebody lost control. And then, when he’d killed her, he couldn’t get her down in that crack with her hands bound like that. So he cut the rope, and he just left it dangling off the one hand while he pushed her body down.”
“Please,” she pleaded, heart pumping, breath coming hard. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Think about it, Sally. Why would he go to all that trouble and leave her hand sticking out?”
Hmph. The question brought her up short, cut through the horror, made her . . . reason. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, removed Scotty’s hands from her arms and looked him in the eye. “I can imagine two explanations. One, the crack turned out to be too small for her body, but by the time he’d gotten her wedged in there, it was too hard to get her out. It took you guys a long time pulling her body up— she was stuck pretty tight.”
Scotty stood silent and motionless, still looking at her. “The other explanation is that he heard somebody coming as he was pushing her down, and he ran off. Maybe he heard Hawk and me. Christ, maybe he saw us.” She was nearly too numb to be unnerved by that possibility.
“And maybe he knew you. Maybe that’s why he turned his attention from Monette to you. Of course, this is all wild speculation, isn’t it, Sally? In my business we try not to jump to conclusions.” Scotty was forcing the issue, retreating, then forcing it a little further.
“Knew me?” she whispered. “How could he know me?”
“Lots of people do, ma’am,” said Scotty, sounding like a man who wore a Stetson instead of a shirt with a little pony guy on it. “But there is one piece of evidence I’d like to share with you. It’s something the sheriff is having trouble considering, because, as I said, he could be just a mite too close to this case. As you know, that rope around Monette Bandy’s wrists was a calf roper’s piggin’ string.”
“I know,” said Sally, a sick foreboding feeling welling up inside.
“And as I believe the sheriff mentioned, only two such ropes were purchased here in town recently, both by local cowboys.”
“Yes. He did mention that.”
“What I don’t believe he told you,” Scotty persisted, “was that one of those cowboys was Jerry Jeff Walker Davis. Your friend Delice’s boy.”