Thirty-Seven

I can’t take my eyes off Ana Maria Villarreal, striking in the way she looks like the others. I’d love nothing better than to get to know her intimately. Like the others. But like my drunken father said sometime before I killed him: a man doesn’t shit in his own nest. That said, I had to silence Jillie before she yelled to everyone in town about my past. And Don Whales had the misfortune of helping with the dog class and demonstrating his dog’s ability. I thought he was the Midnight Sheepherder. Sorry, Don, wherever you are now. I was wrong about you, buddy.

I’m back to driving to find the lady of my dreams one of these nights. I’ve corresponded with one in Omaha. She’s agreed to meet me, but she’ll have to wait. I’ll string her along while the perfect lady is practically on my doorstep, and speaking into the microphone like she’s talking just to me: “Dr. Maury Oakert is forty-six years old,” Ana Maria tells us TV-land viewers, “with a ruddy complexion and a pronounced widow’s peak when he’s not wearing his toupee. He was last seen yesterday afternoon at his house,” and she gives the number of a tip line for folks to call if they see him. I’m not a betting man, but I would wager no one will find Maury. Not in this life. And not until I want him found.

She continues with her nightly broadcast while a tip number continuously flashes across the bottom of the screen. If anyone has seen the good doctor. Or knows of sheep being stolen or sold belonging to Pearly Marshfield. I have to laugh: they’re usually pretty competent, but the deputy last night was inexperienced and botched the trespassing call at Pearly’s. It was almost laughable listening to the police scanner. And I know they’ll botch their two murder investigations. Three, including Maury now. I’d better send them another brief note just to help them along. And to let them know I’m still thinking about them.

I like Cheyenne, but I know that things are heating up here. So I’m packing my shit, and all I have to figure out is where to move next. I kiss my finger and touch the television screen. I’ll have another talk with Ana Maria before I go. And another personal visit with Anderson.

Then it’s adios Cheyenne for Steve Campbell.