How do you translate something so perfect, beautiful, and whole in your head into tiny black notes on a sheet of paper? Most composers loathed the work of putting notes to music. Seth was no exception. After three hours of working on the piece, answering music students’ questions, and listening with one ear to Barton’s interviews, Seth was exhausted. Schmidty had ended the session and taken Seth back to the hotel. He, Lizzie, and Barton had escorted Seth around a few waiting fans and into his suite.
Seth took a fast shower and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He woke to the sound of a police baton tapping on his door.
“Las Animas County Sheriff,” a familiar man’s voice said. “Open up.”
Seth rolled out of bed and grabbed his handgun. He went to the door.
“What’s this about?” he asked through the door. He slipped off the gun’s safety.
“It’s Jimmy,” the man said.
Seth smiled. Last spring, he and Ava had investigated a string of murders dating back to the death of a tax agent in 1915. The assassin-for-hire had killed Ava’s father and younger sister before they had tracked him to Piñon Canyon where they met Deputy Sheriff James Thatcher, who everyone called Jimmy.
Seth opened the door and stepped back. A tall, thick-chested man, Jimmy went around Seth to get into the room. He looked at Seth and the handgun and then noticed the dark room and Seth’s lack of pants.
“Sorry, were you asleep?” Jimmy asked. “I thought you didn’t sleep when you were working.”
“Music students. They’ve got so many exhausting questions for the prodigy,” Seth said.
Jimmy laughed.
“I worked on the symphony tonight at Adams State.” Seth followed Jimmy into the suite and set his handgun down. “Wears me out.”
“I heard you were amazing and . . .” Jimmy raised his voice in an impression of a young girl, “ . . .so hot!”
Jimmy gave a belly laugh. Seth found his jeans hanging over a chair and put them on.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Seth said. “Don’t tell Ava.”
“I believe she knows.” Jimmy impulsively hugged Seth. “Good to see you, man.”
“You, too,” Seth patted Jimmy’s back. The deputy let go of Seth and turned on a room light.
“Jeez, you didn’t eat?” Jimmy asked.
“I get kind of sick when I work on music,” Seth said. “My agent’s going to bring me something when they get back.”
“Your agent?”
“He’s like my music Maresol,” Seth said. “He takes care of me when we’re on the road, so that I can focus on my work.”
“You mean, you’re his golden goose,” Jimmy nodded.
“I was his father’s goose,” Seth said. “I’m going to be his father-in-law soon.”
“Lizzie?” Jimmy and his wife had driven up for Seth and Ava’s surprise wedding and met the family.
Seth nodded.
“That’s good,” Jimmy smiled and nodded.
“You’re in uniform. You must be on duty,” Seth said. “You didn’t drive three hours to say hello.”
“Nah,” Jimmy said. “We got a fax for you. It was weird. Came to the Sheriff with your name and my name on it. Sheriff said, ‘What’s O’Malley getting us into now?’ You know what I said?”
Seth shook his head.
“‘I don’t know, but I’ll let you handle the national press this time,’ I said,” Jimmy laughed. “He didn’t think that was so funny.”
Seth smiled. Jimmy took a piece of paper folded into a tight square from his back pocket and gave it to Seth. Jimmy sat down in a chair at the small table.
“You serious about the cattle thing?” Jimmy asked.
“Sure,” Seth said. “If the State Attorney wants me to spend my time looking into livestock mutilations, who am I not to take it seriously?”
“Nasty business,” Jimmy said. “We get called out on those mutes a few times a year. We all try to avoid going. Some guys won’t work shifts when mutes are likely.”
“When’s that?”
“You mean, when do we expect to see a mute?” Jimmy looked at the ceiling for a moment. His big hands stroked the large light-grey Stetson hat he was holding. “Drought year, always; Thunder, that’s the big one, but not any old thunder. You see mutes when it’s thundering in the clouds, but not on the ground.”
“Ball thunder,” Seth said.
“Yeah,” Jimmy nodded. “That’s it. Then folks always say the same thing: ‘Heard a big noise like a jet engine, saw the thunder, went out, and their healthy cow was dead and cut up. No blood. No foot tracks of any kind. Just nasty stuff.’ There’s a guy in the office who calls in when there’s thunder. Just can’t deal with the mutes.”
“What do you think causes it?” Seth asked.
“My friend Magic O’Malley says that you have unsolved mysteries when you’re trying to answer too many riddles with one just answer,” Jimmy nodded.
“When did I say that?” Seth asked.
“Press conference on that kid who was killed, maybe ten years back,” Jimmy smiled.
“Glad you were listening.” Seth smiled.
“Am I right?” Jimmy asked.
“I think so,” Seth said.
“We had to do a training a few years back so we don’t put ‘surgically cut’ on the mutes,” Jimmy nodded.
“FBI decided that police reports lend credence to the mass hysteria,” Seth said.
“Hmm,” Jimmy said. “They sure look surgically cut.”
“They do,” Seth nodded. “What do you think causes them?”
“Me?” Jimmy looked surprised to be asked the question. Seth nodded. “I think it’s military. Testing for radiation. Nine times out of ten, the cattle are radioactive; found near some old dumpsite or another. ‘Course, this whole area’s one big military dump site. Plus, they only hit certain ranches.”
“Why do you think people have been seeing them since before the 1600s?” Seth asked.
“That’s a good question,” Jimmy shrugged. “I’ll tell you though, don’t run afoul of the cult of believers.”
“Cult of believers?” Seth’s eyebrows shot up.
“The folks who believe in cattle mutilations, UFOs, and the like,” Jimmy said. “They’re not going to like it if you come out and say it’s not aliens or the military or whatever. They believe, god damn it, and, no matter what you say, whatever they believe at this moment is the truth.”
“Evangelical cattle-mutilating alien believers?”
Jimmy laughed. There was a sound at the door, and Seth grabbed his handgun. Jimmy put his hand on his service revolver.
“Damn, O’Malley, you’re jumpy,” Jimmy said.
Schmidty stuck his head in the door.
“You remember my agent, Jammy Schmidt,” Seth said.
“Hey Jammy,” Jimmy said.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Schmidty said, as he came into the room. “You don’t want to get sick, like you did last year.”
“I had Saint Jude’s First Responder’s toxin,” Seth said.
Schmidty scowled.
“You gonna pin him in a cage to make some golden fois gras?” Jimmy asked.
“Who are you?” Schmidty asked.
“Damn, you are his music Maresol,” Jimmy smiled. “I’m Jimmy. We met last year.”
“Deputy Sheriff Thatcher is with the Las Animas Sheriff,” Seth said.
“Last year.” Schmidty seemed to relax a little bit. “You were at Seth’s wedding.”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said.
“Nice to see you again, Deputy.” Schmidty gave Jimmy a quick smile before dismissing him completely. He turned to Seth, “Are you ready to eat?”
Seth shook his head.
“I got some yogurt, fresh bread, and berries at the market,” Schmidty said. “Water too. Shall I brew you some decaf?”
“I can get it,” Seth said.
Schmidty gave Jimmy an aggressive look.
“I’m leaving,” Jimmy said. He raised his hands as if Schmidty were holding a gun.
“Good,” Schmidty said. “As you can imagine, Mr. O’Malley needs his rest.”
Jimmy smiled at Schmidty.
“I’ll call you,” Seth said.
Jimmy nodded and left the room. While Seth watched, Schmidty straightened Seth’s bed, started a cup of decaf brewing in the bathroom, and set out a bottle of water on the nightstand.
“You know what you’re doing?” Schmidty asked.