Virgil patted her on the shoulder. “Look. You’re planning to buy the Eagle Roost . . .”
“Eagle Nest.”
“. . . Nest. You want to turn it into a lesbo destination, right?”
“We don’t use the word lesbo that often,” she said, “but that’s correct.”
“You’re going to meet somebody. Somebody who’s successful, like yourself, and you’re going to have a terrific relationship,” Virgil said.
“You think?”
“It’ll happen,” Virgil said.
“You going over to see Sig?”
“Oh, yeah. If you show up tonight, by the way, I guarantee that you won’t be buying the Eagle Nest, or having a great relationship with anybody, because I’ll choke the life out of you.”
“Come have coffee with me tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll want all the details, about what my sister does in bed. I know she’s been getting ready.” She stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek. “See you tomorrow; and good luck.”
LIFE, AND CRIME, were complicated. There was a lot of work yet to be done: statements to be taken, evidence to be marshaled, reports to be written. Expense accounts to be submitted.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he was heading for Signy’s.
HE’D JUST PULLED off his shirt when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number: Sanders. Damn. Well, he was going to Signy’s, he didn’t care what else had happened. He pressed the “talk” button: “Yeah?”
“We had people walking through the woods on the other side of the fence from Slibe’s—looked like some machinery had been through there,” Sanders said. “We’ve got a patch of roughed-up dirt, about car-sized. Bunch of dead trees and brush pushed over it, but . . . we got your crime-scene boys coming out in the morning. I think it’s probably Windrow.”
“Sounds like it,” Virgil said. “I’ll be out there to watch.”
He hung up, and caught the image of himself in the dresser mirror: his eyes dark, sad. Windrow had been a good guy, full of life. If Virgil hadn’t told him about Wendy . . .
NOW HE NOT ONLY wanted to go to Signy’s, he needed to. Needed a human touch; and a little physical pleasure. He was not a man to boast, Virgil thought to himself, but he was going to turn the woman every way but loose. They’d been dancing around each other for a week, and she’d as good as told him that she hungered for Dr. Flowers’s Female Cure.
Virgil got cleaned up, carefully pulled the cotton packs from his nostrils—that hurt like fire—and shaved and perfumed himself, although he didn’t call it that. Old Spice was a manly deodorant, not a perfume, even if you did put a small splash under the testicles.
When he was ready, he checked himself in the mirrored door of the motel room: tapered long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, second button casually undone, boot-cut faded jeans over high-polish cowboy boots with the decorative teal-colored Thunderbird stitching up the sides. Women went for men with polished boots.
I am a genuine piece of crumb cake, he thought, admiring his image in the mirror; there was that thing about the aluminum brace on his nose, and the tape, and the incipient black eyes, but a woman of quality could see past all that.
THERE WAS A KNOCK on the motel room door, and he thought, No.
And he thought about turning out the lights, so they wouldn’t shine around the curtains, or under the door. . . . He could lie on the bathroom floor, and stop breathing. . . .
Another knock, louder. “Officer Flowers, please, I need some help.”
A genuine piece of crumb cake, Virgil thought. He opened the door.
He’d never before seen the woman standing on the walkway. She was older, in her fifties, wearing walking shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, and pink plastic-rimmed glasses with a retainer cord. She said, “They told me you were here.”
“Who?”
“The desk clerk. He told me you were here.”
“I was just going out. . . .”
“Look,” she said. She pointed across the way, at another motel, a taller, bigger one, that called itself a lodge. “I’m staying over there, my husband and I are up for the week.”
“I really don’t work town calls—”
“I think it’s Little Linda,” she said.
A long moment, then Virgil said, “Little Linda.”
“Yes. My husband didn’t think we should get involved, but we’ve been here for four days now, and they never stop. They just go at it all the time. I saw the boy come out of the room a few times, and saw him come back, with food, but I never saw her. I could only hear her, all the time. Anyway, I saw you in the parking lot, and I recognized you from the newspaper, and I thought you’d be the best one to tell.”
“If you haven’t seen her . . .”
“But I did. Ten minutes ago, coming back to the lodge, and she had a big hat on, but I was looking out the window and they were walking right toward me, and she pushed the hat back and looked up and I thought, ‘Little Linda!’ I recognized her right away. Then, they came up the stairs, and they started in again.”
“You’re sure it’s Little Linda.”
The woman stopped talking, her mouth hanging open, then her eyes slid to the side for a moment, as she thought about it, then snapped back: “Yes. I’m sure. And she’s not being held captive, I promise you that. She’s there with a boy who looks like he’s about sixteen. They know each other very well.”
Virgil had talked to a lot of cops in the past week, but he remembered the one called Service, because Service had been a friendly guy, and had said something about living in town all of his life. He didn’t want to call Sanders, because Sanders could ask that Virgil stick around. . . .
He called the sheriff’s administration line, identified himself, and got a home phone for Service. Service’s wife answered, passed the phone to her husband. Virgil said, “I can’t tell you why, because it would cause me some trouble, but get your ass over here.”
Service took ten minutes. Virgil regaled the woman, whose name was Debbie, with the story of the buried couple at Slibe’s place.
Service arrived, and Virgil said, “I want you to meet Debbie. Debbie, this is Service.”
DEBBIE AND SERVICE DISAPPEARED into the lodge. Five minutes later, sirens started simultaneously in several parts of town, and Virgil went back into his room and rebrushed his teeth. When he came out, a pod of cop cars had gathered at the lodge.
He wanted to go to Sig’s . . . couldn’t help himself. Got in his truck, rolled across the parking lot, left the car running, walked into the lodge, found a cluster of cops. Service was coming down the hall, looking happy, spotted Virgil.
“Got ’em,” he said. They slapped hands. “And thank you. The kid’s her secret boyfriend from Apple Valley. The sheriff’s on his way back from Bigfork. I’m smelling like the biggest rose in Minnesota. Clean bust, all mine.”
“Pretty good service, huh, Service?”
VIRGIL GOT CRANKED DRIVING out to Signy’s, heart beating harder, that wash of adrenaline working through his arteries; and though he was tired from the day, the fight itself put an edge on him. Must be like when the barbarians came home from battle, he thought, and jumped the old lady.
And in addition to polished boots, women also liked to care for injured guys, he thought.
THE ANTICIPATION OF IMMINENT sex, some argued, was as good as the sex itself, but Virgil thought they were wrong about that. Nothing was better than sex. Not even a forty-pound musky. A fifty-pounder, he’d have to think about. . . .
And thinking about it amused him, and he turned on the satellite radio where, by chance or by God, ZZ Top was running through “Sharp Dressed Man.”
An omen, and a good one.
He was still pounding the steering wheel in time with the ZZs when he got to Signy’s, where some of the air came out of his balloon; a strange and battered pickup was parked in the yard, which was truly inconvenient.
In his mental approach plan, he’d thought to drag her
ass through the kitchen and throw her on the bed. Now they had to get rid of somebody first. He parked the 4Runner, climbed down, looked around once, and headed for the door.
Signy banged through it before he could knock, and then pressed her back against the closed door.
She looked wonderful: the slightly tired green eyes, the messed-up hair, the bruised lips, the slack cast of her face . . .
The bruised lips?
“Ah, Virgil,” she said. She put her hands flat on his chest. “Ah, guess what?”
“Ah, what?”
She looked up with her sleepy green eyes, the eyes of a woman whose brains were anything but tight.
“Ah, jeez,” she said. “You know Joe? Joe came back.”
John Sandford, Rough Country
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