House Standoff Page 10

“No,” Lola said. “I gave it back to Cinda. Why are you asking?”

  He suspected she was lying but he was afraid to ask Cinda or her mother if Lola had really returned the gun. He didn’t want to call any attention to the fact that she had—or once had—a gun. Most likely she didn’t have it anymore as she’d probably pawned it to support her habit, just the way she’d probably pawned the writer’s earrings. And most likely a pawn shop had a record of her selling the stuff.

  “When did you give it back?” What he really wanted to ask was: Did you give it back before the writer was killed?

  “What the hell difference does it make?” Lola said. “Look, I’m splitting. I don’t need this shit, you sitting here grilling me. I thought you were going to buy me a nice dinner.”

  “Aw, calm down. I am going to buy you a nice dinner. I’m just worried about you, Lola.”

  He wasn’t worried about her. He was terrified for her. If she’d done it, she was too fucked up in the head to get away with it.

  After his martini arrived, DeMarco took the journal out of the file folder and flipped through it until he arrived at the point where he’d stopped reading before going to Casper to speak to the FBI. The journal was more of the same: descriptions of the area, humorous observations about some of the people Shannon had encountered, a lot of musings about the relationship between the land and the people.

  Most of these DeMarco skipped over, but there was one entry where she described a house on the edge of a prairie and a woman looking out a kitchen window, and then Shannon went on a . . . DeMarco didn’t know what to call it—a riff, like a jazz musician would do?—where she went on for two pages describing the woman’s feelings of loneliness, isolation, and desperation. It was impressive—DeMarco could practically hear the woman’s heart breaking—and he wondered if the woman in the house was someone Shannon had met in Waverly or a character she’d created.

  A few pages later, DeMarco stopped at a paragraph that started with: I was invited to a dinner party last night at Hiram Bunt’s ranch. That was an interesting experience. Attending were the hosts, Hiram and his wife; Hiram’s son, Sonny, and Sonny’s wife whose name I can’t remember; the sheriff’s deputy, Jim Turner—who I swear is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—and his wife; and another rancher and his daughter who were Hiram’s neighbors, neighbors who lived thirty miles away due to the size of Hiram’s ranch.

  When DeMarco read this the first thought he had was that Jim Turner had lied to him. Turner had said that he’d never met Shannon. Why would the guy lie about that?

  He continued reading: The biggest surprise was that Hiram’s wife has to be forty years younger than he is; she appears to be about the same age as Hiram’s son, maybe thirty-five or so. She’s obviously not his first wife. I didn’t hear anything that gave me any clues to Lisa Bunt’s background or how she came to be married to Hiram, but she looked as if she could have been a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys. Beautiful woman, and also very likable. At least I liked her.

  Hiram didn’t speak much during the dinner—as if he was aloof from the whole thing and only hosting the dinner to please his wife. When he did speak, he came across as arrogant and condescending, particularly toward his son and his daughter-in-law. When his son made some observation about a business opportunity, Hiram’s response was: “Aw, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” He obviously doesn’t hold Sonny in high esteem. There’s also something seriously wrong with Hiram’s back. He moves stiffly when he walks and I could see that getting up after he’d been sitting for a while was painful for him. I just have to find out from Harriet the backstory on Hiram and Lisa’s marriage.

  The most interesting person at the dinner was Jim Turner’s wife, Carly. She’s pretty, although not as pretty as Lisa Bunt; no one in Waverly is as pretty as Lisa. I got the sense that she has a wild streak in her, or did at one time. She was the only woman there who has kids, in her case, two teenage boys. I never learned if she works outside the home or has a profession but she sounded educated and well-informed. She was also the only person there who didn’t appear to be intimidated by Hiram, openly disagreeing with him when the conversation veered briefly into politics. It was clear from a couple of the remarks made that she was the only Democrat in the room and I wonder how well that sits with her husband, who clearly isn’t. She drank quite a bit, a lot more than anyone else, and I could tell Hiram didn’t approve, but I thought she was funny. I wouldn’t mind talking to her again.

  Sonny Bunt is a watered-down version of Hiram. He resembles Hiram physically, although Hiram’s a couple of inches taller and was probably better looking than Sonny when he was young. His wife is a timid creature, a high school teacher in Rock Springs, and she didn’t say more than half a dozen words. In general, the evening was rather boring but I found the dynamics between the couples interesting. Lisa fawning over Hiram; Sonny Bunt ignoring his wife, resentful of his father; Jim Turner, who had very little to say, but was obviously worried about his wife embarrassing him; the rancher neighbor who didn’t appear to be a friend of Hiram’s and only came because his daughter wanted to meet me. It really wasn’t a fun evening, except for some of Carly Turner’s comments.

  I’m starting to think that some version of Carly Turner is going to have the female lead in my book: an outsider, trapped in a dull marriage, someone who fell far short of her own ambitions. I need to find out more about her.

  DeMarco wondered if the lonely woman Shannon had written about looking out the kitchen window could have been Carly Turner, although that section appeared to have been written before Shannon met Carly. He looked down at the journal again, but his reading was interrupted when a man stopped next to his table.

  The man was in his seventies, tall, at least six four, thin, gray haired, wearing stiff blue jeans and what appeared to be expensive cowboy boots. Standing next to him was the best looking woman DeMarco had seen since arriving in Wyoming. She was wearing a tight-fitting, cobalt blue blouse, matching cowboy boots, and a short skirt. It was Hiram Bunt—DeMarco recognized him from articles he’d seen online discussing the standoff—and the woman had to be Lisa.

  Bunt said, “You that fella from D.C.?”

  DeMarco stared up at him for a moment, not responding immediately, then said, “Yeah.”

  “What exactly are you doing here in Waverly?”

  DeMarco, who hadn’t been in a decent mood since he’d heard about Shannon’s death said, “What I’m doing is none of your business.”

  Hiram’s face flushed and it looked as if his eyes were about to come out of his head. He pointed a finger at DeMarco and started to say something, but then turned and walked away. As Shannon had written, he moved stiffly, like a man with major back or hip issues. DeMarco expected Lisa Bunt to follow her husband but instead she smiled at DeMarco; she seemed amused by the way he’d spoken to her husband. She gestured toward the stack of paper on DeMarco’s table and said, “What are you reading there?”

  Before DeMarco could answer, Hiram looked back at his wife and snapped, “Come on, Lisa.” Lisa smiled at DeMarco again and turned and followed her husband. DeMarco couldn’t help but enjoy the sway of her hips as she walked. He noticed, as he was watching her, Jim Turner standing at the bar, dressed in civilian clothes, having a beer. He was also watching Lisa Bunt—but then so was every other man in the room.

  DeMarco didn’t see Sonny Bunt. He was at a table with another man and the table was partly hidden by a support column. Sonny saw DeMarco, however. He was glaring at him.

  15

  The man watched DeMarco sip his martini as he flipped the pages of whatever he was reading. He was about ninety percent sure it was a hardcopy of the backup file of Shannon Doyle’s work.

  He knew it wouldn’t do him any good to destroy the copy. If the file was in an electronic format, which it almost certainly was, all DeMarco would do was have another copy printed.

 
But he had to know what Doyle had written. He had to.

  When DeMarco was served his dinner, he left the restaurant and walked around the parking lot until he found DeMarco’s rental car. It was sandwiched between a couple of big trucks that provided some concealment, but the spot wasn’t ideal. If DeMarco had been parked near the dumpsters behind the restaurant it might have been okay, but he was parked too close to the main entrance and people would be constantly going in and out of the parking lot.

  He stood there thinking for a moment, then got into his car and drove to DeMarco’s motel. The sun had set and the parking lot was poorly illuminated and filled with shadows. He immediately noticed that someone had parked a U-Haul moving van right in front of DeMarco’s room. There was an empty parking space next to the U-Haul where DeMarco would most likely park when he returned from the restaurant unless someone else arrived first and got the space.

  Coming from the restaurant, DeMarco would enter the parking lot at the east end and if he stood on the driver’s side of the U-Haul, DeMarco wouldn’t be able to see him but he’d be able to see DeMarco’s car by looking through the U-Haul’s driver’s side window. And when DeMarco entered the lot, he’d be able to duck down and hide behind the cargo box. If somebody else parked in the empty parking space next to the U-Haul before DeMarco returned . . . Well, then he’d have to forget it or come up with a different plan.

  He parked his car around the back of the motel where it wouldn’t be visible from the highway and pulled the sap from the glove compartment. The sap was about six inches long and was basically a molded chunk of lead inside a leather casing and had a leather loop that could be slipped over his hand. He put the sap in a back pocket then pulled the lever that opened the trunk. In the trunk was a winter-weather bag containing a snowsuit, thermal boots, thick gloves, goggles, and a black ski mask—the sort of outfit a man riding a snowmobile or hunting in the winter might wear. He grabbed the ski mask and walked over to the U-Haul.

  He hoped DeMarco would return to his room soon but there was nothing he could do but wait. As he waited, he thought about what he’d do if someone saw him standing—hiding—behind the U-Haul, and concluded that wouldn’t be a problem. He could easily come up with a reason for why he was there that no one would question. But if someone did see him standing there, then he’d have to leave before DeMarco arrived and just hope that he could find another opportunity to get the copy.

  A long twenty minutes later, he saw DeMarco’s car turn into the parking lot. He ducked down, moved to the back end of the U-Haul, staying on the driver’s side. As he’d expected, DeMarco pulled into the parking space on the passenger side of the U-Haul. He pulled the ski mask down over his head to cover his face and took the sap from his back pocket. The sap only weighed about ten ounces but it was a potentially lethal weapon. He waited until he heard DeMarco’s car door slam and the little beep when DeMarco punched the remote to lock the car, then he quickly moved around to the passenger side of the U-Haul where he could come up on DeMarco from behind. DeMarco was at the door to his room, holding a brown folder in one hand and putting his key card into the motel room door with his other hand.

  He rushed DeMarco. DeMarco heard him but before he could turn his head to see who was behind him, he swung the sap, hitting DeMarco on the back of the head, just above his right ear. DeMarco immediately collapsed to the ground unconscious. At least he hoped he was unconscious and that the blow hadn’t killed him. He’d had so much adrenalin running through him that he’d swung the sap harder than he’d intended. He picked up the file folder and jogged back to his car, looking around to see if anyone had spotted him. He didn’t see anyone. His luck had held.

  He wondered how lucky he’d feel after he’d read what Shannon had written.

  DeMarco came to to the sight of Sam Clarke’s brown, seamed face staring down at him from about six inches away. He was lying on his back on the sidewalk in front of his motel room and for a moment couldn’t understand why.

  Sam said, “Are you all right?”

  DeMarco didn’t know the answer to that question. His head hurt. Badly. He tried to move his hands and feet. Thank God, they moved.

  Sam said, “I was walking down to see why the TV in a guy’s room wasn’t working when I saw you lying here. Did you drink too much and pass out?”

  “No,” DeMarco said. “Someone mugged me. Hit me on the head with something.”

  “Mugged you? Did he steal your wallet?”

  DeMarco didn’t know. He reached back and touched the left rear pocket of his jeans. His wallet was still there. He touched the right front pocket of his jeans. He still had his cell phone. Then he remembered Shannon’s journal. He moved slowly to a sitting position and looked around for the brown file folder. He didn’t see it.

  When he sat up, Sam said, “You shouldn’t move. You might have a concussion or something.”

  DeMarco figured there was probably a very good chance that he did have a concussion, but he wasn’t feeling nauseous and his vision wasn’t blurred. Sam said, “You want me to call for an ambulance?”

  “No. Help me up,” DeMarco said. Sam helped him to his feet and for a moment he felt light-headed and he closed his eyes and leaned against the motel room door. He looked down at the ground again to see if maybe the file folder containing Shannon’s journal was near his car or somewhere else nearby. Nope. It was gone.

  Sam said, “Let’s get you into your room and you can lie down on the bed. I’m going to call for an ambulance and the sheriff.”

  “I told you, I don’t need an ambulance,” DeMarco said.

  Sam picked up the key card for the motel room door which DeMarco hadn’t noticed lying on the ground at his feet. Sam opened the door, and grasping DeMarco’s elbow, led him over to the bed. “I’m going to go call the sheriff. I have to do that, whether you like it or not. I’ll be right back and if you’re out cold when I get back, I’m calling for an ambulance.”

  DeMarco lay on the bed for several minutes with his eyes closed, trying to tell if he was seriously injured. After about five minutes, he swung his feet off the bed and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to see if he got dizzy again. He didn’t. Other than a painful lump on the back of his head, he seemed to be all right. He walked to the bathroom, moving slowly, looked into the mirror—he looked like hell—and splashed cold water on his face.

  He heard a rap on the door, which Sam had left open, and turned to see Sam and Deputy Jim Turner standing there. One good thing about a small town was that the police response was fast. Turner wasn’t dressed in his uniform; he was wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt—and then DeMarco remembered seeing him down at the Hacienda Grill, at the bar, and he’d been dressed the same way. It appeared as if Turner might have come directly from the restaurant.

  “Sam said you were mugged,” Turner said.

  “Yeah,” DeMarco said. “Someone hit me on the head. Knocked me out.”

  “Were you robbed?” Turner asked.

  DeMarco immediately decided to lie. He’d told Turner that he was looking for a backup flash drive or an external hard drive containing whatever Shannon had written while she’d been in Waverly. What he didn’t want to do was tell Turner that he’d obtained a copy of the journal by asking Neil to hack into the cloud. Nor did he want Turner to ask for a copy of the journal. He told him, “No, nothing was stolen. I still have my wallet, my phone, and my car keys. I’m wondering if someone who lives in this shithole decided to send me a message.”

  “What kind of message?” Turner said.

  “A message to quit looking into Shannon Doyle’s death.”

  “Well, I have a hard time believing that anyone who lives here would do that. And I resent you calling Waverly a shithole. It’s a nice town.” Before DeMarco could say that he didn’t give a damn what Turner resented, Turner asked, “Have you pissed anyone off since you’ve been here? Did you smart off to one
of the gas workers or a truck driver or anyone else?”

  DeMarco thought about the question briefly—it wasn’t an unreasonable question—but he couldn’t think of anyone he’d angered. About the only people he’d spoken to since he’d been in Waverly were Harriet, Sam Clarke, and Jim Turner. Then another thought occurred to him and he said, “Yeah, I did piss someone off. Hiram Bunt stopped by my table as I was having dinner tonight and asked me what I was doing in Waverly. I told him to mind his own business.”

  “You said that to Mr. Bunt?” Turner said. He said this as if he couldn’t imagine anyone having the balls to do that.

  “That’s right. Maybe he sent one of his ranch hands over to tune me up.” DeMarco was sure Bunt hadn’t attacked him. The man could barely walk and he’d still been in the restaurant when DeMarco left.

  “Mr. Bunt wouldn’t do something like that,” Turner said.

  “Does that mean you’re not going to question him?”

  “That’s right, I’m not. And I think you’re lying to me. I think there’s probably a reason someone hit you and you know what it is.” DeMarco didn’t respond. Turner shook his head and said, “Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

  “Yes,” DeMarco said.

  “Then I’m leaving, but if you decide later to tell me why this happened, give me a call.”

  16

  DeMarco took a shower, threw on sweat pants and a T-shirt, then laid down on the bed again, not to sleep, but to think.

  The fact that someone had been willing to attack him to steal a copy of Shannon’s journal meant that someone local was seriously worried about something Shannon might have learned in Waverly. The attack also meant that the sheriff’s dumbass theory that some trucker had killed Shannon was almost certainly wrong. No trucker had known that he had a copy of the journal.

  But who had known that he had a copy? The only person he’d told was the FBI agent in Casper and he’d never told McCord how he’d obtained it. Sam Clarke knew that he’d gotten a FedEx package, but Sam wouldn’t have known what was in the package unless he opened it and DeMarco didn’t think the package had been tampered with. Jim Turner had known he was looking for Shannon’s backup files but Turner wouldn’t have known that Neil had FedExed him a paper copy of a file. Well, come to think of it, that wasn’t necessarily true.