6
“It’s a purple elephant on a field of tuna fish,” Bohlen hollered. “It makes no sense and I don’t want to hear it.”
He and Lu were cruising down the interstate at ninety plus, the car’s comp blaring out a federal signal at whatever radar was lurking. He steered smoothly into the broad turns, keeping his eyes slitted against the afternoon sun.
He’d asked her about the Ricelli investigation, on the off chance she knew something. She didn’t.
“That’s what the report said, Ross. It was an accident. Somebody hit him and kept going, that’s all.”
“That’s not what Hec Salgado thinks.”
“I don’t know Hec Salgado.”
“He quit, Lu. He and Ric were partners, and when the results came in, he had it out with the Hillbilly and resigned. Why’d he do that?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“I did. He told me the investigation was phony. No evidence of a hit and run. Ricelli’s neck was broken.”
“Why are you so interested anyway? That happened in California.”
Bohlen made a face and said nothing.
“Or is this one of those situational awareness things you always go on about, hm?”
“Never mind.”
“I wish I had a psychic talent, Ross.”
“It’s not a psychic—aw, forget it, Lu.”
A dark, ragged line floating above the western horizon decided to become a range of mountains. Bohlen wondered what they were called. The Rockies, the Tetons, the Continental Divide? Whatever, Ironwood lay just this side of them. It wouldn’t be long now.
Spotting a truck stop a mile ahead, he pulled into the slow lane. “Coffee,” he told Lu as she glanced over at him.
Inside the diner a few truckers sat at the tables. The only customer standing at the counter was an Indian wearing what you’d expect to see on a big-league lawyer: oxfords, a three-piecer, an overcoat. His hair fell in two braids well past his shoulders. As he walked out, Bohlen followed him with his eyes, wondering what on earth the man did. He didn’t hear the waitress asking what he wanted until she spoke for the second time.
The waitress was a truly outstanding example of unspoiled frontier womanhood. He ordered two coffees to go and leaned nearer on the counter. But when she turned, he caught sight of a holster belt strapped low on her hip and a revolver butt sticking out of it. He sighed. He had a strong personal policy against flirting with women who carried arms.
Pulling his earlobe, Bohlen turned from the counter. Indian lawyers, armed cowgirls—he was way out west, all right.
He went to the news rack and glanced over it, stopping when he reached the National Keyhole. He picked up a copy. Annie Oakley was just setting down the coffee when he returned to the counter.
Back in the car he handed Lu her cup and tossed the paper in her lap. Her lip curled as she unfolded it and read the headline: love-starved chipheads raped me OFTEN.
“Ross, that isn’t funny,” she said, crumpling the tabloid and making as if to toss it out the window.
“Hold on a second, that’s a lead,” Bohlen yelled.
She gave him a disgusted look and threw the paper in the back seat.
The mountains were a lot closer by the time Bohlen finished his coffee. Lu had been oohing and aahing over them the last few miles and had just made another remark about how awesome they were. “Okay, they have mountains here,” he replied. “What else?”
At that moment they made a sharp turn and were confronted with a few hundred shaggy beasts standing in a snowy field. Lu pointed at them. “That answer your question?”
Bohlen contemplated them. Some kind of buffalo-cow hybrid, or maybe regular cattle tailored for cold weather. “Come on, Lu, let’s get on the keyboard.”
Laughing, Lu pressed a button on the dash, and a comp slid out, screen lit. There was a beep, and she began tapping the pads. “Montana,” she said. “Mostly agricultural. Grain, fuel crops, agritech labs . . . and guess what. Cattle.”
“No kidding,” Bohlen said. “Any industry?”
“A lot of power reactors, oddly enough.”
“Tell me about that.”
“It says here they lowered the licensing requirements to attract business before the war. With the big population influx they’re selling power all over the mountain states now.”
“Population.”
“Half a million evacuees from the LA area. Doesn’t seem like much, but it nearly doubled the state population. They were losing people all through the eighties and nineties.”
“How many to Ironwood?”
“Let’s see—more than tripled the population over two years. They had three camps outside town. Most of them came in the first winter.” She shivered. “That must have been awful.”
Bohlen nodded. It must have been. “They all stayed?”
“Most of them. They couldn’t go home, with the water system out. The camps were turned into permanent settlements. Lots of building going on now.”
And somebody slipped in during the big march after LA was flattened, Bohlen thought. Utter chaos, millions of refugees, hundreds of thousands dead—their boy might even have picked up an ID from a corpse and be living another man’s life. “Let’s hear about local law,” he said.
“State or Ironwood?”
“Big picture first.”
“Okay. Law enforcement statewide is considered strained—hasn’t kept pace with population growth. The state police are efficient, though. There’s an agreement with the Canadian commonwealths—the state force and the FCMP can operate in both jurisdictions, just like the FBI.”
And unlike the COSSF. Saskatchewan and BC had cut a deal with Washington banning all internal security outfits as the price for political association. But that was their business, after all, and the Mounties did a good job on their side of the line.
“. . . slack is taken up by local vigilance committees. The statewide organization is called the 501.”
“Where’d they get a label like that?”
“Hmmm.” Lu scrolled. “It’s named after groups back in the nineteenth century. I didn’t know they had vigilantes in the frontier days.”
“Yeah, they did,” Bohlen said. He despised vigs and was glad he wouldn’t have to deal with them. “Give me Ironwood.”
“All right. Sheriff’s department is the main outfit. There’s a police department in Redding—that’s the evacuation camps—but it’s only a couple years old and pretty feeble. Sheriff’s got a good-to-excellent Crimewatch rating, though.”
“Any vigs in town?”
“They’re all over,” said Lu.
Not bad, all things considered. He wouldn’t have to go dragging his tail between two or three departments, as was usually the case. Just contact the sheriff and work through him. What was his name again? Hough, Leon Hough. Good, solid, backwoods name. Bohlen liked that. A country boy, unsophisticated, easy to handle.
“Anything else?” Lu said.
“No,” Bohlen answered after a minute. “Save all that and dump it in my work case. I’ll want to run through it tonight.”
As Lu pressed the keys, Bohlen spotted an upcoming sign. “Ironwood exit, two miles,” he read. “Almost there.”
“Finally,” Lu said as the comp slid out of sight.
###
A short distance off the highway they ran into a roadblock, two cars pulled in front of an overpass. Bohlen eyed it with loathing as he slowed down. “Here’s your 501,” he muttered to Lu.
The vigs manning it were a scruffy bunch. Two stood in the road, self-importantly waving the car down even as it stopped, while a third, who’d been waiting in a truck, got out. They were wearing badges and red armbands. The first two had on jeans and hunting jackets, while the third wore a snowmobile suit. All three had guns hanging from shoulder straps.
Bohlen rolled down the window when the nearest one came over. He was bearded, with long hair tucked behind a set of large, batlike ears. His shotgun was strapped diagonally across his chest, as if he was trying to look like a Medranista. “License,” he said gruffly, holding out a gloved hand.
Thumbing his ID, Bohlen held it up. “Federal security, on official business,” he said, looking at the other guy, who had come over to rest his foot on the bumper.
He should have kept his eye on Bat Ears, who reached in and snatched the card. Bohlen looked up to see him squinting suspiciously at it, and was about to object when the vig turned and walked toward the truck.
“Hey,” Bohlen yelled. “Where you going with that?”
Ignoring him, the vig kept on walking. The one in front lit a cigarette and smirked at Bohlen through the smoke.
“Son of a bitch,” Bohlen said.
“Ross, smooth out,” Lu said. “They’re trying to get us mad.”
“Smooth out nothing,” Bohlen snapped. At the truck, Bearded Jackass was in deep consultation with Snowsuit. The card had gone transparent, and he was bending it to see if that would do anything. Jesus, Bohlen thought, if he fucks up the circuitry . . .
“Ross,” Lu hissed at him. “They have guns.”
“So do we,” Bohlen said. “Cover me.”
“You get back . . .” the guy in front said as Bohlen got out.
“Later, shithead,” Bohlen told him and headed for the truck. Behind him he heard the passenger door open. There was a click, and Lu said, “Hold it!” On her toes, old Louise.
The two vigs by the truck weren’t able to make a move before he reached them. The snowmobiler backed off a step and said, “Return to your vehicle.”
Paying him no mind, Bohlen went up to Bat Ears and grabbed for the card. “Gimme that.”
The vig lifted it out of his reach. “Return to your vehicle,” Snowsuit repeated, as if he had been training for this moment for years. Bohlen looked over to tell him to shut the fuck up and saw him slipping the rifle off his shoulder, so he took a wide step and kicked him in the kneecap, hard. With a moan the man went down, and Bohlen grabbed the hood of the suit and slammed him against the truck’s side panel. The gun fell to the road, and Snowsuit slid after it, surprise on his face.
Bat Ears was lifting his gun and had it throat level, but Bohlen grabbed the butt and jerked it toward him. The vig spun around as Bohlen gave the shotgun a twist to make the strap a noose then pulled him close.
He looked past the vig’s shoulder. Lu was bent over the car roof, pistol in hand. The guy in front was standing, his gun up but aimed nowhere in particular. “Get that barrel down,” Bohlen yelled.
Nodding as if he agreed absolutely, the vig lowered the gun. Lu told him to drop it, but he didn’t seem to hear. Deciding to let her take care of that, Bohlen shifted his attention to the one at hand.
The vig was stiff, shoulders hunched and eyes wide. Tightening his grip on the strap, Bohlen said, “Where’s the card, asshole?”
“I dropped it,” the vig whispered.
Searching the snow around his feet, Bohlen spotted it and pulled the vig down to get at it. It flicked on when he pressed it. He shoved it under the vig’s nose. “What does that say?”
The vig read off his name and rank in a halting voice.
“Right,” Bohlen said. “Now tell your buddy.”
“They’re federal agents, Pete,” the vig called out. Pete, gun butt resting on the snow, nodded again, as if he’d known it all along.
Bohlen turned to see that Snowsuit had gotten up and was bent over, rubbing his knee. He straightened with a sullen look.
Pushing the vig ahead of him, Bohlen stepped forward. “Are you silly bastards registered members of the local safety committee?”
The bearded vig said nothing, but there were grunts from the others. Bohlen looked fiercely about him. “You’re lying!” he bellowed. “No legit outfit could be this fucked up!” He shook the bearded vig, who cringed and tried to pull away. “What’s this? What’s this with the shotgun? You think you’re with the FLA or something?”
Ross yanked the strap over the vig’s head and booted him away. He lifted the gun and gave it a quick inspection. “A Remington!” he said. “Oooo-eeee! Ten-gauge, too.” Raising the barrel, he let off a round. Bat Ears ducked, feet splaying on the snowy pavement. “Awright! Lotta noise—I like that.”
“Ross,” Lu called out.
Cracking open the magazine, Bohlen popped out a round and threw it at Bat Ears’s head. “Give you a hard-on too, does it? You goddamn . . .”
“Lady,” Snowsuit bawled. “Is he crazy or—”
Scattering the rest of the shells at his feet, Bohlen swung the shotgun as if to smash it against the side of the van. “No, no,” Snowsuit cried. “My insurance ain’t . . .”
Ross smiled at him. “Relax,” he said, and with a heave tossed the shotgun over the truck and into the snowbank on the other side.
He swung around to see Bat Ears standing as if paralyzed and Pete slipping his rifle behind him lest Bohlen express an interest in examining it. Bohlen was raising a hand to make a come-hither gesture to both of them when Lu called out.
He looked and saw her pointing at the roadblock. A squat man in a gray coat was peering over the parked cars. A few yards down the road his own car sat with the front door open and the motor running. “What’s going on here?” the man called out.
The vigs began pointing at Bohlen. “This guy here—Fed security he says—something wrong with him—come round took my shotgun—”
“Quiet,” Bohlen said. The vigs shut up, and he approached the man in gray, who first hunkered down behind the cars, then hesitantly came out, slipping something into his pocket.
Hands on hips, Bohlen halted. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Lassiter, deputy director . . .”
“Then you’re in charge here?”
“Well yes, I suppose . . .”
“Uh-huh,” Bohlen said. He leaned forward and tapped Lassiter on the chest. “Well, deputy director, I’m from Washington, and I’m here to help you. Your posse could use some training.” He pointed at the vig in front of the car. “Young Kit Carson there doesn’t know enough to plant his ass at the roadblock, while Bat Masterson . . .”
Lassiter blinked in confusion as Bohlen went on. Bohlen continued his lecture until Lassiter turned his head toward Snowsuit. Then he grabbed Lassiter’s arm, twisted him half around, and pulled the pistol out of his pocket.
Lassiter lunged for the gun, but Bohlen batted him away. The pistol was a piece of Taiwanese shit with enough electronics for an Earth-to-orbit clipper. He tossed it after the shotgun. “This is all very serious,” he said. “Because if you go on letting your firearms do your thinking for you, you’re all gonna get hurt.”
Lassiter gaped at him a moment, then looked at the vigs.
“Got that straight?” Bohlen asked. “Good. Anything else, just look me up, I’ll be around.”
With a final glare he went to the car. Lu had already gotten in and was sitting grimly with her arms folded across her chest.
Closing the door, Bohlen looked straight ahead for a few seconds, then turned to the open window. The vigs stared back at him. He leaned out and in a mild voice said, “Will one of you dumb shits kindly remove that roadblock?”
Lu didn’t relax until they were a mile down the road. Glancing over at her, Bohlen saw that she was shaking her head. He reached over and patted her hand, laughing when she pulled it away.
###
Sitting back, Nast went over the report. Nothing special: a DWI that the 501 had corralled on the state highway. An out-of-towner, a biotech salesman who’d had a few too many at lunch with some clients. Nast gave him the works: a sober-up pill, impound on the car, and a day at the hospital for alcoholism tests with a telltale locked to his wrist. The humiliation would teach him even if the fine didn’t, and the fine would be a whopper—Judge Pellew didn’t much care for drunk drivers.
There was a beep, and a line of print crossed the comp screen. He gave it only half his attention: something about a disturbance at a block south of town. Nast turned back to the typewriter.
The phone rang, the fourth line, the number he’d given Diane. He raised his head to Ralph Frostmoon, who was sitting across the room. “Ralph . . .” he said, his voice sounding shrill even to himself.
Frostmoon looked up and nodded wearily as he reached for the receiver. “Polk County Sheriff’s Department . . . Oh hi, Diane . . . No, I haven’t seen him. He’s out on patrol . . .”
Nast bent over the typewriter, trying to concentrate on the form, but Frostmoon’s voice, tightening as Diane questioned him, made it impossible. He was half-inclined to pick up now, but it was too late; no sense making Ralph a liar on top of everything else.
“Okay, Diane,” Frostmoon was saying. “I’ll let him know.” He hung up and rose from the desk. “Call back,” he muttered.
“Sorry about that, Ralph.”
Frostmoon raised an arm wordlessly as he walked out the door.
Nast gazed after him, embarrassment turning to anger: she had no business putting Ralph through the wringer like that. Nast ought to call her back right now and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, interrogating another member of the force about her husband, and a guy she barely knew at that.
But he’d better not; it would just cause another blowup, and he was tired of those, tired unto death . . .
He realigned the sheet and started typing again, taking his time, checking every few lines. If he made a single mistake, left anything out, he’d have to begin again from scratch. The hard sheets were chapter and verse, what everything that followed was checked against. After he finished, he’d enter it verbatim, file it in a locked drawer, then compare it with what was in the system every few days until the court date. That was regulation procedure in every department he’d ever heard of, the only way to make sure that nobody was making the bytes do tricks in the electronic files.
A lot of effort for a simple drunk driving case. Things were easier in the old days.
He slipped the form into the scanner, and looked at it after it was filed. It seemed okay; no errors that he could see. Clearing the screen, he hesitated, then tapped another command.
The screen brightened, and there she was. The dancer, the girl on the hillside.
He leaned back in the seat, taking in the planes of her face, the clear, pale skin, the eyes. It was the eyes that got to him: staring frankly at the camera, calm and serene. MV photos usually looked pretty stupid, but not this one.
She’d been studying dance in Frisco. Ballet—no, modern dance, that’s what it was. Hough had explained the difference.
Nast squinted at the image, recalling what he’d seen on the hill: the battered flesh, the bone, the frozen red splatters in the snow.
During the war he was caught in a mortar barrage, an automatic left by the Medis to cover their retreat. He rode it out in a shellhole with a lieutenant who sat a little higher than Nast liked. They were bracketed, shells hitting on either side, and when Nast grabbed his shoulder to get him to pull his head in, the lieutenant collapsed on top of him, turning to show a face torn apart by shrapnel.
It was the same, exactly the same.
They hadn’t found a damn thing on the hill, or anywhere else either. The trail led back to the road, and the plows had wiped out all tracks. No oil or transmission fluid on the road, and no blood traces. It took them a day to get a positive ID out of Crimewatch.
He scrolled down, rereading the file. Nothing stood out, nothing called for closer attention. There was little remarkable about the whole business beyond the fact that a young woman had been butchered and tossed into the snow like a dead animal.
What still made no sense to Nast was where the corpse had been found: in plain sight, on a hilltop in the middle of a working ranch right next to a county road. If the perp had wanted to conceal the crime, there were a thousand places to do it within ten miles of where Nast was sitting. A few yards into the woods, in the deep snow under the pines, and a body wouldn’t be discovered until spring, if then. The wolves or brown bears would make short work of it if they got there first.
It was as if the body was meant to be found.
The phone rang again, and he picked it up automatically, realizing that it was the fourth line only when he had the receiver in hand. He swallowed as he put it to his ear.
“Nast.”
Five full seconds went by before Diane spoke. “You son of a bitch.”
He didn’t answer, just waited for the rest.
“I checked with the dispatcher,” she went on, her voice nearly unrecognizable in its bitterness. “You weren’t out at all. You were sitting there the whole time. You told that big fucking Sioux to lie to me. Your own wife.”
Wait a second, he thought. Connie wouldn’t have told her anything, not over the phone. He started to say just that, but it was too late. He’d been silent too long, and silence was admission of guilt in Diane’s book. “Did it go over good? Did you get a good laugh from those animals over there?”
“Goddamit,” he shouted. “Haven’t I told you not to give me this shit at the station? Can’t it wait?”
But she wasn’t listening. She was off now, raging at full bore. He held the receiver away, wanting to pitch it across the room. The standard recitation, the usual list of grievances: treating the house like a motel, neglecting her, neglecting the kids. He listened in silence, suppressing the urge to ask what he’d done this time. If he did that, she’d dredge up everything that had happened over the past six months.
As she ran down, he put the phone back to his ear. For the next few seconds they breathed at each other like a couple of kids. God, the childishness of it! How he detested this. She spoke again, her voice mild, as if the last few minutes had been snipped from memory. “Are you coming home for dinner?”
Closing his eyes, he cursed under his breath. If there was one thing he couldn’t take, it was the way she changed her tune in mid-shriek. A tactic, an olive branch, what? It was beyond him. There were times he thought she was flat-out nuts. Mood swings, they called it. He ought to have her committed—at least then he’d get some peace. “I don’t know,” he said, trying to keep his voice level and making a miserable job of it. “Something’s come up.”
“I wish you’d tell me before I start cooking.”
Before I start cooking. Ten grand worth of hardwired kitchen in that house, and listen to her. It took her about thirty seconds to turn out a seven-course meal. “Look,” he said. “I’ll get there when I get there.”
Dead silence on the line, then: “Fine. I’ll let it rot.”
“You do that,” he said just as she hung up. He clenched the receiver and slammed it down himself. He should give her something worth crying about. Go over to Morley’s or the Roadhouse, tie one on, and come home at two or three in the morning, kick the door in, and . . .
He caught himself. No, that was disgraceful. A man didn’t do that. Don’t even think about it.
His eyes fell on the photo, the dancer from the Coast. Especially not with that in front of you.
Diane didn’t know. Oh, she’d heard about the murder, everybody had, but she had no idea that he was investigating it. He’d kept it from her, a small triumph sweetened every time she talked about the lousy job they were doing and why didn’t they have trained detectives like in the big towns. When he closed this case, he’d tell her and watch the look on her face then . . .
A dull ache settled in his chest. It would never be closed. He’d never put it together. An image rose in his mind: red blood against dazzling white, stiff limbs, a face that was a face no longer.
Clearing the screen, he picked up the report and headed for Hough’s office to get his signature. A few feet from the door he heard an unfamiliar voice, and stopped to listen.
“. . . nothing but a pack of fucking incompetents, if you ask me.”
“Regardless,” the sheriff answered, irritation evident in his voice. “They’re an unofficial auxiliary, and I want them treated with respect.”
Nast was getting the gist of it. The disturbance at the 501 block; this guy must have been behind it. But what was he doing here talking to Hough?
“Respect, huh? Okay,” the voice said. “Next time I run across a roadblock, I’ll salute the assholes.”
Whoever he was, he’d gotten off on the wrong foot with Hough. The Bear was old school; he didn’t like foul language for any reason, said it was unnecessary and uncalled for. The deputies always took bets on how long it’d be before the rookies got chewed out for using what Hough called “oaths.”
“See here, mister. You’re in a different setting than what you might be used to. The committees perform a serious function in areas such as this.”
“Serious function, my ass. They collapsed the minute I barked at ’em. They’re spaghetti. You get any real trouble coming down the backroads, Chief, you’d best have a few holes dug on Boot Hill.”
“I can see we’re getting nowhere with this.” Hough’s tone was chillier than Nast had ever heard it.
“Right. So . . .” The voice grew cheerful, obviously trying to lighten things up. “I see you play the fiddle.”
Nast grinned. The visitor had stuck his foot in it now—Hough had been playing for thirty-five years; he was first violin in the university string quartet and had been a guest player in symphonies from Denver to Vancouver. If there was anything he was prouder of, Nast didn’t know about it.
Several seconds passed before Hough answered. “I play the violin,” he said.
“Oh,” the voice said, barely audible. “Bet you’re pretty good.”
Behind him Nast could hear someone coming out into the hall. Keeping his face straight, he went to the door.
Hough looked up when he appeared. “Ah, the man I want to see.”
As Nast went to the desk, he glanced at the man in the chair. He knew that face—it was the Bug from Washington, the one who gave him a hard time yesterday. Nolan something.
The Fed nodded to him, a cartoon Irish face breaking into a broad smile. “How you doing?”
Nast bobbed his head as he dropped the form on the desk. The guy looked a lot smaller in person than he did onscreen. Nast wondered if he had a trick program to bulk him up. Some of them did that.
“This is Ross Bohlen, from Washington,” Hough said slowly. “He heard about the Butler murder and wants to give us a hand.” Hough cocked his head. “He thinks an implant gang had something to do with it.”
“Chipheads?” Nast said, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, well I didn’t have a chance to get into it,” Bohlen said, talking fast the way they did out east. “See, we got an intrusion alarm from your town here. It had certain characteristics, kind of like a data fingerprint . . .”
Hough raised his hand. “We know what they are,” he said. “Now, Deputy Nast is handling the investigation, so you take it up with him.” He gave Nast a get-this-idiot-out-of-my-office look. “Johnny?”
Nast smiled down at the Fed. “I don’t think we need to waste the sheriff’s time any longer.”
Smirking sourly, Bohlen got up. “Right,” he said. “Afternoon, Sheriff.”
Grunting an answer, Hough picked up the form. As Nast ushered the Fed out, Hough raised his eyes and made a short chopping gesture. Nast nodded back at him.
In the hallway Bohlen opened his mouth, but Nast cut him off. “Chipheads, eh?” he said. “I ran into one of them during the war, down in Mama East. Lot of people say there weren’t any with Medrano. What do you think, Bohlen?”
The Fed gave him a smile touched with more than a little scorn. “Who knows?”
“Still keeping it secret,” Nast said as he led him to the clerical office. “You serve, Bohlen?”
“415th Task Force, Delgado.”
“Guardsman, eh?” As they walked into the room, Mary Ann looked up, and a smile appeared on her round face. “You’re the fella from Washington,” she said.
“That’s me.”
“Annie, print me out all the forms for cooperation with outside agencies. Four copies of each, please.”
Mary Ann frowned. “I don’t think we’ve ever used those, Johnny. I’ll have to track them down.”
“Take your time,” Nast said. He turned to Bohlen. “Have you got your paperwork?”
“Uhh,” Bohlen said. “I’m with COSSF. We don’t go in for much paper—”
“You don’t?” Nast rubbed his chin. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” He paused, Bohlen regarding him blankly. “I mean, that’s how we do things in Ironburg.”
Sighing, Bohlen reached into his coat pocket, took out an ID, thumbed it, and offered it to Nast, who frowned.
“What’s that?”
“A federal security ID. You might not be aware of the regs these days . . .”
“It’s no good here.”
“Hey, I don’t want to go over your head, but—”
“I said it’s no good here.”
Flitting the card back in his pocket, Bohlen turned to Mary Ann. “May as well knock off on those forms, sister. You won’t need ’em.”
Nast allowed himself a smile. “It’s okay, Annie. Some people got no patience.”
Bohlen went to the door. There were shouts from the hallway as he opened it. “That’s him, Sheriff, the man who roughed up my boys.”
Nast followed and saw Lassiter coming down the hall trailed by a vig in a snowmobile suit—Barnert, his name was. Hough was standing in his office doorway with a pipe in his mouth. Lassiter pointed at Bohlen. “This man terrorized a squad not half an hour ago . . .”
“Terrorized them, did he?” Hough said, lighting his pipe.
“Well, he caused a disturbance.”
“Why didn’t they bring him in?”
Bohlen walked past them. Barnert made a move as if to block him, but evidently thought better of it and stayed where he was.
“Fed security, out of our hands,” Hough was saying to Lassiter.
Nast set out after Bohlen and caught up with him at the door.
“You plan to raise any more hell, Bohlen, you check with us first.”
Bohlen stared at him for a moment, then went out.
Catching the door, Nast followed. “I mean it, mister.”
Whirling back at him, Bohlen raised a finger. “You want to interfere with security, pal, feel free. But it’ll be the last thing you do for a while.” He paused a moment, and winked. “Besides, I’ll make sure you get the paperwork.”
“You think people are going to talk to a Fed out here, Bohlen?” Nast called as Bohlen walked to his car.
“Watch my dust, cowboy.” He opened the car door and grinned. “Happy trails.”
Hough stepped out behind Nast, calling, “Just wait in my office” to someone inside, probably Lassiter. He joined him, still fooling with his pipe. “How’d you get rid of him?” he asked as the car roared off.
“Told him we’d cooperate,” Nast said, “according to regs.”
“Good,” Hough said. He blew a puff of smoke into the cold air. “Idiot told me those implant people were running around here.”
“We’ll probably have more trouble with him,” Nast said. “Maybe I should tank him.”
“No, let’s hold that in reserve.” Hough turned back to the station. “Any luck, the vigs’ll shoot him for us first.”
While Hough went back inside, Nast watched the car pull away, memorizing the plate number. Then he went to his cruiser.