Page 7 of Hell and Gone
“Orders?” Braddock laughed out loud. “You haven’t dusted the Army off you yet. You gotta shake that loose. This isn’t federal country here. You were loaned to me by Ag, and that’s about as large as I like my government. I get twitchy when too many state officials start crowdin’ around.” He winked. “I’m chargin’ you with assistin’ in my investigation of what’s happenin’ in the Crazies. Be it rustlin’ or murder, drug runners or simply men gone crazy: you find out what’s happenin’, you hear?”
“Yes sir.” Everett nodded once.
“Good. I want you checkin’ out where Carson Riley was found dead. We can’t do a true scene processing up there since ole Law decided to muck it all up and bring in the body. See what you can find up there. It looks like a suicide, but we’ll keep all options open, least for now. Also, while you’re out on the mountain, I want you checkin’ some of the rustler hidey holes up in those parts. See if you can pick up a trail or find somethin’ we could use to identify whoever has been up there makin’ drug camps.” He passed a sheet of paper to Everett with coordinates. “My boys will check out their share, but these here are all near where Carson Riley was found.”
“Yes sir.”
“Now, I been told you have been trainin’ with Buck Williams up in Helena, but you’re still a new hand to ranchin’ and ridin’. You figured out which end of the horse is the front yet?”
Everett’s cheeks flushed. “Yes sir.”
“Well, that’s good. But you still need to learn, Buck says, and so I’m sendin’ you out to the Lazy Twenty-Two. Lawrence Jackson is a spitfire pain in my ass and he’s a damn son of a gun. He’s also the Crazies’ best cowboy. He’ll get you up to speed on what you need to know. There’s no place to learn ranchin’ like in the Crazies. No place a’tall.”
Everett breathed in slowly, deeply. Everything seemed to tumble around him, like the world was upending, blown over. This wasn’t what he’d expected, but then again, nothing ever was. “Is Mister Jackson expecting me, sir?”
“Aww, I’d pay money to see Law’s face when you call him ‘Mister.’” Braddock laughed hard. “Naw, I threw him out of my station this mornin’ ‘fore I could tell him you were on your way. He was bein’ belligerent. He’s coolin’ his heels up at his ranch. You head on up there and tell him I sent you. That should ease his troubled mind for a spell.”
Braddock passed his business card over. “My cell number is on this. Radio is a wonky mess up in the Crazies and cell reception ain’t any better. We’re about to wire the whole place up for tin cans and twine since that’d be more reliable. But until then, if you need me, best way is to come off the mountain. If you can’t, there’s cell signal at the Endless Sky ranch house, ‘cause Dan Howell can pay to have a cell site set up for himself, and a few old hard lines scattered around. Other than that, once you’re up in it, you’re in it. It’s easy to get lost up there, son.”
He peered at Everett for a long moment. “You be careful, you hear? You look like you can take care of yourself, but still. Don’t go trustin’ nobody. Not until we figure out who’s makin’ all this trouble.”
“Yes, sir, I will be careful.” Everett typed Braddock’s number into his cell and slid his card in his wallet as backup. “And I’ll let you know everything I find, sir.”
“I appreciate that. And can you do me a favor?”
“Yes sir?”
Braddock grinned. “Drop the sir, son. You’re makin’ me feel old.”
Chapter 5
Time seemedto slip around Everett, a whirlpool he’d fallen into, spinning around him as he made the drive to Lawrence Jackson’s Lazy Twenty-Two ranch. His truck rumbled along the dirt roads, spitting dust and gravel in every direction. The engine roared, growling at the steady climb with each foot he crawled toward the sky.
The Crazies were massive, magnificent, and raw. Nearly empty and isolated from humanity, the mountains swallowed time and space, pulled on the soul. He could easily see how the immensity of the land, the vast solitude, the echoing way his soul seemed to fall out of him and disappear into the canyons and peaks and ravines, could drive someone crazy.
Everett blinked, and for a moment, he wasn’t in Montana, wasn’t in the Crazies. He was back in Afghanistan, and it was his Humvee chewing dust and spitting gravel as he climbed in a convoy toward the village. They were going to secure the opening of the school they’d helped build, and Holt was beside him, cracking jokes over the radio. Vasquez was in the hole, manning the fifty-cal—
Everett slammed on the brakes, skidding out on the gravel. Knuckles white, his hands shook on the steering wheel, squeezing so hard the leather creaked. He glared, breathing out hard and fast. Dust covered the hood of his truck, billowing and obscuring the view. He waited, his breath hitching.
What would he see it when it cleared? The convoy? The village?
Wind whispered the dust away. Scattered sunlight beat between the pine and poplar branches. Somewhere, a bird called out and another answered, twittering across the still canyons.
Montana. The Crazies. He was a world away from Afghanistan. A world and a life away. He breathed in. Tasted blood.
He pushed open the driver’s door and spat a blood-stained wad into the dirt.Blood in the dirt, flecks scattered across the dust, a trail, leading to—
A world and a life away. He slammed the truck’s door and jerked the wheel over. Eased off the brakes. His engine rumbled as he slammed down on the accelerator.
Miles later, he turned off on a drive that took him halfway up the second tallest peak, winding through a series of switchbacks and s-turns that dropped off to nothing on one side as the land fell away beside the road, opening up to the empty spaces, the canyons, the end of the world and time itself, it seemed.
Finally, as he came out of the final switchback, a broad valley tucked beneath Crazy Peak opened up, miles of shivering green and golden grasses framed by clusters of pine and cedar, ash and poplar and elder. Rolling hills sloped upward toward a tree line, the edge of the forest, and beyond that, the rising face of the peak. Pastures spread to the right and left and timber ranch fences crossed the land as far as he could see.
Over the gate, a sign read “The Delaneys: Lazy Twenty-Two.”
Everett frowned. Wasn’t this Lawrence Jackson’s ranch? He’d never heard the name Delaney. This was the place, though. He turned into the gated entrance and shifted into park. Blew his truck horn three times.
He didn’t have to wait long. A man appeared around the back of the barn astride a large chestnut stallion. He wore a black cowboy hat pulled low and dark sunglasses, a flannel shirt, and dark jeans. Black leather chaps covered his legs. He trotted his horse toward the gate, one hand on the reins. His right hand stayed loose.
