Bitterroot (Billy Bob Holland 3)

Then Temple sat in the sheriff's office, a notepad on her knee, and listened to the cassettes, one at a time, while I sat behind her.

She was attentive, motionless, her head lowered slightly, while the sheriff played the first four. Then he put the fifth cassette into the machine and hit the play button. The voice was Wyatt Dixon's, but without dramatic emphasis, devoid of the manufactured and startled tone that characterized his speech. Temple raised her head, as though she were going to speak, then she motioned the sheriff to play the sixth tape.

"Ther

e ain't no hurry. You want me to play any of them again?" the sheriff asked.

"Number two and five," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

She listened again, then nodded, her lips crimping together.

"It's number two," she said.

The sheriff slapped the back of his head and blew out his breath.

"No?" she said.

"You just picked out my deputy," the sheriff said. He looked at me, his cheeks puffed with air.

"Don't say what I think you're fixing to," I said.

"I got to kick him loose. Terry Witherspoon got rid of the pipe tape you called me about. There are no latents in Ms. Carrol's vehicle. Three or four people over in Billings are willing to swear Dixon was at the rodeo when Ms. Carrol was abducted," he said.

"Which people in Billings?" I asked.

"A prostitute and Carl Hinkel and a couple of ex-convicts. He don't hang out with your regular civic club types."

"Talk to them about the consequences for perjury. Bring in Witherspoon. Put him in a cell full of Indians and blacks and lose his paperwork," I said.

"Come on, Ms. Carrol, I'll walk you to your car," the sheriff said, ignoring me.

"I can manage, thank you," she replied.

"Don't misinterpret the gesture. I'm just going across the street to buy my grandson a birthday present. Counselor, one way or another I'm gonna put Wyatt Dixon and this Witherspoon kid out of business. But in the meantime they'd better remain the healthiest pair of white trash in Missoula County. We clear on this?"

"Not really," I said.

He hooked on his glasses and studied the calendar on his desk.

"You got about three weeks before Dr. Voss goes to trial for Lamar Ellison's murder. Why don't you turn your attentions to your profession and quit pretending you're still a lawman?" he said.

"Don't you dare speak down to him like that. He was a Texas Ranger. In the old days he and his partner would have fed Wyatt Dixon into a hay baler," Temple said.

The sheriff flexed his dentures and tried to obscure his face when he fitted on his hat, but he could not hide the embarrassed light in his eyes.

THAT NIGHT Lucas returned late from Sue Lynn's house. Through my bedroom window I saw him build a fire by his tent and squat next to the flames and slice open a can with his pocketknife and pour the contents into a skillet. I put on a coat and walked down to the riverbank and sat on a stump behind him without his hearing me.

"Lordy, you give me a start!" he said when he saw me.

"Guilty conscience?" I said.

He stirred the corned beef hash in the skillet and sprinkled red pepper on it. "You was born for the pulpit, Billy Bob," he said.

"Go back home, Lucas."

"I've done fell in love with Montana. I'm thinking of transferring up here to the university."