In the Moon of Red Ponies (Billy Bob Holland 4)

“You sure? He seemed to look right through you.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

I caught up with Masterson before he could cross the intersection. “Why, hey there, Billy Bob,” he said, as though my face had been hard to recognize in the failing light. “What are you doing in Missoula?”

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“Chasing ambulances. You know how it is,” I replied. “How about you?”

“A little vacation,” he replied, his eyes twinkling.

“Right,” I said.

“You ought to come back and work for the G.”

“Got any openings?” I said.

“You know me. I stay out of administration. Hey, I don’t want to keep you. Call me if you’re in Arizona.”

“Sure,” I said.

He crossed the intersection, then went into the Fact and Fiction bookstore. My food was cold when I got back to the table.

“What’s the deal on your friend?” Temple said.

“Remember the story about the FBI agent who wrote a memo warning the head office terrorists were taking flight instruction in Phoenix? The memo that got ignored?”

“That’s the guy?”

“He was at Ruby Ridge and Waco, too. Seth gets around.”

“You want your food reheated?”

“Why not?” I said. But even after the waitress warmed up my plate, I couldn’t eat. I wasn’t sure why Seth was in Missoula, but there were two things I was certain of: Seth Masterson didn’t take prisoners and I didn’t want him as an adversary.

SATURDAY MORNING I received a call at home from a man who was probably the most effective but lowest-rent attorney in Missoula. If a human being could exude oil through his pores, it was Brendan Merwood. His politics were for sale, his advocacy almost always on the side of power and greed. What he was now telling me seemed to offend reason.

“You represent Michael Charles Ruggles and he wants to see me?” I said.

“He likes to be called Charlie.”

“Why would ‘Charlie’ have any interest in me?”

“Put it this way—he’s not your ordinary guy.”

“My wife got that impression when he called her a bitch and expressed his thoughts about her anatomy.”

“I’m just passing on the message. Do with it as you wish, my friend,” he said, and hung up.

I drove to St. Patrick’s Hospital in Missoula and rode the elevator up to Charlie Ruggles’s floor. A sheriff’s deputy stopped me at his door. “You’re supposed to be on an approved visitors list, Billy Bob,” he said.

“Better check with the man inside,” I said, and grinned.

The deputy went into the room and came back out. “Go on in,” he said.

Instead, I stayed outside momentarily and pulled the door closed so Charlie Ruggles could not hear our conversation. “Was Seth by here?” I asked.

“Who?” the deputy said.