Chapter Seven
“Can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.” Miah knocked his kickstand down at dusk the next evening, red dust rising underfoot. Dead Creek was earning its name, the water just a glittering thread strung between the rocks. The dirt road was too rough for Miah’s old Triumph from here on out, but no matter. He could see his destination—a boxy seventies camper van, white with faded orange trim, parked a quarter mile deeper into the badlands beside the twisted remains of a long-dead plains cottonwood.
Dried grass rustled about Miah’s boots as he approached, his stomach souring. He knew John Dancer mostly by reputation—a reputation that preceded the man like the stench of carrion. He was a drifter who’d bucked the trend and put down roots, an indiscriminate criminal who dealt in guns and drugs and likely worse, yet, to Miah’s knowledge, had never served a day in prison. He’d been a sketchy fixture around Brush County since Miah had been fresh out of high school, probably. No one knew where he’d come from, but everyone hoped he’d up and go back there someday.
Not today, though.
Today Miah had the displeasure of needing something from the creep. He’d asked James Ware what he knew about the local drug dealers, but as expected, he’d not been willing to talk. He’d told Miah most of the people he’d dealt with had been over around Lime, anyhow, probably not in Bean’s circle.
That left Dancer. Miah would have sent Casey, but there was bad blood between the two of them, it seemed. Vince and Dancer weren’t any friendlier, and he wasn’t about to ask Raina to parlay with the asshole. Casey had told Miah that Duncan had some sort of weird rapport with Dancer, but Miah was too stubborn to owe that guy anything more than a chilly nod when they crossed paths. So it seemed he himself was the best man for the job.
Best man with the most to lose, he thought grimly.
True, but in his gut it was the opposite. He was at rock bottom now, and though if he fucked this up and got himself stabbed or charged with interfering with a criminal investigation he absolutely would discover there was a sub-sub-basement to his misery . . . Well, it couldn’t feel any worse than sitting back and doing nothing. That much he knew for certain.
He crossed the last few yards, wondering if he ought to shout to announce his arrival, or knock on a window, or—
“Jeremiah Church, as I live and breathe!”
Miah turned, finding the van’s owner approaching from the direction of the creek. Kim had once said that John Dancer was what you’d get if you bred Frank Zappa with a cockroach, and it fit. The guy was lanky, built like a rock star or a speed freak, dressed in black jeans and an undershirt and outlandish checkerboard cowboy boots. He was a few years older than Miah, maybe forty.
“You get lost on your way to a cattle drive?” Dancer asked, stopping at his van.
“I was hoping for a word.”
“Just the one?” He leaned into his open passenger-side window and straightened with a huge white parrot clambering up his bare arm to his shoulder. It eyed Miah, yellow crest rising and falling. “Before you lay it on me, I owe you some overdue condolences. Sorry to hear about your old man. Nasty fucking business.”
You’d know all about it. “Thanks.”
“You want a drink?” Dancer added, reaching for his back pocket, then holding out a flask.
“No,” Miah said, realizing instantly it was a lie.
“You sure? It’s not laced, I swear. You’re not my type.” Dancer unscrewed the cap and took a swig himself.
“Fine.” Miah caught the flask when Dancer tossed it, expecting whiskey and wincing to taste something far more astringent. “Jesus fuck, what is that? Drain cleaner?”
“You come all this way to hurt my feelings, Church? That’s bathtub gin.”
“Where the fuck do you keep a bathtub in a camper?”
“You’re so fucking welcome,” Dancer said, and motioned for Miah to hand the flask back.
He did, gratefully, the insides of his cheeks burning. “I came to ask about Chris Bean, anything you know about him. Or about anybody you might know who might’ve dealt to him.”
Dancer fluttered his eyelashes. “Wherever did you get the impression that a man of my gilded repute would associate with such ne’er-do-wells?”
“Your reputation itself gave me that impression. Play coy if you want, but I’m prepared to make this chat worth your time.”
Dancer regarded his flask, the setting sun glinting off its cap, painting an orange streak across his cheek. “I may know a name or two. And come to think of it, there is something you’ve got that I want.”
Miah frowned, not liking the sound of that. “What?”
The bird shrieked, its pupil tightening to a black dot, then dilating again.
“Hush, Cookie.” Dancer narrowed his own eyes at Miah and smiled. “Word around town is you’ve got a nice little steamy spring on your land. A campground with my own personal hot tub is rather appealing, what with summer on its way out . . .”
“No goddamn way.”
“Not forever. For six months, say. Get me through the long, cold winter.”
“No.”
“Three months.”
“Zero months. What about cash? How much for these names of yours?”
“Five hundred.”
Miah narrowed his eyes. “Fifty for each name, and I’ll double it if any of them lead to anything useful.”
“Sure you will.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he said evenly. “Vince Grossier may be my best friend but we differ on the topic of personal honor. If I get what I want, you’ll get paid. That’s a promise.”
“A hundred per name, plus the bonus, and you didn’t fucking hear them from me, you understand that?”
“That was assumed.”
Dancer nodded his head thoughtfully, then stuck out a hand. Miah reluctantly stepped closer and shook it, and was nearly bitten by that creepy parrot.
He pulled a pad and pencil from his jacket pocket. “So. Names.”
“I’ll give you two. I’m tempted to give you ten useless ones just for the cash, but your dad’s dead so I won’t fuck with you.”
Miah didn’t waste the breath to utter a sarcastic thank-you.
“First one’s Steve Rawlins. He deals a shitload of meth—that was Bean’s drug of choice, right?”
Miah nodded, scribbling the name down.
“Rawlins lives in Bean’s old neighborhood, so he’s an obvious choice. The other name is Dom Gutierrez. He’s this big fat Mexican cat who lives out by the foothills. He cooks and deals, and he sings like a fucking soprano, so even if he never supplied Bean, he might tell you who did, if you flash enough cash. He doesn’t fuck around, though—if you had any thoughts about wearing a wire, you might as well pistol-whip your own fucking face and save yourself the trip. I wouldn’t go armed, either.”
“All right.”
“Both those guys have probably gotten the shakedown since the murder,” Dancer said, and leaned back against the van’s door, crossing his ropey arms. “They might be shy, is what I’m saying, and they got fuck-all reason to admit anything incriminating to you.”
Miah knew that, but he was trying hard to ignore the fact lest he lose momentum.
“Just be prepared to invest, is what I’m getting at.”
Miah nodded, stabbed by a pang of guilt. It wasn’t as though he had much business throwing money at this reckless plan with the ranch as precarious as it was. But if the alternative was doing nothing . . . ?
“This was helpful,” he said, tucking his pad and pencil away and taking out his wallet. “Two hundred now, and the bonus if it comes to anything.” He counted out four fifties; he’d taken twice that much out of the bank this afternoon, but Dancer didn’t need to know that. He handed the creep his fee.
“Much obliged, cowboy. If you crack the case, how about two nights by your hot spring?”
Miah smiled grimly, knowing exactly how immeasurably long a shot that was. “Make it a week. But I wouldn’t go shopping for a new bathing suit if I was you.”
Dancer smirked. “You’re all right, Church, you know that?”
I’m so not all right it’s nearly funny. “Thanks for the names.”
“And the gin.”
“No.”
“Well, fuck you very much, too. Best to your mother.”
Miah shivered and gave a curt nod, turned back toward the road. The sun was just about to wink out, no more than a pink-yellow sliver glazing the hills. It was at least ten degrees cooler than when he’d left home, and he had only a tee on under his jacket. He wished a drink and a fire were in his immediate future, but he had work to finish once he got—
He paused, about to buckle his helmet as a car came around the bend.
Oh, fuck me.
Not any old car. A beige BCSD cruiser. It slowed, then came to a stop a few yards from Miah’s bike. He held his breath, heart a thick knot in his throat, and then the only thing that could have made this any worse stepped out of the driver’s seat.
Nicki. Fuck.
“Miah?”
He offered a lame wave and guilty smile.
Nicki stooped to say something to her partner, then shut her door. As she approached, he watched her eyebrows rise, a look so comically bereft of amusement he knew it was the same one she’d reserve for when her son had done something supremely boneheaded.
“Evenin’, Deputy. You on patrol?”
“I am. What about you? Sunset joyride?”
“That’s about right.” He felt something funny prickle inside him. Her tone was sarcastic and challenging, and he met it with evasion. They’d never once been at odds before—their friendship was built on kindness and a deep sympathy. He’d entertained a couple idle thoughts since ending things with Denny about how if he continued to scrape his dignity back together he might just find the balls to ask Nicki out. But her tone of voice and that look on her face told him loud and clear, even if she didn’t know exactly what he was up to out here, on the closest thing to the front porch of the town’s shadiest denizen . . . she was skeptical. She was a couple answers away from pissed, he suspected, and as he wasn’t a man who lied, he was only about to disappoint her further.
“You know him?” Nicki asked, jerking her head in the direction of the lights now glowing from Dancer’s distant van.
“Not well.”
“You know, there’s a contest at the BCSD. You can pay into a pool and whoever manages to charge that guy someday wins the pot.”
He swallowed. “You don’t say.”
“What business have you got with John Dancer?”
He straightened up. “I just wanted some information.”
“Information?”
“Yeah. I’m not in the market for roofies or Mexican Viagra or whatever the fuck else he deals in. Just wanted a couple names.”
“Names of who?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Is this to do with Bean?”
He said nothing, which was all the answer she needed.
By the glow of the cruiser’s lights, her fists went to her hips with such force her curly hair bounced. “What the fuck, Miah?”
“I’m not going to mess up the investigation. I’m just . . . I can’t fucking stand doing nothing. Knowing nothing, and feeling like the people in charge of finding answers are doing nothing.”
“Whose names?”
He sighed. “Local dealers. Ones Bean might’ve got his shit from.”
She didn’t just roll her eyes in exasperation; she rolled her entire head, blinking toward the heavens for a dramatic moment. She dropped her chin and leveled him with a stare. “Fuck, Miah. You are playing with some fucked-up fire, you get that? With the kinds of people you’re looking to bother, and yeah, with the investigation.”
“I’m not trying to be reckless. I’m just doing something. Some tiny thing, to keep from going crazy.”
“Any drug dealer who’s got anything to do with Bean is just as likely to pull a gun on you as to say hello. You know that, right?”
“I don’t know anything anymore. That’s my goddamn problem.”
“You know what your mother’s problem is, then? Her son getting his ass laid up by some shady-ass thug because he’s hell-bent on hampering an ongoing murder investigation.”
“Nicki—”
Her posture changed and she seemed to compose herself, quick as a gun cocking. “I’m off at eight and my son’ll be in bed by ten. After that I’m coming by your place. I have some words for you that I can’t say on duty.”
And judging from the blaze in her brown eyes, they weren’t sweet nothings. Miah wasn’t about to argue with a woman when she looked as determined as Nicki did. Determined, and pissed.
“I’ll be home,” he said simply.
“You better be.” And with that, she turned and climbed back into her car.
He watched her drive away, holding his breath until the cruiser faded behind a trail of rising dust, looking like red fog against the taillights. He walked to his bike and swung his leg over. His body felt about a thousand years old, but he knew this day was far from over.