Read an Excerpt

1

"What was that?"

Henry Standing Bear looked at me and smiled. "My move."

I glanced down at the weathered chess set between us as Lucian Connally stood on the patio of room 32, turning the three T-bones on the outlaw grill he wasn't supposed to have in the Durant Home for Assisted Living. Stretching his back with a hand at its small, the old sheriff took a deep breath and blew out a lungful into the frigid night and announced, "It is a beautiful evening out, and I'm thinking we should dine on the veranda."

He was framed perfectly in the twinkling Christmas lights that surrounded the patio doors, even though it was New Year's Eve and freezing. "It's twelve degrees outside, Lucian."

Dog, sitting on the sofa he wasn't supposed to be on, watched him stomp off into the cold, which was nothing new in that he watched everything Lucian did concerning raw meat.

New Year's Eve notwithstanding, Tuesday nights were chess nights at the "old folks' home," as Lucian referred to it, but sometimes our gracious host had other duties and left the board to us lesser masters. I'd used the Bird's Opening, 1.f4, but the Bear hadn't responded with the usual setup, with b3 and Bb2, but had instead fianchettoed his king's bishop for a flagrant d5. "You're going to lose your bishop," I said.

"Perhaps."

My eyes went from the old sheriff and back to the board to study the Cheyenne Nation's move. "Pretty aggressive opening."

"Yes."

Lucian limped back in and eyed the board with me, taking a stance that relieved the pressure on his prosthetic leg as he slipped off his insulated ranch coat and puffed on his pipe-something else he wasn't supposed to be doing inside the facility. "The Polar Bear System."

"The what?"

He nodded his chin toward the board and tossed the coat onto the sofa beside Dog. "It's a mirror image of the Leningrad Dutch defense." Reaching over the table, he picked up the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve Twenty-Three-Year-Old and poured himself another dram. "Risky stuff; most you can hope for a lot of times is a draw."

The Cheyenne Nation's face remained unreadable. "Sometimes a draw is a victory . . . Especially when dealing with polar bears."

Connally snorted, then sipped his bourbon. "And what the hell do you know about polar bears, Ladies Wear?"

Henry's dark eyes met mine before responding. "Actually, quite a bit."

"You know, there are times when I think-and I say this with the greatest respect and admiration-that you're full of shit." He stared at the Bear for a moment and then freshened both our tumblers. "When were you ever that far north?"

The Bear pointed his lips toward me. "Visiting him."

Lucian sat the bottle down, sipped his bourbon, and studied me. "When you were up on the North Slope?"

I, in turn, studied the board. "Yep."

"You never told me the Injun came up there."

I shrugged and placed a finger on a piece. "It never came up."

"Get your finger off that knight."

I removed the finger and looked at him. "What?"

Lucian held the glass of liquid spirits to his nose, not drinking; the amber light reflecting and illuminating the lower planes of his face in a devilish visage. "My finely honed detecting skills lead me to believe that there is a story here, one that I may have never heard."

The Bear said nothing for a few moments and then reached into his chambray shirt pocket and carefully pulled something out, placing it at the center of the board. It was something wrapped in oiled canvas tied with sinew, with two small wooden beads attached to the ends.

I stared at the relic. "Is that what I think it is?"

He nodded, his face like a carving.

Lucian lowered his tumbler and looked at the item. "What the hell is it?"

Henry took his time answering. "A totem."

"Of what?"

The Cheyenne Nation raised his eyes to mine. "Perhaps . . . An artifact from when we were young. Do you remember that?"

I smiled. "Sometimes, but sometimes it seems like it happened to someone else, like a dream or a movie or a book that I can only remember the good parts." I reached down and touched the thing. "Good to see it; reminds me that it was us and that the story was real."

He held his gaze on me. "Is real."

I huffed a laugh and then studied his face, somber as a landslide. "You think the nanurluk is still out there?"

"The what?" Lucian sat his tumbler down and reached out for the packet. "What in the hell are you two talking about?"

"Do not touch it."

The old sheriff paused in a way I'd never seen him, his hand hovering above the small bundle. "Why the hell not? He did."

"He is allowed." The Bear picked up his tumbler and took a small sip, making a face and setting it back on the coaster beside the board. "He was there."

"Where?"

"Nuiqsut."

"And where, pray tell, is that?"

"North Slope, within the Arctic Circle."

Our host, discerning that the story was Henry's to tell, sidled over, sat on the arm of my chair and pointed at his wristwatch. "Well, you've got seven minutes to tell me this story before I have to turn those steaks."

The Bear flicked a glance at him. "This story might take longer than that."

Station R3, Nuiqsut,
North Slope, Alaska

December 21, 1970

"What was that?"

Henry looked at me and smiled. "My move."

It was hard to hear him with all the noise that emanated from the rig, a thrumming from the walls along with the other ancillary noises of a small city crammed into what sometimes felt like a steel ice box. "Are you trying to lose this game?"

He ignored my question, glancing around at the metal walls devoid of any decoration. "So, this is what you have been doing for the last month?"

I lifted the Cattlemen's Steakhouse mug that I inherited from the previous chief of security from Oklahoma, the one who shot himself. "I've been practicing my drinking too."

He scanned the rest of the cubicle, taking in the fluorescent lights overhead, the two bunk beds where we sat facing each other, and finally the small magnetic chess set that sat on a footlocker between us. "I can see why."

After moving my knight out, I threaded my fingers into my beard and figured I needed to defend my recent life choices. "It's cold here, and after Vietnam and Johnston Atoll, I thought I needed some cooling off-maybe in more ways than one."

He nodded silently.

Reaching over, I pulled a bottle of J.P. Wiser's Canadian whisky from the crate that served as my nightstand and poured another drink. "The pay is good."

He moved a pawn. "It better be."

Swirling the Canadian rye in the ceramic mug, I shot a look at him over the rim. "Did you just come all the way up here to make me feel worse?"

"I do not think you need any help with that."

I sipped my drink and stared at the chessboard, unfocusing my eyes. "You know, I used to think that Wyoming was the end of the world, but then I came here."

"And why did you, honestly?"

"Maybe a confession of despair concerning the veneer of civilization, or the fact that I wanted to see a voiceless icescape that despises movement and attempts to freeze the blood in your veins-maybe that's all we deserve."

He stared at me.

"I guess I wanted to see it."

He looked around the room again, placing another pawn into immediate peril. "See this?"

I took the pawn. "You are trying to lose this game."

He shrugged, finally admitting. "I am only here for seventy-two hours, and I would prefer not all of it be spent in this room."

There was a beep from the intercom system on the wall by the door. I stood and walked over, hitting the broad tab at the bottom of the cream-colored plastic device. "Longmire."

Static. "Chief, we've got a problem."

I depressed the tab again. "I told you, just call me Walt."

Static. "Right, right . . . Well, we've got a problem in the commissary."

"Yep?"

Static. "One of the younger guys has gone a little buggy and grabbed a meat cleaver. He's holed up in the pantry and won't let anybody near him."

"Who?"

Static. "Frazier."

"My Frazier?"

Static. "'Fraid so."

I placed my mug on the chess set and opened the locker that served as my closet, then took out my holstered Colt .45 and put it on before gesturing for Henry to follow me out of the room. "Looks like you get your wish."

Living on an oil rig is something akin to living on a submarine in that the quarters are tight; I'm assuming in an attempt to heat the smallest area possible. As Bear and I charged down the narrow hallways and stairwells, I pulled out the big semiautomatic Colt just to make my priority clear, and the crews that were up and about quickly parted to make way. "Make a hole and make it wide!"

The Bear's voice carried from behind me as we ran along. "Buggy?"

I nodded as we turned a corner and dropped down another stairwell. "Shift workers, mostly. After working nights for a few weeks, some of the guys can't take it and get a little emotional, start seeing and hearing things."

"And this Frazier is one of your security attachments?"

I pushed through a set of double doors that led into the mess hall. "One of my swing shift guys who has been showing a few symptoms."

Catching up with me, Henry continued the conversation as most of the rest of the people in the room were either on their way out or were pressed against the walls. "Besides grabbing a cleaver and threatening the citizenry?"

I nodded. "Yep, he was spotting for one of the geology teams and was complaining about somebody screaming all the time."

"And what was the problem?"

I pulled up short at the other end of the commissary where the kitchen staff and one of the administrators stood, casting worried looks through the portholes in the swinging doors and into the kitchen. "He was the one doing the screaming."

Taking a deep breath, I called out. "Hey, what's for dinner?"

Jim Sanderson, the person with whom I'd spoken to on the intercom, turned to me. "Not pizza."

"What's wrong with pizza?"

"Your crazy security guy has all of them in there and doesn't appear to be in a sharing mood."

"What, he's cooking pizzas?"

He gestured toward the porthole window. "See for yourself."

Leaning over the smaller man, I peered through the glass into the kitchen where George Frazier was standing in the middle of the room, holding a cleaver and sucking on a piece of frozen pizza before raising his head and screaming at the ceiling.

Stepping back, I cut a look at Sanderson. "He's eating it raw?"

"The kitchen staff wouldn't cook it for him, so he decided to self-serve."

"Has he been drinking?"

"Hasn't everybody?"

I ignored the remark and stepped by him, holstering my .45 then pushing open the door and entering the kitchen where Frazier stood, an uneven stack of plastic-wrapped pizzas strewn behind him on a stovetop. "You get that delivered?"

He took the pizza out of his mouth. "Fuck you."

I sighed at him, a very large individual with thick glasses and a wild hairstyle that could only be described as a sideswiped Afro. "You're scaring people, George."

"Fuck them too."

"What, because they wouldn't cook you a pizza?"

I stepped toward him, but he raised the cleaver and screamed a long and plaintive cry at the heavens before speaking. "Stay back, big man, or I'll cut one of your arms off."

"George, you can't stand in here and suck on frozen pizza, first of all because it'll take all night for you to eat three slices, and second of all because you're interrupting business as usual and you know that with the company, that's a no-no."

"Fuck the company."

"George, you're not leaving me many options here."

"Sure I am. Turn around and get the hell out." He tilted his head back and screeched at the ceiling again.

"George, you have to stop doing that."

"Doing what?" He stuck the frozen pizza back in his mouth.

I sighed again. "How 'bout I cook your pizza for you?"

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand watching you eat it like that, it's disgusting."

He thought about it. "I want more than one."

"I don't care, George. I'll cook all of them if you want."

He gestured behind me with the cleaver. "Who's that?"

I turned to see Henry, who had slipped through the double doors and now waited, his arms folded. "That's the pizza specialist. We flew him in from Fairbanks."

"He doesn't look like a cook."

"Sure he is."

"Looks like a harpoon chucker."

"He does that on the side." I stepped forward. "Gimme the cleaver, George."

He swung the thing and screamed at the ceiling again before pointing it at Henry. "He cooks the pizza first."

"Sure." I stepped aside as the Bear nodded at me and then moved past, reaching down to turn a knob on the stove beside Frazier, the soft pop of the gas igniting within.

The security man watched Henry work as he took a pizza from the stack and began unwrapping it. "Medium rare or well-done?" As George considered the question, the Cheyenne Nation swung the point of an elbow around, catching him just under the right ear, whereupon he dropped like a poleaxed steer. "We will go with well-done."

Stooping down, I grabbed the cleaver and we picked up the unconscious man, the Bear helping to shrug him onto my shoulder as we walked him out of the kitchen and past the administrator and culinary staff. "I think he's had enough."

Fortunately, I didn't have to carry him far because the security offices were in the same module as the commissary. Our emergency jail cell was a bear cage that had been left by a National Geographic expedition-there weren't any bloodstains in the thing, so I supposed the expedition had been a success.

Rolling Frazier onto a cot, I retreated and then secured the gate with my handcuffs before heading over to my desk to search for a pen and start the paperwork, which would likely have him shipped off the facility and end his security career within the greater petroleum industry.

As I opened and closed drawers, I finally found a BIC pen while Henry sat in the chair on the other side of my desk. "That was diverting."