Chapter 7

Early March

It had been sixteen days since he'd seen her, and in that time, he'd had to punch a new hole in his belt.

He hadn't felt like going to the store, or cooking, or for that matter, showering, and he'd stopped going to the Red Pony because every time he did, Henry said something like, "How did Vic respond when you told her you are in love with her?" or "What kind of flowers did you give her when you begged for her forgiveness?" or "What cleaning products did you use to sanitize the office after you and Vic were finished in there?" or the final straw, "Tell me, Walter, how does it feel to be the biggest idiot in the Western Hemisphere?"

After that, he stayed home. There's only so much a man can take.

He wasn't hungry, so he drank a lot of beer, and he slept even more, and in the mornings he went to work, and when that was done in the evenings, he went home, and he still wasn't hungry, so he drank a lot, and thankfully, he slept a lot.

She returned to work on the second Monday morning in March suntanned and rested, and she had gifts for all of them. She gave Ruby a pair of mother of pearl earrings and Ferg a retro Hawaiian shirt. She gave Walt a refrigerator magnet in the shape of a bare foot. It said, Hang Ten Waikiki Beach.

He already knew she'd gone to Hawaii because Ferg and Ruby had refused to shut up about it. She'd texted pictures to Ferg, and emailed pictures to Ruby, and they'd both insisted on showing every single last one of them to Walt, for two weeks. A couple of times they were bikini shots. In one, a buff young guy had his arm around her, and Walt felt possessive, territorial because this gym rat was touching his woman. If he could have punched himself for the audacity of having such a thought, he would have.

He'd played it off, but each time he had to excuse himself to use the restroom, and once it was so bad he had to go home sick, and Ruby thought he must be dying, and he was.

But Vic was back now and she was okay. She was doing her job, and she didn't seem mad at him. She didn't seem anything she hadn't been previously, except she used to be his friend and now she wasn't. But she still talked to him sometimes when it wasn't a hundred percent necessary, so there was that.

He figured he'd just let it blow over, and maybe at some point it would feel normal again, and they'd revisit this thing between them, and the next time he'd do it right, and they'd look back at this and laugh.

In the meantime, she was still the best deputy he'd ever had.

** [ ||||| ] **

Late February

After striking out with her the day the M.E.'s report arrived, he'd hung back to regroup.

It's possible he hung back a little too far for a little too long, but yesterday's conversation with Henry had knocked him upside the head and pointed him back in the right direction.

It was true: He was not unclear as to why she was taking time off.

The last day before her vacation started, she worked late tying up loose ends, and he stayed late because she was there.

When she was leaving, she called out to him from the main office to say goodbye, and he shot up to his feet, way too eager, and he banged his right knee hard on the underside of his desk.

She saw and probably heard him coming, so she waited.

Her hip was cocked and her arms were crossed and she was looking at him like she thought he was a moron but didn't want him to know she thought that.

He said, "Hey, Vic," and he ran his hand down over the back of his hair. "You think we could talk before you take off?"

"Sure," she said. "About what?"

He gestured for her to sit down.

"I'm comfortable talking standing up. Thanks."

He peered into his office as though planning an escape route, and he knew she was watching him, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Walt. Sometime this year."

The expression on her face reminded him of when he'd had to serve her the divorce papers. She was serious, and she was tough, and it scared him. He turned so he was facing her, shoulders square.

"About that night," he whispered. They were the only ones in the office, but it still seemed like a subject that warranted discretion.

Last time she'd acted like she had no clue what he was talking about, but she didn't do that now. She just waited.

"Go ahead," she said, shifting her weight then uncrossing and recrossing her arms. "I'm listening."

He shifted his weight, removed his hands from his hips then put them back. He scratched his head.

"I just think, Vic, there's been a misunderstanding, and I wanted to—"

"A misunderstanding?" she said, and it sounded like her jaw was clenched, and even in the low light, he could see the flush spreading up her neck and into her face.

"Yeah," he said. "I mean no. I think there's been some confusion about—"

"Confusion?" Her chest was rising and falling visibly now, her respiration rate increasing.

"Maybe confusion's the wrong word, but—"

"What do you want, Walt?" she said. Keeping her voice low and controlled was obviously taking some effort.

"I just want . . . ," he started, and then he lost steam, and he stammered a bit.

Then he just stared at her.

She must have counted to ten or something because there seemed to be a precise moment at which his time ran out.

"That's what I thought," she said as she walked away. "I'm glad we had this talk."

She closed the door behind her with emphasis a level or two below a slam. With that, her vacation began.

** [ ||||| ] **

Late January

When they arrived back at the station, Ferg met them in the lobby with cryptic eye signals and head nods, but no actual words.

Walt tried for a moment or two to decipher what he was saying before he gave up. "Just speak, Ferg."

Ferg beckoned them both closer, now with hand signals, and Vic rolled her eyes.

He whispered, "Madelyn Davis is in your office waiting to talk to you."

"So you think we need to draw our weapons before we go in there, Ferg?" Vic whispered sarcastically.

Ferg ignored her.

"She says she knows who killed Edwards."

"What the fuck is wrong with these people?" Vic said, looking at both of them like she expected an answer.

Walt held up his hand and his deputies came to attention, for the most part.

"Did you take a statement?" Walt asked.

"She wants to talk to you."

"We can do that," Walt said. "She give you a name?"

Ferg turned his notepad to face them and pointed to the neatly handwritten name Dale Yazzie. Under it in parentheses was written, or Doug or Dave.

"Yazzie?" Vic said. "How hard could that be to track down?"

"It's the most common surname in the Cheyenne Nation," Walt said. "And if he's a member of the Nation, we don't have access to the records. So pretty hard."