Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley Page B

Caucasian, mid to late forties, give or take. Big eyes in a long, narrow face. Prominent nose. Dark, heavy sideburns, long hair, maybe. Couldn’t tell for sure because of the cowboy hat.” I closed my eyes to picture the fleeting moment better. “Uh, medium build, maybe, fairly broad shoulders. That’s about it.”
    â€œGood. What was he wearing?”
    â€œThe cowboy hat was gray, and he wore a dark shirt, blue maybe.”
    â€œI see,” Grooms said, not looking up from a pad she was jotting notes on. “Could you identify this man if you saw him again?”
    â€œYeah, I’m pretty sure I could.”
    â€œDo you think you could help our artist come up with a sketch of this man?”
    â€œI suppose I could do that. It’ll be pretty rough.”
    â€œBut better than nothin’. How about the truck?”
    I puffed a breath through my lips and shook my head. “Late model, dark blue pickup. Nondescript…Ford or Chevy, maybe.”
    Deputy Grooms rolled her eyes at my inability to differentiate between a Ford and a Chevy but didn’t comment. “Did you see the plates?”
    â€œNope. I was worried about him being the man I’d come to see—the victim, Mr. Watlamet—so I really didn’t focus on the truck.”
    She snapped her notebook shut and said, “Excuse me,” and then walked briskly over to the squad car. I knew she was going to call in a BOLO for the truck and the man I described. There was a good chance he was still on the road.
    When she came back she asked me more questions about why I happened to be visiting Sherman Watlamet. I laid out the entire story and told her that Philip Lone Deer had helped me find Watlamet. I gave her Philip’s phone number and address. She asked me who my client was. I told her that was privileged, but if she felt she needed it, I would seek my client’s permission to give it to her. She told me to go ahead and do that.
    â€œDo you think this killin’ here’s connected to the disappearance of Mr. Queah in any way?” she asked when I’d finished.
    â€œI don’t see how it could be, but you know what they say about coincidences.”
    She allowed a faint smile. “Right. You gonna keep workin’ on the disappearance?”
    I shrugged. “It’ll depend on what my client wants to do now.”
    Grooms locked onto me with those hard, gray eyes. “You might want to consider quittin’ while you’re ahead, Mr. Claxton. But if you learn anything new, you be sure to call me.”
    Later that afternoon I was sitting on a park bench in The Dalles watching Archie sniff around. I had just finished up with the sheriff department’s artist, a young woman who quickly and deftly captured the essence of the face of the man I saw. To be honest, I was more than a little skittish about this. The sketch was bound to get into the papers and reinforce the shooter’s notion that I was a star witness. Of course, I didn’t know whether he knew who I was, and that was something I needed to talk to Philip about. Just what had he told people in his search for Watlamet? Had he used my name? I wondered. As if on cue, my phone chirped. It was Philip returning my call.
    â€œHow’d it go with Watlamet?”
    â€œUh, not too well.”
    â€œWhy? What happened?”
    â€œHe’s dead. Someone shot him with a rifle at long range just before I got there.”
    â€œWhat? You’re kidding.”
    I went on to tell him what I’d found and how Archie had saved me from getting my brains blown out, too. After I finished he said, “Where are you now?”
    â€œI’m sitting in a park in The Dalles watching Archie take a leak.”
    â€œDon’t go home. Bring the hero dog and come to my place. We can talk about this. You can go home in the morning. I’m glad you’re okay, man.”
    â€œMe, too.”

Chapter Ten
    â€œHold