In the Moon of Red Ponies: A Novel by James Lee Burke Page A

came back out the sliding glass door with her father, both of them now staring up the hill. Don’t lose control. Handle this right, Darrel told himself. Never surrender the situation to perps.
    He turned on Wyatt Dixon. “You’re in a shitload of trouble, boy. Wait right here till I get back,” he said.
    Darrel went hurriedly down the incline, stepped across a series of rocks that spanned the stream at the bottom, and entered Amber Finley’s backyard, while she and her father and their guests stared at him in dismay. His shield was open in his hand.
    “I’m Detective Darrel McComb, Senator. I was following an ex-convict by the name of Wyatt Dixon. He seems to have taken an interest in your house,” he said.
    “Why would he be interested in us?” Romulus Finley asked.
    “He was in Deer Lodge for a homicide. But unfortunately he’s out,” Darrel said.
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “This man beat Johnny American Horse with a blackjack,” Amber said.
    “I see,” Romulus said.
    “I’ve intruded on you, but I thought you should know, I mean about this fellow up in the trees,” Darrel said. He folded his badge holder and put it away, glad to have something to occupy his hands.
    “I appreciate your concern. But we’re not real worried about this,” Romulus said.
    The two men and the woman who had arrived in the Mercury were on the patio now, watching Darrel as though he were part of a skit. Where had he seen the woman? Somewhere down in the Bitterroot Valley? She wore a suit and was auburn-haired and attractive in a masculine way. Her eyes seemed to look directly into his.
    “I guess I’ll go. I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Darrel said.
    “It’s no problem,” Romulus said.
    Darrel recrossed the stream and climbed the incline back into the woods, wondering if his story had been plausible at all or if he had looked as ridiculous as he felt.
    But at least Wyatt Dixon was gone. From the shadows Darrel looked back down into the yard of Amber Finley. The auburn-haired woman dressed in the suit was standing on the deck, steam rising from the hot tub behind her. He thought she was gazing up at the treeline where he stood, perhaps wondering where she had met or seen him. Then he realized she was watching a child launch a kite into the sunset, and his presence in the Finleys’ backyard had been of no more consequence to those gathered there than his absence.
    A white-tailed doe bolted out of the trees and thumped across the sod and down a gully. The woods felt dark and cold, the air heavy with gas, more like autumn than spring. Darrel struck the trunk of a larch with the heel of his hand, hard, shaking needles out of the branches, cursing the quiet desperation of his life.
     
    AMBER CALLED ME at the office early the next morning and told me of Darrel McComb’s bizarre behavior at her house. “He was lying. He’s a voyeur,” she said.
    “He told you he was following a man named Dixon?”
    “Right. Who’s this guy Dixon, anyway?”
    “A guy who left his pancakes on the stove too long.” I glanced out the window.
    “What’s he want with us?” she asked.
    “I’ll let you know. He’s looking through my window right now.”
    After I hung up, I opened my door and went into the reception area just as Wyatt came through the front door. He wore a purple-striped western shirt with scarlet garters on the sleeves. The bottoms of his jeans were streaked with water, as though he had walked through wet weeds. He grinned stupidly at the receptionist, his gaze raking her face and breasts.
    “What were you doing at the Finley place?” I said.
    “Taking a drain,” he said, his eyes still fastened on the receptionist. He started to speak to her.
    “Hildy, go down to Kinko’s and pick up our Xerox work, will you?” I said.
    “Gladly,” she said, picking up her purse.
    I walked inside my office and closed the door after Wyatt was inside.
    “Nice little heifer you got out there,” he