Waddlebutt puked a half-digested fish spine onto the floor. He began to peck at it, then picked it up and swung it around, before scarfing it down.

  Then he sprayed shit all over the floor.

  “We probably won’t air that,” said Heckle.

  “Probably,” said Jeckle.

  This unimpressed middle-aged female walked around the penguin and the weirdo twins, and went into the cockpit. McGlade, thankfully, was wearing pants. I sat in the passenger seat.

  “Seatbelt,” he said.

  I buckled up and asked, “What’s the plan?”

  “We’re doing two webcasts. Interviewing Wyatt, then interviewing Annie. I could use your help with the questions.”

  “Sure. Where are they?”

  “I haven’t done any. But it’s just gonna be standard witness interrogation. So if I miss anything, just jump in.”

  I still had a healthy dose of paranoia about someone discovering I wasn’t dead. “You can alter my voice live?”

  “This isn’t going to be live. I don’t know how long these two are going to ramble, so it’ll need some editing. I’ll weave the taped interviews into the live show.”

  “What are you plans for finding Herb and Tequila?”

  “Hopefully, these two will give us some clues. I’ve got a few hunches. If they’re confirmed, I think we can find a way to track them.”

  “No way to track through the Snuff-X site?”

  “Jack, it’s darknet. The Cowboy’s stream could be in Bolivia, or Afghanistan, or Sheboygan, Wisconsin. No way to trace it. But, if my research is correct, I think they’re somewhere in Nebraska, or a neighboring state. I just need to confirm some things. It’ll work out. Always does. Trust me.”

  My trust in McGlade was a sporadic thing. Sometimes he came through. Sometimes he was full of more shit than Waddlebutt. But even though I had more faith in my ability to roll Harry uphill than I did in his promises, I really had no choice. This was his investigation. I felt like a fifth wheel.

  Which, now that I fully focused on it, was the wrong approach. When I was a cop, even back in my rookie days, more cases were solved when I took point. Much as I didn’t want to appear on YouTube, I was more suited to questioning Wyatt and Annie than Harry was.

  Maybe it’s time for the fifth wheel to start load-bearing, I thought.

  Then I thought, not my best analogy.

  “Look!” Harry pointed with his fake hand. “Buffalos! Get a shot of that!”

  Technically, there were no buffalo in the Americas, contrary to the popular song. We were driving through a field of bison, which were an entirely different species than buffalo. The half-dozen animals were roaming among the turbines, separated from the road by a short barbed-wire fence. There were also a few heads of cattle, some deep black, some rust-colored, white tags hanging from their ears. And up ahead, at the end of the road—

  “Damn,” Harry said. “Sheriff Wyatt has got himself a rancher mansion. A ransion. Should I use that? Is it clever, or stupid?”

  The ransion, which had sort of a charming ring to it, was a sprawling, two-story log cabin that had to be over five thousand square feet. The upper and lower decks had wrap-around balconies, there was an attached three car garage, and to the east side of the house was a horse stable and pen.

  As we approached, the house began to look even bigger. A huge king post truss with giant windows jutted up like a mountain peak, a front porch bigger than my backyard was furnished with a swing, several rockers, a fire pit, and a dinette set for eight, and three massive, river-rock chimneys stretched up out of the metal roof.

  A figure stood up on the porch, and walked out to greet us. He was tall, over six feet, wore jeans and a red flannel shirt, brown boots and a matching brown cowboy hat, and had a mustache that would make Tom Selleck jealous.

  “Hot damn,” Harry said. “It’s the Marlboro Man.”

  While he wasn’t smoking, the man was easily as attractive and well-proportioned as any of the models used in that famous ad campaign.

  We parked, and when I opened the side door, he was standing right there. He had the kind of craggy, wrinkled face that looked good on guys my age, with a three day growth of beard that was shaved along his jawline. Eyes were dark brown, almost black. He immediately offered his hand, which was calloused but gentle when he shook mine.

  “I’d be Wyatt Steinhoffer.” He had a drawl that was more Texas than midwestern. “Welcome to my home, Miss…?”

  “Mrs.,” I said. “Johnson. Jill Johnson.”

  He didn’t release my hand yet, and I didn’t mind too much. Wyatt seemed to be one of those really good looking guys who acted like he wasn’t good looking but had to know it.

  “Pleasure is mine, Mrs. Johnson. Quite a rig you got there.”

  “You, too,” I said, checking out his side holster. “Colt Python.”

  His eyes crinkled. Why was it that wrinkles on men were sexy, and women were told they needed surgery or Botox?

  “The lady knows her firearms,” Wyatt said.

  “My husband has a Python.” I said. I only realized the innuendo after it had left my mouth.

  Wyatt didn’t seem to catch it. “He’s obviously a man who appreciates the finer things.”

  I took my hand back.

  “I’ve got a .44,” Harry said, coming up behind me. “But those little guns are nice too.”

  “Mr. McGlade.” Wyatt tipped his hat, but didn’t offer to shake.

  “Mr. Steinhoffer. Thanks for the invite. We’d like to get right to the interview, if you don’t mind.”

  “Did you want coffee first? Lemonade?”

  “No thanks. We’re in kind of a time crunch. Is your sister home?”

  “Annie’s out at the moment. She should be back soon.”

  “Can we set up on the porch?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Harry climbed out, followed by Heckle and Jeckle, who were lugging gear. The twins walked past Wyatt without acknowledging him.

  “And who’s the grizzly bear?” Wyatt asked.

  Rosalina was staring at us.

  “That’s Rosalina.”

  “And the obese pigeon?”

  “That’s Waddlebutt. A chinstrap penguin.”

  Wyatt adjusted his hat. “I’ll bet it was an interesting trip.”

  “You could say that. Do you mind if Rosa gets some air?”

  “Long as she doesn’t try to eat the bison. We got some chickens next to the stable, if your little bird friend needs some time with kin.”

  “Harry?” I called to him as he ordered Heckle and Jeckle around. “Can Waddlebutt play with the chickens?”

  “Sure. I’ll come get him.”

  I let Rosalina out, she went off exploring, and Harry came back and scooped up Waddlebutt as I walked with Wyatt toward his house. I wasn’t a fan of small talk, so I didn’t make any. We approached the front door, then took a right and strolled around the saddle-notch corner of the house, and over to a fenced-in coop, where four or five chickens wandered around. When Waddlebutt was introduced to the flock, they didn’t pay him any mind. He ignored them as well, and immediately began gathering pebbles.

  “I was hoping for something more,” Harry said. “Like penguin-chicken sex. Or a dance fight.” He turned to Wyatt. “Only hens?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  “I can’t even make a cock joke,” Harry said.

  “Give it time,” Wyatt said. “Maybe your Antarctic buddy is just waiting to break the ice.”

  McGlade didn’t seem impressed that someone was trying to outfunny him. I paid only half attention, gawking at the horse pen. I was a tomboy growing up, preferring Spider-man to Cinderella and GI Joe dolls to Barbie. But I had a friend who loved Barbie, and she had Barbie’s horse, a brown one named Dancer.

  I was always a sucker for Dancer. But my experience with real horses was limited to ponies at the petting zoo, and the occasional carriage ride on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile.

  So my eyes were completely captured by a white horse with brown patches. Or maybe it was a brown horse with white patches.

  “Jack,” Wyatt said touching my shoulder.

  I turned, maybe too fast to appear casual. “Excuse me?”

  “The quarter horse. Her name is Jack.”

  “Her name?”

  “Ladies can be named Jack.” Wyatt was doing that eye-crinkle thing again. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing, flirting, or waiting for Big Tobacco to snap his picture.

  “A pinto?” I asked, turning away.

  “A paint. Quarter horses with that coloring are called paints.”

  “Fascinating,” Harry said, butting in. “Do you have any of those horses that herd chickens?”

  Wyatt stopped posing. “Horses that herd chickens?”

  “You know,” Harry said. “A Clucksdale.”

  “Why don’t we sit down for that interview?” Wyatt suggested.

  “Lead the way.”

  I gave Jack the horse a last look and followed the guys to the porch.

  The twins had a two camera set-up, opposite a large piece of white poster board on a stand that was used to bounce the natural sunlight and make the subjects brighter. Two wood-slat Adirondack chairs faced one another. McGlade took one, then motioned me over.

  “Think of any questions?”

  “You haven’t got any?”

  “I’ve got plenty, but if you know any others, jump in.”

  I stood behind Jeckle’s camera, which was focusing on Wyatt. Heckle clipped microphones to each man, and they did a quick sound check. Once they had their level, Harry jumped right in.

  “This is Wyatt Earp Steinhoffer, Sheriff of Pastor County, Nebraska. How long have you been Sheriff, Sheriff?”

  “Eight years.”

  “And prior to that?”

  “We were venture capitalists.”

  Harry leaned forward, channeling the practiced concern of Geraldo Rivera. “We?”

  “Me and my sister. Annie.”

  “You’ve followed an unusual path to become Sheriff in these parts. Can you give me and the millions watching this the quick version?”

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “Nine years ago, Annie went missing west of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. She was gone for four months. When she was found, sixty miles east of here, she was practically naked and nearly dead. Annie’s an average-sized woman, about five-foot seven, a hundred and forty pounds, but when she was rushed to the hospital she weighed only eighty. Eighty pounds, sopping wet. And the scars…”

  “What about the scars, Sheriff?”

  “Let’s say she didn’t have much skin left that wasn’t marked up. Worst of all was her teeth.”

  “What about them?”

  “They were gone.”

  McGlade milked the moment, then leaned even closer. “What happened to your sister, Sheriff?”

  “Annie had been taken by slavers. They forced her to work on a poppy farm, harvesting opium. She was beaten with whips and sticks. Raped. Cut. Burned. Starved. Worked to near death.”

  “And the teeth?”

  “Every day, each slave had a quota. If she didn’t meet it, he pulled a tooth.”

  “Who is he, Sheriff?”

  “The worst human being to ever walk the planet earth.”

  “And who is that?”

  “The… Cowboy.”

  Again McGlade paused. The story was dramatic in its own right, but I had to say that Harry’s pauses made it even more powerful. In the background, dotting the landscape and humming so softly it was almost imagination, half a dozen turbines waved.

  “Tell us about… the Cowboy.”

  “Always wore black. Always kept his face covered with a bandana. He had a ten acre poppy farm, in the Nebraska plains. Used slaves for labor. Kept them chained up so they couldn’t get away. Fed them barely enough to stay alive. Deprived them of sleep, shelter, medical attention. And when they didn’t perform up to the Cowboy’s expectations, he tortured them. There has never been anyone born that was more inhuman. Annie told me stories, some of the things he did…”

  Wyatt looked like he was starting to tear up. I snuck a peek at one of the laptops that the twins were using as camera monitors, and Heckle had zoomed in on Wyatt’s eyes.

  “But your sister escaped.”

  “She was wearing one of them ball and chains. You know? Like you see on prisoners in a rock quarry, in all them old movies. Annie broke her own foot to get the cuff off. But it wasn’t enough. Cuff was still too tight. So she needed to lubricate it.”

  “How did she do that?”

  “With her own blood,” Wyatt said. He was breaking up, the tears obvious.

  Another dramatic Harry pause. He finally asked, “How did she get away?”

  “She crawled off, at night.” Wyatt sniffed. “Managed to get a few miles away before she passed out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “So how was she rescued?”

  “Turkey vultures.”

  McGlade turned to face the camera and he said, deadpan, “Turkey vultures.”

  “They circle over carrion. Dead livestock and such. Rancher was missing a few heads of cattle, followed the vultures to check. Found Annie there. The birds… they had already begun on her. Poor Annie didn’t even have the strength to fight them off.”

  Wyatt wiped his eyes. I was simultaneously revolted by one of the most horrible stories I’d ever heard, and revolted by McGlade’s crass exploitation of it. I’d been hoping for a police interview, but what I’d seen so far was more akin to a badly written infodump on a Lifetime Movie For Women.

  “Was the poppy farm ever discovered?” I asked, butting in.

  Wyatt sniffled again, then nodded. “Least, the burned remains were found. Few weeks later. Four acres. Only discovered it because of the smoke. Had nothing to do with Annie’s investigation. Law enforcement didn’t give a shit about her, or the Cowboy.”

  “Why do you say that?” McGlade asked.

  Wyatt folded his arms. “Because nobody did nothing. We talked to the local cops. The state cops. The feds. No one did shit. No searching for the farm. No hunting down the Cowboy. So while Annie focused on getting better, I focused on catching the son of a bitch who did it to her.”

  “So you ran for sheriff,” Harry said.

  He gave a single, authoritative nod. “Pastor County is a good county. Good people. But they never dealt with anything like the Cowboy. Previous sheriff was a decent enough fella, but he didn’t have the training.”

  “And you have the training?” I asked.

  Wyatt stared at me. The smile lines were gone, and his face had become hard, making him look ten years older.

  “I can fight. And I can shoot.”

  “Where did you get your training, Wyatt?”

  He paused, then drew his gun, such an abrupt, shocking thing to do that I also drew mine. But Wyatt didn’t aim at me. Instead, he sighted near the horse stable, about forty meters away, and shot at the rooster weathervane on the roof. Wyatt’s round hit the arrow, spinning it from north, to south.

  A damn fine shot. Especially so quick. Maybe five percent of athletes in the world of sport shooting could have done it.

  “I hold my own,” Wyatt said, holstering his weapon.

  I holstered mine as well, feeling a bit foolish. After a dramatic pause long enough for me to paint my nails, McGlade asked, “What happened to the former sheriff?”

  “Few months after I came on as deputy, he vanished.”

  “Think it was the Cowboy?”

  “Coulda been. Old Dan also liked the bottle, if you know what I’m saying. It’s a big country out there. Easy to get lost.”

  “Even if you follow the turkey vultures?” I asked.

  Wyatt gave me another cold look. I didn’t want to piss off our local contact, especially one who was helping us, and I didn’t mean to disrespect a fellow law enforcement officer. But one of my tricks, while interviewing witnesses, was to hit them with the tough questions that a defense attorney would use during a trial. It was a mean thing to do, but it tended to get past all the bullshit and to the root of truth.

  “I don’t know what happened to Dan,” Wyatt said. “My speculation is just that. Speculation.”

  “But you believed your sister. Her account of what happened.”

  “Of course.”

  I pushed it. “You don’t think that’s pretty far-fetched? Even eight years ago, we had satellites. Google Earth. A nationwide drug enforcement agency. A poppy field isn’t an easy thing to hide. Flowers are bright, and grow about three feet high. That’s why less than one percent of the heroin in this country is home grown. It’s more like point one percent. Because it’s much safer to import it, than grow it.”

  “There are ways to camouflage a farm from satellites. And your Google earth. Netting. Painted roofs. Electronic gizmos.”

  “But they had workers. It’s very tough to hide people. They eat food. Leave waste. Make fires and use machines. You’re really saying there was a big poppy farm out there, with many slaves, and no one ever discovered it?”

  “Mrs. Johnson, you talk like you’ve had some police experience.”

  That threw me off my game a bit. I came back with, “I read a lot.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “But would you answer the question, Sheriff?”

  “I believe my sister. She didn’t do it to herself. And the farm was found, later, burned to the ground. It all adds up. And I stand by her account of things. And my account of things.”

  Harry jumped in. “So, Sheriff Steinhoffer, in eight years of hunting, have you managed to find the Cowboy? Or his newest poppy field?”

  “I’ve had some encounters,” Wyatt said.

  “Such as?”

  “I think the Cowboy figured out what the lady said. That having a poppy farm out in the open is too risky. There are hundreds of thousands of empty acres in the Great Plains, but in order to farm enough opium for it to be profitable, he couldn’t chance being discovered. I think he changed his plan.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “I think he took his farm, and his slaves, on the road.”

  “Like a train,” Harry said.

  “Farming on a train ain’t the worst idea. Poppies are enclosed. Hidden. Train can move from state to state. But there are all kinds of rules and regulations for trains. Plus, they can only go where the tracks go. I think he’s using a fleet of trucks. Trucks that can go off-road, but still can tow big trailers. A dozen of those, all growing product, driving through the plains.”