I glanced back at the crate and could see Vic and Jennifer engaged in a heated conversation.

“Because I fucking said turn it off, that’s why.”

I stepped next to my undersheriff, and Jennifer turned the camera to film us. “Miss, do you mind turning that thing off for a minute?”

She ignored me and continued filming. “According to the law in thirty-eight states, including Wyoming, I am allowed to film law enforcement personnel as long as I am not interfering with your duties.”

“Yep, but . . .”

She refocused the lens to get a close-up of me, and I turned and looked at the museum director. “Dave?”

He stepped toward her. “Jennifer, really . . . They’re on our side.”

“We don’t know who’s on what side, Dave. I just want to make sure we have plenty of evidence so that we cover our collective ass here.”

He leaned in to her and spoke in a low voice. “There’s no need . . .”

“The hell there’s not; you saw what happened to the negotiations with Danny Lone Elk. If I hadn’t videoed it . . .”

I turned and looked at her. “You have film of the negotiations with Danny?”

“I do.”

I glanced at Baumann, who seemed as surprised as I did, and then back at her. “Film of him accepting the thirty-seven thousand dollars for the fossil remains?”

“It’s in the video files on my computer, which, by the way, I’m not giving to you.”

I turned back to Dave. “How did you pay Danny?”

“In cash—it was all he would take.”

“I don’t suppose you got a receipt?”

“Well, he was going to write me one, but you know how Danny was; he just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

I reached out and tapped the camera in Jennifer’s hands. “You realize that recording, then, might be the only evidence you have of having paid Danny.”

He turned to her. “We need that footage.”

She shrugged and continued filming. “I can get it.”

I reached out for the camera again, but she stepped back and kept it on us. “Look, Jennifer, I’m trying to help here, but I’m not going to do it on the Sid Caesar Show of Shows, okay?”

“The what?”

I turned back and looked at Dave, and he stepped between us. “Jen . . .”

As he began speaking to her in hushed tones, McGroder came over with his clipboard, stuffed it under one arm, and gestured toward the scientists. “Trouble with little Miss Zapruder? We have a lot of interaction with people carrying phones and stuff; you know you can ask them to step back to a reasonable distance for their own protection, right?”

“And how far away is that?”

“Officer’s discretion; I’m thinking a quarter mile, county line . . .”

“Did you guys get what you needed?”

“We have, but now we need a safe place to store the fossils, including the thousand-pound head.” He looked at me. “A secure place.”

On an epoch-like scale, what he was proposing dawned on me like the beginning of time. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” He tapped the clipboard with the end of his pen. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a loading dock at the jail?”

“No.” I thought about how I wanted to play this, thinking that keeping Jen’s head close at hand might be one of the best ways to establish someone’s ownership. “But we do have one of those extrawide utility doors leading into the holding area from the street in the back.”

“You think this crate will fit through it?”

“I don’t know—is it wider than forty-eight inches?”

“With my luck, probably.” He gestured for one of the Mormon twins to check the width of the crate and returned to us. “You got somebody at the jail 24/7?”

“Not generally.”

“Well, you’re going to need one or I’ll have to assign one of mine—I guess I’m going to need more agents anyway.” He glanced around at all the crates and started asking questions that he already knew the answers to. “Where is the field office in Wyoming?”

“Colorado.”

He grinned. “And who is in charge there?”

I played along. “That would be you.”

One of the field agents called out. “Forty-seven.”

He pulled his cell from his pocket and began dialing. “I’ll get another half-dozen guys up here by tomorrow; rust never sleeps, and neither do we.” He was distracted by a voice on the phone. “Kim? I need bodies . . .” He glanced at me. “Know where I can get a forklift?”

“Jay over at UPS might do a freelance, but we aren’t going to get him until tomorrow morning.”

“Anybody else?”

“That I would trust with a crate containing the head of a fossil worth over eight million dollars?”

He nodded. “Call Jay in the morning, please.” He finished his requisition for another half-dozen agents and then turned back to me. “Somebody’s going to have to guard the head till then.”

I gestured toward Vic. “We’re already babysitting the ADA.”

“The what?”

“Acting deputy attorney.”

“Oh, right . . . him.” He thought about it as he glanced over his shoulder at the man, who was writing in his own black leather notebook, the foot bobbing again. “Skip Trost, ADA—sounds like a character on that shitty television show, what’s it called?”

“Steadfast Resolution.”

“That’s it.” He sighed deeply. “He really thinks he needs a bodyguard?”

“He fears for his life . . . or so he tells me.”

McGroder spared a glance at my undersheriff, who was giving the finger to Jennifer and the recorder. “I hope you gave him Moretti.”

“I did.”

“She can guard my body anytime.” He tilted his head. “All right, I’ll make you a deal. We’re staying at the same hotel as Trost—the Virginian. I’ll just have one of my Utah guys stand outside his door, knock every hour on the hour, and ask him if he’s heard God’s good news.”

I smiled, pulled a hand from the pocket of my jacket, and stuck it out to him. “Vic will be relieved, and the ADA will be safer.”

We shook hands. “Deal.”

 • • •

I handed the crust of my previous piece of pizza to Dog, who, awaiting his due, stood dutifully beside the crate.

“Thanks for getting dinner and the beer.”

Vic plucked an anchovy off her piece and deposited it back in the box. “Fish on a pizza; I will never get used to that.” She bit in with her elongated canine tooth and chewed, smiling and watching me. “It seemed like you were having a long day.”

“What, your uncle never put anchovies on his pizzas back in Philadelphia?”

“I was working at his pizzeria on weekends when I was a teenager and a guy ordered up a pie with anchovies, and when he picked it up he opened the box and complained that there weren’t enough.” She looked up at me. “Alphonse just looked at the guy and said, “Most people don’t like anchovies, asshole.”

“That’s an interesting take you guys in Philly have on customer service.”

“Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.” She glanced around. “So, you’re sleeping in the dinosaur graveyard tonight?”

I sipped my beer and took another slice from the open box that rested on Jen’s crated skull. “Yep.”

“Seems fitting; you’re the biggest dinosaur I know.” She waited a while before asking the question I knew was still on her mind. “Okay, so what about that frozen moment you had the other morning?”

I ate more pizza and looked at the box to avoid her eyes, but when I looked back up, she was still watching me. “What?”

“There was one of those visions or whatever you want to call them with the Old Cheyenne, right?”

I reluctantly agreed. “Kind of.”

She finished hers and tossed the crust across the crate to Dog, who hit it like a great white shark hits seals off the coast of South Africa. “So, give.”

I closed the top on the last piece, rested an elbow on the crate, and thought about what had happened that night and a couple of times before. “I saw Virgil again.” She didn’t say anything but just watched me. “When I was in the lodge over in South Dakota in the snowstorm a few months ago, and he wasn’t alone.”