There was a sudden banging somewhere in the building, and as Dog vaulted from the floor beside the crate and began barking, we both looked around; I found my voice first. “Did something fall over in here?”

The banging started again, and this time I could tell that someone was hammering on the front door of the museum. It was just after midnight, and I’d locked the door, which was a good thing in that it gave me time to climb off the crate and get my clothes on.

“Walt!” It was a man’s voice, muffled by the heavy glass.

“Who the hell is it?” Vic pulled the blanket over her shoulders as I hurriedly tried to straighten my hat and my back and started after Dog for the door.

“It sounds like Saizarbitoria.”

Dodging through the gift shop, I made my way past the front desk and wrapped my fingers around the keys dangling from the lock on the inside. I yanked the door open and caught Dog by his collar so that he wouldn’t mistake the Basquo for an intruder. “What’s the matter, Sancho?”

He looked as panicked as I’d ever seen him. “It’s Lucian—I think he’s having a stroke or something.”

“What?” I stood there looking at him and realized I was asking the wrong question. “Where?”

“The home for assisted living; he won’t go to the hospital.”

I yelled over my shoulder. “Vic, stay with the dinosaur!” I looked down and shoved Dog back inside. “And Dog!”

I ran with Sancho and dove into the passenger side of his sedan. “Give me the lowdown.”

“Classic, non-movie-style stroke.” Sancho backed the cruiser out, spun the wheel, and flew through the abandoned town with its blinking yellow lights. “The housekeeper found him sitting in his chair complaining of pain and discomfort.” He turned to look at me as we flat tracked it onto Fort Street and hit the afterburners again. “He had his leg shot off, for Christ’s sake—you would think they would’ve taken that kind of thing seriously coming from him.”

I immediately remembered Danny Lone Elk’s flask. “Yep, you would.”

“Anyway, somebody else came in a few hours later—he was still in that chair, but he’d thrown up on himself and was saying he was fine, but this time he was having a migraine-like headache, tremors, and slurred speech. Well, they dialed 911, and we got there at the same time. The EMTs got him cleaned up, and he told Cathi and Chris that he was feeling better and they should beat it. Well, he was the sheriff, so they did.” Santiago made the next turn, and we were almost there. “I didn’t think that was the right decision, so I bullshitted with him, but then he started messing up his words and said he was feeling sick again.” He slid to a stop at the entrance of the center behind the EMT van, and we leapt out, running for the door, me trying to keep up. “I tried to sit him in his chair, but one of his arms wouldn’t work and I knew right then that I had to get the EMTs back there quick.”

We blew past the empty registration desk and down the hall. “And then?”

“He was still arguing with them, and you know how he is—he can argue with a stump. So that’s when I came after you.”

When we got close to room 32, I could see a small crowd of attendees, including the director, Mary Jo Johnson, standing in the hall. “Oh, thank God, Walt . . . He won’t listen to any of us, and now he’s got a gun.”

Sancho and I slid through the group, Cathi and Chris sitting impatiently on the sofa with their equipment, and looked at the man in the high-back, steer-hide-covered chair with the.38 Smith & Wesson service revolver resting on his knee.

“Lucian?”

He didn’t look at me, but when I kneeled down in front of him, he raised the pistol up and pointed it in my general direction as his breath came in pants.

“Lucian.”

His eyes wobbled toward me, along with the Smith. “I think . . . I think I . . . I done my forty and found.”

“What’s the gun for?”

“What?” He mumbled something, but I had trouble following him as he gestured with the barrel toward the terrified two on the sofa. “Keep ’em from doin’ anything stupid.”

“Like keeping you alive?”

He smiled a horrible, death’s head grin. “Must be my time; everybody has one, ya know.”

“Yep, well, this one’s not yours.” I glanced around, looking for the culprit. “Did you drink the rest of the rye in that flask you stole from me?”

He took a deeper breath and shuddered. “What?”

“The flask, Lucian. The one I took off of Danny Lone Elk, the Cheyenne fellow who died?”

He didn’t say anything, his eyes continuing to wobble along with his breath, as Saizarbitoria circled around into the kitchenette.

“Did you drink the rest of that stuff, because if you did, I think you’ve been poisoned.”

The pistol wavered a bit, and I started to reach for it when he pulled back the hammer. “Somebody.” He aimed the pistol at me, dead center. “Somebody . . . poisoned me?”

“Whoever poisoned Danny Lone Elk put something in that whiskey, so if you drank it we’ve got to get you taken care of.” I looked behind him and could see Sancho holding the flask that he must’ve gotten from the counter and shaking it near his ear. After a second, he looked at me and held it upside down with the cap disconnected—empty.

“The liquor in the flask was poisoned, Lucian.” I gestured toward the two highly interested EMTs. “And that’s why they’re here.”

His eyes widened a little, and I was thinking that the idea must’ve gotten through when the pupils rolled back in his head and his back arched, slamming him into the recesses of his ancestral chair, the pistol jerking up and away.

I grabbed his wrist as the.38 went off and shattered the sliding glass doors, the cracks spidering to the frames like a lightning strike.

The crowd suddenly disappeared, but Chris and Cathi scrambled off the couch as the Basquo caught the back of Lucian’s chair and sat it upright.

Tossing the revolver to the side, I lowered the old sheriff to the carpeted floor, the EMTs waiting anxiously.

One of Lucian’s hands came up. “Damn, now my head really hurts.”

“You just relax.”

His eyes raced around. “Where’s my pistol?”

I wanted to punch him. “You don’t need your sidearm—just lie there and be still.”

I punched Saizarbitoria in the arm. “C’mon, let’s go get the gurney from the van.” As we exited the room, I pointed back at the old sheriff. “You. Do as you’re told.”

We hurried down the hall. “There’s nothing left in the flask?”

“Not a drop.”

“Hmm . . . I guess that’s what you get when a high-functioning alcoholic steals evidence.” We yanked the EMT van doors open and unloaded the gurney, me offering the Basquo my hard-earned advice. “Drop the wheels; it’s easier to roll the thing than carry it.”

As we rounded the corner and started down the hall, a thought occurred to me. “Was there a glass?”

Backing into the room, Sancho glanced into the kitchenette past the people who had reassembled around the doorway. “No, not that I noticed.”

“He always drinks out of one of those Waterford tumblers.”

We placed the gurney next to Lucian and collapsed the legs, bringing the mountain to Mohammed. I stepped back out of the way and started for the kitchen just as Mary Jo lifted one of the glasses I’d asked Saizarbitoria about and began to pour the contents down the sink.

“Stop!”

The sound of my voice shocked her so much that she dropped the glass, but by then I was close enough to get my hand underneath to catch it.

I held the glistening Lismore crystal up to the light fixture in the ceiling; sure enough, a bit of the amber liquid was captured in the corner. “Good thing he was drinking it neat.”

 • • •

We sipped our coffee and watched as Jay, the UPS and all-purpose driver, drove the forklift and carefully negotiated it into the back door of the holding cell.

Vic glanced at the Colonel E. H. Taylor Straight Rye Whiskey under my arm. “Starting a little early, aren’t you?”