No Immunity

“Mid twenties, but that’s just a guess. I’m surprised you don’t have an opinion.”
    That, Connie just shrugged off.
    Fox leaned in toward her like a boxer readying the knockout punch. Milo put down his rag. The room was so silent, Kiernan could hear the clock ticking. The door opened and an icy draft smacked the drinkers, but none of them shifted their gaze to see who had left. They watched and waited.
    Then Fox pulled back. No communal gasp followed, but every face in the bar looked as if it had just seen him throw the fight.
    Don’t think you’re just going to walk away! “Sheriff,” Kiernan said, “didn’t the dead woman have an ID? It’s odd to have absolutely nothing.”
    “Not if you’re dropped off. Not if someone’s taken it.” As soon as the words were out, his face tightened in irritation as if this was the punch he’d just avoided. He tossed back his drink, too fast, leaving a spray on his lips. Despite the feverish move, the process seemed to calm him. He set the glass down, leaned against the bar, and studied Kiernan. “What are you, some kind of high-paid smuggler? I don’t know where this woman’s from—Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala. Did you pick up just her in Vegas, or was your car full of illegals? Were you dumping them on us here, or taking them to Ely or Reno? Were you—”
    “Just a minute! Because a woman looks Hispanic, you’re labeling her an alien, illegal at that? Show me proof.”
    “You looked at her body. You saw the tattoo on the back of her shoulder.”
    “What tattoo?”
    “Don’t try to bluff me. Capital L, for Luis Vargas, the smuggler. Vargas is violent, unscrupulous, and doesn’t ask twice. I don’t want Vargas or his people here in my territory. Get it?” He hadn’t moved, but his whole body had stiffened with the challenge.
    Kiernan met his gaze and for a moment was suffused with the foolishness of the public staring contest. Foolish, but so much of life was. She was willing to bet he truly didn’t know the woman’s identity and it was driving him crazy. But did he have any idea how serious a danger she might be? Could anyone here in safe up-country Nevada, who hadn’t seen fever-dead bodies lined up in makeshift morgues? It would be almost impossible to believe—until it was too late. “Rigor was still in force this afternoon,” she said. “You couldn’t have lifted the dead woman’s arm to look for tattoos. Are you saying you turned the whole rigid body?”
    The room had seemed silent before, but now not even breath moved. Every eye was on Fox, every ear waiting for his answer.
    “That’s exactly what I’m saying, and if you take it as a warning, all the better.” He picked up his drink and strode determinedly to a table, marked possession with his glass, and headed into the men’s room.
    The room was dead silent. There was not even a communal exhalation when Fox disappeared. She could tell by the uneasy way they leaned against the bar or held their arms just off the tables, that a vote in this room would go for Undecided. Much as they obviously distrusted Fox, that didn’t speak well for her. No one here was going to go out on a limb for her.
    Finally she shrugged. “Guess I won’t be asking the sheriff to borrow his car.”
    They laughed, all of them, in ragged waves as those farther away got the relay. Nervous laughter. The morning Greyhound was beginning to look real good.
    Connie slipped in beside her at the bar. Softly she said, “My friend with the vehicle’ll be here in an hour. Whether he’ll sell is another issue.” She glanced in the direction of Fox. “Keep it quiet till then.”
    “No question about that. And thanks,” Kiernan said, taking ridiculous comfort from this minor effort at goodwill. She turned to face Connie, effectively shutting out the rest of the listeners. “You sure didn’t hesitate to tackle Fox,” she said approvingly.
    She expected Connie to shrug off the compliment. Connie downed the rest of her drink and said, “My family’s mined land around here for over a hundred years. You saw that picture he’s got displayed like the flag in his office, the one of the old Pioche lockup?”
    Kiernan nodded.
    “Two of the first men to die outside it were my ancestors—probably not my brightest ancestors,” she added, shifting to face Kiernan. “Pm not about to let some guy come out of nowhere get himself appointed as our sheriff and carry on like he’s the CIA.”
    “Has he hassled