Hell Is Empty: A Longmire Mystery
Walt faces an icy hell in this New York Times bestseller from the author of The Cold Dish and Dry Bones, the seventh novel in the Longmire series, the basis for the hit Netflix original series LONGMIRE
Craig Johnson's The Highwayman is now available from Viking
Well-read and world-weary, Sheriff Walt Longmire has been maintaining order in Wyoming's Absaroka County for more than thirty years, but in this riveting seventh outing, he is pushed to his limits.
Raynaud Shade, an adopted Crow Indian rumored to be one of the country's most dangerous sociopaths, has just confessed to murdering a boy ten years ago and burying him deep within the Bighorn Mountains. Walt is asked to transport Shade through a blizzard to the site, but what begins as a typical criminal transport turns personal when the veteran lawman learns that he knows the dead boy's family. Guided only by Indian mysticism and a battered paperback of Dante's Inferno, Walt braves the icy hell of the Cloud Peak Wilderness Area, cheating death to ensure that justice--both civil and spiritual--is served.
and knocking over one of the ten-foot reflector poles. “Well, hell.” I threw the Chevy into reverse and easily backed off the roadside onto the snow-covered asphalt. I hit the brakes and could feel the whole truck slide backward an extra four feet. “Wonderful. At this rate I’ll be in Ten Sleep by Memorial Day.” I dropped the gear selector down into D and pulled back into the flow of things, slowed a little, and was able to keep the Suburban on the road as my mind raced ahead. All the signs
do that? I looked at the bear-paw-pattern snowshoes again: waste not, want not. I pulled them off the wall and stuffed them under my arm, walked back, and handed the stick to Hector. “There you go.” He slapped the thicker end of the five-foot staff against the flattened palm of his cuffed hand to test the weight and seemed satisfied. “Cool.” His eyes came back up to the antique snowshoes under my arm. “Are you really going after them in this friggin’ blizzard?” “Yep.” He paused but then
the rocks before digging into the pack and yanking out the soaked sleeping bag that had already hardened into a clump. I pulled the bag from the stuff sack—it hung there in my hand like a reluctant snake, refusing to uncoil. I shook it, and surprisingly, the man-made, water-resistant fiber released and the length of the thing flopped to my feet. I carefully unzipped it and noticed that the majority of the water hadn’t soaked the fiber inside the bag, so I wrapped it around me and felt better
into the gloom. “I’m beginning to wonder about that myself.” A couple of moments passed as she tried to decide if she was going to argue with me and which point of attack on my lack of logic she was going to take. This was not a pause I was unfamiliar with in my dealings with women. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Sheriff—you look like shit.” I placed the supplies in the ascent pack and zipped it. “Thanks.” “I’m not kidding; do you know that the whole side of your head is covered in frozen
wind began blowing again and the snow continued to fall. Plucking the headdress from the end of his war lance, Virgil swung the cloak around and enveloped himself, the bear’s head once again shrouding his own. He laid the lance on the snow between us. He stared at me, his face only inches from mine. “You must remember how I did this.” I nodded; it seemed so important to him. “I will . . . but Virgil, I’m not going to make it—and I need to tell you something.” His face had a patient look, but