Walt Longmire is back after the escapades of <First Frost< and encounters one of his most baffling cases in Wyoming&rsquo;s brutal and unforgiving Red Desert.

When Blair McGowan, the mail person with the longest postal route in the country of over three hundred mile a day, goes missing the question becomes&mdash;where do you look for her? The Postal Inspector for the State of Wyoming elicits Sheriff Longmire to mount an investigation into her disappearance and Walt does everything but mail it in; posing as a letter-carrier himself, the good sheriff follows her trail and finds himself enveloped in the intrigue of an otherworldly cult.

Packed to the brim with twists and turns, the 21st novel in the <New York Times< bestselling Longmire series pushes Walt to his absolute limits, forcing him to wrestle with the impossible question: What good are your morals, if you&rsquo;re marked for the dead letter office?

Autorentext

Craig Johnson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Longmire mysteries, the basis for the hit Netflix original series Longmire. He is the recipient of the Western Writers of America Spur Award for fiction and the Mountain & Plains Independent Booksellers Association's Reading the West Book Award for fiction. His novella Spirit of Steamboat was the first One Book Wyoming selection. He lives in Ucross, Wyoming, population 26.

Zusammenfassung
Walt Longmire is back after the escapades of First Frost and encounters one of his most baffling cases in Wyoming’s brutal and unforgiving Red Desert.

When Blair McGowan, the mail person with the longest postal route in the country of over three hundred mile a day, goes missing the question becomes—where do you look for her? The Postal Inspector for the State of Wyoming elicits Sheriff Longmire to mount an investigation into her disappearance and Walt does everything but mail it in; posing as a letter-carrier himself, the good sheriff follows her trail and finds himself enveloped in the intrigue of an otherworldly cult.

Packed to the brim with twists and turns, the 21st novel in the New York Times bestselling Longmire series pushes Walt to his absolute limits, forcing him to wrestle with the impossible question: What good are your morals, if you’re marked for the dead letter office?

Leseprobe
1

"Nobody smiles anymore."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you noticed? Nobody smiles anymore." Mike adjusted himself in the tiny postal Jeep, setting his back against the passenger-side door as he sat on the floor beside Dog so no one would see him in the September early morning light. "Remember when we were growing up how you were taught that when you walked down the street and you met a stranger, that you smiled or said hello?" He sighed, staring at the plethora of mail and packages in the back as if it were a weight he could no longer bear. "People don't do that anymore."

Mike Thurman, my late wife's cousin, was in a bad mood, but that didn't mean he didn't have a point.

Mike had been having a tough month, so I tried to distract him just a bit, thinking of something to say while surveying the interior of the utility vehicle. "So, why do they call this model Jeep DJs?"

He grunted, swiping off his Seattle Mariners ball cap and rubbing his shaved head, then reaching over and scruffing the fur behind sleeping Dog's ear. "Dispatch Jeep."

"Oh."

"Also, they're two-wheel drive-smart for Wyoming, right?"

"Was she driving one of these?"

"No, there's no way you could fit all that mail in a 307-mile route in something like this. She had a hopped-up '68 Travelall that she drove." He shook his head, putting his cap back on and folding his hands in his lap. "She probably used up her entire paycheck putting gas in the thing." He nodded to the right. "Turquoise and white with all those hippie stickers in the back window. I think it was an old ambulance or . . ."

"Or what?"

"A hearse."

Neither of us wanted to dwell on that.

"I think it's for sale at the used car lot about a quarter mile down the main drag on Foothill Boulevard. That piece of shit boyfriend of hers, Benny, sold all her stuff about a month after she went missing."

"Don't you have to wait sixty days?"

"His name was on the title."

"Sweetwater County process the vehicle?"

He studied me with a raised eyebrow. "I'm a postal inspector, not a criminal investigator."

I glanced down at the heavy file folder in my hands. "Jeez, Mike, haven't you seen those TV shows, anybody can do this stuff."

"Yeah, right."

I gave up on trying to distract him. "So, what is it exactly that you want me to do?"

"Find her."

"Well, I can tell you from experience that that's not likely to happen."

"Because of the amount of time?"

"That, and the size of the area she was lost in." I shook my head. "Is there any way to narrow the search area?"

"I wish there was but it's as if she disappeared off the face of the earth somewhere in the Red Desert."

"Did you talk with the Sweetwater County Sheriff's Department?"

He nodded. "The primary investigator, Jake Moline."

"Never heard of him."

"Uturd, I think."

"Uturd . . . ?"

"From Utah, that's what they call 'em down here."

"Nice."

"Hey, I live in Colorado and shudder to think what you guys call us."

I slid the map he'd printed for me from the file folder and looked at the gigantic loop surrounding the Red Desert in the south-central area of my state. "So, you want me to pretend I'm a contract laborer and follow her route?"

"And just see what pops up, yeah."

"Pops up?"

He took a sip from his travel mug of coffee. "You're the king of pop-ups, you see things other people don't."

"And you don't think anybody will suspect that I'm law enforcement?"

"Nah, we get all kinds of people as contract rural carriers, especially the long routes that nobody wants." He chuckled. "Besides, you've got the fake ID and that nifty mountain-man beard."

I scratched the offending fur and then thumbed through the folder again, looking at the photo of the missing woman in her fifties. "Why do you suppose she did?"

"Did what?"

"Take one of the especially long routes, evidently one of the longest in the country."

He sat up a bit, looking around at the empty post office parking lot. "You know, she told me once that she liked to drive because it helped her to forget."

I stared at the photo of the dark-haired woman with the silver streak down the middle, one eye slightly errant and half-smiling with a note of wiseacre. "Forget what?"

"She never said, and I didn't ask."

I closed the folder. "You know, she could've just walked away."

"Not her."

"Why?"

"She was kooky, but she took things very seriously, at least some things." He shook his head. "How does it go? In neither sleet nor snow . . ."

"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds . . ." I watched as the first vehicle swept into the postal lot. "It's not official, you know."

"What?"

"The motto, it's not official."

He sipped his coffee some more. "The hell you say."

Stuffing the folder back in my satchel, I watched as a young woman got out of her vehicle in a Carhartt jacket and walked up the ramp to the back door of the facility, punching numbers into the keypad and then yanking the door open and going inside.

"That's Tess Anderson, she's the morning super and she'll be the one that shows you the ropes-she was pretty good friends with Blair."

"Was, huh?" I pulled the door handle and stepped out onto the smooth surface of the concrete, buttoning my old canvas hunting jacket and adjusting my hat. "When they built the James A. Farley post office in New York City, the architectu…