“I see him. So what?”
“Jason Kiner looooves you.”
“Shut up. He does not.”
“I’ve looked at his MySpace page and his Facebook page,” she whispered. “He looooves you.”
“Stop it.”
“Look at him,” Lucy whispered, giggling. “There’s loooove in his eyes.”
With the arm Jason couldn’t see, Sheridan elbowed her sister in the ribs, and Lucy laughed, “You’ve gotta do better than that.”
When Toby sleepwalked to Jason, Sheridan said, “Hi there.”
“How are you guys doing?” Jason said. “I didn’t see you when I drove up.”
“You didn’t?” Lucy asked, mock serious.
Sheridan gritted her teeth and shot a look over her shoulder at her sister, who looked back with her best innocent and charming face.
“It’s been a long time since I rode,” Sheridan said. “We asked your mom.”
Jason shrugged. “Nobody ever rides him anymore, so you might as well. I’ve been thinking about saddling him up, but with football practice and all…”
And the conversation went completely and unexpectedly dead. Sheridan could hear the insects buzz in the grass. She could feel Lucy prodding her to say something.
Finally, Jason’s face lit up with purpose. “Hey-did that chick call you?”
“What chick?”
“She called here a few days ago for you. She still had this number from when you lived here, I guess. I gave her your cell phone number.”
Lucy purred into Sheridan’s ear, “He has your cell phone number?”
Sheridan ignored her. “Nobody called. Who was it?”
“I didn’t know her,” Jason said, “She said she used to live here and still had the number for the house.”
“What was her name?”
Jason screwed up his mouth and frowned. “She said it, but I can’t remember for sure. It was a few days ago. Oh-I remember now. She said something like, ‘April.’ ”
Sheridan dropped the reins in to the grass. “What?”
Jason shrugged. “She said something like, ‘I wonder if she remembers a girl named April.’ Anyway, I gave her your number and…”
Lucy said to Sheridan, “Did he say what I thought he said?”
Sheridan leaned forward and felt Lucy grip her hard to keep her balance. “Jason, this isn’t very funny.”
“Who’s trying to be funny?”
“If you are,” Sheridan said, “I’ll kill you.”
Jason stepped back and dropped his arms to his sides as if preparing to be rushed by the two girls. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with you two? You act like you see a ghost or something.”
Sheridan pointed toward the yard in front of the house but had trouble speaking. Jason turned to where she gestured.
The three Austrian pine trees their dad had planted so long ago in the front yard had all now grown until the tops were level with the gutter of the house. At the time they’d been planted, he’d joked that they were Sheridan’s Tree, April’s Tree, and Lucy’s Tree.
“April was our sister,” Sheridan said, pointing at the middle one. “She was killed six years ago.”
The door of the house opened, and their mother came out. Sheridan noted how Jason looked over his shoulder at her in a way that in other circumstances would have made her proud and angry at the same time. But now her mother looked stricken. There was no doubt in Sheridan’s mind that Jason’s mom had just mentioned the call they’d received.
3
Baggs, Wyoming
WYOMING GAME WARDEN JOE PICKETT, HIS RIGHT ARM and uniform shirt slick with his own blood, slowed his green Ford pickup as he approached a blind corner on the narrow two-track that paralleled the Little Snake River. It was approaching dusk in the deep river canyon, and buttery shafts filtered through the trees on the rim of the canyon and lit up the floor in a pattern resembling jail bars. The river itself, which had been roaring with runoff in the spring and early summer, was now little more than a series of rock-rimmed pools of pocket water connected by an anemic trickle. He couldn’t help notice, though, that brook trout were rising in the pools, feverishly slurping at tiny fallen Trico bugs like drunks at last call.
There was a mature female bald eagle in the bed of his pickup bound up tight in a Wyoming Cowboys sweatshirt, and the bird didn’t like that he’d slowed down. Her hair-raising screech scared him and made him involuntarily jerk on the wheel.
“Okay,” he said, glancing into his rearview mirror at the eagle, which stared back at him with murderous, needle-sharp eyes that made his skin creep. “You’ve done enough damage already. What-you want me to crash into the river, too?”
He eased his way around the blind corner, encountered no one, and sped up. The road was so narrow-with the river on one side and the canyon wall on the other-that if he had to share it with an oncoming vehicle, they’d both have to maneuver for a place to pull over in order to pass. Instead, he shared the road with a doe mule deer and her fawn that had come down from a cut in the wall for water. Both deer ran ahead of him on the road, looking nervously over their shoulders, until another screech from the eagle sent them bounding through the river and up the other side.
Another blind corner, but this time when he eased around it, he came face-to-face with a pickup parked in the center of the two-track. The vehicle was a jacked-up 2008 Dodge Ram 4x4, Oklahoma plates, the grille a sneering grimace. And no one in the cab. He braked and scanned the river for a fisherman-nope-then up the canyon wall on his right for the driver. No one.
He knew instinctively, Something is going to happen here.
THE CALL THAT brought him to this place on this road in this canyon had come via dispatch in Cheyenne just after noon: hikers had reported an injured bald eagle angrily hopping around in a remote campsite far up the canyon, “scaring the bejesus out of everyone.” They reported the eagle had an arrow sticking out of it. It was the kind of call that made him wince and made him angry.
Months before, Joe had been assigned to the remote Baggs District in extreme south-central Wyoming. The district (known within the department as either “The Place Where Game Wardens Are Sent to Die” or “Warden Graveyard”) was hard against the Colorado border and encompassed the Sierra Madre Mountains, the Little Snake River Valley, dozens of third- and fourth-generation ranches surrounded by a bustling coal-bed methane boom and an influx of energy workers, and long distances to just about anywhere. The nearest town with more than 500 people was Craig, Colorado, thirty-six miles to the south. The governor had his reasons for making the assignment: to hide him away until the heat and publicity of the events from the previous fall died down. Joe understood Governor Rulon’s thinking. After all, even though he’d solved the rash of murders involving hunters across the state of Wyoming, he’d also permitted the unauthorized release of a federal prisoner-Nate Romanowski-as well as committing a shameful act that haunted him still.