“We don’t know, either!” Drennen shouted, trying to bond with Nate and share his concern. “She never told us. She just drove us out there and said, ‘Here’s the rocket launcher, boys. The cave’s down there on the trail. Get to it!’”
Nate shifted the weapon toward Johnny. “How much did she pay you?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot, as it turns out,” Johnny said. “Barely enough for a week at Gasbag Jim’s.”
“How much?”
“Only fifteen grand,” Drennen said, as if the lightness of the number somehow shifted the blame away from them to cheap Laurie Talich.
Nate took a deep breath and shut his eyes momentarily. He spoke so gently both Drennen and Johnny strained forward to hear.
“You killed my Alisha for only fifteen thousand dollars.”
“We didn’t know she was even there . . .” Drennen began to plead. “That Patsy told us you were some kind of badass dude—that the cops were after you but they didn’t know where you were hiding out. She said you murdered her husband, and offing you was like doing something good for society, you know?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” Nate said again.
“Look,” Drennen said, “we can help you find her. We don’t owe her nothing anymore. She obviously lied to us. Anybody can see you’re a good guy. We’ll even cut you in on our new business venture. Man, like Johnny said, we were just her puppets.”
Nate let it just hang there. The shadows were longer now, almost grotesque in their length. The sun was directly behind him, and both Drennen and Johnny had to keep shading their eyes to see him.
“It’s interesting how such small men cast such big shadows,” Nate said. “I’ve heard enough. Now run.”
“Oh, man . . .” Drennen said, his shoulders slumping.
“Run.”
“We’ll do anything,” Drennen said. “I’ll do anything . . .”
“Run.”
Drennen was still moaning when Johnny Cook suddenly wheeled and took off. He was fast, and he put a quick ten yards between himself and Drennen. Drennen did a double take, glancing at Johnny then back to Nate, then started to backpedal. After five yards facing Nate, Drennen spun and ran away as hard as he could.
Nate watched them go. They kicked up little puffs of beige dust that lit up with the last brilliant moments of the sun. He could hear their footfalls thumping on the dry ground and the panicked wheezing of breath.
Drennen veered slightly to the left of Johnny’s path, but was still twenty yards behind him. Nate could hear Drennen shout, “Wait up, Johnny . . . wait up!”
But Johnny didn’t slow down.
After a minute, Lisa tugged on Nate’s arm. “Aren’t you going to chase them? You’re going to let them go?”
The two figures were becoming smaller and darker as they receded; the sunlit Wind Rivers loomed over them.
Nate said, “Johnny’s fast, but not Colter fast.”
“What?”
He stepped quickly across her a few paces to the left. The two runners in the distance still had space between them. He walked a few more long strides to the left, until Drennen and Johnny closed into one form in the distance, despite the gap between them as Johnny continued to pull away.
Nate raised his weapon and cupped his left hand beneath his right, where he held the revolver. He looked down the scope with both eyes open, and thumbed the hammer back.
One shot. Two exit-wound balloons of red mist.
Both bodies tumbled down as if kicked by mules and lay still, more dust rising up around them from their fall. The fat clouds of pink hung in the light evening air.
Lisa stood there openmouthed and wide-eyed.
Nate peered through the scope to confirm there was no reason to walk out there. He said, “Like puppets with their strings clipped.”
Nate spun the cylinder and caught the empty brass and dropped it in his pocket and fed a fresh sausage-sized cartridge into the empty chamber. He slid the .500 into his shoulder holster under his left arm.
“These shells cost three bucks each,” he said to Lisa. “No need to waste more than one of ’em on men worth nothing at all.”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
He said, “I’m going to go get a shovel and then I’m gone. I can drop you back home on my way to Chicago.”
She started to argue, but when she saw the look on his face, she decided it wasn’t a good idea.
SEPTEMBER 6
He who does not prevent a crime when he can, encourages it.
—SENECA
27
Joe hit the northern city limits of Cheyenne at dawn. He’d taken I-25 South all the way, stopping only for gas and a two-hour nap in his pickup outside Casper along the bank of the North Platte River. Radio activity during the night had been light, consisting mainly of sign-ons and sign-offs of law enforcement personnel, and he’d had plenty of time to think. He tried to connect the facts he knew about Earl Alden’s death and Missy’s arrest into some kind of logical scenario, hoping the disparate parts—the wind project, Bob Lee, the sudden appearance of Bud Jr.—would fall into place. He failed to make sense of it all, and he wondered to himself if he was chasing his tail.
He wondered if he, like Dulcie Schalk and Sheriff McLanahan, was stubbornly pursuing a theory at the expense of other plausible scenarios? Did he have blinders on? As he had since the discovery of The Earl’s body, he felt uncomfortably disconnected. Joe was operating on the margins of a legitimate—if possibly too-narrow—investigation, trying to derail charges brought forth in good faith. He was used to operating without backup nearly every day he was out in the field. In this instance, his normal doubts were stronger than usual. He felt like he was operating without a net, and with spectators booing him.
But he’d promised Marybeth, and he wouldn’t renege. He had no doubt there was more to the story of Earl Alden than he knew, and certainly more than the county attorney was aware of. Whether following his shaky instincts would shed doubt on Missy’s guilt—who knew?
He needed coffee.
It was too early for the federal offices to open downtown, so Joe cruised by the new Wyoming Game and Fish Department headquarters—which were also still closed—and took Central Avenue past Frontier Park and into the heart of old Cheyenne. He’d found a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a microwave breakfast burrito at a Kum & Go convenience store helmed by an overweight Goth woman pierced a dozen places he could see and with full-sleeve tattoos. The coffee was bitter.
The golden dome of the capitol building was blinding with the opening salvo of the early-morning September sun. He took 24th Street and pulled over at a curb and was surprised to see Governor Spencer Rulon striding across the dew-sparkled capitol lawn toward the side entrance to his office. Rulon was alone and apparently deep in thought because his head was down and he was single-mindedly charging toward the entrance like an elk in rut. Joe checked his wristwatch: six.
He got out of his pickup, clamped on his hat, and followed. The door the governor had used was unlocked and Joe entered the capitol building and let it wheeze shut behind him. Only in Wyoming, he thought, would the governor travel around without bodyguards and the statehouse doors be open with no security personnel about.
As he walked down the silent and poorly lit hallway, Joe took off his hat and held it in his left hand while he rapped on an unmarked door. “Good morning,” he said.