“Is it who I think it is?” Newman asked.
“Yup,” Joe said, fighting nausea.
Newman said, “I met him a couple times. At the Christmas party and such. He seemed all right to me. I’ve heard the stories, but he treated me and the guys all right. I guess we know how he had a key to the hatch down there.” He paused.
“He’s no spring chicken,” Newman said. “Why in the hell did he climb up here?”
Joe shook his head. He didn’t think The Earl had done any climbing, but he wasn’t ready to say.
“He must have come up here for some reason,” Newman speculated. “Maybe he brought that chain with him. Maybe he was going to try to loop it around the blade and stop it from spinning or something, and it took off on him and pulled him over the side. Man, what a way to go. What a horrible fucking way to go.”
Joe looked around on the nacelle. On the inside of the structure near the front he could see a brown smear on the wall. He tapped Newman’s shoulder and pointed at it.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
Newman shrugged. Then a look of recognition passed over his face. “Looks like blood,” he said.
Joe said, “Is there any way to get a body up here if he can’t climb the ladder on his own?”
Newman nodded. “There’s a hoist over there. We use it to bring up tools and parts when we need to work on the turbine. I heard of a guy down in Texas having a heart attack up top and they had to lower him down by the hoist. So I guess you could winch somebody up here. It’ll hold two hundred fifty pounds of equipment.”
Joe guessed The Earl was about that.
“Who in the hell would do this?” Newman asked. “It’s a lot of damned trouble to bring a body up here.”
“Unless somebody was making a statement,” Joe said. He looked back over his shoulder at The Earl spinning by. He thought, No one deserves a comical death. He had once been on a case where two humans had been blown up by a cow. It had been tragic, and horrendous. And people still laughed about it.
Newman whapped the side of his hard hat with the heel of his hand. “Oh, now I get it. Why they didn’t want you coming up here. He’s your father-in-law. Man, oh man.”
Joe thought, Too bad it wasn’t his wife. He said nothing, but checked to make sure his harness hook hadn’t somehow magically come undone before grasping the sidewall of the nacelle. He leaned over and looked down. The convoy surrounded the tower. The vehicles were tiny from his vantage point, and the sheriff and his deputies were scurrying around like ticks. He could see one of the deputies pulling on a climbing harness with help from the Rope the Wind employee who had accompanied them out.
“The sheriff will be sending someone up now,” Joe said to Newman. He patted his uniform for his digital camera. “I want to get some evidence shots of my own before they take over the crime scene.”
“Sheriff McLanahan?” Newman said.
“Yes.”
Newman shook his head. “He’s a tool. I’ve had a couple run-ins with him. Thinks he’s some kind of Old West cowboy lawman, when he’s just a goddamned ass-hat.” Then he realized what he’d said and who’d heard it and quickly added, “I’m sorry. He might be a friend of yours.”
“He’s no friend,” Joe said.
Taylor was visibly relieved. “I see his reelection signs all over the damn county. I hope he loses.”
Joe nodded. He didn’t want to agree in public. McLanahan had spies everywhere, and he kept a meticulous count of who was with him and who wasn’t. The sheriff made it a point to make life hard for those opposed to him, and had turned it into a career when it came to Joe Pickett.
As they waited for the deputy to scale the tower, Joe withdrew his cell and speed-dialed Marybeth. She should just about be at the library to start work, he thought.
When she picked up, he told her where he was—noting that, whatever his location, it didn’t seem to shock her anymore—and said, “Tough news, honey. We found The Earl’s body.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I’ll drive out to the ranch to tell your mother,” Joe said, already dreading it. “It should probably come from me.”
“What happened? Did he get bucked off his horse?”
“Worse,” Joe said. “Much worse. My first guess is somebody shot him and then they hung his body from one of his own wind turbines.”
“Oh, my God, Joe,” she said again. “That’s awful.”
“It is.”
“Uh-oh,” she said. “I’ve got another call coming in.” Joe could hear the click. “It’s my mother.” There was panic in her tone, which was out of character.
“I better take it,” she said. “What should I tell her, Joe?”
“Tell her that as soon as I can get down off this tower, I’ll be there.”
“As if that will hold her off,” she said. “You know how she is.”
“Do I ever,” Joe said.
He’d scarcely closed his phone when it lit up again. Marybeth.
“Joe,” she said. She was frantic. “She said someone she trusted at the county building just called her in secret to tell her Sheriff McLanahan is sending someone to the ranch now. Not to break the news, but to arrest her! For murder, Joe! They think she had something to do with this.”
Joe was grateful he was secured to the nacelle by the cable, because he suddenly felt lighter than air.
“That’s kind of crazy,” he said, turning away from Newman who was eyeing him closely. He was afraid he might be grinning.
“You don’t sound very . . . upset,” Marybeth said icily.
“I am,” he pleaded. “Really. It’s just . . . McLanahan is nuts. There’s no way a sixty-year-old woman shot the guy, drove him to the wind farm, climbed a two-hundred-fifty-foot tower, hoisted a body to the top, and tied it to a blade. Of course, if any woman was mean enough do such a thing . . .”
“Joe.”
“I’m kidding.”
“This is not the time,” she said, and he realized she was crying.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel horrible. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. Joe, despite what she is and what she’s done, she’s my mother. And she’s your daughters’ grandmother. Do you want them to think their grandmother is a murderer, for God’s sake?”
“No.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said, and he could imagine her wiping at her tears angrily so no one could see her crying. Open displays of emotion in front of co-workers wasn’t her style. “Call me when you know something.”
“I will,” Joe said, closing the phone.
“Sounds like you stepped in it,” Newman said.
Before Joe could respond, Deputy Mike Reed’s helmeted head poked through the hatch. He was red-faced and breathing hard. Joe extended his hand and helped Reed up into the nacelle. When Reed could catch his breath, he reached out and put both of his hands on Joe’s shoulders, looked into his eyes, and said, “The sheriff wants your hide, Joe.”
Joe shrugged. “Won’t be the first time.”
Joe had known and worked with Deputy Reed for a number of years. He liked him. Reed was low-key and dedicated, and had managed to stay out of McLanahan’s web of intrigue and influence. He had surprised practically everyone by filing papers to run against the sheriff in the upcoming election. And McLanahan had surprised everyone by not immediately cutting Reed loose from the department.
“I’m surprised he sent you,” Joe said.
Reed chuckled. “He didn’t want to, but he ran out of guys, and he’s too fat anymore to even think about climbing that ladder.”
“Where are his homeboys?” Joe asked. McLanahan had recruited three young deputies who spent most of their time in the weight room or appreciating McLanahan’s original cowboy poetry recitations. Joe had met most of them and saw they aspired to follow in the sheriff’s footsteps, and therefore they were to be treated with caution.