“Could be,” Joe said. “I’ve got a request for you.”
She looked up at him.
“Don’t call Wentworth back for fifteen minutes. Will you promise me that?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’ll take that much time to clear him,” Joe said.
After thinking it over, she said, “Fifteen minutes. But I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“I’ve been wrong before,” Joe conceded.
—
AS HE RACED BACK to the Holiday Inn, Joe had no confidence Hatch would restrain herself from contacting Wentworth. But it was worth a try.
He pulled his pickup in front of the lobby and went straight to the front desk of the hotel. The young female assistant manager on duty had purple-streaked hair and a nose ring and he recognized her as one of Sheridan’s high school friends. She was texting with someone, but when she looked up she seemed to recognize him as well. Everybody knew the game warden.
He said, “Is Revis Wentworth still in the same room on the third floor? I need to ask him some questions and I’m pretty sure he told me it was room 348.”
The girl looked on the computer and said, “No, he’s in 343.”
“Thank you,” Joe said, tapping his fingers on the counter in thanks. “Good to see you again.”
“No problem,” she replied, and reached for her phone.
He’d had no idea of Wentworth’s room number and he knew she wasn’t authorized to give it out. He felt slightly guilty about the ruse.
—
JOE KNOCKED LOUDLY on the door of room 343. He stepped to the side so Wentworth couldn’t see him out of the peephole and pretend he wasn’t in.
Joe watched as the peephole darkened, then lightened again. From inside, Wentworth said, “Who is it?”
“Joe Pickett.”
He heard a long sigh and the lock being thrown.
Wentworth wore sweats and gym shoes. A basketball game blared from the TV. His face was fixed in a snarl and he said, “I saw you out there sneaking around in the parking lot. What the hell was that all about?”
Annie Hatch had kept her word.
Joe said, “I was gathering evidence to prove that you slaughtered all the sage grouse in Lek Sixty-four. Annie is going to be very disappointed in you.”
Wentworth’s face drained of color and his mouth opened slightly. For a few seconds, his eyes went blank.
“You can’t prove a thing,” Wentworth said.
“That’s the first thing guilty men always say. They don’t say they didn’t do it or that I don’t know what I’m talking about. They always say I can’t prove it.” Joe smiled. Then: “I don’t know much about women, but I don’t think this was the most brilliant way for you to spend more time with Annie Hatch. After all, what would your wife think?”
“We’re separated,” Wentworth said. As he spoke, he unconsciously kneaded the naked ring finger of his left hand with his right.
Joe said, “That’s your business.”
Wentworth stepped aside as Joe entered the hotel room. The closet door was open and Joe peered inside. A 12-gauge pump shotgun was propped in the corner of the closet and an open box of Federal shells was on the shelf above the hanging rod. Joe could feel Wentworth tense up when he realized what Joe was looking at. Joe quickly withdrew his phone and snapped a photo of the shotgun and the shells.
“I’ll be confiscating your weapon and the ammo,” Joe said. “Don’t worry—I’ll give you a receipt.”
“You can’t do that,” Wentworth said.
“Sure I can. Weapons suspected of being used in a wildlife crime can be confiscated until it’s proved otherwise. So I’ll be taking your shotgun with me for analysis.”
Wentworth shook his head. He was trying to force a smile. He said, “I know shotgun pellets aren’t like bullets. You can’t match up the markings on pellets to a certain gun, and those Federal shells are a dime a dozen.”
“Yup,” Joe said, gathering the items. “But every shotgun leaves a unique firing-pin indentation on the primer. You can’t see it with your naked eye, but a forensics lab can see it through a microscope. They’ll know if this gun was used to kill those birds when they match it up with the spent shells I found at the scene.”
“Bullshit.”
“This time I’m sending the evidence to my lab,” Joe said. “If I were you, I’d start a long conversation with myself about all this.”
“So what are you going to do?” Wentworth talked like his mouth was dry. He looked at Joe with pleading eyes.
“Now?” Joe said. “I’m going to go home and have dinner with my family. But don’t worry—I’ll be in touch.”
Wentworth’s cell phone rang on a lamp table near his bed.
“That’ll be Annie,” Joe said while he backed out with the shotgun. “If I were you, I wouldn’t pick up.”
Joe’s last glimpse of Wentworth as the door shut was of a man with his head in his hands.
—
THAT NIGHT, while Joe and Marybeth were getting ready for bed, Marybeth said, “I think we should go to church tomorrow. I know it’s been a while, but I want to pray for April and Nate and to make sure they’re on the church’s prayer list. Lucy even said she wants to come along.”
Joe said, “I have to go to Cheyenne and meet with the governor.”
“On a Sunday?” She was distressed by the news.
“You know how he is.”
“You have to go to Cheyenne on a Sunday to talk about wild birds?”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
“No, you go,” she said. “The governor’s been good to you and he won’t be in office forever. I’ll take Lucy with me to church and give everyone your regards.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll pray for them as I drive south.”
“You do that.”
—
AFTER MARYBETH had turned off her reading lamp, Joe said, “Do you think there is any connection between what happened to April and what happened to Nate?”
She hesitated for a moment, then clicked her light on again and propped herself up on her elbow.
“What?”
“It’s something the governor mentioned today. He doesn’t know all the details, but he thought it strange that two big events happened so close together. It’s got me thinking, but I can’t connect them at all.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to connect,” she said sharply.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
She reached over and doused the light again and settled under the covers with a huff.
“Thanks for giving me something to keep me awake all night,” she said.
“Sorry.”
17
Three hours later, Liv Brannan’s eyes snapped open. Something—or somebody—was up there. Maybe it was the coyote or dog from a couple of nights ago. She’d heard it snuffling and padding around the closed doors. This time, though, it seemed heavier.
The Cateses unplugged the hanging trouble light at midnight, although they didn’t unhook the extension cord that powered the space heater. She guessed it was an hour past, but she didn’t know for sure. They’d taken her watch.
This was the first time she’d slept hard since they’d put her in the hole. The reason, she suspected, was that she was physically tired. Either that, or God forbid, she was getting used to being down here.
She was tired because, for the last day and a half, she’d spent every spare minute chipping away at the concrete-like compacted clay of the wall, trying to loosen a rock she’d discovered. The rock was round and smooth like a river rock but she had yet to find out how large it was. When she’d first uncovered the rock, the surface was no bigger around than a quarter. But when she began to dig around it with her fingernails, she found out it was much larger. Her fingernails were now sore and bleeding.