—
JOE FOUND ANOTHER BULL still on its side and breathing hard, a hundred yards into the forest. It must have been quite a battle, Joe observed. Chunks of bark had been sheared off pine trees by antler tips and pine needles carpeted the snow.
The animal had been injured somehow while being taken down, and blood was spritzed across the top of the snow.
—
DALLAS WASN’T DONE, though. The track went farther up the mountain, zigzagging across the churned-up trail of the fleeing elk herd. Joe stayed on it.
An old cow elk lay dead in the path and Joe almost hit her. He turned at the last second, and the left front sled nicked her haunch. She’d likely died from exhaustion, Joe knew. He could tell by her expanded form that she was pregnant with a calf.
Which made him even angrier.
—
THE TREES OPENED INTO a large mountain meadow painted dark blue by the starlight, and there was Dallas Cates, standing over the prone body of another bull elk, his snowmobile idle and rumbling thirty feet to the left of him.
He’d bulldogged another one.
When the beam of Joe’s headlamp lit up Dallas’s face, he was grinning and breathing hard from his latest conquest. There was blood and swatches of tawny elk hair on the front of his snowmobile suit.
He looked up and squinted, and the boxlike smile appeared. He was proud of himself, Joe thought. Look at what I did. Three of ’em!
He wanted to share the moment and be admired by whoever was coming his way on the snowmobile. Probably Eldon or his brother Timber. Dallas held out his hands, palms down, saying Slow down.
As Joe got closer and started to brake, Dallas’s eyes narrowed. He recognized who was on the machine. Dallas’s left hand shot up and unzipped the front of his suit and he reached inside with his right.
Joe caught a silver glimpse of the butt of a pistol. Dallas was trying to draw it out, but it had gotten caught on the inside of the bulky fabric of his snowmobile suit.
Instead of stopping, Joe cranked the right grip to full throttle and sat back and braced himself. The snowmobile surged forward as if kicked from behind.
Before Dallas could pull the gun, or duck to the side or run, the front end of the machine bucked and Joe ran him over. The headlamp exploded on impact and the plastic cowl cracked down the middle. Joe saw Dallas’s arms flail and vanish underneath the machine, and he felt the big bump under the back end of the snowmobile as it passed over him.
Joe lost his grip on the handlebars for a second after the crash, but found them again in time to turn sharply and avoid smacking into a tree at the edge of the meadow. When he got the battered snowmobile looped around, he saw the writhing black smudge in the snow that was Dallas.
Joe cruised back and killed the engine. He dismounted and walked over to Dallas’s snowmobile and shut it off, too.
After the high whine of his machine, the forest seemed silent and still. All he could hear was the ticking of the cooling engines, the labored breathing of the bull elk, and a moan from Dallas. Joe found the .45 semiauto in the snow ten feet from where Dallas lay.
Joe said, “I forgot to say ‘Freeze.’”
Dallas moaned again and rolled painfully onto his side. Joe could tell from the odd angle of Dallas’s left leg that it was broken. Dallas yelped when he drew a breath. Broken ribs again, too.
Joe said, “You shouldn’t have gone for that pistol. Congratulations: you’re my second Cates of the day.”
—
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Joe saw the lights of the Cates compound wink through the trees. Dallas was strapped to the back of the seat, facedown and groaning. Joe had taken Dallas’s machine because the one he’d borrowed was a mess.
He was pleased on the way down to see that the first bull had recovered enough to wander back into the forest to rejoin the herd. Unfortunately, the second and third bulls had died from their injuries and exhaustion.
—
SHERIFF REED met him in the yard when Joe rumbled in and killed the motor. The flashers and lights of twelve law enforcement vehicles lit up the compound.
Reed looked at the writhing body on the back and said, “Dallas?”
“I was going to arrest him, but he pulled this,” Joe said, handing the .45 butt-first to Reed.
Reed took it and said, “We found Bull in the back of his pickup. Not much left of his head, though.”
Joe climbed off the machine. His knees and lower back ached from the ride.
“What happened to your face?” Reed asked.
“Bull shot me. Did you find Liv Brannan?”
Reed nodded. “She’s in my car. Did you know . . .”
“Yup.”
“My God,” Reed said. “Six days. Did Brannan tell you that Dallas was the one who attacked April?”
Before Joe could answer, Reed gestured to Dallas tied onto the back of the machine and said, “Never mind. I can see that she did. I’ll call for another ambulance.”
Joe was puzzled.
“Brenda Cates is still alive. She’s on her way to the clinic in the ambulance. She’ll probably never have the use of her limbs again. I guess she’s just too mean to die.”
“Eldon, too?”
Reed shook his head. “He didn’t make it.”
Joe said, “Mike, I know there’s a lot to sort out here, but I’ve got to get to Billings. Mind if I borrow one of your trucks?”
Reed groaned, and said, “You’re hell on trucks, Joe. But sure. Take Deputy Boner’s.”
“Thank you.”
Reed looked out over the compound and shook his head sadly. “The whole damned family,” he said. “Except one.”
31
Timber Cates waited in the maintenance closet after he’d seen the three Pickett females leave the hospital room. They’d left with their coats on and had walked together to the elevator.
Timber didn’t know much about women, but he did know they always forgot something.
Three minutes after they’d left, the elevator chimed and the oldest daughter got out and returned to the room. She emerged clutching her phone.
He gave it another ten minutes, then he pushed his service cart through the door and let it shut behind him. The hallway was empty and the nurses’ station was temporarily vacant.
The clock at the end of the hall said it was seven-fifteen p.m.
—
TIMBER DIDN’T GO STRAIGHT to the target room. Earlier that evening, he’d noted the closed-circuit camera located in a mirrored half-moon housing. If someone was monitoring the hallways, he thought, he didn’t want to dash toward April Pickett’s room and give them any reason to notice him.
He dry-mopped his way up the hallway, working the baseboards and keeping his face turned away from the camera. The open door to his target was less than twenty yards away.
Timber could feel the hard flat blade of the ceramic knife against his skin where his sock held it to his right ankle. He’d learned in Rawlins to always be aware of his hidden shiv and to practice pulling it out as swiftly as possible, but at the same time to never look down at it, even instinctively.
—
ONCE, he’d had a confrontation with a beaner who’d just arrived in the general population and didn’t know enough to show Timber the deference he deserved. The two had squared off in the corner of the yard. Words were exchanged, and Timber held his ground. Then the man had glanced down toward his shoe right in the middle of the stare-down.
The beaner hadn’t gone for it, but he didn’t need to. He’d all but told Timber that, yes, he had a knife.
Timber hadn’t hesitated. He’d pulled his own shiv and slashed the beaner’s throat with one swift move, then discarded his knife through the chain-link fence. The beaner went down. Timber stood back and saw the guards pull a sharpened toothbrush from the beaner’s sock.