In the meantime, Robey said, the case against Tommy Wayman was also in limbo. He told Joe that although Tommy had confessed to tossing Opal in the river, the lack of a body prevented him from filing charges. In a legal holding action, Robey had persuaded Judge Pennock to order Tommy to stay in the area and check in weekly until the situation could be resolved.
Joe said, “This is about a lot more than the money, isn’t it?”
Robey looked quickly around the room to see who had entered since they started talking and that no one appeared to be eavesdropping. He leaned forward, lowered his voice, and said, “Joe, Opal was a damned monster. That’s what I’m finding out, the more I dig into it. She played those two brothers against each other all of their lives, telling one he was the favorite and that he’d get everything, denigrating the other, and vice versa. No wonder Wyatt is nuts, if he grew up with all of that going on around him. Arlen and Hank each really, honestly believe it is his personal destiny to control the ranch, and to continue the Scarlett legacy. That’s what they both call it, with a straight face, the ‘Scarlett legacy.’ Even Wyatt uses that term, easy as pie. According to Hank, Opal distrusted Arlen so much that she hired a third lawyer in secret to draw up a will giving Hank the whole place, but the lawyer was instructed not to come forward until Opal was declared dead. Hank says he’d rather ‘Mother’ show up than have her declared dead, of course, but if she doesn’t, he’s absolutely confident the ranch will be his. That’s how crazy these brothers are.”
“A third lawyer?”
Robey laughed, clearly not believing there was one. “Hank claims it’s Meade Davis. You ever hear of him?”
Davis was one of Saddlestring’s oldest and most prominent lawyers. So prominent, in fact, that Joe couldn’t recall his ever taking a case. Davis was involved in real estate, convenience stores, and he owned the cable television company.
“Davis winters in Arizona,” Robey said. “He isn’t back yet. We’ve tried to track him down but his phone’s disconnected and the registered letters we sent were returned. We’ve got a request in with the sheriff down there to find him, but so far no luck.”
Joe sat back, sipped his beer, thought of the implications. Robey was clearly agitated.
“So Wyatt is out of it for sure?” Joe asked. “It’s completely between Arlen and Hank? And Wyatt is okay with that?” He thought of Wyatt’s tears on the floor of the sheriff’s office; the heartbreak of a giant.
“As far as I can tell, Wyatt just wants Opal to come back and cook him his meals,” Robey said. “He misses her. And he doesn’t seem to care about the dispute either way. When I talked to Arlen, he actually referred to Wyatt as the ‘turd in the punch bowl.’ He has no respect for his youngest brother, but Wyatt adores Arlen. And Hank, for that matter.”
Joe thought about that and wondered if anyone really knew Wyatt.
“I understand some anonymous tipster contacted the IRS and turned Arlen in for tax evasion,” Robey said. “We were contacted by the feds about it earlier this week with a request to provide background.”
“Hank,” Joe said.
“Or one of Hank’s people. But that’s just the start of it. I got a visit this morning from Roger Schreiner. He was scared shitless.”
“Roger Schreiner? The accountant?”
“Yup. He’s working for Hank’s side of the operation and he got a letter accusing him of playing a part in an illegal conspiracy to defraud Arlen. The letter even cited the RICO statutes, which means he’s liable for triple damages if he’s found guilty. Roger says he’s innocent as the day is long, but he’s scared to death of going to court because he’s not sure how far his firm will back him.”
“Arlen,” Joe said.
Robey nodded.
Joe told Robey about the 1-800-POACHER tip he’d received earlier, naming Hank.
“Oh, man,” Robey said. “What could that mean if it’s true?”
Joe said, “Tens of thousands in fines, but that’s not what would hurt Hank the most. What would hurt Hank would be the confiscation of the equipment used to poach the animals, meaning his airplane, vehicles, and guns. And even worse for him, his license to guide and hunt could be revoked. Since he runs a big hunting operation in at least three locations, it would put him out of business.”
Robey shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. “This is getting even nastier than I thought.”
Joe snorted. “Of course, before investigating Hank I need proper authorization from my supervisor, which I’m still waiting for.”
“You’re kidding,” Robey said flatly.
Joe just looked at him. He hated feeling the way he did. Pope’s management of Joe stripped away both his independence and his confidence. But that was Joe’s problem, not Robey’s.
“And you know what?” Joe said, pointing the mouth of his bottle toward Robey. “I don’t think we’ve seen anything yet in regard to Scarlett versus Scarlett.”
Robey nodded. “We haven’t, because the next stage in the war will be more of what Arlen started in going after the surrogates of the other brother, like Hank’s accountant.”
“Or,” Joe thought out loud, “Arlen’s future management consulting firm—MBP Management.”
Robey sat back. “You think?”
“It fits,” Joe said.
And the door opened and in walked Hank Scarlett with a ranch hand. Joe watched as Hank mumbled hellos to men seated at the bar and then took the stool at the end that used to belong to ex-sheriff O. R. “Bud” Barnum, before Barnum went away. Hank’s tiny eyes, set close together in his thin face, burned like coals as they swept the room, settled for a moment on Joe, then moved on. He was doing inventory, Joe thought, seeing who in the Stockman was in his camp, and who wasn’t.
“Speak of the devil,” Joe said, his eyes narrowing. As he stared at Hank Scarlett, things started to tumble together and click. Six years before, Hank had been one of the most vocal opponents of calling in the feds when the Miller’s weasels were discovered, and he publicly blamed Joe for the intrusion of biologists, endangered-species advocates, and environmental groups that came as a result. Hank felt the issue would be best resolved locally, meaning: All the animals should be secretly killed. That’s how he’d always proceeded with endangered species.
In addition, Hank knew the Bighorns as well as anyone in Wyoming—even better than Joe, because he had hunted and explored every inch of them. If anyone knew where the colony of Miller’s weasels thrived in the wilderness, it was Hank. The fact that Marybeth had chosen to work for Arlen in Hank’s mind put Joe in his brother’s camp, even though it wasn’t the case.
“Joe, I don’t like that look on your face,” Robey said.
Joe didn’t realize he had any look at all.
“If you think Hank had something to do with that Miller’s weasel, you had best keep it to yourself until you can prove something,” Robey said.
Joe thought about the animal on his door, the steak knife pinning it there, the single streak of dark red blood that coursed down and pooled in a crack. And of Sheridan’s horrified expression when she realized what it was, what it meant.
“Excuse me,” Joe said, and slid out of the booth.
“Joe . . .” Robey said, his voice hard, but Joe didn’t turn around.
He approached the bar. Hank had his back to Joe, although the man Hank had come into the bar with watched Joe intently. Joe measured Hank’s companion, met his eyes dead-on. This one is a thug, Joe thought. There was nothing cowboy about him. He was tight through the chest, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed enhanced forearms with coils of cablelike muscle writhing under tattooed skin. His face was thin and pinched, his mouth full and rubbery. He had a soul patch under his lower lip and a ponytail. He wore the wrong jeans and his boots were black Doc Marten lace-ups, not real working cowboy boots. The man’s hat was Australian outback, not cowboy. And there was something about him, Joe thought, something familiar. When he looked at the man’s face he saw somebody else he was familiar with, or the shadow of that person. But Joe couldn’t remember if he had ever seen this man before.