Governor Spencer Rulon sat behind a scarred table in the small conference room. Aerial photos of Twelve Sleep County adorned the walls, and a large picture window looked out over the runway. The table was covered with stacks of files from the governor’s briefcase, which was open on a chair near him.
He stood up as Ward and Joe entered the room and thrust out his hand.
“Joe Pickett, I’m glad Chuck found you.”
“Governor,” Joe said, removing his hat.
“Sit down, sit down,” Rulon said. “Chuck, you too.”
Governor Rulon was a big man in every regard, with a round face and a big gut, an unruly shock of silver-flecked brown hair, a quick sloppy smile, and darting eyes. He was a manic presence, exuding energy, his movements quick and impatient. Joe had seen him work a crowd and marveled at the way Rulon could talk with lawyers, politicians, ranchers, or minimum-wage clerks in their own particular language. Or, if he chose, in a language all his own.
Ward looked at his wristwatch. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we need to leave for Powell.”
“A speech for the Community College Commission,” the governor said to Joe before settling back in his chair. “They want more money—now that’s a shocker—so they’ll be willing to wait.”
Joe put his hat crown down on the table. He was suddenly nervous about why he’d been summoned and because there was no way to anticipate what Rulon might do or say. Joe had assumed on the drive into town that it had something to do with the circumstances of his dismissal, but now he wasn’t so sure. It was becoming clear to him by Ward’s manner that the chief of staff didn’t really like the purpose of the meeting, whatever it was.
“Everybody wants more money,” Rulon said to Joe. “Everybody has their hand out. Luckily, I’m able to feed the beast.”
Joe nodded in recognition of one of the governor’s most familiar catchphrases. In budget hearings, on the senate floor, at town meetings, Rulon was known for listening for a while, then standing up and shouting, “Feed the beast! Feed the beast!”
The governor turned his whole attention to Joe, and thrust his face across the table at him. “So you’re a cowboy, now, eh?”
Joe swallowed. “I work for my father-in-law, Bud Longbrake.”
“Bud’s a good man.” Rulon nodded.
“I’ve got my résumé out in five states.”
Rulon shook his head. “Ain’t going to happen.”
Joe was sure the governor was right. Despite his qualifications, any call to his former boss, Randy Pope, asking for a job reference would be met with Pope’s distorted tales of Joe’s bad attitude, insubordination, and long record of destruction of government property. Only the last chage was true, Joe thought.
“Nothing wrong with being a cowboy,” Rulon said.
“Nope.”
“Hell, we put one on our license plates. Do you remember when we met?”
“Yes.”
“It was at that museum dedication last spring. I took you and your lovely wife for a little drive. How is she, by the way? Marybeth, right?”
“She’s doing fine,” Joe said, thinking, He remembered her name. “She’s got a company that’s really doing well.”
“MBP Management.”
Amazing, Joe thought.
“And the kids? Two girls?”
“Sheridan’s fifteen, in ninth grade. Lucy’s ten, in fourth grade.”
“And they say I have a tough job,” Rulon said. “Beautiful girls. You should be proud. A couple of real pistols.”
Joe shifted in his chair, disarmed.
“When we met,” the governor continued, “I gave you a little pop quiz. I asked you if you’d arrest me for fishing without a license like you did my predecessor. Do you remember me asking you that?”
“Yes,” Joe said, flushing.
“Do you remember what you said?”
“I said I’d arrest you.”
Chuck Ward shot a disapproving glance at Joe when he heard that.
The governor laughed, sat back. “That impressed me.”
Joe didn’t know it had. He and Marybeth had debated it at the time.
Rulon said, “So when we were in the air on the way to Powell, I was reading through a file that is keeping me up nights and I saw the Bighorns and I thought of Joe Pickett. I ordered my pilot to land and told Chuck to go find you. How would you like to work for the state again?”
Joe didn’t see it coming.
Chuck Ward squirmed in his chair and looked out the window at the plane as if he wished he were on it.
Joe said, “Doing what?”
Rulon reached and took a thick manila file off one of the stacks and slid it across the table. Joe picked it up and read the tab. “Yellowstone Zone of Death.”
Joe looked up, his mouth dry.
“That’s what they’re calling it,” Rulon said. “You’ve heard about the situation, no doubt.”
“Everybody has.”
The case had been all over the state, regional, and national news the past summer—a multiple homicide in Yellowstone National Park. The murderer confessed but a technicality in the law had set him free.
“It’s making me crazy and pissing me off,” Rulon said. “Not just the murders or that gasbag Clay McCann. But this.”
Rulon reached across the table and threw open the file. On top was a copy of a short, handwritten letter addressed to the governor.
“Read it,” Rulon said.
Dear Gov. Spence:
I live and work in Yellowstone, or, as we in the Gopher State Five call it, “the ’Stone.” I’ve come to really like the ’Stone, and Wyoming. I may even become a resident so I can vote for you.
In my work I get around the park a lot. I see things, and my friends do too. There are some things going on here that could be of great significance to you, and they bother us a lot. And there is something going on here with the resources that may deeply impact the State of Wyoming, especially your cash-flow situation. Please contact me so I can tell you what is happening.
I want to tell you and show you in person, not by letter. This correspondence must be held in complete confidence. There are people up here who don’t want this story to be told. My e-mail address is yellowdick@yahoo.com. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.
It was signed “Yellowstone Dick.”
Joe frowned. He noted the date stamp: July 15.
“I don’t understand,” Joe said.
“I didn’t either,” Rulon said, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward again. “I try to answer all of my mail, but I put that one aside when I got it. I wasn’t sure what to do, since it seems like a crank letter. I get ’em all the time, believe me. Finally, I sent a copy over to DCI and asked them to check up on it. It took ’em a month, damn them, but they traced it with the Internet people and got back to me and said ‘Yellowstone Dick’ was the nickname of an employee in Yellowstone named Rick Hoening. That name ring a bell?”
“No.”
“He was one of the victims murdered by Clay McCann. The e-mail was sent to me a week before Hoening met his untimely demise.”
Joe let that sink in.
“Ever hear of the Gopher State Five?”
Joe shook his head.
“Me neither. And I’ll never know what he was talking about, especially that bit about deeply impacting my cash flow. You know how serious that could be, don’t you?”