And the more Joe thought about it, the more he realized that the killings were incomprehensible to him.
***
Feeling good about the day and the job he had done, Joe worked his way through the break land toward the road that would take him back into town. Vern Dunnegan had called him early that morning, before the funeral, and asked Joe to meet him at five in the Stockman's Bar. If it was like the old days, Vern would be in the last booth on the right, past the pool table. That was Vern's booth.
The Stockman'S Bar was a dark place where they served shots and beer under the dusty heads of local game animals and where the walls were covered with black-and-white photos of local rodeo contestants from the 1940s and '50s. No matter what day or hour it was, there seemed to always be the same number of patrons. Joe walked past a dozen men on stools, toward the pool table in the back. A hanging Coors beer lamp illuminated the green felt of the pool table and highlighted the side of Vern's face. Vern was in his booth, and he had company.
"You're early." Vern said as a greeting, extending his hand toward Joe.
"Joe Pickett, this is Aimee Kensinger." She was in shadow. Joe's eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark bar.
Joe took off his hat. "We've met."
"See, I told you that," Aimee said to Vern.
Vern chuckled and gestured for Joe to sit across from him in the booth.
"Will you drink a beer with me?" Vern stated more than asked. "Aimee's got to get going."
"Oh, yes, I had forgotten about that," Aimee said sarcastically. Joe liked her voice. As his eyes adjusted, he could see she was wearing some kind of fuzzy, black sweater and a thin gold necklace. She was smiling at him.
"I'll see you around, Joe Pickett."
Vern stood and let her out of the booth. She tousled Joe's hair as she left, which embarrassed him. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. Vern followed her as far as the bar and returned with four shots of bourbon and four mugs of beer on a tray.
"Happy hour," Vern said. "Two for one." He downed a shot and chased it with beer.
"You're looking good, Joe. How's the pellet wound?"
Joe told him it was fine and took a long drink from a mug. The cold beer tasted good. The afterimage of Aimee Kensinger hovered next to Vern.
"She still likes me," Vern said, smiling. "Even though I don't wear the uniform anymore." Vern threw another shot down his throat. "She likes you, too." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Joe didn't respond. He didn't want to go there. Joe tried to gauge how much Vern had been drinking. This certainly didn't seem to be his first shot of the afternoon, judging by how flushed his face was. Vern had always been a hard drinker, and there had rarely been a night after work when Vern didn't suggest they stop for one or two. But since Vern had returned, Joe had yet to see him without bourbon within his grasp.
"Have you given what we talked about any thought?" Vern asked.
Joe nodded.
"Well?"
"I need to discuss it with Marybeth," Joe said. "We really haven't had a chance to talk it over yet."
Vern's eyes never left Joe's. "She's a smart woman," Vern said. "She'll steer you in the right direction. D'you want me to talk to her?"
"That won't be necessary." Joe felt a twinge of resentment toward his former boss. Vern obviously thought he could talk Marybeth into making Joe take the job. Vern thought he could talk anybody into anything. Usually, he could. Vern was a highly intelligent man and very persuasive. But for a reason Joe couldn't quite articulate, he found himself resisting the job offer.
"I know one thing," Joe said, drinking at the beer.
"I know I won't be ready to make any big moves until these outfitter
murders are finally solved."
Vern sat perfectly still. He looked at Joe with disbelief.
"What in the hell is there to solve, Joe?" Vern asked, his voice low and tight. "Clyde Lidgard shot three local white trash outfitters, and you guys shot him. Case closed."
"There are too many unanswered questions," Joe said quickly. "Why did he do it? Why was he up there? Why did he stay there if he did it? Why did Ote Keeley come to my house? What was in that cooler? In my mind, there are a lot of things that have to be answered."
Vern sat perfectly still with a look of outright contempt on his face, his eyes boring a hole in Joe. Although he felt his resolve weakening, Joe looked back and did not flinch. He steeled himself against Vern, determined to not let him talk him out of continuing the investigation.
"Joe," Vern said, his voice barely over a whisper. "Let's you and me take a couple of minutes and talk about the real fucking world." Vern bit off the last three words with a vehemence that caught Joe completely off guard and unnerved him. "I don't know the answers to those questions, and I frankly don't give a shit," Vern hissed.
"Murders are messy. When the killer is shot before he can talk, there are all kinds of loose ends. This is not an exact science--you should know that by now. These things aren't always wrapped up neatly. Sometimes when it's too neat, an innocent man goes to prison, but usually the guy is scum and should be in there anyway. Don't beat yourself up trying to put every piece together. Forget about it and move on with your life, Joe."
Joe thought about what Vern said. And he thought about Vern. There was an urgency there Joe couldn't understand and hadn't expected.
"What about the cooler Ote brought to my house?" Joe asked. "What was in it?"
Vern brought his hand down on the table with a wet slap. "Again, who the fuck cares?" Vern asked, reaching over and taking one of Joe's shots.
"Let it go."
"I talked to a couple of hunters today who asked me if I knew anything about an endangered species being found in the mountains," Joe said. "They wouldn't elaborate, and I don't know if they were kidding or not."
"Who were they?" Vern asked. He knew everybody.
"Hans and Jack."
"Fuck 'em," Vern said, dismissing them. "Coupla gossipy old hens."
"I don't know about that," Joe said. "I always thought they were all right."
"Joe..." Vern sighed. "I've got an obligation to find out and report on it," Joe said. "You know that."
Vern sneered back. "An obligation to whom?" he asked. "The Wyoming Game and Fish Department? The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service? The Sierra Fucking Club? The president of the United States?"
"Vern," Joe reasoned. "You know what we're supposed to do if we find something like this. Or even suspect it. And what if it's tied to the outfitter murders in some way?"
Vern rolled his eyes. He used to do the same thing when he thought Joe had said something incredibly naive. "You know, Joe, what I'm about to say will shock you," Vern said. "But I know good men who have found an endangered species on their land and shot it and buried it without a second thought rather than announce it to the world. I know a rancher over by Cody who cornered some kind of wolverine-type creature that he knew was supposed to be extinct. He blew that little sucker away and fed the pieces to his dogs. That rancher knew that if he had reported it, he would have been kicked off of his own land so that a bunch of bark-beetle elitists could claim they were saving the world."
One of the men from the stools at the bar weaved near their booth as he made his way toward the bathroom. Vern leaned across the table to Joe and kept his voice down.
"Do you realize what would happen to this valley if it got out that there might be something in the mountains? Even if it was nothing more than a silly rumor started by a couple of gossipy old hens? Even if there was no more to it than a couple of future Alzheimer's candidates blabbering into the wind? Or even if you, as the game warden, announced that you thought there was something up there?