Joe gave Clyde Lidgard some more water. It was still quiet in the hallway.
"You talked for a while and cleared your conscience. A huge weight lifted off of you," Joe said.
"And then you died, feeling much better about yourself."
"I did?" Lidgard asked.
"Starting now," Joe said.
When Joe Came out of the room, the policeman was still leaning over the nurses' counter, and Clyde Lidgard was dead.
***
The first thig Joe noticed as Marybeth was rolled out of the operating room was that, compared to Clyde Lidgard, she looked remarkably healthy. He found her hand under the sheet and squeezed it as he walked alongside the gurney. The emotion he felt when he looked at her flat bandaged belly brought tears to his eyes.
They made him let go of her hand for a moment while they situated her bed in the room, but when the nurses moved to set up the IV bottle, he went back to her. They told him they had just given her some powerful sedatives and that she would be asleep until morning. But the drugs hadn't kicked in completely yet, because for a moment, she awakened.
"You're going to be all right," Joe said, forcing a smile. "You're going to make it and be just fine."
She seemed to be looking to him for some kind of reassurance. He hoped he was providing it.
"Marybeth, do you know who did this?"
"I couldn't see. All I know is that it was a man."
"Is there anything you can tell me?"
"What about my baby?" Her voice was thick.
Joe shook his head.
She turned her away, her eyes closed tightly as she cried. He squeezed her hands. Suddenly, Marybeth was looking at him, frantically searching his face. Her eyes were wide.
"Where's Sheridan?" she asked. "I told her to run."
PART SIX
Like blind men building a mechanical elephant, each of the players picked up a hammer and wrench and, working separately and often secretly, fashioned gears, soldered wires, and pounded sheet metal. One built a leg, another the tail, a third the trunk. Then suddenly this creation, like a dreadful android, sprung to life, catching its builders in its gears as it lurched, uncontrolled, toward unknown destinations, without purpose, limit, or remorse.
--Alston Chase, In a Dark Wood, 1995, commentary on the creation and unintended consequences of the Endangered Species Act
Sheridan had never been so cold, so hungry, or so alone.
Once the fire down in the woodpile had died out, utter darkness had descended over the mountain. She rolled herself into a tight ball against the base of the boulder and tried to tuck the horse blanket around her body, but it was too thick and too small to cover her completely. The boulder, the dirt, and the air were all cold. She wished she had brought the backpack with her because it was filled with scraps of food. This was the first time she had ever missed dinner.
She wished she could do something routine, like change into her pajamas or brush her teeth, so she could at least feel kind of normal. She didn't know what time it was, but she knew it was late. There was no moon and the cold, hard stars were relentless.
Night animals were out. Something it sounded like a dog by the way it walked had come down the Sandrock draw from above but had stopped when it either smelled or sensed her. With an abrupt thump-thump-thump, it had reversed course and crashed back through the brush up the mountain.
It had scared her at the time, because for a moment she thought it was Wacey. But she was pretty sure it had been a coyote. There were lots of them up here, according to her Dad. They had eaten her puppy and her kitten, after all.
She had slept for a while, but she didn't know how long. A sharp crack--a gunshot from somewhere up in the mountains-had jarred her awake a few minutes ago. She listened for more shots but heard none. She crawled on top of the boulder again and looked down. The woodpile, now coals and ashes, glowed deep red. The lights were still on in the house but she couldn't see the man moving around inside or out. She would feel better if she knew where he was. For a moment, she thought
about going back down.
She wished she had some way to defend herself if he found her. She assessed what she had--the horse blanket, a barrette, two pennies from her pockets. She didn't even have a stick. If she were in a movie, she would be able to fashion something clever out of those items to beat the bad guy. But this wasn't a movie, and she wasn't that clever. She was cold--and scared.
Then she saw the headlights coming down from Wolf Mountain. She watched them as they crossed the river and came down Bighorn Road, The pickup pulled back into the driveway at the front of the house. She heard a door slam but couldn't see who had been driving.
After a few moments, she saw someone in the house pass by the back
picture window. The porch light came on and Wacey stepped out. He was
carrying a rifle.
"Yoo-Hoo! Sheridan? Are you still with us?"
Sheridan began to cry. For a moment, she had thought the driver was her father.
"Answer me, sweetheart, so I know you're okay!" His voice was friendly, as it always was when he started out.
She was crying hard now, uncontrollably. It was as if something had released inside of her.
"It's nice and warm inside, Sheridan. I've got some hot chocolate warming up on the stove. Hot chocolate with itty-bitty marshmallows that I found in the cupboard. Mmmmmmm! You've got to be getting a little chilly up there."
She could not stop crying. She covered her face in her hands. For a few moments, there was silence from below.
Then: "I can heeeeear you. I can hear you up there. Stop crying, or you'll make me feel bad. I don't want to drink all of this hot chocolate by myself."
She scrambled down from the boulder. As suddenly as she had started crying, she had stopped. She was horrified that Wacey had heard her crying. Now he knew for sure where she was.
"You sound pathetic, Sheridan. Why don't you come on down so I don't have to come up and get you?"
She pushed her way around the side of the boulder through a juniper bush so she could see down into the backyard again. He was still standing in the light of the floods. He had raised the rifle and was trying to see her through the scope but he was looking in the wrong direction, somewhere off to her left. Maybe he didn't know where she was after all. Maybe her sobs had echoed and confused him.
Either way, he wasn't coming up after her. Yet. It would be different when the sun came up.
***
It was three in the morning in Saddlestring, Wyoming, when Joe Pickett roared in from Billings. The four stoplights flashed amber, and no one was about. The last of the bars were closed, and it was too early for morning activities yet. The town was as dead as it would ever be.
Joe drove straight down Main Street and pulled around the corner from Barrett's Pharmacy. He stopped and turned off the motor and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He expected his eyes to glow red, as if he were some kind of demon or alien. He was so tired, so drained. He had not slept in two nights and had not eaten since breakfast, now almost 20 hours ago.
And he was absolutely enraged. He knew it wouldn't be long before he would explode. The only question remaining was how many people would
be involved in the blast.
Dim lights were on inside the pharmacy and Joe pressed his face to the window and looked in. In the parking lot, he had seen the pickup with a magnetic sign on the door that read Hans' Janitorial Service. Hans was in there all right, pushing a vacuum through the aisle that featured magazines and paperback books. Joe rapped on the window, but Hans didn't look up. He couldn't hear Joe over the vacuum. Joe hit the window again so hard he risked smashing it or tripping the alarm. But Hans, who has half deaf anyway, didn't respond.