...
Joe spent the afternoon driving around his new district with a map on his lap, learning where the main roads were and noting landmarks. He received no calls. As it darkened, he returned to his house with a bag of hamburgers and a sixpack of beer. He called home and was transferred immediately to voice mail. He guessed that either Sheridan or Lucy was online, probably doing homework. He left a message that he was okay, and that he would call tomorrow.
Seventeen
Mary Seels was settling into her reception desk with a cup of coffee when Joe arrived at the office building Monday morning.
“You got some messages over the weekend,” she said, handing him five pink slips. He glanced through them. Don Ennis, Pete Illoway, Marybeth, Don Ennis, Don Ennis.
“Who is Pete Illoway?” Joe asked. “You’ve not heard of him?”
“No.”
“I’ve heard him referred to as the Guru of Good Meat,”
Mary said, her face revealing nothing. “He’s some kind of eating consultant.”
“Eating consultant?”
Mary sighed. “We’ve got pet psychologists. So an eating consultant shouldn’t be that surprising.”
“I guess not,” Joe said. Then: “I didn’t see you at the funeral.”
Mary began to answer, then stopped and simply looked at him.
“I’m sorry . . .” he said.
She waved him off. “I should have been there. I put in for the time off. I just couldn’t make myself go.”
Joe didn’t understand. He felt she wanted to say more.
Before continuing, Mary looked around the room and up the stairs to make sure no one could overhear her. “I guess I want to remember Will the way he was, not what he turned into.”
“Do you mean in the last six months? Susan told me about that.”
Mary lowered her voice. “Will Jensen was such a good man. He was great to work for, and I thought a lot of him personally. But I really resented covering for him when he didn’t show up, or when he missed meetings, or when he didn’t respond to calls. It was like he became a different man in the end, one I didn’t like.” She looked around again and turned back to Joe. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said that at all.”
“It’s okay.”
“You remind me of Will, the way he was.”
Joe flushed. “I take that as a compliment.”
“It is a compliment.”
“This is going to sound odd, but did Will ever mention any trouble he was having with people trespassing at his place?”
Mary said quizzically, “Why do you ask?”
Joe told her about waking up in the night and the footprints he found.
“In the last few months, Will said a lot of things, usually in grumbles,” she said. “He said he was having trouble sleeping, and he showed up—when he showed up—
looking like something the cat drug in. I remember him saying once that he couldn’t sleep because somebody was thumping on the wall, but he thought it was teenagers or maybe somebody he arrested who wanted to harass him, you know?”
“Mary,” Joe said, “you’ve obviously thought quite a bit about what happened. If you were to name what—or who—drove him over the edge, what would it be?”
Her eyes flashed. “I think I’ve said too much already.”
“You’ve got a theory, though?”
She angrily shook her head, as if tossing the conversation aside, sat down at her desk, said, “I’ve got work to do here.”
As Joe climbed the stairs, he looked down at Mary at her reception desk. She was furiously arranging her things in front of her.
You know something you’re not telling me, Joe thought.
At his desk, Joe looked at his watch, then dialed home. Marybeth picked up on the second ring.
“At last,” Joe said.
“Not really,” she said, strain in her voice. “The school just called. The bus driver didn’t show up for work, so I need to take the girls to school. Then I’ve got to get to Barrett’s right after that to defend their books against some IRS auditor who showed up without any warning.”
“This has been difficult,” he said, wanting to tell her about the funeral, the urn, the strange feeling in his head that was finally dissipating, the man outside his window the night before. Wanting to hear about Sheridan’s injured eye, the silent 720 call.
“Can’t you call tonight? The girls would love to talk to you,” she said.
“Okay. What about you?”
“Oh, Joe, of course I want to talk with you. That is, if you’re sober and the line isn’t cutting in and out.”
He winced at that. “That was a little strong, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. But the girls are waiting in the car and I’ve really got to go now,” she said. “Call tonight.”
“I will.” He hung up, a dark mood forming.
...
Pete Illoway wasn’t in when Joe returned the call. The message said:
“Hi, you’ve reached the desk of Pete Illoway of the Good Meat Foundation. I’m either on the other line or away from my desk, helping people connect with their natural environment for the good of all the species on the planet.
Please leave a message. . . .”
“Sheesh,” Joe said, and hung up.
Don Ennis was in, and answered the phone with the brusqueness of a man who had important things to do quickly, Joe thought.
“I called you three times yesterday,” Ennis said.
“I was out,” Joe said, trying not to sound defensive.
“Jensen was out a lot too. You’re not like he was, are you?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Never mind,” Ennis said. “I’m sure by now you’ve run across Will Jensen’s file on Beargrass Village, right?”
Joe turned and opened the file drawer, thumbing through the tabs. “I’m looking,” he said.
Ennis sighed impatiently. “It’s probably a thick one.
When you find it you should read it over. I’m sure there are some errors of judgment you’ll want to correct.”
Joe saw Beargrass written in Will’s cribbed hand on the tab of a folder. He withdrew it from the drawer and placed it on the desk blotter.
“Okay, Mr. Ennis,” Joe said, “I found the file. Can you tell me what this is about?”
Another sigh. “I’m a developer, you know that because you’ve got my card from the other night, right?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “Thank you for the—”
“A developer develops,” Ennis said, cutting Joe off.
“That’s what I do, Mr. Pickett. I’ve invested millions of dollars of my own money and have millions more lined up to develop Beargrass Village here in Jackson Hole. It’s a planned community unlike anything anyone out here has ever done or seen. The concept is brilliant. Forty percent of the home sites have already been committed, and we’re ready to start building.”
“Yes,” Joe said, now understanding why Ennis had been so anxious to get in touch with him.
“Look, I believe in doing things on the upandup. I don’t like games. I didn’t become who I am by fucking around with people. Let me ask you something straight out, Mr. Pickett: Are you one of those people who is against any development?”
“No, I’m not,” Joe answered truthfully.
“You’re not one of those limpwristed greenies who oppose anything new?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. We can talk.”
“You start,” Joe said.
“The ground can’t be broken until all of the permits are in place and all the state and federal bureaucrats sign off on it. Everybody has at this point, except for one.”
“Let me guess,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” Ennis said, his voice rising. “Will Jensen was concerned about bear and moose habitat. He was concerned that Beargrass Village would be built in the middle of a freeranging wildlife corridor.” Ennis said the word concerned with dripping sarcasm, Joe thought. “I tried to explain to him that this project was about wildlife, about animals, and if anything, it would enhance the habitat for the moose and the bears. I tried to show him, personally, but he stood me up for two meetings and when he finally did show up he was belligerent. He physically attacked me.