An hour later, Marybeth answered the telephone on the first ring.
“Joe?”
“No, it’s your mother,” Missy said. “We’re back from our honeymoon. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“No, it’s not that—”
“Italy was just so wonderful. The people are warm, the food is out of this world.”
“We had spaghetti tonight,” Marybeth said morosely, and immediately regretted saying it.
“Not like the spaghetti in Italy,” her mother said. “Oh, you’ll need to bring the girls over. We’ve gifts for everyone.
Even Joe.”
Marybeth told her mother that Joe was in Jackson, and had been gone for over a week.
“My third husband and I used to have a condo there,”
Missy said. “I lost use of it after the divorce.”
“I remember,” Marybeth said, not seeing the point, other than to instinctively top anything her daughter said.
“I bet you’re getting lonely,” Missy said. “I know what it’s like to be abandoned. You always need to know, Marybeth, that you can bring the children and stay here with them if you want to. There’s room for everybody and you’re always welcome. Keep in mind that this is my ranch now too.”
After she hung up, Marybeth saw she had missed a call.
For a moment her heart leaped. But when she listened to the message, there was only breathing. Caller ID said it came from area code 720.
She felt vaguely unsettled as she cleaned up the kitchen after her daughters were in bed. Why hadn’t Joe called? Anger at him was overshadowing her concern. This was getting to be a habit.
Then, as if there were a breach in her mental dam, several unpleasant thoughts began to trickle forth, followed by a steady stream of them, then a torrent. She was really angry with Joe. Sure, she’d encouraged him to take the opportunity, but while she was back home struggling with Sheridan’s attitude and dealing with a dead deer in the front yard, he was at a resort community. She could imagine him eating out, seeing new things, meeting new and interesting people. His days were so rich and full that he couldn’t make the time or arrangements to call her. And here she was, in their crappy little house outside their crappy little town. He had left her stuck in the life that was about him, not her, not them. He had left her to balance her business, the family, his responsibilities, and the checkbook. She had once been a promising prelaw student.
Now, she was Joe Pickett’s facilitator, his unpaid assistant.
She was stuck in a particular time and place while the world, like a ship on the horizon, moved on without her.
Soon, she thought, it would be too far away to ever meet up with again.
Talking with her mother hadn’t helped. Not a bit.
Maybe she should just follow the example of her mother, she thought, who discarded men and traded up.
Look where her mother was now. There’s room for everybody, she had said. Keep in mind that this is my ranch now too. And what did Marybeth have? Besides her daughters, of course? She looked around. Even her own house was owned by the state of Wyoming.
Marybeth found herself staring at her reflection in the microwave oven door. Her expression was angry, and desperate. And guilty.
Joe was doing his best. He always did his best. But she couldn’t help wondering when Nate would come back and have dinner again.
Twenty Three
Dr. Shane Graves’s place was huge and rambling, built into the side of a sagebrushcovered hill three miles from the highway. In the night, it looked like a ship at sea with all lights blazing. Joe could see no other lights in any direction. He drove up a crushed stone driveway and stopped adjacent to the front door.
Graves, tall and thin with a shock of white hair and hollowed, pockmarked cheeks, opened the door before Joe knocked. Graves wore a long velour robe, socks, and beaded moccasins. He introduced himself and offered his hand. Joe suppressed a flinch at the touch of Graves’s cool, long, smooth fingers. “My office is down this hallway,” Graves said, leading Joe inside. “The Jensen file is on the desk as well as a box of evidence. Please don’t remove any of the items from the Ziploc bags without asking my permission.” Joe followed the ME down the dark hallway, but not before stealing a glance into a wellappointed great room where soft music swelled and lowwattage lamps created a warm, subdued glow. A man about Graves’s age sat on a couch in the great room. He looked to be a working cowboy—
worn Wranglers, scuffed boots, longsleeved canvas shirt, longbrimmed hat grasped in his hands—but he didn’t acknowledge Joe. The cowboy sat with a forwardleaning posture with his eyes fixed on something high on the wall that suggested to Joe that the man thought that if he remained still he couldn’t be seen. The cowboy, Joe guessed, was Graves’s companion for the evening.
Once in his office, Graves snapped on a bank of harsh lights and gestured toward the desk. “Maybe if you told me specifically what you’re looking for I could save you some time.” The office was in stark contrast to the dimly lit great room in its clinical whiteness.
“I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for yet,” Joe said, hedging, his eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the room. “I’d like to read over the reports first and then see if I have any questions. Is that all right?”
“You told me on the phone it was urgent,” Graves said impatiently.
Caught, Joe felt himself flush. “Sorry. It’s something Sheriff Tassell told me the other night. He said that when Will shot himself, the kick of the gun drove the front sight into the top of his mouth.”
Graves nodded. “Yes, it knocked out the victim’s front two teeth as well. A handgun of that caliber has an enormous kick to it when it’s fired.”
“Is the weapon Will used in there?” Joe asked, pointing to the box.
Graves crossed in front of Joe and pulled out a large plastic bag and handed it to Joe. The .44 Magnum was huge and heavy, with a teninch barrel. Graves fingered the sharp front sight through the plastic with his long, white fingers.
“You can see how it could happen,” he said. Joe noticed that the blade of the front sight was rustcolored with dried blood.
“Yes,” Joe said, hesitating. “Do you mind if I look through the files?”
“I’m not sure what your intention is here, and I hope you’re not just fishing,” Graves sighed. “Please don’t take all night, Mr. Pickett. As you can see, I have a guest.”
Joe nodded.
“There are some photos in the file that might be disturbing to you,” Graves said. “I want to warn you—they’re very graphic.”
“I understand.”
“Everybody always says that,” Graves said, his smile revealing crooked beige teeth, “until they actually look at them.”
Joe heard Graves pad back down the hallway, and heard the music increase in volume. Graves didn’t want conversation from the great room to be overheard, Joe guessed. He opened the file and read the report. It was as Tassell had described. The only item that Joe wondered about were the notes saying that no toxicology report or autopsy was recommended.
Even though he thought he was prepared, the photos shocked Joe, just as Graves had warned. Will was slumped back in the hardback chair, his long legs splayed out underneath the table. His neck was white and exposed, his bloodied chin tilted up. Both arms hung straight down. The .44
Magnum was on the floor near his right hand. In the background, the entire kitchen wall and what could be seen of the ceiling were spattered with blood, brains, bits of white bone, and hair. Joe felt an urge to get sick, and looked around the office for water to drink. He found a paper cup near the sink and filled it, noticing that his hand was trembling.
Taking a deep breath he retuned to the desk and forced himself to look at the other photos. Will’s body had been photographed from all angles. A particularly disturbing photograph was taken from behind Will, where the back of his skull was shot away. In another, a closeup of Will’s mouth clearly showed the wound in the palate caused by the front sight, the two front teeth hanging from the upper gum by thin strings.