She didn’t respond.
He took the keys and thanked her, but she didn’t leave, just lingered near the door. This time, he decided not to push her. After a few beats, she stepped back into his office and eased the door shut behind her.
“Joe, about a week before he died, Will said something to me.”
Joe sat down.
“He was in pretty bad shape when he came into the office that morning,” she said. “I thought he was hungover, and frankly, I wasn’t very kind to him. Now, when I look back on it, I think he was sick, or really depressed.
“I gave him kind of a hard look, I guess, when I gave him his messages. He just stood there. He looked so lonely, but at the time I didn’t feel sorry for him.”
Mary stopped and took a breath, kneading her hands together, looking around the room as if she suspected someone might be listening. “Will said he thought they were out to get him, and they were closing in. He said he thought there was only one person he could trust in this valley. I thought at the moment he said it he meant me.”
“He didn’t?” Joe asked.
“No,” she said, “he said someone else. That really hurt me, Joe. I know it’s emotional, and irrational, but it really hurt me. I’d been covering for him for so long . . .”
“So who was it?” Joe asked.
Mary’s face hardened. “He said the only person he trusted was Stella Ennis.”
It was late afternoon before Joe set off for the trailhead in Will Jensen’s pickup, the horse trailer hooked up behind. The interior of the truck was so similar to his own that when he realized he had not called Marybeth, he reached for the cell phone that wasn’t there.
He cursed. He had to reach her before he rode north, into country where he would be inaccessible. He stopped at a pay phone on the side of the highway, but it was out of order. Finally, he called the dispatcher over his radio and asked her to patch him through to his home number. He hoped Marybeth would be there, and maybe he could speak to Sheridan and Lucy since school was over. God, he missed them.
His wife answered, and the sound of her voice lifted his spirits.
“Marybeth, I’m glad I caught you.”
“It’s about time, Joe. I was starting to think you’d run off on me.”
“Honey,” he said, wondering how many game wardens, dispatchers, brand inspectors, and citizens with scanners were listening to every word, “I’ve been patched through on the radio. So this isn’t a private call.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously disappointed. “Why didn’t you call me on the cell? Or from your office?”
“My cell phone burned up. In fact, my whole truck burned up.”
Silence.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but my truck caught on fire this morning in the parking lot. I’m calling from Will’s old pickup.”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine. Don’t worry about anything. Look, I’m going to be out of touch for three or four days. I wanted to check in with you before I go.”
Her hesitation told him everything he needed to know.
“Three or four days?”
“At least,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He was in a bind, he thought. He didn’t want to tell her where he was going in case someone who knew Smoke Van Horn, or Smoke himself, was monitoring the radio traffic.
He wished he could explain himself fully to her to alleviate her concern and lessen her anger.
When she finally replied, she sounded cold, businesslike: “Joe, when you get back and to a phone, we need to talk.”
“I know. I’m looking forward to it.” “That’s nice, I guess.” “Marybeth—”
“A man threw a dead fawn on our lawn last night. Oh, and we keep getting those calls.”
His heart sank. He had hoped to hear that things were going surprisingly well. “I hope you called Nate,” Joe said.
“Yes. He helped us out with the fawn.”
“Good—”
“But there are still the calls. And Joe, we need to talk again about one of our daughters.”
“Sheridan?”
“I thought you said this wasn’t a private call,” Marybeth snapped.
“It isn’t, I’m sorry. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, but we’re having some difficulties.”
“Marybeth—”
“Joe, this isn’t working. This call, I mean. I don’t like talking with you this way. So just make sure to call me the minute you can, okay? If you can spare the time.”
He heard the phone slam down and felt needles of ice shoot into his heart.
At the same time, not far from the Twelve Sleep River, Nate Romanowski released his redtailed hawk and peregrine falcon to the sky. He stood back and watched them search until they found a thermal current, then climbed into the sky in wide circles. It was a clear, cloudless fall afternoon. As the birds rose, he walked away from his home into the field of sagebrush.
He walked noisily, tromping through the brush and occasionally crushing it under his boots. His noise and activity would alarm any hidden prey in the field, and startle them into flight. Nate functioned as a human bird dog for his falcons.
The peregrine released first, and dropped through the cobalt sky like a rock being dropped. He could hear it slice through the air, wings tucked, talons balled into fists. Nate hadn’t seen the cottontail rabbit, but no matter. His bird had. The collision on the ground was a muted thunderclap amid a puff of dust and rabbit fur.
The red tail continued to circle, surveying the ground, while Nate walked. He passed the peregrine, who was cracking the bones of the rabbit and eating it whole. Ten minutes later, there was a flurry in the sagebrush a few feet in front of him, and a fullsized jackrabbit launched into the open and ran toward the far ridge in the direction of the road. He watched it go, marveling, as always, at the long lopey stride of the creature that produced the optical illusion of being three times larger than it actually was. He felt as much as saw the red tail target the jackrabbit and start its stoop. Nate stopped, watched the rabbit streak toward the ridge and go over it out of sight while the hawk shot downward in a perfectly murderous nexus.
Suddenly, the red tail flared, halting its descent, and altered its path. The bird clumsily flapped its wings, climbing again. Had the rabbit escaped? No, Nate decided. Jackrabbits didn’t hide in holes, and it couldn’t have simply disappeared. Something, he thought, had spooked the red tail.
Something on the other side of the ridge.
Or somebody on the other side of the ridge.
Twenty Five
For exsheriff Bud Barnum, the morning started out on a bad note when Stovepipe, the man behind the counter at the city/county building, asked him to walk through the metal detector.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Barnum growled.
“I ain’t,” Stovepipe said. “In order to enter the sheriff ’s office you’ve got to go through the machine and get a pass.
The sheriff says no exceptions.”
“Does it even work?” Barnum asked, knowing that the metal detector was often broken when he was the sheriff.
“It does now.”
“This is bullshit.”
Stovepipe shrugged in response.
“I hired you, Stovepipe.”
“And I appreciate that, Bud, I truly do.”
Barnum glared. Stovepipe had always called him “sheriff,” not “Bud.” As he stepped through the machine, the alarm sounded. Shaking his head, Stovepipe motioned for him to step back.
Barnum angrily did so, then emptied his pockets, took off his belt, and dropped his gold pen into a plastic bowl. This time, he made it through.
“I’ll need to keep this stuff until you come back,”
Stovepipe said, handing Barnum a yellow pass.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“My pants . . .” Barnum said, feeling his neck get hot.
Stovepipe said, “I got string, if you need it.” Barnum recognized the lengths of twine—they were what they gave prisoners in their cells so they couldn’t hang themselves with their belts.