Sheridan overheard her mother and moaned from the living room.
Marybeth car was pulling out onto the Bighorn Road when Trey Crump called Joe on his office telephone. Crump was a game warden with twenty-one years of experience and was known as one of the real good ones. He was tough, fair, independent, and knowledgeable and as area supervisor he had the reputation of standing by the wardens he oversaw. It was rare for him to call, and even rarer for Crump to read Joe's monthly report the day Joe sent it.
"Before we get to this part about trying to find Stewie Woods," Crump said gruffly, "what in the hell did you do to piss off this Jim Finotta guy so bad?"
Joe said there was nothing more than what was in the report; he
suspected Finotta of poaching and was trying to pursue the case.
"I hear he's an asshole," Crump said.
"What you hear is correct."
"There's all kinds of heat and light going on at headquarters over this," Crump sighed. "The director has called me twice in the last week to ask you to cool it. He kind of wanted me to agree that you're being overzealous and need to be reined in"
Joe smiled to himself. "But you didn't call."
"Hell no, I didn't call. I don't raise hell with game wardens for doing their jobs. If a guy shoots an elk out of season, I don't give a shit how much a guy has contributed to the governor's campaign or who he knows in Washington."
"So why are you calling now?"
He could hear Crump shuffling papers. "How much credibility do you give this Stewie Woods thing?"
"I'm not sure," Joe answered. "Marybeth isn't sure, either, and she actually knew the guy I mentioned those phone calls she's been getting in my report. So I'm going to check it out."
"It would be a hell of a note if this guy was still alive," Crump grumbled. "Most everybody I know would look at that as bad news."
Joe laughed. "That's how most of the folks think around here, too. But it sure is curious, isn't it?"
Crump had to agree with that. He asked Joe to call and let him know what he found out.
***
Sheriff BARNUM wasn't in and neither was Deputy McLanahan, Joe left a message with the dispatcher for either man to call him and left his cell phone number. He was secretly pleased they were both unavailable. The last thing he wanted to do was turn this over to them or to get their assistance.
Je hooked the two-horse slant-load trailer, saddled Lizzie, and loaded her in. After starting the engine of his pickup, Joe paused to take inventory The radio, GPS unit, cell phone, and light-control switch box mounted to the dashboard were all operational. His Redfield spotting scope was on the console next to his file of maps, as well as his Sterner binoculars. Under his seat was the Department-issued M14 carbine, and the short .12 gauge shotgun was mounted upright in back of the passenger seat. A .22 revolver loaded with blanks, for the purpose of scaring game animals out of private pastures or other places they didn't belong, was in a holster on the floor. The evidence kit, camera and lenses, first-aid kit, ram gear, and flares were packed into the center console. He checked the batteries on the small tape recorder he used for interviews. On his belt were handcuffs, a thin canister of pepper spray, a Leatherman, and his holster with the .357 Magnum Smith and Wesson revolver. Joe's personal weapon of choice, his Remington Wingmaster .12 gauge shotgun, was behind the seat, secured by Velcro straps. His water bottle and Thermos of coffee were full, and he had packed a lunch of salami, cheddar cheese, and an apple.
From inside the house, Maxine howled a pathetic, mournful wail. She did not like to be left behind. Joe looked up to see Maxine being pulled away from the front window by Sheridan, who waved at him.
"Bye, babe," Joe waved back at Sheridan. He unfolded the paper with the directions to the cabin that Marybeth had been given over the telephone. Then he pulled his hat brim down low, backed the pickup down the driveway to the Bighorn Road, and pointed it toward the mountains.
July 6
Driving four miles over the speed limit with the Mercedes SUV set on cruise control, the Old Man noticed a small tape recorder pressed upright between the seats and pulled it out. Lawyers liked to talk in these things, he thought, and later give their valuable musings to their secretaries to decipher. Then he remembered the microcassette tape they had taken from Hayden Powell's telephone answering machine. With his left hand on the wheel he dug through his daypack on the
passenger seat until he found the cassette, then inserted it into the player. It fit.
He rewound the tape and glanced again at the rearview mirror. He had been driving all night. The Old Man continuously watched for the black Ford pickup to come roaring up behind him. Every time a dark-colored vehicle approached, he reached for his handgun on the console. He had absolutely no doubt that Charlie Tibbs was somewhere behind him, and the two-lane highway he was on was the only southbound route. It could be later today or tomorrow, but Charlie would come. The Old Man hoped like hell he would be in and out of town by then. If he wasn't, the Old Man would be dead. It was as simple as that.
He listened to the tape from the beginning, getting insight into Hayden Powell's life for the week prior to the night when Charlie Tibbs and the Old Man showed up to end it.
There were several messages from Powell's New York editor asking for selections from Screwing Up the West so he could send them out in the hope of getting good quotes from other authors and environmentalists for the book jacket and publicity kit. The editor told Powell not to worry about having the entire manuscript complete and to send chapters that could stand alone and garner praise.
There was a message from Powell's attorney warning Powell that the SEC had called and requested an interview because of the failing dot-com company The attorney said he recommended delaying the interview as long as possible, but that the two of them would need to get together soon to decide on a strategy for dealing with the allegations.
There were several curt "Call me" messages left by a woman the Old Man guessed was Powell's ex-wife.
It was near the end of the tape that Charlie Tibbs called. There was silence except for traffic sounds. The Old Man had been seated next to Tibbs when he made the call as they entered Bremerton. Assuming that this was the last of the messages, the Old Man reached to stop the tape. But now he heard one more.
The last message was a bad connection, with static in the line. The voice was thick and slurred.
"You know who this is. You need to get out of here as fast as you can. First they tried to get me, now Peter Sollito is dead. These things work in threes, and who knows who might be next. Hayden, it might be you.
We need to get together and think this thing out, come up with a strategy before it's too late."
The Old Man was stunned. That message could have been left only by Stewie Woods.
The Mercedes topped a hill on the highway The Bighorn Mountains loomed ahead; they were light blue, peaked, and crisp in the morning sun. The small town of Saddlestring, from this distance, looked like a case's worth of glinting, broken bottles strewn across the hardpan at the base of the foothills.
Sheridan Pickett, still in her pajamas, was nestled in a pile of couch cushions in front of the television when Maxine began barking at the front door. This ruined Sheridan's perfect Saturday morning. She tossed candy wrappers and a half-eaten bag of chips aside and scrambled out of the cushions, wrapping herself in her terrycloth bathrobe as someone knocked heavily and then rang the doorbell.
Sheridan had been instructed never to open the door for strangers and she was rarely tempted. Ever since the man had broken into their house and hurt her mother she had been especially cautious.
People often came to the door looking for her dad, because his office was in the house. Sometimes they were ranchers who wanted to file damage claims or complain about hunters or fishermen, and sometimes they were hunters or fishermen who wanted to complain about ranchers.