Joe swallowed hard. He’d screwed up by forgetting his training and letting his familiarity with Ander Esti soften his approach. Never assume, he’d been taught. But he’d assumed.
He reached down and undid his belt and let his Glock, cuffs, bear spray, and extra magazines thump to the ground.
“I remember that goddamned bear spray,” Pendergast said, undoing the latch to the lower door and kicking it open. “It nearly fuckin’ blinded me.”
“I remember,” Joe said.
Joe recalled the takedown, when he was surprised by an armed Pendergast on the threshold of a rental house, and the first thing he was able to grab to protect himself was the canister of bear spray. And he remembered Pendergast writhing on the lawn, sobbing and crying that his rights had been violated.
Pendergast asked, “How’d you like that shit in your eyes?”
“I wouldn’t.”
Pendergast snorted and stepped down out of the wagon. The muzzle of the rifle trembled because Pendergast trembled. Joe looked at the man closely: wild eyes, flushed cheeks, sinew like taut cords in his neck, veins popping on his forearms.
As Pendergast cleared the door, Joe caught a glimpse of a skinny and dirty blonde inside, peeking out. She had long stringy hair and eyes as wild as Bryce’s. A tweaker, Joe thought. A couple of tweakers.
“Where’s Ander?” Joe asked.
Pendergast ignored him. He backed Joe up and squatted — with the rifle still aimed at Joe’s chest — to retrieve the gear belt and holstered pistol. He tossed it behind him so it landed in a coil beneath the wagon.
“We’re gonna be taking your pickup out of here,” Pendergast said. “Is there plenty of gas in it?”
“Yup,” Joe said. “But it won’t be as easy as that.”
Pendergast shook his head. “Why the hell not?”
“It’s a law enforcement vehicle,” Joe explained, dancing as fast as he could. “It’s got a GPS black box inside. The suits at headquarters can track it if it moves even a foot from where it is right now. So if it moves, they have to call me for a check-in. If you take my truck and don’t answer when they call in, they’ll know you’ve stolen it and they’ll send out a tracker plane or helicopter. You can’t just take a law enforcement vehicle anymore.”
Pendergast seemed flummoxed, but he covered himself by saying, “Yeah, I guess I heard something about that.”
“So if you want to go somewhere, I’ll be happy to drive you,” Joe said. “But you can’t just leave me here and take it if you don’t want to get caught.”
“Maybe you’re going with us,” Pendergast said, narrowing his eyes.
“I thought that’s what I just said.” Joe grinned. Then: “So was it you who shot a couple of rounds at a pickup a while back?” Joe asked, keeping his tone conversational. “The guy who called it in said he thought it was the sheepherder.”
“It was Bryce,” the woman said from inside the wagon. “Ain’t that right, honey?” She was proud of him.
Pendergast nodded in agreement but kept his eyes locked on Joe.
“Get out here,” Pendergast said to the woman. “I need your help.”
“Doing what?” she asked.
“Just get the fuck out here,” Pendergast shouted.
“Jesus, you don’t need to yell,” she said, stepping out. Joe recognized her. He’d seen her playing girls’ basketball a couple of years ahead of his oldest daughter, Sheridan, for the same Saddlestring Wranglerette team. But she looked twenty-five years older than she should. He could see yellowed stubs where her row of white teeth used to be when she opened her mouth. She seemed to notice him staring and clamped her mouth shut. She was a serious meth user, all right. And maybe, he thought, she recognized him.
“So what did you do with Ander?” Joe asked. “I see his horse here and his dog.”
“Shut the hell up,” Pendergast said.
“So since your white van isn’t anywhere around here,” Joe said, “I’m guessing you broke down or got stuck somewhere close and walked until you found the sheep wagon. You were probably hoping there’d be a vehicle with it, but there wasn’t. So what did you do with Ander?”
“I said shut up while I think.”
“Never your strong suit,” Joe said. “But I’m worried about Ander. He’s known as a hard worker and a good guy, even if he’s a little… off. I’ve never met a rancher around here who didn’t want to hire him. He takes his job seriously and he never caused anyone any problems. He keeps to himself and works hard for a day’s pay. He’s trustworthy and honest and he’s never hurt or screwed anyone. I’d hate to think that something happened to him, because anyone who knew him liked the man.
“So,” Joe asked, “do you know where he is?”
Pendergast paused for a moment, then screamed, “Quit fucking asking the questions. I got the rifle — so I ask the questions.”
“Okay,” Joe said.
The girl shuffled up behind and to the left of Pendergast. Joe noticed for the first time that she held an old Colt .45 revolver in her hands. He glanced over his shoulder toward the open door of the wagon. No Ander. But he could see meth-smoking paraphernalia on the small table inside — crumpled aluminum foil packets, stubby pipes, open books of matches.
“Who knows you’re here?” Pendergast said.
Joe weighed his answer before he said, “Plenty of folks. I gave my location to the dispatcher just a few minutes ago. The sheriff’s department and the highway patrol are on their way. I’d suggest we end this before something bad happens.”
“When will they get here?” Pendergast asked, alarmed.
“Any minute,” Joe said.
Pendergast broke his glare and scanned the terrain for vehicles. “I don’t hear nobody coming.”
Joe shrugged. “Lots of folks are looking for you since you walked away from the Honor Farm. The best way to go here would be to put down the rifle and turn yourself in. That way you’ll be cooperating and they might go easy on you.”
“Fuck that,” Pendergast said, spitting out the words. “I ain’t going back there. You know what they had me doin’ on that farm? Milking fucking cows. I hate cows. I ain’t no farmer.”
Joe nodded. Bryce Pendergast had been raised well by solid parents. He had two brothers and a sister who had turned out all right. Bryce was in the middle, and had always been a wreck. Couldn’t keep a job, car theft, parole violations. He’d been in the process of setting up a meth lab with a buddy when Joe first arrested him.
“No, you aren’t a farmer,” Joe said.
Pendergast pursed his mouth and nodded as if they’d finally agreed on something. Then he seemed to recall why he’d asked the girl to come out of the wagon.
“Kelsey, put your gun on him for a minute.”
Kelsey — Joe now remembered her name as Kelsey Trocker — looked confused.
“What do you mean, on him?” she asked.
Pendergast sighed and said, “Raise that pistol and cock the hammer back and aim it at his face. If he so much as flinches, you pull the trigger. Now do you fuckin’ understand?”
“Yeah,” she said, “but you don’t need to talk to me like that.”
“Just do it.”
“Where you goin’?”
“I gotta pee.”
“Oh, okay.”
Pendergast stepped aside while Kelsey stepped forward. Joe felt his life about to end when she raised the revolver and fumbled with the hammer in an effort to cock it. She was as shaky as Pendergast. Then she managed to figure it out and Joe watched the cylinder rotate and the hammer lock in place. He could see — close as he was — lead bullets in three of the four visible chambers. The chamber that previously had been lined up in the barrel had been fired.