“The affidavits from the security team seem hinky to me, but you can be the judge of that when you read them over. Something happened that night they’re not being truthful about, is my intuition. That’s all it is — intuition. I’d like to question them myself — especially this Jolovich guy, who was the head of the security detail. But right now, I don’t have enough backup to call him in or make the trip.
“But we have two other pieces that interest me and I think will interest you.”
Coon said, “A member of the Crow tribe named Benny Black Eagle was bait-fishing on the river before dawn the morning after the disappearance. He said he saw a private plane land on an old abandoned runway about a mile upriver from where he was. He saw a man carry a big duffel bag of some kind from the river to the plane, and then the plane took off, heading southeast.”
“Could he identify the man or the pilot?”
Coon shook his head. “Too far and too dark. He could barely see them at all. But we know there was no FAA flight plan filed by anyone for that morning for that airstrip.”
“The bag—”
“Could have been the size of a body. But maybe not. He wasn’t sure. But we do know Templeton has a pilot’s license and at least one private plane, maybe two.”
Joe was confused. “Where is this headed?”
Coon said, “The tribal police up there talked to a couple of members — girls — who told them about meeting a Caucasian a couple of days before Scoggins disappeared. The guy gave them a ride from the Scoggins compound to a bar near Hardin. They really liked him, but they didn’t get his name. A police artist was called in, and here’s what he came up with.” He handed a rough composite across the desk to Joe.
He looked at it. A rough face, hawklike nose, piercing eyes. Joe felt a chill roll down his back.
“Something else,” Coon said, sliding over a mottled black-and-white photo. “All the electronic surveillance of the Scoggins compound was disabled and the hard drives were missing from the computers. But there was an old trail cam mounted on a tree the bad guys must not have known about.”
Joe was familiar with trail cameras that were used by landowners and hunters to get nighttime images of passing wildlife. He’d used trail-cam images to implicate poachers on private land as well.
The photo was grainy and of poor quality, and had obviously been enlarged. Tree trunks were brilliant white stripes against black, and the brush looked haunting and skeletal. The single image was unfocused, but in the distance he could clearly see the form of a man who appeared to be leaning forward as he walked, as if dragging something heavy behind him.
The side of his face couldn’t be clearly seen, but the set of his shoulders and the outline of his frame were familiar enough.
“You know him best,” Coon said. “Is that your pal Nate Romanowski?”
“Can’t say for sure.”
“How in the hell did he get mixed up with Wolfgang Templeton, is what I’d like to know,” Coon said.
“Me too,” Joe whispered.
“When was the last time you saw Nate Romanowski?” Coon asked.
Joe looked up. The FBI had been trying to find Nate for years to question him about several unsolved disappearances. Coon had not pursued the search with the intensity of his predecessors, but Nate was still listed as a federal fugitive.
“Last year,” Joe said. “He showed up at my home and helped me out with that train wreck of a search for Butch Roberson.”
“I can’t recall you reporting that to me,” Coon said icily.
“That’s because I didn’t.”
“But you’ve not seen him since?”
“No,” Joe said. “Nate is… unusual in his habits. He’ll just show up, and we never know where he goes when he leaves.”
“Any idea where he’s been living?”
“No. I assumed Idaho, but I might be wrong.”
“My guess,” Coon said, “is he’s now based in Medicine Wheel County.”
Joe took a deep breath. “Nate has his own style. But he’s not a kidnapper or a hired killer.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Joe took a moment to answer. “Somewhat.”
Joe recalled the last time he’d seen his friend. Nate had come across as slightly unhinged — more excitable and more violent. Joe attributed it to what Nate had gone through the year before that, when he’d been tracked down by an old mentor.
Had Nate discarded his unique set of principles and gone off the deep end?
Coon said, “Take the file and study it. I’ve got a conference call with Washington in five minutes on another matter. Call me if you’ve got questions, and keep me informed on what you find out when you get up there. And, Joe, don’t do anything stupid.”
Joe didn’t respond. He was still reeling from the revelations.
“Joe?” Coon prompted.
Joe looked at his watch. It was nearly noon. He had four hours before Rulon One was scheduled to take him back to Saddlestring.
“Can I borrow a car?” Joe asked.
“You want to borrow a government car? You? With your track record?”
Joe grinned. “My daughter needs her winter coat and you have a motor pool full of government cars.”
“I swear, if anything happens to one of our vehicles, I’ll take it out of your hide,” Coon said, shaking his head.
“What could possibly go wrong?” Joe asked with a slight grin.
5
His plastic tray slid along the tubed aluminum railing, and Joe followed Sheridan through the buffet line of the Mongolian Wok food station in Washakie Dining Center at the University of Wyoming. The cafeteria was bustling at lunchtime, and Joe knew how much he stood out by his uniform — and his age — by the number of interested and appalled stares he received from students. Sheridan noticed it as well and smiled in sympathy over her shoulder while taking a plate of thin noodles with strips of beef and Mongolian hot sauce.
They’d passed up the burger bar, the sandwich bar, the salad station, and four other offerings that Joe preferred as he followed the lead of his daughter.
Joe leaned toward her and said, “Things have changed in this place. When I went to school here, we had a choice of Spam with green beans or macaroni and cheese.”
“Yuck,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Sheridan was dressed like most of the other students: UW hoodie, skinny jeans, boots, backpack. She was blond and clear-eyed and striking, Joe thought, more mature for her age than most of the students that gawked at him. He admired her self-assurance, and she seemed no longer embarrassed by the presence of one of her parents, which had been the case in her first two years. He understood.
He stared at his plate and said, “I don’t know what I’m eating.”
“Stir-fried noodles with beef, shrimp, and veggies,” she said, since she’d ordered for him. “Give it a try.”
He grunted and stabbed at the strips of beef with a fork. Sheridan used chopsticks. The food was better than he’d imagined it would be.
“Thanks for bringing my coat,” she said.
“You’ll need it.”
“No kidding.” She gestured with her chopsticks through the windows toward Grand Street. It was spitting snow.
“So April has a boyfriend?” she asked, looking at him slyly.
“How did you know?”
“Facebook. She decided to friend me again, and I read about it last night. Is it really Dallas Cates?”
“Yup.”
“He’s trouble with a capital T,” she said. “I’d try and tell her that, but she’d just think I was being bitchy and trying to tear her down. Or accuse me of trying to steal Dallas or something like that.”