“I think I could handle that one on my own,” Joe said. “But thanks for the offer, Sheriff.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Mead said, exchanging glances with the judge.
“Joe Pickett,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’m Judge Ethan Bartholomew,” the judge said, dismissively shaking Joe’s hand. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Pines.”
“So far, so good,” Joe said.
The judge paused for a moment, then said, “And don’t go smoking in bed. Poor Anna can’t afford to lose any more units.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Joe said. Then he clamped his hat on his head and said to both of them: “Morning, gentlemen.”
The judge nodded back. Mead said, “I know all about you, you know.”
Joe raised his eyebrows.
“Bud Barnum and Kyle McLanahan were friends of mine,” Mead said, letting the names drop like lead weights. When Bartholomew looked to him for clarification, Mead said, “The last couple sheriffs of Twelve Sleep County, where Joe Pickett here comes from. He was a pain in the ass to both of them, they said. Barnum dropped off the face of the earth and McLanahan died in a mysterious fall. I’m sure you heard about that.”
“I heard about it,” Bartholomew said, then looked up at Joe as if seeing him in a different light.
Mead said, “There’s a new sheriff over there, some cripple. I don’t know him very well yet. But my guess is he’d agree with the other two how the local game warden doesn’t know how to keep his nose out of sheriff department business. That’s what they told me, anyway.”
Joe said, “His name is Sheriff Mike Reed. He’s a paraplegic because he got shot in the line of duty. He’s a good man who needs a wheelchair. There’s nothing crippled about him.”
Mead said to Joe, “Just keep out of my way in this county. I really don’t want to run across you again. You seem to be bad luck when it comes to sheriffs.”
He said it as a mock joke, but Joe could tell he wasn’t joking.
“And I’d appreciate it if you would stay out of my courtroom,” Bartholomew said. “My court has enough on the docket without a bunch of frivolous game violations.”
“You mean like locals who poach pheasants at night?” Joe asked innocently.
Something flashed through Judge Bartholomew’s eyes. Mead managed to act as though he didn’t understand what Joe had alluded to.
“That’s what I mean,” Bartholomew said with finality. “I don’t want to waste my time with trivialities.”
When the waitress arrived with their breakfasts, Joe stepped aside.
“Nice meeting you,” he said as he went out the door.
Jim Latta stood between their two pickups, shuffling his feet nervously. He had Joe’s phone in his hand. “You forgot this.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, taking it.
“What were you talking with them about in there?”
“Just saying hello.”
“That’s all?”
“That and the fact that everybody in this county seems to know where I’m staying and what happened last night.”
“It’s a small place,” Latta said. “Everybody talks. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“Except you,” Joe said, standing close to Latta. “You don’t seem to have a need to talk to anyone around here. You move through them like you’re a ghost, I’ve noticed.”
Latta looked over his shoulder as if checking for spies and said, “That’s what we need to talk about. Why don’t we drop your rig and your dog by the motel and you can go out with me today? You can tell me all about establishing some public walk-in areas, like we talked about.”
Joe hesitated, then agreed.
When he got behind the wheel to follow Latta out of Sundance, Joe checked his phone for messages he might have missed. There were none.
But the photos had been deleted.
Joe followed Latta’s truck east out of Sundance toward Medicine Wheel. The long grassy mountain meadow they drove across was empty of other cars. Wooded hills bordered the flat on both sides and a narrow creek meandered in and out of view on the right side, its bank choked by heavy brush. A small herd of white-tailed deer grazed in the grass near the creek and didn’t bother to look up as the two pickups sizzled by.
He let Latta build a comfortable lead before scrolling through his phone for Chuck Coon’s private cell phone number. When he found it, he punched the number with his thumb and put his phone on speaker and lowered it to his lap. Joe didn’t want Latta to see him talking with anyone if the game warden checked him in his rearview mirror.
Coon answered on the second ring. “Make it quick, Joe. I’m on my way down the hall right now for a meeting with some D.C. honchos.”
“Just checking in as instructed,” Joe said.
“Anything to report?”
“Not a lot,” Joe said. “Except everyone I’ve met so far seems to know I’m here.”
“But do they know why?”
“I don’t know what they know, but it’s like walking into a bar full of regular customers — I stand out. But I can tell you Wolfgang Templeton seems to be well regarded around here. I haven’t met anyone yet who doesn’t sing his praises.”
“Interesting,” Coon said. “But will anybody give you something we can work with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has anyone indicated they’re aware of Mr. Romanowski in the area?”
“Nope. But I haven’t asked specifically, either.”
“Do that.”
Joe grunted.
“So no whistle-blowers as yet,” Coon said.
“Not yet,” Joe said. “But there seems to be a lot going on up here I don’t understand.”
He told Coon about delivering the pheasants, then being there when they were being poached out in the middle of the night.
“You left them your card?” Coon asked incredulously.
“Yup.”
“Joe, you were supposed to keep a low profile. We talked about that and you agreed.”
Joe said, “Chuck, they already knew I was here. Now they know I’m a real game warden. They aren’t thinking of me in any other way.”
Coon paused for a moment, then said, “Okay, I see the sense in that. It establishes your cover.”
“It’s not a cover,” Joe said. “I am a game warden. But what I can’t figure out is why these two low-life poachers seem to be above the law up here. The local game warden doesn’t want to roust them, the sheriff doesn’t want to hear about them, and the judge doesn’t want them in his courtroom.”
“How do you know that?”
“They all told me.”
“All this has happened already?” Coon asked. “You haven’t wasted any time.”
“I’ll text you the names of the locals when I get a chance,” Joe said. “Maybe you can run them and find something.”
“Roger that.”
Joe said, “The game warden up here seems to be hiding something. I think he knows a lot more about what goes on than he’s let on to me so far.”
“Are you on good terms with him? Will he talk?”
“I don’t know yet,” Joe said. “I’ve got to be real careful because he seems a little suspicious. He’s not happy with me for identifying those poachers for some reason. I don’t really like spying on a fellow game warden, you know. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Oh well,” Coon said. “Get what you can out of him and let me know.”
“Thanks for the sympathy and understanding.”
“My pleasure.”
Joe could hear Coon’s shoes tapping out a cadence as if he were marching down a hallway. He was slightly out of breath when he spoke.
Joe said, “Hey — do you have anything for me regarding Erik Young? The name I asked you about?”