“Joe, get the hell up here now. Leave that man alone and get the hell up here.”
Again Joe was confused. When he looked over at the fisherman, he saw the man smiling slightly, but in a malevolent way. As if he’d spared Joe, but Joe was too dense to understand just how closely he’d flown to the sun.
To the fisherman, Latta shouted, “I’m sorry this happened. He’s not from around here. He has no idea what he’s doing.”
“No, he doesn’t,” the fisherman said, more to Joe than to Latta.
Joe was stymied and angry. “Jim…”
“Get up here.”
Joe took a deep breath and swallowed hard. He said to the fisherman, “Obviously, I’ve touched a nerve.”
“Obviously, you have. Now please go so I can get on with my morning.” Whip leaned forward and began to retrieve the line at his feet. He said, “There are fish to catch.”
As Joe climbed up the slope toward Latta with his ears burning hot from anger and humiliation, he heard the fisherman behind him purr, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, Mr. Joe.”
Inside the cab of the pickup, Joe slammed his door shut and said to Latta, “What the hell was that about?”
“We’re here to see Mr. Templeton,” Latta said through clenched teeth, “not to hassle his guests or employees.”
“I wasn’t hassling him,” Joe said. “I was doing my job.”
“In my district, on my watch, goddamn you,” Latta said, slamming the truck into gear and lurching forward. His face was flushed, and Joe noticed a necklace of sweat beads under his jaw as if he were wearing a choker. He said, “I’m trying to do this, Joe, I’m trying to be a good host and a colleague. I’m fucking trying. But this is the second time you’ve left a turd in my punch bowl. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”
“Keep what up?”
Latta’s eyes flashed. “Keeping you from getting yourself hurt or killed, that’s what.”
“Why don’t you just forget about that,” Joe said. “How about coming clean with me instead?”
“It’s for your own good.”
“So who was that guy down there? Whip? Why is it so important to protect him?”
“I don’t know his full name,” Latta said.
“Then why did you warn me off?”
“He’s not someone you want to mess with, believe me.”
Joe said, “What kind of name is Whip?”
“Don’t ask me questions like that.”
Before Joe could ask another, the canyon opened up onto a vast green hay meadow bordered by timbered hills. The hay had been recently cut and lay in thick rows across the carpet of late-season grass. Sand Creek, choked with close streamside brush, meandered through the meadow.
Joe could see an older man below in a battered straw cowboy hat, riding a four-wheeler through the rows of shorn hay with his back to them. He wore worn jeans, irrigation boots, and a torn and faded chambray shirt. A shovel was attached to the back end of the ATV with bungee cords.
“That’s Mr. Templeton out checking his final cutting of the year,” Latta said. Joe noted the tone of admiration in his voice.
14
At the same time, behind her desk, Marybeth Pickett breathed a sigh of relief when both the RMIN (Rocky Mountain Information Network) and the FBI’s ViCAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) came up on the Twelve Sleep County Library system computer. She leaned back and glanced around to make sure no patrons or staff were close enough to see what was on the screen, then used her cell phone app to recall the usernames and passwords she’d been given years before from her friend Dulcie Schalk, who was also the county prosecutor. Dulcie had given Marybeth the keywords in the midst of a frantic investigation when she needed her help and had either forgotten — not likely, knowing Dulcie — or chosen to look the other way afterward. Both databases were supposed to be accessed only by authorized law enforcement personnel. Because Marybeth was married to one, and often was asked to perform research for him for free, she managed to justify why she kept the information.
For the first hour and a half that morning, she’d been too busy to access the system to see if the high-speed network was working again. The Internet in the old Carnegie library was often down and the IT man on staff could never seem to keep it live. Something about power surges, he claimed. But when she’d arrived that morning to open, there he was, assuring her that it was back up. The early-morning newspaper readers now lounged in the periodical section, several of the older locals napping. She’d inventoried returned books dropped off during the night, and spent the next hour answering emails and queries. A staff meeting was scheduled at eleven, which meant she had nearly an hour of practically free time behind the desk.
Before diving in, Marybeth did what she always did and ran through a mental checklist of her immediate family. She knew she couldn’t proceed without knowing where everyone was, what they were doing, and when she’d talk to or see them next.
Lucy was in school but would be late getting home due to play practice.
April would go straight from high school to her shift at Welton’s Western Wear for the evening, then return home enraptured, if Dallas Cates had called or stopped by, or in a sulk otherwise.
Sheridan should be in her third-hour class at UW, hopefully feeling safe, secure, and studious. Perhaps she’d even call that evening.
And Joe was hundreds of miles away, probably getting himself into some kind of trouble.
Marybeth glanced down at the scribbled list next to her keyboard, briefly debating who to look up first. No question, she thought, the first would be Erik Young. Erik with a k.
She was always worried that the usernames and passwords had changed since the last time she accessed the databases, and that by keying in the old ones she’d be flagging an investigation of some kind. So far, though, they’d remained the same and no G-men had shown up to question her.
She keyed in the usernames and passwords and she was in. Both the regional and national databases responded with prompts and search criteria.
She typed in “Erik Young” and listed “Los Angeles area” for a location in ViCAP, holding her breath while the search was conducted.
Four Erik Youngs had criminal records. None was younger than forty-two. She did the same search in RMIN, speculating that perhaps he’d done something in the region. No hits at all. She whispered, “Whew,” took a sip of coffee, and realized the search had hardly been helpful. Erik would be, what, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one at most? In that case, if he’d done something before leaving California, his records would be locked away in a juvenile database she had no access to.
There were other problems with her approach, she knew. Sheridan had told Joe he was “Erik Young from Los Angeles.” But there was no way to verify if Erik was actually his first name, a second name, or a nickname. Could “Young” be “Jung” or some other derivation? The only way to confirm his actual name would be to cross-check it with the university student database or ask Sheridan to get involved.
But there had to be a way to avoid that route, she thought. If nothing else, she could eliminate all the possibilities before she contacted the university or Sheridan. There was always a solution if she kept calm and thought it through.
Within a minute, she leaned forward and minimized both the ViCAP and RMIN windows and called up a national people-finder locator site and entered the same criteria.