“What about my pension? You think they’ll let me keep it?”
“I don’t know, Jim. Director LGD has her own way of doing things.”
“I’ve heard,” Latta said, shaking his head. “I’m surprised I made it all the way up to badge number six in seniority. Now I’ll get busted and you’ll move up a notch.”
“I really don’t care about my badge number,” Joe said.
“Well, this ought to work out for tonight,” Latta said, nodding toward the cabin as if to reassure himself as well as Joe. “We’re lucky he keeps some food in the place, even though you took care of that tonight.”
Two hours before, Joe had tracked a wild turkey in the pine forest on the east side of the cabin and killed it with a blast from his shotgun. For dinner, the three of them had roast turkey breast, canned potatoes, and half a jar of green beans. Latta had located the owner’s liquor stock as well and had placed an unopened bottle of Evan Williams bourbon on the counter for later.
“We’ll have to keep track of everything we use so we can repay the owner when this is all over,” Joe said. “I might even pay him a visit to thank him in person.”
“He’s a prick,” Latta said. “He’s got a nice place, but he’s one of those rich guys who bends your ear telling you how much better everything is in Florida. And on and on about the damned weather. I don’t care that it’s warm in Florida. It’s also humid and filled with bugs. Just send him a check.”
“Why does he come here, then?”
“Who knows? Maybe Daytona Beach isn’t so wonderful in the summer.”
Joe looked toward the cabin and asked, “Do you think Emily is doing okay?”
“Yeah, she loves it. It’s like camping. You’re going to have a tough time getting your dog away from her, though.”
“You should get her a dog, Jim.”
“I have enough trouble in my life as it is,” Latta said, grunting as he stood erect with his load of wood.
“Yeah, I guess you do.”
As both men trudged from the woodpile toward the cabin they heard the phone ring inside. When Joe looked up, Emily was gone from the window.
“Who in the hell is calling?” Latta asked in a desperate whisper.
“Maybe Coon or my wife,” Joe said. “I gave them the number here.”
“But what if it’s someone else?” Latta said, and let his load of wood clatter to the snow. Then, shouting: “Em! Don’t answer the phone!” He sidestepped the dropped wood and ran toward the cabin.
Too late. Joe could see her straining her arm up from her wheelchair and bringing the receiver down to her face.
When Joe came inside with his load of wood and closed the door behind him by leaning back against it with his butt, Latta appeared panicked and Emily frightened by her father’s reaction.
“Tell him what you told me,” Latta said to his daughter.
“Some man called.”
“Did he identify himself?” Joe asked. “Did he ask for me?”
“No. He asked if my dad was here and I told him he was. He asked if we were okay.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we were fine.”
“Did he ask who was with you?”
“Yes. I told him there was another game warden here — my dad’s friend Joe.”
Latta said, “Jesus, Emily.”
She was hurt. “Dad, if I did something wrong…”
“It’s okay,” Latta said. “You’re not in trouble. Just think back to every word that was said. Think, Em, did he say his name?”
“No. But he seemed happy to hear we were here. I asked him if he wanted to talk to you and he said no, he just wanted to make sure we were safe.”
Latta and Joe exchanged looks.
“He said to stay here until they could send someone to help,” she said, looking from Latta to Joe. “He said not to tell you so it would be a surprise. Then he hung up.”
27
While the bartender was getting ice, Nate slipped behind the bar and made his own drink: tea, ice, and water. It looked close enough to what he’d been sipping to pass, he thought. He needed a clear head as the guests were shooed by Liv into the cavernous dining room.
There was a preordained hierarchy to the seating plan.
Templeton and Missy sat at the head of the table side by side. Nate located his card — to the right of Missy at the end of the table. Whip was directly across from him, so the two of them were literally displayed as Templeton’s right- and left-hand men. Rocco Biolchini was sandwiched across the table between Whip and Liv.
Nate winced as Sheriff Mead took the seat to his right. Next to Mead was Judge Bartholomew, then the Wedell chief of police, Dale Miller, in his dress blues. Miller was infamous for the speed traps he maintained on both ends of town that served as his department’s primary source of outside income. The rumor was Miller took a personal cut as well. He was red-faced and crude, and had started pounding beers long before he arrived at the ranch, judging by the flush in his face and his glassy eyes.
Locals occupied all of the rest of the chairs on both sides of the long table, but two seats were empty. Nate noted the cards for the missing guests: Bill Critchfield and Gene Smith. He thought it was odd, and wondered if an explanation would be offered.
It was raucous: dozens of individual alcohol-fueled conversations going on at once among locals, ranch staff, and the people Templeton had positioned nearest to him. Nate didn’t say a word to anyone and he noted Liv was silent as well. She was attentive to all that was going on and busy surveying the guests to make sure everyone was in their correct place and the discussions were quasi-civil.
Jane Ringolsby and the ranch staff quickly served the first course: small grilled mourning dove breasts shot by Templeton himself and sausages from Templeton’s own processing facility. Red wine was poured into every glass. Nate glanced down the table. It was obvious many of the locals were nervous and thrilled at the same time — and drinking too much. He saw one woman instructing her husband which fork to use first.
Missy simply glowed while she followed Templeton’s every word. He was telling a slightly bored Rocco Biolchini how white-tailed deer were kicking the remaining native mule deer out of the Black Hills. She seemed entranced with him, Nate thought, and very well practiced in the art of alert subservience. She tittered at his jokes and shook her head solemnly while he told a story about encountering a wolverine while bird-hunting. Only once did she slip, when her eyes darted away from Templeton to Nate. Nate grinned back at her as if to say, I’m on to you.
Rocco Biolchini was deep into his story — one he had no doubt told many times — about his undergraduate years in an Ivy League university, his lack of success with athletics or the opposite sex, his early infatuation with computers and the Internet, his desire to connect similarly minded geeks into a network where they could make fun of the jocks and arrogant handsome pricks who sucked up all of the oxygen in every room — without any of the golden boys knowing about how they were being mocked. The website later morphed into in a social-media empire with millions of users.
Nate thought Biolchini spoke as if he were used to being listened to, as if the listeners were of course as fascinated by Rocco Biolchini as Rocco Biolchini was. He paused at the end of passages for listeners to say “Wow” or “Oh my God” but didn’t invite questions or urge others to add anything. It was a monologue, not a dialogue. While he went on through the salad course, Nate noticed two figures skulking outside the dining room in the great room, looking furtively around the doorframe.