"You carry two shields, Chief?" Coates asked, pointing to Durant's shirt pocket.
Durant lifted the second badge from his pocket. It glittered gold in the sunlight. "I'm also the Hobart fire chief. The badge I wear depends on the nature of the emergency. I'm also in charge of the Hobart sanitary landfill." The police chief brightened. "Another job I had once was a bounty counter."
"A bounty hunter?" Coates asked.
"A counter. The federal government back in the early sixties offered a bounty for coyotes. You remember that, Owen? You and your old man brought in two hundred fifty coyotes in one month. Most ever, I'd bet. I'd pay you ten dollars for every set of coyote ears you and Dalton brung me. That's still talked about in this town, Pete, two hundred fifty coyotes in thirty-one days." Durant whistled appreciatively.
Durant had been Dalton Gray's closest friend, the first visitor to the house when Owen had been born. Decades later, as Dalton was being lowered into the ground in the Hobart cemetery, Durant had told Gray in a breaking voice, "In the future, if you need anything from a father, you ask me, Owen."
The police chief said, "You haven't mentioned what brings you out here, Pete."
While Coates told Chief Durant about Nikolai Trusov, Gray crossed the lot to enter the cabin. He returned a few minutes later carrying sandwiches piled high on a plate. He stopped at the porch to hand some out to Adrian Wade and the two techs, then returned to Coates and Durant. They helped themselves.
"What's in it?" Coates asked, lifting the top slice of bread like a flap.
"Watercress, a lot of butter, and salt."
"Where's the pastrami? It's like you've given me two bookends with nothing in between." The detective bit into it, then admitted, "Not bad."
"And what makes you think the Russian is coming to Hobart?" Durant asked.
"We put two facts together. One, Trusov is heading west. And two, Owen is here."
"How does this Trusov know where Owen is?"
"I haven't figured that out," Coates replied, glancing at Gray. "Trusov knows Owen was raised in the Sawtooths, because he had a copy of his high school annual and he's seen Owen's service record. Maybe he's just guessing Owen has returned home."
"So what are you proposing we do?" Durant asked.
"I tried to erect a series of concentric circles around Manhattan, circles of people looking for Trusov. But he got outside them all. Now I'm going to put the same circles around Hobart, hoping I can spot Trusov coming in."
"And you want my help," Durant said skeptically. "To protect Owen here? Owen can probably take care of himself."
The detective said, "My task force isn't assigned to protect Owen. Its job is to catch this murderer."
"A task force," the sheriff repeated. He looked at Owen, his eyes mirroring his mirth. "An entire task force?"
"I'm going to make it impossible for Nikolai Trusov to come to this area without being noticed, I'll guarantee you that."
From a coat pocket Coates removed a contour interval map of the area. The map had a 1/250,000 scale, with contours every hundred feet. The detective asked questions about the lay of the land, about State Highway 75, which was the only paved road in and out of Hobart, and about the smaller gravel and dirt roads that wandered in a number of directions up into the mountains, short roads because the peaks east and west of the town were close. He asked about the emergency grass airfield north of Hobart, about trails that crossed the mountains on which a hiker might approach the town, about locations for highway checkpoints.
Coates finally summed up. "It looks like I'm going to need two shifts of about eighty people each. A hundred and sixty. I suppose you know most of the sheriffs and police chiefs around here."
Durant nodded. He crammed the last quarter of his sandwich into his mouth. A stray watercress leaf escaped his jaws and floated to the ground.
"Will they loan you their people?"
"As many as they can spare." The police chief produced a can of Copenhagen from his pants pocket. He tapped the lid before opening it, then held the tin out. Gray and Coates declined. The chief inserted a wad of tobacco behind his lower lip.
They were standing thirty yards southwest of the house. A tangle of weeds was at their feet. Owen Gray lowered himself to his haunches and absently began pulling weeds from the ground, one at a time, throwing them off to his right. The police chief followed him down and also yanked the plants from the ground.
"And I need some of your resources. What's the size of your department?"
"You're looking at it."
"You? That's it?"
Durant put a backcountry drawl into his voice. "Hobart ain't Manhattan, Pete."
"How about communications equipment?"
"I don't have much, because when I'm out of the office there's no one to call at the office, and when I'm in the office there's no one out on the road."
Pete Coates also lowered himself. He imitated the others by yanking a weed from the ground and throwing it aside. "Does the Hobart Police Department have anything useful?"
"Twenty orange traffic cones."
"That's it, for Christ sake?"
"Four portable barricades, one police car, four assorted firearms, and a one-person jail that an imbecile could break out of."
The detective removed his eyeglasses to scratch the side of his nose where the tabs had left red marks. "Does your office have electricity?"
"Yep. And we get the mail whenever the river freezes over and the dogsleds can get in."
Gray and Durant continued with the weeds. The small pile of discarded plants was growing. Behind them toward the ravine was a thicket of taller weeds, these with sharply pointed elongated leaves of bright green with slight purple veins.
The detective asked, "Is there anything else you can do to help me, Chief?"
"I'll call everyone in Hobart and tell them to keep their eyes out. A stranger won't be able to belch in this town without me hearing of it."
"Can you tell me by tonight how many people you can borrow?"
"You bet."
Coates lifted a spiral notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through a few pages. He spoke for a moment about response times, about how his circle of men and women would collapse around the first location where Trusov was spotted. He used SWAT team jargon. Walt Durant pursed his lips and nodded.
"That's all I got right now." Coates returned the book to his pocket before saying, "I'm loath to display my city ignorance once again, but why are we pulling these weeds?"
"These are wild oats," Gray replied, tossing another aside.
"Aren't you supposed to sow wild oats, not pick them?" Coates asked.
"See these?" Gray held up one of the wild cereal stalks. "This bristlelike appendage that sticks out of the grain is called an awn. It can get stuck in an animal's throat and cause an infection. I lost a mule once that way. By the time I noticed the infection, the mule was a goner."
Coates picked another oat stalk. "But you don't have any mules or horses around here now."
"I do it on principle." Gray flicked another weed onto the pile.
"We're both principled guys," Durant said.
The detective rose to his feet. "Yeah, well, you're both having fun at this big city guy's expense. But I'll tell you, the only thing I can see favorable about the mountains is that you can walk thirty feet in any direction and take a leak."
Coates turned to walk across the gravel into the taller weeds behind him. He brushed a few aside, and stepped further into the thicket. His back to Gray and Durant, he unzipped his pants. He was hidden from Adrian by a stand of mountain laurel. He said over his shoulder, "No need for pay toilets out in Idaho."
There were the sounds of a satisfied grunt, then of liquid falling onto the ground.