Winchester was primarily a ranching and timber town, five hundred feet higher than Saddlestring, where the foothills paused for rest before beginning their climb to become the Bighorns. Winchester’s lone public artwork, located on the front lawn of the branch bank, was an outsized and gruesome metal sculpture of a wounded grizzly bear straining at the end of a thick chain, its metal leg encased in a massive saw-toothed bear trap. Joe thought it was one of the most grotesque and disturbing pieces he had ever seen, while at the same time reflecting the rough sensibilities of the little town.
At 7:45, Joe took the Winchester exit. He was close enough to the town limits he could smell wood smoke from the two hundred or so homes already battened down and prepped for a long winter when the whoop of a siren came out of nowhere on the side of the road and his van was lit up by the flashing red-and-blue wigwag lights of a police car.
Joe looked at his speedometer—forty-five, the speed limit—before slowing down and pulling over onto the shoulder of the road. The cruiser eased in behind him.
“What?” Joe asked aloud. “Why now? Why me?” A burned-out taillight? What?
The thought that Portenson had set him up crossed his mind.
In his rearview mirror, Joe could see the inside lights go on in the police car. The lone Winchester town cop looked to be in his midtwenties, with a heavy shelf of brow, a buzz cut, and a slight mustache. He wore a neat blue police vest over a crisp blue shirt. The cop was calling in Joe’s license plate for a vehicle check before getting out and approaching. The look on the officer’s face was serious and zealous. Joe had seen that look on overeager cops before, and it was rarely a good thing.
Joe groaned, bit his lip, debated getting out first to head off what could quickly become ugly if the cop shone his flashlight inside the van and saw the shotgun or his sidearm. Joe’s badge was pinned to his red shirt on the back of a chair in his bedroom at home. He ran through his options quickly: get out, hope the cop recognized him as the local game warden and let him go quickly so he could meet Gordon in ten minutes (at the risk of the cop becoming alarmed by the armed violator he’d just pulled over); wait for the cop to approach him and try to explain away why he was entering Winchester with a shotgun and no badge or official identification, and beg the officer to let him pass; lie—say he was hunting coyotes or taking the shotgun to a gunsmith in Winchester to fix something, hope the cop didn’t check for concealed weapons. But he was no good at lying. Maybe he could hide the weapons under the seat where they may or may not be found, accept a ticket for whatever it was he was pulled over for, promise to buy a new bulb for the tailgate or whatever, hope the transaction would be done quickly enough so he would be at the park by eight; confess everything—I’m working directly for the governor and I’m undercover in order to meet with a confidential informant for the FBI who may have information on the murders of those hunters so you have to let me go right now—and hope the cop believed him even though Joe, in the cop’s place, wouldn’t buy it for a second. Or he could peel away when the cop got out of the cruiser and try to lose him on the two-lane highway before doubling back to meet Gordon in the park. . . .
Joe thought, All bad options.
He watched the cop nod as he got confirmation on the plate and hung up his mike, then opened his door. His approach was textbook—Maglite in his left hand, his arm bent so the barrel of it rested on his shoulder with the beam directed into Joe’s van to illuminate the backseat, the floor, the side of Joe’s face. The cop’s right hand rested on his pistol grip. He walked close to the side of the van and Joe read his name badge backward in the mirror: NORYB.
Joe toggled the switch to open his window.
“Officer Byron,” Joe said, “I’m not sure why you pulled me over—”
“Put both of your hands on the steering wheel where I can see ’em,” the cop barked. He’d seen the shotgun.
“Look,” Joe said, “my name is Joe Pickett. I’m a game warden in Saddlestring—”
The cop stepped back and squared into a shooter’s stance, his pistol out and aimed at Joe along with the blinding beam from the flashlight. “Get out of the car!”
Joe briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
“I said, get out of the car, sir. Now!”
“Okay, I’m getting out,” Joe said. “But I need to tell you right now I’m a peace officer myself and I’ve got a concealed weapon.”
Byron, eyes wide and mouth set, aimed down his semiautomatic. Joe kept his right hand aloft while he opened the door with his left and stepped out onto the cold wet pavement with his hands visible. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
Byron said, “Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your feet.”
Joe hated to turn his back on the cop, but he did. He said, “This is a mistake. I’m on duty myself if you’d just let me explain.”
Byron kicked the inside of Joe’s left ankle hard, nearly taking his legs out from under him. The pain shot through his body.
“I said, spread ’em,” the cop yelled. “There. And lean forward. Put your weight on your hands.”
Joe felt his coat being pulled back and the weight of the Glock suddenly wasn’t there.
“And what do we have here?” Byron asked, playing the tough guy.
“I told you I had it,” Joe said, looking over his shoulder. “Now would you listen to me for a minute?” Byron tossed Joe’s weapon into the borrow pit where it landed with a soft thud. Joe said, “Now, why did you do that?”
“Shut up. How many more guns do you have with you?” Byron asked, pulling the shotgun through the open window butt-first and tossing it into the wet grass as well.
“I don’t have any more guns,” Joe said, his anger rising. “Come on, this is ridiculous. What is it you think I did?”
“You mean before I pulled you over and found the guns? Start with speeding—forty-five in a thirty.”
“Thirty? What are you talking about?”
Byron shone his flashlight down the highway until the beam lit up a SPEED LIMIT 30 sign so new and white it sparkled. “See?”
“When did you change it?” Joe asked, hot.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s thirty now.”
“It looks like you guys put that up this morning.”
“It was last week,” Byron said, “but it doesn’t matter when we put it up. It’s up, it’s the law, and I clocked you at forty-five. That gives me probable cause to look inside the car.”
A set of headlights appeared coming from the town of Winchester. The vehicle—a light-colored SUV like the one he’d seen in his binoculars picking up Nate—barely slowed as it neared the van and the police car and swung wide in the road to avoid them. Joe tried to see if the driver was Bill Gordon, but the driver looked straight ahead, didn’t look over, which was odd in itself. Wasn’t the driver curious as to what was going on? Joe got only a glimpse of the profile behind the wheel as the SUV shot by, and he thought how much it resembled Klamath Moore. The red taillights receded on the highway.
“Hey,” Joe said, wheeling around, “we need to stop that car!”
“Turn back around!” Byron hollered, pointing his gun in Joe’s face, his trigger finger tightening. Joe could tell from Byron’s eyes that he was ready—and willing—to fire.
“Okay,” Joe said, trying to calm Byron, “but you just made a big mistake.”
Byron laughed harshly. “I’d say the only guy making mistakes around here is you. And you just keep making ’em.”
Joe tried to keep his voice reasonable. “I’m a game warden for the state of Wyoming. I’ve got ID in my wallet and a badge at home to prove it.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Byron said.
“You do?”
“Yeah. You’re the guy who busted my uncle Pete and me up on Hazelton Road six years ago. You said we forgot to tag the elk we had in the back of the truck, and you gave Uncle Pete a damned citation.”
Joe looked over his shoulder at Officer
Byron, who’d probably been seventeen or eighteen at the time. His face did look vaguely familiar, and he recalled how filled with attitude the boy had been at the time. He’d told Joe, “I’m gonna remember this.”
“Your elk didn’t have tags,” Joe said. “I was doing my job.”
“And I’m doing mine,” Byron said, grinning.
Joe sighed deeply, and turned his wrist a little so he could see his watch. Eight on the nose.
“Look, just give me my speeding ticket,” Joe said. “Let me get the hell out of here. Here’s the situation: I’m working undercover for the state, for Governor Rulon. I’m here to meet a confidential FBI informant, right now, in Winchester. This is about the murder of those hunters and Robey Hersig. You knew Robey, right? This guy may know something. If I’m not there he’ll bolt and I may not get a chance to talk to him. Take my weapons and wallet and anything else you want. As soon as I meet my guy, I’ll come to the station and turn myself over to you and you can check it all out. I promise. I swear.”
And Byron laughed. “That’s a new one. You must think I’m an idiot.”
Well, yes, Joe thought.
Byron said, “Just keep your mouth shut and don’t move. I’m going to check your ID. And I’ll need to see your registration and insurance card.”
Joe moaned with frustration and anger. Had Marybeth even put the registration in the car? And if so, where? It was her car, and he normally had very little to do with it other than maintenance.
He imagined that Gordon would be checking his watch and probably walking toward his vehicle with his keys out.
And what was Klamath Moore doing in Winchester, if that was him?
Byron said, “Never mind getting your wallet, I’ll get it,” and Joe could feel the cop lift up the back of his coat again. Dropping his chin to his chest and looking back under his armpit, he could also see Byron lower his weapon to his side while he dug into Joe’s pocket with his other hand.
Joe swung back as hard as he could with his right elbow and connected with Byron’s nose, the impact making a muffled crunching sound like a twig snapping underfoot. Joe spun on his heel and grabbed the cop’s gun with both hands and twisted, wrenching it free. Byron backpedaled clumsily to the center stripe in the highway, reaching up with both hands for his broken nose.
Joe pointed the gun at the cop while at the same time not believing he was doing it. Dark blood spouted through Byron’s fingers.
“Get in the van,” Joe said.
“What are you going to do?” Bryon asked with a mouthful of blood.
“We’re going to the park.”
“The park?”
JOE STEERED the van into Winchester with his left hand on the wheel and Byron’s weapon, pointed at the cop in the passenger seat, in his right.
“Don’t hurt me,” Byron burbled.
“I’ll try not to,” Joe said.
As he turned from the main street toward the park, Joe said, “I had my gun taken from me once. It sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Mmmff.”
BILL GORDON was sitting partially in shadow on a park bench when Joe arrived. Gordon appeared to be looking him over as Joe parked and opened his door.
“What about me?” Byron asked.
“Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we can get this all straightened out.”
“You’re gonna shoot me, aren’t you?”
“Of course not,” Joe scoffed, “and I’d probably miss if I tried. I’m a horrible pistol shot.”
Byron’s eyes did a “now you tell me” roll.
Joe hoped Gordon wouldn’t get nervous and run when he saw the cop inside the van. He was relieved when he shut the door and saw that Gordon was still there.
“Bill?” Joe called, walking across the grass that was stiffening with cold. “It’s Joe Pickett. I’m sorry I’m late. I got nailed in a speed trap coming into town.”
Gordon didn’t move, just sat there slightly slumped to the side, a wash of pale moonlight on the side of his face.
“Bill?”
Joe froze when he was ten feet away. He saw it all at once—the gun held loosely in Gordon’s fist, the small hole in one temple and the larger exit hole in the other, bits of brain and bone flecked across the backrest of the bench.
Joe whispered, “Oh. No.”
24
JOE SAT alone at a scarred table in Witness Room Number Two in the Twelve Sleep County Building at one in the morning, waiting for Sheriff McLanahan and Deputy Reed to return. They’d been gone over an hour. On the table was a mug of weak coffee that had gone cold.
The amoral eye of a camera mounted in a high corner of the room watched him. The mirrored plate of one-way glass in the wall reflected the image of a man who very much wished he was home in bed. Anywhere but where he was.
He groaned and sat back, staring at the blazing light fixture inset in the ceiling. He thought, I’ve really done it this time.
AFTER HE found Gordon’s body and confirmed he was dead, Joe called county dispatch and asked Wendy, the dispatcher, to locate the sheriff and send him to Winchester right away. He told Wendy he’d stay at the crime scene until the sheriff and the coroner’s team arrived.
“And please put out an APB for a light-colored SUV heading toward Saddlestring from Winchester on the highway. The subject inside I believe is Klamath Moore, and he may have information on the death of the victim here on the park bench.”
“That Klamath Moore?” Wendy asked.
“That Klamath Moore,” Joe said, punching off.
“Jesus, is that guy dead?” said Officer Byron. Joe hadn’t heard Byron walk up to him.
“Yes.”
“This is my first dead body,” Byron said. “I mean, other than a car wreck or some old lady dying of a heart attack. It sure looks like he ate his own gun, don’t it?”
“That’s what it looks like.” But Joe had his doubts.
“I want my gun back now.”
“No,” Joe said. “Go sit down until the sheriff gets here. Don’t get any closer to the crime scene.”
Byron turned from Gordon’s body to Joe. “You are in so much trouble.”
“I know.”
Joe made two more calls before the sheriff’s department arrived, the first to Marybeth advising her not to wait up for him because he’d discovered a dead body and assaulted a police officer. She was speechless.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
“You assaulted a cop?”
“Sort of, yes.”
“And you say not to worry?”
“I’ll be home soon,” he said, wishing it were true.
The other call was to Special Agent Tony Portenson, telling him his confidential informant had just been found dead.
Portenson had predictably exploded, and Joe told him he’d get back to him with more details and closed his phone.
ANOTHER HOUR. Joe paced the witness room, tried to see if anyone was looking at him through the one-way mirror into the hallway. The repercussions of what he’d done, what had happened, crushed in on him from all sides. At one point, he had to hold himself up with one hand on the wall and breathe deeply, get his wits back. His heart raced and slowed, raced and slowed.
When the door opened he jumped.
It was Deputy Reed, looking furtive. “I really shouldn’t be in here,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
Reed pulled out a hard-backed chair from the other side of the table, the legs scraping across the linoleum like fingernails on a blackboard. He sat down heavily.
“Klamath Moore is in the other witness room,” Reed said. “We found him where he was staying here in town. At Shelly Cedron’s place. You know Shelly? She runs the animal shelter and I guess she’s a sympathizer to his cause. Who would have guessed that? Man, you think you know people but you don’t know what’s in their hearts, I guess.”
Joe nodded, urging him on.
“There was a light-colored SUV outside her home that sort of matches
your description. Shelly herself is out of town at a conference, so she wasn’t even there. But do you know how many vehicles match that description? I mean, this ain’t LA. It would be unusual if you’d seen a sedan, or a coupe. Everybody’s got an SUV. Hell, I’ve got two, and a pickup. Anyway, we woke him up—”
“He was sleeping?”
Reed nodded. “Says he was, anyway. And claims he was there all night doing IM conversations with his followers and talking with his wife. She vouches for him.”
“Do you believe her?”
Reed shrugged. “Without anything more than your ‘It looked kind of like Klamath Moore’ story, we have nothing else to go on. One thing, though, his hair was wet. I asked him about that and he said he took a shower before he went to bed.”
“That would clean off any gunpowder residue on his skin,” Joe said. “Did you find the clothes he was wearing?”
“He pointed at a pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the bedroom,” Reed said. “I bagged it up. But Shelly Cedron has a wood-stove, just like everybody else. It’s one of those really good airtight ones that burns hot inside.”
“Will your crime-scene guys search the SUV?”
Reed shrugged. “You mean search for hair and fiber from Gordon? Sure. But we both know Gordon has been in the car before. That wouldn’t give us anything.”
“What about Bill Gordon?” Joe asked. “Have the crime-scene people looked at him?”
“Doc Speer says—preliminarily, at least—it looks like a suicide. The gun was fired so close to his head it’s a contact wound consistent with suicide. No short-range or mid-range powder burns or anything indicating it wasn’t self-inflicted. The weapon was a .45ACP Sig Sauer P220. Nice gun. And the suicide theory looks completely clean except for one thing: there were two bullet wounds in his head.”