Dull was certainly better than the last few months on the ranch, with her parents and her grandmother battling. Grandmother Missy, who didn’t look or act like a grandmother at all, wanted them to stay so she could keep some control over them. She was into control. She was also into what she had heard her mother refer to as “trading up.” Grandmother Missy, who was still beautiful and petite and looked like a porcelain doll, was on her fourth marriage, this time to rancher and good guy Bud Longbrake. Sheridan liked Bud, who was jovial, hardworking, and kind to her and Lucy. But Missy wanted more, and the rumors of her spending time with a multimillionaire named Earl Alden who had bought a ranch in the area turned out to be true. Everybody in Saddlestring knew about the affair except Bud Longbrake, it seemed. Not that Sheridan was involved in any discussions between her parents on the subject—they weren’t like that. Her mother was THE MOM, not a gossipy friend like some of her friends’ moms. Sheridan’s mom kept a parental distance that used to infuriate her before she realized, slowly, that it was an indication of trust, love, and maturity and not proof of unreasonable shrewishness after all. For Sheridan, this was a revelation, and she was beginning to respect her mother for being a parent and not her best girlfriend. It was the same with her father, although he was easier to manipulate because her moods and tears turned him into the male equivalent of a Labrador.
What she knew she had learned by overhearing, or what she could intuit from looks or gestures her parents gave each other, or the way they behaved after interacting with Missy on the ranch. Sheridan had overheard her parents agonizing over whether or not to tell Bud and finally deciding it was best to leave, to buy their first-ever house and move out, which they did during the summer. Bud helped them by loaning them a ranch truck and an empty stock trailer. Missy spent the moving days in her bedroom with the shades drawn and didn’t say good-bye.
Grandmother Missy had not been to their new house, and Sheridan’s only contact with her was a birthday card on her sixteenth birthday. Sheridan put it in a drawer. The situation was different with Lucy, though, who received not only a card but a dozen presents—including an iPod Nano and designer clothing. Sheridan considered her sister her grandmother’s in-house spy, her way of infiltrating the new Pickett household. Lucy denied the charge, saying she didn’t know why she’d been showered with gifts but at the same time saying she had no intention of sending them back.
“Why should I?” Lucy had said. “A girl needs clothes.” To prove her loyalty, she offered to give Sheridan the iPod. Instead, they decided to share it.
“WHAT WERE you doing in here?” Lucy asked again when she came back ten minutes later, her eyes darting from the computer to the desk to the drawer Sheridan had just hidden her half-written letter in.
“Working,” Sheridan said. “None of your business.”
“Dad’s home,” Lucy said. “Maybe you can ask him about a car now.”
Since Sheridan had turned sixteen, she was legal to drive and she’d already passed the driving test and had a permit, but the idea of driving herself around was intimidating. She liked to be taken places. So did Lucy, who was unabashed in her desire for Sheridan to get a car so she could get rides with her sister. Lucy loved living in town.
“How’s the mood?” Sheridan asked.
“Intense.”
“What’s going on?”
Lucy said conspiratorially, “Some hunter got shot. But it’s much worse than that.”
“What?”
“That’s what Dad said,” Lucy said, then paused for effect before whispering, “And whoever did it cut off his head and took it.”
“Oh my God.”
Sheridan scrambled out of her chair and both girls huddled near the partially open door to listen. Sheridan heard her dad say, “The governor formed a team to go after whoever did it. He’s also bringing in an expert in tracking.”
Mom asked a question they couldn’t hear, but they heard Dad say, “You’ve heard of Klamath Moore? He’s giving some kind of press conference tomorrow. This thing might turn out to be real big.” Sheridan noted the name.
“Honey,” Dad said, “it was probably the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I can’t imagine,” Mom said. “Actually, I can. It makes me sick.”
Lucy whispered to Sheridan, “He said the man was gutted out and hung from a tree.”
Sheridan felt a wave of nausea wash over her.
They listened for a few more minutes until they could hear dishes clanking and their parents sitting down for a very late dinner.
“That’s horrible,” Sheridan said.
“It is,” Lucy said. “You probably shouldn’t ask about a car tonight.”
“WHAT’S THIS, a letter?” Lucy asked, sitting down at the desk and opening the drawer.
Sheridan quickly snatched it from her sister and put it behind her back.
“Who are you writing to? Who writes letters?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Does Mom know?”
Sheridan hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“Does Dad?”
“Maybe.”
“Oooooh,” Lucy said, smiling wickedly. “Let me guess.”
“Lucy . . .”
“I think I know.”
“Just do whatever you have to on the computer and leave me alone.”
Lucy turned with a smirk.
“Before you get going, do one thing for me,” Sheridan said. “Google the name Klamath Moore. I’ll spell it.”
The search produced dozens of entries. Lucy clicked on the top one, which turned out to be Moore’s organizational website. There was a photo of him—he was tall, fat, with a flowing head of hair like a rock star—surrounded by Hollywood celebrities on a stage. Behind the stars was a big banner reading STOP THE CRUELTY—LIVE AND LOVE LIFE ITSELF.
“Bookmark it,” Sheridan said. “I’ll read it later.”
SHERIDAN PUT her pajamas on and got ready for bed while Lucy did her homework, a paper on global warming assigned by her fifth-grade science teacher. As she printed it out, Lucy asked her sister, “So, does Nate Romanowski write back?”
Sheridan considered lying, but Lucy could read her face. “Yes, he does.” She knew her face was burning red.
“What does he say?”
“He’s schooling me in falconry. He’s the master falconer and I’m his apprentice.”
“Hmmm,” Lucy said smugly, tapping the edges of her report on the desk to align the pages. “That’s interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, it’s just interesting.”
“Knock it off.”
“And knowing this probably means a lot of rides when you get your car.”
“I’d rather have a falcon than a car, if I had to choose,” Sheridan said. “I think I’d like to start with a prairie falcon, maybe a Cooper’s hawk.”
That set Lucy back. “God, you’re weird.”
Sheridan shrugged.
“Sherry, you’re in high school. The boys like you—you’re a hottie on everyone’s list. If you start walking around with a stupid bird on your arm . . .” Lucy was pleading now, her hands out in front of her, palms up. “People will think you’re some kind of nature girl. A geek. A freak. And they’ll think of me as Bird Girl’s little sister.”
“Could be worse,” Sheridan said.
“How?”
“I could, like, I don’t know, like goats or something. Or emus. You don’t understand. Falconry is a beautiful art. It is known as the sport of kings. Think of that: the sport of kings. It’s ancient and mysterious. And it’s not like the birds are your pets. You don’t just walk around with them on your arm like a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder. God, you can be so juvenile sometimes.”
Lucy took a deep breath to reload when there was a knock on the door. “You girls all right in there?” said their dad.
“Sure,” Sheridan said, “come in.”
He stuck his head in bu
t didn’t enter, his eyes moving from Lucy to Sheridan and back, knowing he’d interrupted something. Sheridan noted the sparkle of gray in his sideburns she’d recently noticed for the first time. He was excited about something, motivated. There was a glint in his eye and a half-smile he couldn’t contain, the look he got when he had a purpose or a cause. “Better get going,” he told Lucy, who was notorious for extending her bedtime, “no stalling tonight.”
After he’d left, Lucy picked up her report in her most haughty manner. “There may not be any more falcons left if the earth keeps heating up,” she said, “so you might as well get that car.”
“Do you realize that what you just said makes no sense at all?”
Lucy rolled her eyes.
“Good night, Lucy.”
“Good night, Sheridan.” And over her shoulder as she skipped out of the room, “Nature Geek. Bird Girl.”
7
THE PROBLEM with my route back at night through the forest is an elk camp that has sprung up on the trail. Three canvas wall tents, four cursed four-wheel ATVs, the detritus of hunters in a campsite: chairs, clotheslines, a firepit ringed with pots and pans. I am grateful they don’t have horses who could whinny or spook at my presence and give me away. Because of the canyon walls on both sides, the only way to proceed is through the sleeping camp. Inside the tents are at least four armed hunters, maybe as many as eight or nine. I can hear snoring and the occasional deep cough.
I think: what’s wrong with these people? Don’t they know hunters are being hunted? Why do they not stay home? What makes them come out here while their fellow mouth-breathing Bubbas are being killed and gutted? Of course, these men have nothing to fear from me, but they don’t know that.
I lower the daypack to my feet and my shoulders relax from the strain of the last few hours. The moon is almost full and the stars are crisp and white, pulsing, throwing off enough light that there are shadows. For the past week, I’ve been preparing for this midnight trek. I’ve been loading up on foods high in vitamin A, which enhances night vision. Beef liver, chicken liver, milk, cheese, carrots and carrot juice, spinach. I can tell that eating these foods has helped greatly since I’ve only had to use my flashlight (fitted with a red lens) twice. Another tactic for walking in complete darkness outdoors is called “off-center vision,” and I’m good at it. The trick is not to look directly at objects—in my case, landmarks like dead trees or odd-shaped boulders I noted on my trek in—or they’ll seem to disappear. Looking at objects full-on directly utilizes the cone area of the retina, which is not active during times of darkness. Instead, I look to the left, right, above, or below the object I’m observing in order to use the area of the retina containing the rod cells, which are sensitive in darkness. If I keep moving my eyes around the object of interest, I can “see” what I’m looking at better than if I shine my headlamp on it. Plus, I’m not blinded afterward by the light. I’ve done my best to stay near the trail in but not to literally retrace my steps. As on the way in, I avoid soft ground where I may leave footprints as well as brush where I may break twigs in passing through. I stay as much as I can to hard-packed game trails or rock, disturbing as little as possible.
Earlier in the night, after I left my place of hiding where I observed the forensics team do their work, I methodically discarded evidence that could implicate me. I used the geology of the area to my advantage, especially the huge granite boulders piled up on top of each other and the scree on the denuded faces of two mountains I passed. The cache of clean clothing I’d left behind was easy to find in the dark and I changed from top to bottom, from boots to hat. I cleaned the barrel and chamber of my rifle with a field cleaning kit so thoroughly it would be difficult to tell it has been fired recently. I scrubbed exposed skin—the bands of skin between my gloves and coat cuffs, my face and neck—clean of gunpowder residue with wet wipes I brought in a ziplock bag. My old bloody clothing I wadded up tight and slipped into a crack in the boulder field where it dropped away deep. So deep, I barely heard when it landed. The depth beneath these boulder fields always astonishes me, and I wonder what lives in the dark within them. I imagine that whatever is down there scuttling in the absolute blackness will feast on the blood-drenched clothing and eventually reduce it to scat. The single spent cartridge and rifle cleaning patches I dropped in separate slits in the boulder scree. I washed my skinning knife in a spring-fed creek with biodegradable soap, and buried the washcloth under a log so heavy it strained me to turn it over.
I am now probably the cleanest hunter in the Rocky Mountains, and the thought makes me smile. It may be silly to take such precautions, I know that. After all, a hunter who has discharged a weapon is not an unusual circumstance. But if caught, I’d rather err on the side of caution. I’d rather be ruled out immediately by the fact that I haven’t fired a shot all day. Nevertheless, my hunting license, habitat stamp, and maps of the area are in my backpack and they are proof of my legitimacy. If stopped and questioned, it’s the reason I’m out here. The only thing that can possibly link me to the crime if I were stopped is the human head, which is triple wrapped in plastic inside the daypack. As I walk along, I practice hurling it away from me until I become quite good at it. I think I can do it unobtrusively by swinging it behind my back and throwing it off to the side. The trick, I think, is not to turn and watch where it lands, which might draw attention to it. And hope it lands on soft pine needles and doesn’t thump against a hollow tree trunk or crash through branches. Luck so far has been on my side. Still, though, I don’t want to take any risks.
And I fear that one of the elk hunters will awaken and step outside his tent and see me as I pass through. I don’t want to have to use my knife again.
I WAIT outside the elk camp for most of an hour. My hearing is acute. I’ve identified five breathers in the tents. Two in two tents, one in one. The two in the tent on the left, farthest from the fire pit, are sleeping the hardest. They make lots of noise, and occasionally one of them snorts and coughs. I guess they had the most to drink, or they’re heavy smokers, or they’re the oldest. Maybe all three. The two in the right-side tent sleep in almost whispers, and they concern me. Men who lie awake at night often breathe rhythmically, as if they are sleeping. Since this is their first night in the camp and the first night elk hunting, one or both could be awake, nervously anticipating the dawn. Or just not comfortable in cots and sleeping bags. But the single breather in the single tent worries me the most. Since he is by himself, I guess he is either the leader if they are friends or more likely a hired hunting guide. Some guides are maternal, and look out for their clients’ every comfort. Some are jerks, the kind of men who want to show off their ability and manhood to clients in the hope they’ll be talked about and admired. Either way, if the single is a guide and feeling proprietary about the camp and responsible for the other hunters, he could present problems for me.
Experienced tent campers know that animals pass through their camps all night long, especially if they’ve camped near water or on a trail, which is the case here. The sound of footfalls will not likely produce an automatic confrontation. I’m more worried about someone coming outside to urinate or simply because he can’t sleep and seeing me. I work my skinning knife out from beneath my jacket so the handle is within easy reach. And I know, if necessary, I can arm my weapon and fire within two seconds.
From what I can see, they’re experienced campers. Their food is hung high in mesh bags far from the campsite so as not to attract bears. There are pots and skillets on rocks around the fire pit but they look clean and are placed upside down. Nevertheless, it would be easy to accidentally kick one and make a racket. Another hazard are the thin tent lines attached to stakes in the ground. They’re easy to trip over or walk into because they blend so well with the night.
The layout of the campsite is now burned into my consciousness after studying it for so long. When I close my eyes I can see it, and I prefer this picture to the real one, which is confused by shafts of starlight.
Eyes closed, I walk through the camp like a shadow, every sense tingling, reaching out, reporting back. I sense a tent line and veer left to avoid it. When my boot tip touches the head of an ax left in deep grass, my foot slides smoothly around it like a fish in a stream confronted with a river rock.
In seconds I’m through the camp. I go a little farther down the trail until I’m once again back in the shadows of the trees before I open my eyes and look back. The camp is still, the hunters sleeping. I think how what I’ve just done could be dramatized and told around a campfire:
With a human head in a pack, the hunter of hunters walked right through the sleeping elk camp without making a sound. . . .
8
THE MORNING FLIGHT from Denver with master tracker Buck Lothar on board was late arriving at Saddlestring Regional Airport, and Joe spent the time reviewing the files Robey had copied the night before, noting the ever-growing crowd assembling in the lobby, and wondering when exactly it had happened that white-clad federal TSA employees had come to outnumber passengers and airline personnel in the little airport. Or at least it seemed that way.
The airport was humble, with two counters for regional commuter airlines, a single luggage carousel, a fast-food restaurant that was always closed, and several rows of orange plastic chairs bolted to the floor facing the tarmac through plate-glass windows. The painted cinder-block wall across from the airline counters was covered with crooked and yellowing black-and-white photos of passengers in the fifties and sixties boarding subsidized jets that used to serve the area. In the photos, the men were in suits and the women in hats. Local economic development types had created a display case to showcase local products, which consisted of . . . a package of jerky. Outside, a resident herd of six pronghorn antelope grazed between runways, the morning sun on their backs. When Joe was district game warden, he received calls from the county airport authorities every few weeks to come and try to scare the antelope away because the herd tended to spook and scatter when airplanes landed, and at least one private aircraft had hit one. Despite the use of cracker shells and rubber bullets fired into their haunches that dispersed the animals for a few days, they always returned.