“Did they catch him?” Farkus asked.
“Not as of this morning. Feds are pouring in from Cheyenne, Denver, and Washington, D.C. But they aren’t organized yet. Word is they’ll get their marching orders later today and begin a full-scale search for Roberson in the National Forest where he was last seen.”
Farkus shook his head. “That don’t make any sense to me,” he said. “Butch Roberson is a fugitive?”
“You used to work for him, didn’t you?” McLanahan asked. He had not lost any of his cop stink-eye and tone, Farkus thought.
“For a while.”
“Until he fired you, I heard.”
“I’m filing for unemployment,” Farkus said. “He asked me to do things I couldn’t do, on account of my neck injury.”
McLanahan grinned devilishly. It was hard to see his mouth because of all the whiskers, but basically his beard and mustache shifted a little.
McLanahan said, “Yeah, nothing worse than a bad neck that can’t be found or detected by a doctor. It must get frustrating, always having to go on and on about how much your neck hurts when they can’t find anything wrong with it.”
Farkus gestured at McLanahan with the half-full carafe so a little of the water splashed out of the top: “You said you had a proposition for me, but you’re just busting my balls.”
“Sorry,” McLanahan said. “Didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”
“My neck hurts,” Farkus insisted.
“And I’ve got a huge pain in my ass,” McLanahan drawled. “His name is Mike Reed, and he’s the gimp wearing my badge and sitting in my office. I call him Wheelchair Dick, on account he’s in a wheelchair and he’s a dick who beat me by nine sympathy votes.”
Farkus nodded, wondering where this was going.
McLanahan shifted his weight so the edge of the table wouldn’t prod him in the belly.
He said, “I heard you went hunting with Butch Roberson. Is that true?”
Farkus nodded. His new employer had heard of Farkus’s exploits down in the Sierra Madre, when he’d been hired to guide a team of contract killers into the mountains to hunt for two homicidal brothers. Even though he’d spent most of the time lost, Farkus had embellished the story until he came out looking pretty good. Farkus even suggested to some guys at the Stockman’s Bar that he’d been known as “Pathfinder,” hoping the name would catch on. It didn’t. Despite that, Butch Roberson had wanted to show Farkus his mountains, and Farkus had agreed to go along mainly because his boss had asked him.
“It was goddamned miserable,” Farkus said. “Five straight days of climbing mountains and crawling through down timber. Hardest work I’ve ever done in my life. Butch Roberson is a crazy man. He hunts from an hour before sunrise to an hour past sundown, and he knows every nook and cranny in those mountains. Worst of all, he passed up a half-dozen shots on elk because he wanted to keep hunting. He was like a man possessed by some kind of . . . obsession.”
McLanahan grinned. “Did you learn anything?”
“About what?” Farkus said, turning to pour the water into the Mr. Coffee. “What I learned is that blistered feet and sore muscles ain’t my idea of a wonderful time.”
“I mean, did you learn about the terrain in the mountains up above the Big Stream Ranch? Did he show you the elk-hunting areas he likes best?”
“Yeah, and it’s no picnic. It’s rough country up there.”
“Do you think you could go back up there and know your way around?”
Finally, Farkus knew where it was headed.
“There’s a reward,” McLanahan said. “Federal money, and a lot of it—hundreds of thousands, if I heard right. Probably federal stimulus funds,” he said, and laughed. “But a hell of a lot of it.”
“How much?” Farkus asked.
“It don’t matter,” McLanahan said. “What matters is me finding Butch Roberson and either bringing him in or dragging him back facedown.”
Farkus shook his head. “But Butch is a pretty nice guy overall. He’s just an elk-hunting fool.”
McLanahan waved his hand as if swatting at a moth.
“It’s not about Butch Roberson,” McLanahan said, “and it’s not even about the reward that I’ll split down the middle with you.”
He paused for effect, then said, “It’s about nine voters when the next election comes around.”
“Oh,” Farkus said.
“You in?”
Farkus looked around the single-wide at the faded curtains and the buckled interior siding. At the quarter-inch of grease on the underside of the stove hood and the pile of cat feces in the corner of the floor near McLanahan’s boots.
“I can’t swear I can find him,” Farkus said.
“You don’t have to swear. You just have to point me in the right direction before the Feds get their poop in a group.”
McLanahan struggled to pry himself out of the tight fit and took a mug of coffee Farkus poured. He said, “I’ll be back in three hours with horses, guns, and gear. Can you get your shit together by then?”
“I guess so.”
“Pack for a couple of days and nights, although I’m guessing we won’t be up there that long. Word is Butch is on foot. He won’t be able to cover that much ground.”
Farkus asked, “Should I bring my thirty-aught-six?”
“Can you hit anything with it?”
Farkus shrugged. He hadn’t sighted it in since he’d gone hunting with Butch, and he recalled how many times that week he’d bumped the scope on rocks and trees.
McLanahan read his expression and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll have enough hardware to cover us.”
Farkus shook his head and said, “Butch Roberson—that just don’t seem right. He always seemed like, you know, a family guy, even though he could be a hell of a hard-ass on the construction site. I just can’t see him doing what you said he done. What was the deal, anyhow?”
“I didn’t accuse him,” McLanahan said. “Wheelchair Dick and the Feds did. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Will it just be us? Just you and me?”
McLanahan warned, “Don’t get all wrapped up in the details, Dave. Leave the organizing part to me. Your job is to guide, not think, okay?”
Farkus nodded, and was still nodding when McLanahan went out the door. His weight on the front step made the trailer rock.
He was right. Trouble had shown up early.
10
ON HIS WAY TO THE HOLIDAY INN TO MEET HIS NEW director for breakfast, Joe drove past the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport on the bench above the town. Despite a high chain-link fence that surrounded the perimeter, a small herd of pronghorn antelope had come back and were grazing between the two runways. Because adult pronghorns ranged from eighty to one hundred fifty pounds, they obviously posed a safety hazard to incoming aircraft and themselves, although they usually had the sense to get far out of the way.
If he didn’t have the appointment, Joe thought, he would pull over and shoo them away by firing blank .22 cracker shells. If the pronghorns continued to hang out between the runways, he might need to dart them and transport them somewhere else in his district. The prospect of a small propeller passenger plane striking one or more gave him a shudder.
And beyond the grazing pronghorns, parked in front of the state-owned hangar, was a glittering eight-passenger Cessna Encore jet. On the tail was the familiar bucking-horse-and-rider logo. It was known as Rulon One—the governor’s plane.
—
JOE CHECKED HIS WATCH as he walked through the aging atrium to the restaurant in the back of the hotel. He was on time. He tried to guess what she might look like, thinking: trim, probably fashionable, businesslike, professional, tightly wound and anxious. He spotted her sitting alone in a booth next to the wall, speed-reading the Casper Star-Tribune, an iPhone within quick reach next to her cup of coffee.
Lisa Greene-Dempsey looked up as he approached her. There was no doubting who she was, and he congratulated himself for profiling
her well enough to identify. She practically fell over herself getting up, he thought, tossing the newspaper aside and striding across the carpet to greet him. She took his extended right hand in both of hers and pumped it, and said, “The infamous Joe Pickett—I’m so happy to meet you.”
He said, “Infamous?”
“Probably the wrong choice of words,” she said, pulling him to her booth, still holding his hand. “Call me LGD.”
“Okay, LGD.” He removed his hat and placed it crown-down next to him.
“Director LGD,” she said with a tight smile.
She was slim and tall with severely straight light brown hair parted just off-center on the top of her head. It was streaked with gray and cut along her jawline so it gave the impression of long hair without being long. She had high cheekbones and wore designer glasses that drew attention to her already oversized blue eyes. She smiled enthusiastically with her entire mouth, upper and lower teeth framed by a box of thin lips and thrust out at him in an overeager way. Joe felt more than slightly bowled over by the sheer intensity of her studied sincerity.
He hadn’t even settled in the seat across from her before she started talking.
“On my run this morning with the sun just lighting up the mountains, I thought: what a magnificent place this is,” she said, waggling her fingers in the air. “Mountains and fresh air, clean water in the streams, and I even saw some mule deer along the path. Two females and their babies, just watching me run past them, and I thought: we need to preserve this for future generations. They need to see and experience nature in the same way we do, and I’m afraid we sometimes take what we’ve got for granted, you know?”
Joe said, “Yup.”
“I think an important part of our agency’s mission should be to encourage the appreciation and sense of wonder a viable wildlife population brings us. I hope that doesn’t sound too touchy-feely, but I believe it.”
Joe nodded in agreement, but had trouble keeping eye contact because her look was so . . . intense. He was relieved when the waitress came over and asked for his order.
“He doesn’t have a menu,” Greene-Dempsey said archly to the waitress.
The server was middle-aged and overweight, with broad features, stout legs, and a no-nonsense set to her mouth. Her name badge said MAYVONNE. She’d worked at the restaurant for as long as Joe could remember, and she was known for sass. She took a deep breath, as if holding her tongue was a struggle, glanced at Joe, then glared at his new boss.
“That’s okay,” Joe told MayVonne quickly, trying to avert an outbreak of hostilities. “I’ll have the usual.”
As MayVonne filled his coffee cup she said, “Two eggs over-easy, ham, wheat toast, no hash browns?”
“Yup.”
“Ketchup and Tabasco on the side?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She grunted and turned on her heel for the kitchen.
“The service here could be better,” Greene-Dempsey said, watching the waitress retreat. “And the food . . .” she said, making a face and gesturing to her picked-through fruit plate. “It’s not exactly fresh. Who knows how long it’s been sitting around back there?”
“We’re a long way from fruit orchards and the ocean,” Joe said. “I don’t eat much that doesn’t come from somewhere closer.” He shrugged. “It’s sort of part of the deal.”
Greene-Dempsey shot a look at the swinging batwing doors to the kitchen MayVonne had pushed through.
She said, “She needs to work on her attitude.”
Joe shrugged and said, “MayVonne has a boy in Afghanistan and a husband who can’t find work. This is her second job. I cut her a little slack.”
“Oh,” LGD said, embarrassed.
—
GREENE-DEMPSEY SAID, “Before we discuss the matter at hand, I want to completely clear the air as far as you and the department goes.”
Joe looked up. “I didn’t know there was air to clear.”
She laughed uncomfortably and said, “Of course there is, but not to worry. As far as I’m concerned, we all start fresh. It’s a brand-new day, and it will soon be a rebranded agency, and I want all of my people—all of my team—to know that whatever happened in the past stays in the past. As I said, we all start fresh. The slate is wiped clean.”
She said it with a sense of triumph.
When Joe didn’t respond, she said, “Some people might have been troubled by things that have happened along the way. Some might say a certain game warden was a little too close in proximity when a former director was brutally killed, or a little too familiar with a certain federal fugitive who lived nearby. Some might say that a career history marked by certain periods of defiance to policy and outright insubordination are indicators of future defiance to policy and future insubordination. But those people would be wrong.”
Before Joe could respond and ask who “those people” were, Greene-Dempsey said, “I have something for you.”
“What—my severance papers?”
She laughed loudly, and playfully slapped the back of his hand. “You’re such a character,” she said.
He knew he grimaced.
“Here,” she said, handing over a large, thick legal-sized envelope.
He took it.
“Open it,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
Joe worked his finger under the seal, ripped it open, and dumped the contents on the table. The items consisted of a laminated card, a Game and Fish Department badge, and a smaller envelope.
“I’ve already got a badge,” he said, puzzled.
“Look at the number,” she said, gleaming.
It took him a second to realize what she meant, then he read JOE PICKETT, GAME WARDEN, #21.
“Your number has been restored to where it would have been if you’d never had that unfortunate incident a few years back,” she said. “I asked my staff to do the research, and you’d now be number twenty-one. And that’s what you are again, so congratulations, Joe. And welcome back.”
He fingered the badge. The laminated card also indicated his new—restored—numerical designation. In one fell swoop he’d moved twenty-seven rankings.
“Thank you,” he said.
“In the envelope is a letter from me making it all official.”
“I appreciate it.”
She nodded and said, “When they told me how important those numbers are to game wardens, how the lowest number represents the most years in service, I realized how disenfranchised you must feel. Anyone would.”
She raised her index finger and touched the side of her jaw, as if demonstrating the act of thinking. She said, “So I thought, what would cause a game warden to act out? What would make a good solid employee by all accounts responsible for three times as much damage to state property than any other employee in a large agency? It puzzled me, at first, but when I asked about your history, I found out a previous director had taken away your status. You literally were disenfranchised. So I put two and two together.”
Joe felt himself flushing with embarrassment.
“This really isn’t necessary,” he said. “I’m fine with my badge number.”
“You say that,” she said, mischievously, as if she knew better.
“Really,” he said. “But I appreciate the effort.”
“Of course,” she said. “Like I said, it’s a new day. There are people who thought easing out people like you might be the best thing for the department as we begin our transformation.”
Joe said, “Who are these people who are always saying things?”
“Never mind that,” she said dismissively. “The governor thinks the world of you.”
“He does?”
“He told me so himself. He also made a reference to some special work you did for him once, but he didn’t get specific.”
“I see,” Joe said, not elaborating. If the governor hadn’t told her how the arrangement had worked and what he’d done for him, Joe took that as a cue not to tell her, either.
“Where is the governor, by the way?” Joe asked, looking around. Both the restaurant and the lobby were vacant.
“Oh, he’s here,” she said. “We checked in together last night. At the same time, I should say.” She rolled her eyes and blushed at the implication, even though Joe hadn’t made it. “So I suspect he’s working in his room or meeting with local officials. You can’t imagine how stressful it is to run an agency like mine, much less the entire state.”
Joe could imagine. He wished, though, that LGD would stop referring to “her” agency, “her” team, and “her” staff. He hoped it was a matter of semantics.
Instead, he said, “And what do you mean by transformation?” He was thinking of Bill Haley’s decision to retire.
She said, “I’ve reviewed the duties of a game warden. It’s supposed to be one-third resource management, one-third landowner and community relations, and one-third law enforcement, right?”
“Right.”
“What I see, though, is most wardens skew heavily on law enforcement at the expense of the other two. And wildlife appreciation needs to figure somewhere in that mix.”
He nodded cautiously, agreeing but wondering where she was going.
“I want to change the agency for the better, Joe, and I’m asking you for your support.”
“My support?”
“I’m creating a new position: field liaison. The field liaison would serve directly under me and be my eyes, ears, and advocate for new policy with game wardens and biologists across the state. I know how hardheaded and set in their ways many of these men can be, but they might be persuaded if someone they know and trust—and admire—fills the position. Someone who has been where they are and knows their issues. That someone would be you.”
Joe said, “You’re offering me a new job?”