“Look,” Batista said, his eyes shooting around for support from his special agents and the others, “I know we started out on the wrong foot a few years ago. But right now we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and . . .”
Rulon jabbed his finger an inch from the EPA administrator’s nose: “There are right ways to do things and wrong ways to do things in my state. When I got a call that two of your people were gunned down in Twelve Sleep County, I pledged support. We want this guy caught as much as you do. But I should have known not to trust any of you bastards, that you’d turn out to be the jackbooted thugs I always knew you were.”
Joe smiled to himself and shook his head. He almost missed his boss approaching Rulon and grabbing gently at his arm, urging him to calm down.
Rulon said, “Now I hear you’ve not only offered a reward for the capture or execution of one of my constituents, you’ve also ordered a goddamned drone from Nebraska, where you spy on cattle feedlot operations, to fly over my airspace and spy on my land and my people. Just who in the hell gave you the authority to bypass the elected government of the state of Wyoming and trample over our citizens?”
Rulon’s face was red, and when he paused for a breath, Batista said quickly, “First, we’ve retracted the reward offer. Second, I’ve got the authority to administrate my region.”
“Governor,” Greene-Dempsey pleaded, pulling him back, “Please . . .”
Then Rulon waved his arms at the assembled and astonished crowd, and said to Batista, “Get them all the hell out of here! Take down your stupid tents and go the hell away! The only agency who should be here right now is the sheriff of Twelve Sleep County. The rest of you,” he said, glaring at the special agents and rangers one by one, “beat it!”
Batista shook his head and said, “I doubt you’d talk this way to me if I looked more like you.”
“What?” Rulon sputtered, confused.
“You heard me,” Batista said, crossing his arms over his chest and daring the governor to say more.
“You’re accusing me . . . of what?” Rulon said. “Because you’re . . .”
“A Hispanic American,” Batista said, raising his chin.
Rulon shook his head, as if momentarily stunned. Then he said, “Well, I’m a Governor American, and I want your ass out of my state. We’ll find your shooter, and he’ll get justice. We don’t want you or your thugs involved.” Joe noted the governor’s tone had softened, despite the words.
“And now we know why,” Batista said, still smug.
Joe shook his head. In that brief exchange, Rulon seemed to have lost his momentum. And the crowd seemed to agree.
Greene-Dempsey managed to pull Rulon away again, and when he turned, Joe saw a look of spent rage crossed with befuddled realization in his face. He’d never seen the look before, and he wondered if Rulon had truly lost it after all. Rulon seemed to have the same thought, and he threw his shoulders back and gathered himself, then looked down at his feet for a moment.
Batista turned to the group of officers and said, “The show is over. It’s time to get back to work.”
“Jesus Christ,” Underwood said, and whistled. “Your governor is a nutjob.”
Joe said, “He might be. But he’s not a racist.”
Underwood said, “He is now.”
—
WHILE UNDERWOOD WALKED his horse over to his team to get them ready, Joe dismounted and walked to the black state Suburban. He found Governor Rulon slouched in the driver’s seat, shaking his head. When Joe peered inside to locate his boss, Rulon said, “She’s not here. She’s up in the tent apologizing to Juan Julio What’s-His-Face for my racist outburst.”
Joe grunted.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” Rulon said. “It took the wind out of my sails. He’s a cunning little bastard. I would have thought these imperial Feds wouldn’t be used to seeing a governor yelling into their faces, but I was wrong.
“And to play the race card like that . . . It’s the lowest form of debate, because it just closes the subject down. And it’s not true. I don’t hate Hispanics. I hate federal brownshirt thugs named Juan Julio Batista.”
“Governor?” Joe interrupted. “Can I ask you a question?”
Rulon looked over wearily. “Shoot. I’ve never lied to you.”
Joe hesitated, and Rulon smiled and said, “Well, not much.”
“Anyway, what I was wondering is . . .”
“Why I hired her,” Rulon said, finishing the wrong question. But Joe wanted to hear the answer anyway.
“I was pressured into it. But don’t quote me.”
“I won’t,” Joe said. “We had breakfast this morning. Then she came on a ride-along.”
Rulon laughed and thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. His usual buoyant mood returned. “I heard about that. She’s still a little stunned. Bear spray, Joe?”
“It works.”
“So I take it. Anyway, she’s got some notions, I hear,” he said. “She thinks you and your kind are too inbred. She thinks you’ve all gone native out here—too close to the locals.”
Joe nodded.
“Have you?”
“I don’t think so,” Joe said. “We’re like local beat cops, is the way I think about it. We know the people, so we can do our jobs better.”
Rulon nodded, and said, “‘Government closest to the people governs best,’ some wise man once said. Do you agree?”
“I guess I do.”
“So do I,” Rulon said with finality. Then: “Next question?”
Joe hesitated, then said, “She told me you approved her lending me out on this investigation, that it was my duty to assist the best I can.”
Rulon raised his eyebrows and said, “So?”
“I’m not sure I can do it,” Joe said, surprising even himself with the words. “I know Butch Roberson. I’m not sure I can go along with this the way they’re doing it.”
“Why? Do you think he’s innocent? Isn’t this exactly what LGD is afraid of?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t think he’s innocent. Not from what I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Joe felt tongue-tied. After a beat, he said, “I’m just not sure how much longer I can keep doing this.”
“What? Being a game warden?”
“Being a state employee,” Joe said. “She offered me a desk job in Cheyenne. I’ve never worked behind a desk before.”
Rulon, for once, didn’t fire another question. Instead he said, “Do what’s right, Joe. That’s what you’re good at. This is your decision.”
Joe waited for more that didn’t come. He wasn’t sure what that would be, though.
Rulon, as he usually did, changed the subject again. “We’ve had a couple of interesting adventures together, haven’t we, Joe?”
“Yup.”
“I thought for a while there you were going to lose me my job,” Rulon said. “You just have a knack for getting right into the middle of trouble, don’t you?”
Joe nodded. He said, “Marybeth says I have a singular skill in that regard.”
“She’s smart and too good-looking for you,” Rulon said. “You don’t deserve her.”
“I know that.”
“What about your friend, the maniac? That stone-cold killer with the falcons you hang around with? What’s he think about all this?” Rulon said, knowing Joe didn’t like to talk about Nate Romanowski.
“I haven’t heard from him,” Joe said. “But I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t like it.”
“So you haven’t been in touch since that trouble last year,” Rulon said, and nodded. “That’s probably good for you. You wouldn’t want to be aiding and abetting a known fugitive.”
Joe shifted uncomfortably.
“Maybe I need some guys like that on my team,” Rulon mused, and gestured toward the FOB. “I could use some real muscle dealing with this tyrant Batista.”
Joe looked up, puzzled. He wasn’t sure if Rulon
was serious.
“What’s going on over there?” Rulon asked suddenly, leaning forward in his seat. Joe looked over to see Batista rushing from the tent toward a white panel communications van. The vehicle had a brace of antennas and radio dishes mounted on top. Lisa Greene-Dempsey emerged after him and walked slowly and cautiously toward the Suburban.
When she arrived and saw Joe she couldn’t disguise the look of anguish on her face.
Rulon asked, “What’s happening?”
She said, “His people said something happened to the drone. They lost contact with it somewhere up there in the mountains.”
“It crashed?” Rulon said hopefully.
“Worse.”
Rulon’s smile grew into something almost maniacal. He said, “Someone shot it down?”
“That’s what they’re thinking,” she said, shaking her head.
“Wonderful!” Rulon shouted. “Let’s have more of that!”
—
AS JOE MOUNTED Toby to join Underwood and the others, Rulon bounded out of the SUV and called his name.
When he turned, Rulon gave him two thumbs up, then walked over toward the communications van, a skip in his step.
Joe wasn’t sure what the governor meant by the signal—that everything would be fine or he was simply giddy a drone had been shot down. Everything Governor Rulon said or did, Joe had learned, had two or three different interpretations.
“Okay, men,” Underwood said to the four other special agents on horseback, and pointed to Joe. “Follow this man.”
17
APPROACHING THE ELK CAMP ON HORSEBACK ON THE floor of the canyon, Farkus felt sick to his stomach. He’d made this kind of trek before, when a hunter in his party claimed he’d knocked down a deer or elk and they set out to find it, but the only time he’d been in a similar situation was three years before in the Sierra Madre, when he’d been recruited on a similar mission to find those two murderous brothers—and that hadn’t gone well at all. Jimmy Sollis’s constant chatter—he had certainly woken up—added to his unease.
“Look at this,” Sollis said, sweeping his hand to indicate the huge expanse around them. “Look how fucking far this was for a perfect shot. Jesus, one shot at eighteen hundred yards. It’s taking us nearly a half-hour to even get there. Man, what a rush. What a fucking rush.”
They rode abreast now, walking their mounts, like outlaws in a western movie, Farkus thought. The floor of the canyon was thick with a green carpet of grass and wildflowers—columbines and Indian paintbrush, mostly. The shallow creek flowed through it. The bed of the stream was orange pea gravel, and the water was cold, shallow, and clear. He could see shadowed darts of small brook trout shoot out from beneath the grassy banks and fin madly upstream, and he wished it meant something to him. Given the circumstances, though, it didn’t.
The elk camp was ahead of them, slightly elevated from the valley floor, but he could see nothing in it except a wisp of smoke from the untended campfire.
“I don’t see a body yet,” Farkus said, finally.
“That’s because he’s down, man,” Sollis said, lapsing into druggie cadence as well as acting like he was under the influence of something stronger than adrenaline, Farkus thought. “You don’t see him cause he’s down.”
“I think I liked it better when you wouldn’t talk,” Farkus grumbled.
Instead of feeling rebuked, Sollis threw back his head and laughed.
After a beat, McLanahan asked Sollis, “Where do you think you hit him?”
Farkus was grateful that at least the ex-sheriff appeared to understand the gravity of what they’d done.
Sollis said, “It was probably a heart or lung shot—that’s what I was going for. I’m thinking heart, because the poor son of a bitch dropped like a sack of cement. He might have stood and wavered a few seconds if I blew his lungs out.”
Farkus looked away.
“Any chance he’s pretending to be hit so he can draw us in?” McLanahan asked. “The guy is more wily than I thought, and he can shoot. You saw the way he took down that drone.”
“Not a chance, man,” Sollis said. “At that distance the round got there long before he could have heard the shot. He’d have to be some kind of wizard to guess I was about to pull the trigger a mile away, and from what I understand he wasn’t no wizard.”
McLanahan nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Look back.” Sollis laughed, turning in his saddle and pointing at the canyon ridge wall in the distance. “Look how damned far away it was. Jesus, what a rush . . .”
—
THEY WERE CLOSE ENOUGH that Farkus could smell the smoke. It was sharp and acrid, probably fueled by green twigs. A breath of wind shifted and took the smoke away. But there was also another smell tucked inside the smoke.
“Be alert,” McLanahan said, as he reached down and peeled back the security strap of the Bushmaster in its scabbard. He drew the rifle out and seated a round. Farkus observed and did the same and laid his rifle across the pommel of his horse.
“No reason to get excited,” Sollis said, and beamed, shaking his head at their precaution. “He ain’t going nowhere.”
Because the camp was situated on a rise from the valley floor, Farkus couldn’t see into it yet. But he recognized the size of the rocks circling the fire pit, and the stumps that had been chainsawed smooth and even to sit on. He got a flash of a memory: dusk, the last of the sun filtering through the trees on the western horizon, the fire blazing high, Butch Roberson leaning over and pouring a healthy splash of Wild Turkey into Farkus’s metal cup. He’d been talking about his daughter, how he didn’t feel like he was truly a man until that day in the hospital when she was delivered and he looked into her face . . .
—
“THERE HE IS,” McLanahan said.
The body was there just like Sollis had promised, and Farkus saw it as they rode up the rise. The body was on its side, facing away from them, partially curled around the fire itself. A clump of baggy green camo with legs extended, scarred hunting boots side by side in the grass.
Bursting through the fabric under Butch’s rib cage was a wet ball of red-and-gray intestine the size of a softball. So that was the smell he’d detected earlier, Farkus realized. The earthy, musky odor of a downed game animal being field-dressed.
“Gut shot,” the ex-sheriff declared.
Farkus waited for Sollis to say something defensive, but there was no sound. Maybe, Farkus thought, it had finally dawned on Sollis that his target had been a living, breathing human being.
McLanahan was still trailing the packhorse, and he stopped both of his animals a few feet from the body and fire ring and leaned down, studying the body. Farkus hadn’t ridden around to see the face yet, although he nearly jumped out of his skin when he thought he glimpsed movement from the body’s extended right hand. After a double take, he saw the hand was still.
Then McLanahan said, “Son of a bitch. We got the wrong guy.”
—
PANICKED, FARKUS swung down from the saddle and left Dreadnaught to wander off to graze. He didn’t care. He still had the rifle in his hand as he lunged forward and grasped the body’s right shoulder and pulled it to him. The body flopped to its back, and the red-haired man moaned.
“Jesus—he’s still alive!” Farkus said, dropping the gun and jumping back. The man’s face was square, his head blocky, and there was a five-day growth of beard. Farkus had never seen the man before, but it certainly wasn’t Butch Roberson. The man’s eyes were wide open but didn’t move around, and there was a pink string of blood and saliva connecting the top and bottom lip of his partially open mouth.
“It isn’t him, is it?” McLanahan asked Farkus, his tone neutral.
“No.”
“Shit. I wonder who it is Jimmy shot?”
Farkus looked up. Sollis looked thunderstruck, but McLanahan seemed to be taking it in stride, which astonished Farkus.
He watched as McLanahan sat back and slowly surveyed th
e camp. The ex-sheriff said, “I see his backpack over there against a tree. Farkus, why don’t you see if you can find some kind of ID?”
“Me?”
“You. But first you better tie up your horse before it runs away on you.”
Stunned by the turn of events, Farkus sleepwalked Dreadnaught over to a thick lodgepole pine and tied the lead rope over a branch. He glanced up at McLanahan and Sollis as he made his way over to the backpack because he didn’t want to see the face of the gravely wounded man again. Sollis sat in the saddle staring out at nothing, slack-mouthed and frozen. McLanahan was squinting and looking into the middle distance, as if gears were working in his head.
Next to the backpack, propped on the side of the tree that had been out of their view, was a complicated compound bow with wheels and pulleys and a mounted set of razor-sharp broad-head arrows.
He called to McLanahan, “He’s an elk hunter. It must be archery season on this side of the mountain.”
“Gee, you think?” McLanahan said sarcastically.
“I don’t see any ID,” Farkus said, rooting through the pack. It smelled of stale campfire smoke and sweat, and the pack’s contents were typical: camo clothing, rain gear, a sleeping bag and pad, a one-man bivvy tent, freeze-dried food packets, maps . . .
“I’ll see if he’s got a wallet on him.” McLanahan grunted as he dismounted. To Sollis, he said, “Get down off that horse and give me a hand here, Jimmy.”
Sollis simply shook his head, as if by refusing the request he was also denying the reality of the situation.
While rolling the hunter back over to his belly so he could dig through his pockets, McLanahan said, “The dumb knucklehead. He should’a known to stay out of the mountains during a manhunt or use a known murderer’s camp, and especially not to wear the same damn clothes as the murderer.”
Farkus quit searching and wandered toward McLanahan and the hunter. Something wasn’t right, he thought, but his head was too fuzzy with the situation they were in to put it together.
McLanahan stood up holding a billfold from the hunter’s cargo pants. The wallet was inside a Ziploc bag. The ex-sheriff tore through the plastic and opened the wallet, studying the ID sheathed in thick plastic. Farkus could see McLanahan’s shoulders suddenly relax.