By the time they were done, Joe hoped he had told the same story to each investigator, that there were no inconsistencies. It was apparent though, by the tone and questions of the last interviews, that the shooting was considered justified.
Remarkably, the man who had been shot at the elk camp was still alive and had been airlifted to Billings for massive surgery. The last Joe had heard, the man was reported to be in critical condition and not expected to live through night. The victim had been shot seven times, including five partial and somewhat reckless shotgun blasts (McLanahan) and two .30-caliber rifle bullets (Wacey).
The man who had been shot was Clyde Lidgard, a local from outside of Saddlestring who lived in a wreck of a house trailer on the road to the landfill. Lidgard was a mentally unbalanced modern-woodsman type who lived on a disability pension from the lumber mill as well as fees he collected for looking after summer cabins in the mountains. Lidgard was not an outfitter, and as far as anyone knew, he had never associated with any of the three murdered men. Joe had once been to Lidgard’s trailer after someone had called the office and reported a wounded mule deer limping around near the dump. Joe couldn’t find the deer, and he went to Lidgard’s trailer to see if Lidgard had seen the animal. Clyde Lidgard was not inside the trailer at the time but was instead hiding in the outhouse. Joe heard him in there and waited for him to come out. Joe had heard from someone that Lidgard didn’t like visitors and that his outhouse was his hideout of choice. After nearly fifteen minutes, Lidgard had stuck a gray, craggy face outside the door.
“Ain’t no sick deer here,” Lidgard had bellowed.
“How do you know I was looking for a deer?” Joe had asked back.
“Go away,” Lidgard had croaked. “You is on private property!” He had pronounced it “propity.”
Lidgard had been right, and since Joe hadn’t seen any sign of a deer, dead or alive, he had left. As Joe had driven his pickup along the rutted trail toward the road, he had watched in his rearview mirrors as Clyde Lidgard had scuttled from the outhouse into his trailer. The next time he would see Clyde Lidgard would be as he came out of the tent in the elk camp and walked into a firestorm of shotgun blasts. But in the confusion at the elk camp, Joe had no idea who the man was.
Lidgard was considered crazy but not dangerous, despite the fact that he was rarely seen in the mountains without his ancient .30-.30 lever action rifle. No one had ever seen the 9mm semiautomatic handgun they had found stuffed in Lidgard’s coat pocket, but few people knew Lidgard well at all. It would be a couple of days before the pistol could be confirmed to be the murder weapon of all three outfitters. Why Lidgard had stayed in the camp after shooting the men—two while they slept in their tent—was unknown and the subject of much speculation. Maybe he wanted the camp for himself, one of the state investigators said. Maybe he just didn’t know what to do, McLanahan guessed. Or maybe he was waiting for someone, Barnum said.
Joe thought about the fact that men like Clyde Lidgard were not the aberration in places like Saddlestring that many might think. Mountain towns and out-of-the-way rural communities all had men like Clyde Lidgard in and around them. Stops at the end of the road collected Clyde Lidgards like dams collected silt.
Wacey came into Joe’s hospital room that night after Marybeth had left. Wacey looked even more exhausted than Joe felt. Wacey said the investigation was continuing, but it would probably be wrapped up soon. All of the evidence indicated that the shooter was Clyde Lidgard. All they were waiting on was the report from DCI that the gun found on Lidgard was in fact the gun that had been used on the outfitters. Wacey said he had talked to reporters not only from the local papers but to radio and television reporters as far away as Denver. He told Joe, not without a hint of a sly grin, that he, Joe, and unfortunately Deputy McLanahan were being thought of as heroes. Wacey said the whole story was being treated as quite a big deal and had made all of the wire services. A stringer from CNN had interviewed him on camera, and the piece was supposed to be broadcast that night. Barnum, though, was being questioned as to why he sent the small party into the mountains without backup and why it took so long to airlift them all out with a wounded suspect.
“I’m looking good and Barnum’s looking bad,” Wacey said. “I can live with that.”
“I bet you can,” Joe said. “Now answer one question for me.”
“Fire away.”
“Was Clyde Lidgard raising his rifle to shoot at you?”
Wacey shook his head no. “Not at me. He was aiming it at McLanahan. That’s why McLanahan started blasting.”
“Then why did you shoot him twice? McLanahan was shooting buckshot, but you nailed the guy twice in the lungs with your rifle.”
Wacey shrugged. “Wouldn’t you want me there and ready if Clyde Lidgard had raised his rifle at you?”
Not long after Wacey left the hospital room, Joe felt another presence near his bed. When he opened his eyes, someone was looming over him in the dark. He hadn’t realized that the lights in his room had been turned off. And he didn’t understand how anyone other than a doctor could be in his room. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. But then he recognized the silhouette as belonging to Vern Dunnegan, his old supervisor, the man who cast the big shadow. Vern clicked on the bedside lamp.
“Hello, son,” he said gently.
Joe could see Vern clearly now. Vern had gained some weight, but he’d been portly to begin with. Vern had a trimmed, dark beard flecked with gray that bordered a round, jovial face. He had a round nose and probing, dark eyes. His movements, despite his bulk, had always been swift, and he gave the impression of a man who carried himself well. Vern had a quick, jolly chuckle that would burble out at any time, in any situation. The chuckle often disguised what Vern was really thinking and what he might say or do. It was one of the things Marybeth had never liked about him. She found Vern patronizing, especially toward Joe. She said he was calculating and manipulative, and she didn’t like her husband to be manipulated. As warden, Vern had an extremely high opinion of himself and his influence in the county and the state. Generally, he was right. People knew him and respected him. Many feared him. But he had always considered himself to be a mentor to Joe. Vern’s dealings with Joe had always been fair, and to Joe’s advantage. It was Vern who had fought for Joe’s moving back to the Saddlestring district, and he had made it happen. The fact that Joe was one of Vern’s favorites didn’t do him any harm within the agency either.
Vern sat down on the bed near Joe’s knees. Joe felt the mattress sag. “I just talked to Wacey,” Vern said. “My boys did all right up there. How’s your cheek where old Deputy McLanahan shot you?”
Joe nodded and said he was okay, just tired. Absently, he touched the bandage on his face.
“Need a drink? I’ve got my flask in my pocket. I’m drinking Maker’s Mark these days instead of that old Jim Beam I was used to. I’ve moved up the bourbon hierarchy.”
Joe shook his head no. He remembered how angry Marybeth used to get when he returned home late after drinking with Vern, pretending he’d “just had a couple of beers.”
Vern seemed to read his mind.
“How many kids do you and Marybeth have now?”
“Two. Sheridan and Lucy. And Marybeth’s pregnant.”
Vern chuckled and shook his head. “A loving wife, two wonderful kids. A house with a picket fence. Literally a picket fence. D’you still have your Lab?”
“Maxine. Yes.”
Vern continued to shake his head and chuckle.
“Tell me about Ote Keeley,” Vern said.
Joe told him all of the details that Sheriff Barnum had never asked him about. Dunnegan waved his hand when Joe began to recount the actions of the EMTs.
“Interesting,” Vern said. “You sent the shit pellets in?”
Joe nodded.
“Heard anything?”
“Not yet. I plan to call tomorrow.”
“Let me know, will you? I’m still interested in this kind of stuff.
”
“Yup.”
“How’s Georgia?” Joe asked.
“She’s fine, she’s fine. She’s living pretty well on the alimony I pay her,” Vern said.
“I hadn’t heard,” Joe said, taken aback.
“You know, Joe, I came to a realization. That realization is that I’m a promiscuous man. I wasn’t doing her any favors staying with her and chasing women on the side, as you know. One morning about eight months ago, I just woke up and rolled over and looked at her puffy face and decided I didn’t want to ever do it again. Simple as that. I wanted to wake up next to other bodies—younger bodies, older bodies, bodies with big lips and big breasts. I wanted to hear other women’s voices. So I packed my stuff and I didn’t see her again until court.”
Dunnegan smiled and shrugged, showing Joe palms-up and his 10 stubby fingers. “It could happen to anyone,” Vern continued. “Men are promiscuous. That’s what we are. We try to pretend otherwise, but deep down we know it’s true. We wake up with hard-ons and don’t really care who’s next to us as long as we can poke her.”
Vern let out his trademark happy chuckle but his eyes were on Joe’s face. In fact those eyes never left Joe’s face as Vern talked, as he changed subjects from this to that, as he prodded and tested for what made Joe react. It was this probing, mildly sarcastic, offbeat quality that had made Vern such a good interrogator when he was a game warden.
“I mean it could happen to anyone except Joe Pickett, who is clean and pure and good,” Vern said.
“I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that,” Joe said.
Vern leaned forward and rolled the bed tray to him so he could put his elbows on it. “Marybeth is a fine woman, I’m sure,” Vern said. “But wouldn’t it be fun to get a piece of somebody else? Did you ever meet Aimee Kensinger? Don’t you think about that? She likes guys like us. Guys in uniforms, who carry guns and work outside.”
Joe looked away. He didn’t like where this was going.
“Look at you, Joe. Tall, rangy. Gold-flecked brown eyes. Babes love solid guys like you.”
“You didn’t come here to talk to me about that,” Joe said.
Vern chuckled and slid a paper napkin out from beneath a water container on the tray. Joe watched as Vern unfolded the napkin, then refolded it until it was in the shape of a rectangle. Vern drew a pen from his shirt pocket.
“This is the state of Wyoming.” Vern said, sketching the border of Yellowstone Park in the northwest corner and the ranges of the Rocky Mountains from top to bottom on the napkin. Vern found the motorized bed control and raised up the head of it so Joe could see clearly.
“Joe, what we’ve got here are two pipelines currently under construction.” Vern drew two heavy black lines from north to south on the east side of the mountains. “The idea is to start at the natural gas fields in Alberta, cross Montana and Wyoming, and be the first to hook up to the energy system in Southern California. InterWest Resources, my new outfit, are the good guys. CanCal, our competitors, are the bad guys. Each pipeline costs about a million dollars a mile to build. Whoever gets there first is going to spend a fortune in order to make a gazillion dollars. Whoever gets there second just spends a fortune.”
On the napkin, Vern drew the CanCal pipeline as it ran through the Powder River Basin to Central Wyoming near Lander then took a sharp left through the Wind River Mountains.
“CanCal is working on environmental and regulatory approvals to take their pipeline over South Pass and on to L.A.” For Los Angeles, Vern drew a set of dollar signs. “The hoops these companies have to go through to build the line are fucking insane. There’s environmental impact statements, federal and state easements, private property easements. It’s unbelievable. InterWest has as many lawyers on the payroll as it does pipe fitters. The capital outlay is unbelievable to accomplish something of this magnitude.”
Joe simply nodded. The race to California by the two companies had been a fixture of state news for more than a year. He watched as Vern lowered his pen to the end of the InterWest line on the napkin.
“I met the InterWest boys when they first came to Saddlestring about two years ago. They contacted me because I knew everybody and everything.” Vern chuckled and his eyes moved to Joe’s face. “The InterWest boys had been looking at the topo maps, and they saw where if they could take their pipeline through the Bighorns that they might gain six months on CanCal and be the first to California. They asked me if it was possible to do this. I told them it could be done if they had the right front guy working the landowners, the Feds, and the state land guys. ‘Give the right guy a checkbook,’ is what I told them.”
Joe reached out and spun the napkin around. The pipeline ran straight through the mountains and through the Twelve Sleep Valley.
“The right guy was me, of course,” Vern said. “I negotiated with them for a real salary for the first time in my life and one percent of the stock in the company. I promised them I would deliver a route for their pipeline and by God if I didn’t get it done.”
Joe looked up from the napkin. “You have?”
Vern sat back triumphantly. His eyes seemed to glow. “Private easements are done, state lands are cleared legally, and all we’re waiting on is the final approval from the Forest Service on the environmental impact statement and approval at a few town meetings, and we’ll be bringing the pipeline over the top,” Vern said. “Saddlestring is dying, Joe. This pipeline will bring in a bonanza for the whole county. It’ll be like the oil-boom days of the early eighties once again. People around here will have good paying jobs again.”
Joe shook his head. What a gamble Vern had taken with the community and environment.
“InterWest needed someone who knew these people so they came to me. They needed someone who was trusted—and clean as a whistle-pig. You’re that same kind of guy, Joe.”
“Are you offering me a job?”
Vern leaned forward and spoke softly. “I’m testing the water.”
“What’s the job pay?”
“Three times what you’re making, Joe. For the life of the project. Five to ten years, maybe more. Who knows after that.” Vern slipped the flask from his hip pocket and poured some in a water glass. He offered it to Joe, who shook his head no, then sucked on it himself. “Maybe some stock options, too.”
Joe sat back in the bed. He felt hot. It was as if Vern had somehow read his thoughts while he had been in the mountains the night before.
“You’ve got a wife and kids, Joe. You’re a nice, wholesome guy. You’re a goddamned hero right now. No one could ever doubt your sincerity when you talk to them. You deserve a lot better. You’re working for nothing. You have a family, and a picket fence, and a dog. You,” Vern said, letting the chuckle start low in his belly, “are an endangered species. There ain’t many like you, Joe.”
Vern slipped his pen back in his pocket and pulled out a business card. Joe read it:
VERNON S. DUNNEGAN
Land Manager
InterWest Resources
“Call me,” Vern said, standing up. “Do it soon.”
10
At Joe’s insistence, the doctors grudgingly released him not long after Vern Dunnegan’s visit. They had strongly suggested Joe stay in the hospital and rest but Joe had no intention of following their advice. I’m fine, he said. As much as he wanted to call Marybeth and have her come pick him up, he didn’t. It was late and the girls would be in bed—he didn’t want to wake them. He signed off on the insurance paperwork and located his pickup in the parking garage. As he swung the truck out onto the street, one thought kept repeating over and over in his mind: eight miles on the right-hand side and we’re home. As he swung off of the Bighorn Highway onto the narrow gravel strip near his house he thought: my wife and my girls, my anchors, will be inside. The discussion with Vern had left a bad taste in his mouth.
The simple acts of turning off the headlights, pulling the keys from the ignition, and crawling out of the pickup were difficult in the
mselves. He was worn out and almost drunk from fatigue. He rubbed his eyes as he let himself in the front gate. The only thing that had kept him going for the last few hours was the prospect of getting home. Now that he was home, it was as if he were imploding. They had kept him overnight in the hospital for observation, and Marybeth had come alone to confirm that he was all right. The double-ought buckshot had chipped his cheekbone and stopped there, and it was easily removed. He would have a scar there for the rest of his life.
The first person he saw when he stepped inside his home was his mother-in-law, Missy Vankeuren, curled up on the couch with dozens of glossy magazines splayed like a massive poker hand on the floor beneath her. She was wearing a cream cashmere sweater and black stirrup pants. Her dark hair was cut close to her face and, as usual, she didn’t look her age. She was and always had been an attractive woman. When she looked up, there was no doubt she read him like a book, because he was too tired to feign a hardy welcome. In fact, in all that had happened over the last three days, he had forgotten she was coming.
“I never get a chance to read at home,” was what she said by means of a greeting. “So I brought my magazines with me, and it’s wonderful to have the time.”
“That’s great,” Joe said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Missy lived in Phoenix now, Marybeth had told him, dating a wildly rich and influential cable television magnate who was part of the Arizona political glitterati (Missy dutifully sent Marybeth society page clippings from the Arizona Republic and Phoenix Gazette that mentioned her name). She no doubt had little time between functions to read all the back issues of Glamour, Gourmet, Southern Living, Cosmopolitan, Vanity Fair, and Condé Nast Traveler that were arranged on the floor.
Marybeth arrived from the hallway and had on her perfect hostess face with the big grin.