“It’s unlocked,” Joe whispered to Stewie.
Stewie arched his eyebrows in a let’s see what’s inside expression.
Joe paused, and looked back at Stewie, who was inches away.
“I don’t know what to do now,” Joe confessed.
“You mean, do we go in?”
Joe nodded yes.
“Or do we leave things be and go to the ranch house and ask to use the phone?”
Joe nodded again. This didn’t make sense to him. Could this possibly be Charlie Tibbs’s pickup truck?
He decided that he had to find out. Opening the door slowly to make the least possible noise, Joe raised it two feet. If Charlie Tibbs was in the truck or somewhere in the garage, Joe didn’t want to startle him. He dropped to his belly and crawled inside the garage and Stewie followed.
Inside, the floor was cold, polished concrete. The room was large. They shut the garage door and stood up. A muddy tractor and the four-wheeler Joe had seen Finotta’s ranch hand, Buster, drive were parked under a high ceiling. There was enough room in the building for several more vehicles. The corners of the big room were dark, and the only light came from three small, dirty windows along the outer wall. The black Ford was parked and partially hidden behind the tractor, its muddy tracks still moist on the floor. There was a dull glow in the dark coming from where the black Ford was.
Stewie tapped Joe’s shoulder, and Joe turned. Stewie had located a light switch. Joe withdrew his revolver and nodded to Stewie, who flipped on the overhead lights.
To their left, along the wall, was ranch equipment: welding machines, drill presses, benches scattered with hand tools, rolls of fencing, and stacks of posts. There was also a set of wooden steps that led to a second level in the building and a closed door.
They approached the pickup from the back. It no longer had a horse trailer attached. A large metal toolbox was in the bed of the pickup. Joe noticed the mounts inside the bed for a telescope—or a mounted sniper’s rifle. It was parked at an awkward angle and the front door was open, the dome light on. That was what had made the glow.
Inside the cab there was blood on the floor and seat, and spatters of it leading from the open pickup door toward the wooden stairs.
“He’s hurt,” Stewie said, amazed. “Maybe you hit him after all. Damn!”
Joe was astounded, both sickened and a little proud. While Joe inspected the inside of the cab, Stewie rooted through the toolbox in the back.
“Son of a bitch!” Stewie whispered. “Look at this.”
Stewie held a brick-sized package of C4 explosive in one hand and a blue nylon harness in the other. “These are the tools you need to blow up a cow by remote control.” Stewie whistled. “Isn’t this just a hoot?”
“Do you see a phone anywhere?” Joe asked.
“Nope,” Stewie answered, pointing toward the stairs and the closed door. “But if there is one, I bet it’s up there. That looks like where the ranch hands live and where our friend Charlie Tibbs went.
“So the question is,” Stewie continued, “Do we follow the blood or get the hell out of here?”
Joe paused a beat. He thought of Lizzie and all that he and Stewie had been through. “Follow the blood. That son-of-a-bitch is hurt.”
“What if there are more bad guys up there?” Stewie asked.
Joe shook his head. “Finotta only has one ranch hand that I know of.”
Stewie grinned maniacally.
Joe crept up the wooden stairs—they were handmade of rough-cut two-by-fours but slick on the surface from years of use—as quietly as he could. Stewie was behind him. Joe’s eyes were wide and his breath was shallow; he was scared of what might await him on the other side of the door. On the landing he paused with his rope-burned hand on the doorknob. It did not open quietly, but with a moan, and he pushed the door open and dropped into a shooter’s stance with his revolver pointed ahead of him. A dark hallway led to the right. Nothing moved.
Removing his hat, Joe cautiously peered around the doorway. There were four other closed doors along the hallway, two on each side. At the end of the hallway, there was an L of gray light from a door that was slightly ajar. Staying low and trying to be ready to react if a door opened, Joe moved down the hallway toward the L of light. Stewie stayed back at the landing.
Joe stood with his back to the slightly open door, then swung around, kicking it open and stepping inside. There was a surge of red-hot panic in his throat when he realized that the man he had seen damaging the Mercedes near the mountain road—Charlie Tibbs—was splayed out on an old brass bed just a few feet away.
Charlie Tibbs lay on his back, fully clothed, on top of a faded, worn quilt. He had not removed his boots; Joe could see their muddy soles cocked in a V before him. Charlie’s head, still wearing his Stetson, was turned to the side on a pillow, and his face was the color of mottled cream. His mouth was slightly open, and Joe could see the tip of Tibbs’s dry, maroon tongue. His brilliant blue eyes, once piercing, were open, but filmed over and dull. Above the breast pocket of Tibbs’s shirt was a pronounced dent and in the middle of the dent was a black hole. A spider’s web of blood had soaked through the fabric of his shirt and dried.
With his heart thumping, Joe cautiously lowered his weapon and stood next to Charlie Tibbs. Tibbs was a big man constructed of hard edges and sharp angles. Both of Tibbs’s large hands were open beside his thighs, palms up. Joe held the back of his hand to Tibbs’s mouth and nose: no breath. He touched his fingertips to Tibbs’s neck: it was clammy, but not yet cold or stiff. Charlie Tibbs had died within the hour.
Joe reached down and turned Tibbs over slightly. The quilt beneath him was soaked through with dark blood from his back, where the bullet had exited. The exit wound was ragged and massive. The smell of blood in the room was overwhelming, and it reminded Joe of the stench of the badly hit or badly dressed big game carcasses he saw during hunting season. Joe thought it astounding that Tibbs had been able to ride back to his truck, unhitch the horse trailer, and drive all the way to the Finotta ranch to die.
What a lucky shot, Joe thought.
“You shot my horse, you son-of-a-bitch,” Joe whispered. “If you ever see her where you both are now, I hope she kicks the hell out of you.”
Then to Stewie out in the hallway: “He’s here and he’s dead!”
“Charlie Tibbs?”
“The same,” Joe said, sliding his revolver into his holster. Suddenly, Joe felt very weak and sick to his stomach. He stared at Tibbs’s face, trying to find something in it that indicated thoughtfulness, or gentleness, or humility. Something redeeming. But Joe could only see a face set by years of bitter resolve.
“Okay,” Stewie said from the doorway after studying the scene, “Charlie Tibbs is dead. But why is he here?”
Joe looked up. He had no idea, although one was forming.
Joe remembered passing under a telephone in the dark hallway. It was an old-fashioned, wall-mounted rotary-dial telephone, probably installed there years before, for the use of ranch hands, who were no longer needed on Finotta’s hobby ranch.
As he and Stewie had descended the mountain, Joe had practiced over and over the first words he would say to Marybeth. He would tell her how much he loved her, how much he missed her, how much he loved their girls. How he would never again approach a suspect’s location without proper backup. Joe didn’t even care if Stewie was standing next to him to overhear; his emotions were heartfelt and boiling within him.
He picked up the receiver and was about to dial when he realized there were voices on the line. It was a party line, presumably connected to the ranch house.
“Who is that?” someone asked. “Did somebody just pick up a phone?”
“I didn’t hear it,” another voice said.
“I heard a click,” another, deeper voice intoned.
“Don’t worry, gentlemen.” Joe recognized this voice as belonging to Jim Finotta. It was louder and more clear than the others, due to Finotta’s
proximity. “I’m the only one here, so it’s not on my end. These lines are old.”
No doubt Finotta had long forgotten about the unused phone in the outbuilding.
Stewie was now leaning against Joe, his face in Joe’s face so they could both hear. Joe cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and listened. It was a conference call and there were at least six men on the line. There was a meeting going on, and Jim Finotta seemed to be presiding. One of the voices called Finotta “chairman.”
“You know what this is?” Stewie hissed, his eyes bulging, “You know what this is?”
Joe shot Stewie a cautionary glance and gripped the mouthpiece harder so they wouldn’t be heard.
“This,” Stewie said through clenched teeth, “is an emergency meeting of the Stockman’s Trust!”
The discussion was rushed at times, and participants talked over one another. The only voice Joe could clearly discern was Jim Finotta’s, who was five hundred feet away in the ranch house.
What Joe heard was fascinating, disturbing, and disgusting. He wished he had his small pocket tape recorder with him so he could tape the conversation and use it later as evidence at the murder trial.
Finotta: “He’s dead in my bunkhouse right now. I don’t know what in the hell to do with him. Does anyone want him?”
Laughter.
Gruff voice: “What happened to John Coble? Did he say?”
Finotta: “He said Coble turned tail and tried to inform Stewie Woods. Charlie caught him at the cabin and put him down. Coble’s remains burned up in the cabin when Charlie torched it.”
Gruff voice: “Thank God for that.”
Fast voice: “I’m surprised at Coble. I thought he was more solid than that.”
Finotta: “You just never know what a guy is going to do under pressure. But we have another matter at hand.”
Texas twang: “Soooo, you have a body and you don’t know what to do with it. Do you have any hogs, Jim? They’ll eat just about anything.”
Finotta: “No, this is a cattle ranch.”
New voice: “Jim, you’ve got to come clean with us about this game warden deal. It really disturbs me that a game warden somehow got involved. He had absolutely nothing to do with our effort.”
Gruff voice: “I sure as hell agree with that.”
Finotta: “Charlie Tibbs said the game warden was at the cabin when he got there. He called me about it and explained the situation, and I told him to proceed. It was just a bad coincidence that the game warden was in the middle of everything when Charlie took action. Besides, I knew the guy. He’s the local game warden. Name is Pickett, Joe Pickett. He’s been a pain in my side recently.”
Silence.
New voice: “I still think Charlie went way over the line. You should have let us know about this, Jim.”
Gruff voice: “Before now, we mean. Now it’s too late.”
New voice: “That’s why we have an executive board—to agree on these things. No one has the authority to just willy-nilly decide who lives and who dies. Not even you. That’s why we made that list in the first place—to clearly define all of the targets.”
Finotta: “Can’t we discuss this later? I’ve got Charlie Tibbs in my bunkhouse and we don’t know where in the hell Stewie Woods and the game warden are.”
Gruff voice: “Probably dead of exposure. You say the local sheriff sent out a helicopter to look for them?”
Finotta: “Yes, but the weather got bad and the helicopter was grounded. But the pilot and spotter never saw anybody.”
Gruff voice: “Yup, those two saps are worm food by now.”
Texas twang: “But Charlie got that lawyer and that wolf woman, that’s what I’m hearing?”
Finotta: “That’s what Charlie said.”
Gruff voice: “So he cleared the entire list, huh?”
Texas twang: “That Charlie was something, wasn’t he?”
Joe despised these people. He held the phone away from him, stunned. Stewie had been so close as they listened that Joe felt uncomfortable. Stewie had been practically on top of him, pressing closer to hear. They both smelled bad after their time in the mountains, but in Joe’s opinion, Stewie smelled worse. Joe felt a tug on his belt. Then Stewie suddenly wrenched the telephone from Joe’s hand, and held the receiver to his mouth.
“You were wondering about Stewie Woods?” Stewie cut in. “Guess what? It’s your lucky day, you assholes!”
“Who the hell was that, Jim?” Joe heard the Gruff Voice say before Stewie slammed down the phone.
When Joe reached to retrieve the telephone, Stewie pointed something so close to Joe’s eyes that Joe couldn’t focus on what it was.
The blast from his own canister of pepper spray hit Joe full in the face and eyes and he went down as if his feet had been kicked out from under him.
“Sorry, buddy,” he heard from somewhere above him. Joe was thrashing, his arms and legs jerking involuntarily, his lungs burning. He tried to speak but his voice only made a hoarse, bleating sound he couldn’t recognize. A jet turbine roared in his ears. His head was on fire and his eyes felt like they were being burned from their sockets by a blowtorch. He was literally paralyzed, and excruciatingly painful muscle spasms shot through his body. Coughing and gasping for breath, he felt himself being pulled across the floor. His hands were wrenched together. Through the howl of the jet engine in his ears, he heard the phone being ripped from the wall and felt the phone cord looping around his wrists and being knotted tightly. Then he heard the unsnapping of his holster.
37
It took twenty minutes for Joe Pickett to recover enough from the pepper spray to stand up. His eyes and throat still burned, and it seemed as though most of the liquid in his body had drained out of him in bitter streams through his nose, mouth, and eyes. He leaned against the wall in the hallway, next to the telephone that Stewie had ripped from the wall as he left, and tried to shake the fog from his head.
Slowly at first, he regained control of his legs and moved down the hall, clomping unsteadily like Frankenstein’s monster. He kept his left shoulder against the plaster for balance until he reached the door to the stairway. He descended the stairs one deliberate step at a time and held the rail with both tied hands. The building was empty; the black Ford truck still parked with both doors—and the toolbox—open.
Joe shouldered the overhead door open and stood outside, gasping damp fresh air and blinking back tears from the sting of the pepper spray. He turned toward the ranch house, where he presumed Stewie Woods had gone.
The front gate was open and so was the massive front door. Joe entered, stopped, tried to see in the gloom. On the floor was the writhing body of Buster the ranch hand. Buster’s hands were covering his face, and he was rolling from side to side, whimpering. Pepper spray, Joe thought. Probably a shot of it from Stewie on the way in and a second shot of it a few minutes ago, judging by the whiff of the spray still hanging in the air.
“If I were a snake I could have bitten you.” Her voice startled Joe, as it had the first time. She was in her chair, its back pushed up against the wall. Her face was cocked to the side and thrust forward at Joe, twisted as if she were confronting him.
“Did a crazy-looking man just come in here?” Joe asked, his voice still thick with mucus.
Ginger Finotta raised her thin arm, pointing a gnarled finger past Joe’s ear.
“They went outside together,” she said, her voice high and grating. “Tom Horn is in our bunkhouse!”
Joe stopped. Tom Horn?
“You mean Charlie Tibbs.”
“He’s in our bunkhouse!” she repeated. “Someone shot him!”
Joe tried to focus on her face, but couldn’t. Her face swam in his vision. “That was me,” Joe coughed. “I shot him.”
He wished he could see her face to gauge her reaction. But he heard it.
“Bravo, young man,” she squawked. “Hanging a man like Tom Horn would have been a waste of good rope.”
Back in the ra
nch yard, Joe heard a shout from a distance. “Hey Joe!” It was Stewie. Joe turned toward the voice. It came from beyond the corrals, over the tops of milling cattle. “I’m glad you’re okay, buddy!”
Joe walked toward the voice. His vision was still blurry. The cord bit into his wrists, but he didn’t want to take the time to try and unknot it. As he climbed the first fence he saw Stewie standing in the pasture beyond the corrals. Stewie and a lone cow.
“Don’t come any closer, Joe!” Stewie cautioned.
Joe ignored him, and pushed his way through the cattle. When he climbed the back fence he stopped, focused, and felt his eyes widen and his jaw drop.
At first, he thought that Jim Finotta was slumped over the back of the cow in the pasture next to Stewie. Then he realized that Finotta was strapped on, his hands tied under the cow’s belly, with another rope around the hips of his stretch Wranglers, securing him to the cow. Finotta’s face was pressed against the shoulders of the animal, looking out at Joe. Blue nylon webbing, loaded with full charges of C4 explosive from the toolbox in the black Ford, was lashed between Finotta and the cow. A single, spring-mounted antenna bobbed from one of the charges.
Stewie stood near the animal’s haunches holding a remote-control transmitter in one hand and Joe’s .357 Magnum in the other.
“Don’t come any closer, or the lawyer gets it!” Stewie hollered cheerfully. Then Stewie’s voice took on a more determined tone. “I’m serious, Joe. I’m sorry I sprayed you with pepper spray back there, but I knew you wouldn’t help me do what I needed to do.”
“Oh, Stewie,” Joe croaked.
“We were just having a chat,” Stewie explained. “Mister Jim was about to tell me the names of the executive board of the Stockman’s Trust, and why they voted to wipe out me and so many of my colleagues.”
Joe swung his other leg over the fence and now sat on top of it. The scene in the pasture was beyond comprehension. Stewie had maced Joe, gathered up the nylon webbing and the explosives from the truck, selected a cow from the corral, charged the house, maced Buster, marched Finotta at gunpoint to the pasture, and tied him and the explosives to the cow.