Joe took a deep breath and slowly expelled it. The drive across the state on winter roads had been long and tense. As he crossed the bridge into town, he smelled wood smoke from the mill and he saw hundreds of ducks and geese on the open water of the river. He loosened his tight grip on the wheel and let his shoulders relax.
Saratoga, to Joe, was a smaller and more intimate version of Saddlestring.
He turned right on West Farm Avenue and cruised up a snow-covered street. There were modest single-family homes on the left and a large pasture on the right. Within two blocks he found a brown two-story house with a sign in the front yard that read GAME WARDEN STATION. There were no tire tracks on the driveway or on the two-track path that led to a metal storage shop.
Joe pulled his pickup into the driveway and got out. The snow was ankle-deep on the way to the front door and he stepped over four editions of the weekly Saratoga Sun that were frozen to the concrete on the front porch. So it had been weeks since someone had retrieved them, he thought.
Next to the doorbell was a handcrafted sign listing Steve Pollock’s official hours as well as telephone numbers for when he was off duty. The 800 “stop poaching” hotline was included as well. Joe had created a similar sign for the front of his house before it was torched. It didn’t do much good. When citizens wanted to talk to the local game warden or report a violation, they didn’t pay much attention to official hours of operation. That was part of the job.
Although the house looked dark and empty, Joe rang the doorbell anyway. He could hear the chime echoing through the empty rooms inside. Then he knocked on the front door with the same result.
Finally, he tried the knob. Locked.
As he stepped off the porch, he could see a woman watching him through the side window of the next house. He waved and she waved back, then stepped aside and closed the curtains.
Circling the house in the snow, Joe glanced through the windows. There were what looked like empty boxes in the front room as well as stray papers on the floor. He could see dirty dishes in the sink in the kitchen. Pollock’s green Ford pickup, which was much cleaner than Joe’s, was locked up in the garage.
It looked like Steve Pollock had cleared out fast and no one had been there to clean up since he left.
Joe shook his head as he trudged back to his pickup. He wondered if anyone in town had keys to the place or if he’d need to request a set to get in.
He placed a call to Casey Scales in Laramie, who was the Game and Fish Department district supervisor for the Snowy Range district. Scales had seven game wardens under him in southeast Wyoming. Joe had met him a couple of times and he seemed laid-back.
“Casey,” Joe said. “I’m in Saratoga on a project and I was wondering if I could get the keys from you to our house over here.”
“Steve Pollock’s old place?”
“Yup.”
“I haven’t been over there yet. What kind of shape did he leave it in?”
“It looks like he just walked right out the door,” Joe said.
“Hmmm.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” Joe asked.
“I would if I could, Joe, but your guess is as good as mine. You know I keep a loose rein on my guys and I really don’t get in their business unless I have to or LGD leans on me.”
“Right.”
“Steve didn’t give me any warning at all about anything,” Scales said. “He did his job as far as I can tell and he turned in his monthly reports on time. He had a lot of autonomy and he never gave me any reason not to trust him, so I just let him do his thing. He never told me he was dissatisfied with anything or gave me any reason to think he was going anywhere. And I haven’t heard any evidence that somebody chased him off.
“When I heard he left, I called his ex-wife, Lindy, and it was real awkward because she didn’t know he quit. I was the one breaking the news to her.”
“Did she give you any reason why he might have left?” Joe asked.
“Well, she thought he might have taken up with a woman. There’s some real fancy ones that come through Saratoga, you know. But she was just guessing, really. Steve had never mentioned another woman to her.”
“Maybe the job just got overwhelming,” Joe speculated. He made a mental note to himself to add Pollock’s name to his list of suspects.
“Maybe,” Scales said. “There’s a lot going on around there and that’s not counting all the new directives LGD and Governor Allen are pumping out. But I can’t imagine Steve not just rolling with it. He’s like me—he isn’t a guy to get all worked up about things.”
“About those keys,” Joe said.
“Shouldn’t be a problem at all,” Scales said. “I think we’ve got an extra set at the office. I’ll run them down and maybe even drive them over to you tomorrow if the roads are open.”
“Thank you.”
“What kind of project do they have you doing all the way down here?” Scales asked.
“Oh, you know,” Joe hedged.
“Just more bullshit.” Scales chuckled. “Kind of what they’ve got me doing. Let me know if you need anything or any info on the district. I might be able to help.”
Joe breathed a sigh of relief that Casey Scales hadn’t pressed him more.
And he knew he wouldn’t be occupying the game warden house that night.
. . .
JOE THUMBED THROUGH the case file and found the name and number of Carbon County sheriff Ron Neal. Neal’s headquarters was in Rawlins, which was forty-two miles away via Fort Steele and Sinclair. Carbon County was nearly eight thousand square miles and included most of the Red Desert, where Joe had been involved in a terrifying incident two years before.
It took a while to get through directly to the sheriff himself, but finally there was a brusque “Sheriff Neal.”
Joe told him he was making a courtesy call to let Neal know he was in the county working on the missing persons case on behalf of the governor. Neal was silent for a moment.
“Does the governor think we can’t do our job here?”
“Well, it’s not that,” Joe said. “He just wants another set of eyes on it, I guess.”
“You’re the fellow who was involved in that big mess out in the Red Desert, right?”
“Right.”
“I was kind of hoping we wouldn’t see you again.”
“I understand,” Joe said.
“Why’d he pull the DCI off the investigation?” Neal asked.
“I can’t speak for the governor.”
“He shoulda let them do their job. Just like he should let me do mine.”
Joe took a deep breath and said, “Sheriff Neal, I really don’t want to get crosswise with you. This wasn’t my call.”
“I appreciate that,” Neal said after a beat. “It seems odd that he’d send a game warden, though. Are you taking over for Pollock?”
“Temporarily.”
“That was an odd circumstance,” Neal said. “Any idea why he just up and left?”
“No. I’d like to find out myself.”
“If you do, please let me know,” Neal said. “I liked that guy and I thought he was on the level. And keep me posted on what you find about that English gal.”
“I’ll do that,” Joe said.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I don’t like the idea of a woman vanishing in my county.”
“Thank you.”
“And try to keep a lower profile than you did the last time you were here, for Christ’s sake,” Neal said with a chuckle.
“I’ll do that, too,” Joe assured him.
*
HE DROVE BACK downtown and turned onto Main and slid into a diagonal space in front of the Hotel Wolf. The building was a three-story Victorian structure constructed of red brick with a covered front porch and lonely chairs and benches. The windows to the bar on the right side glowed warm yellow. He knew that the hotel rented rooms, although he hadn’t made a reservation. He didn’t figure it would be neces
sary in January and, judging by the few cars parked along the small downtown, he’d made the right guess.
As he reached down to open his door, the front door of the Wolf opened and three cowboys came out. Two wore wide-brimmed hats, Carhartt parkas, and Sorel pac boots. The third man, who looked older, pulled on a wool rancher’s cap with earflaps. When they saw his mud-and-ice-encrusted pickup, the three of them paused for a moment and stared.
Joe waved hello through the windshield. They waved back and moved on, hunched over against the cold. He noted that the three of them gave him a second look over their shoulders before they entered the Rustic Bar down the street.
He knew that within hours the word would be out via the cowboys and the woman who lived next to Steve Pollock’s former house:
There’s a new game warden in town.
9
JOE STOMPED THE SNOW OFF HIS BOOTS ON A MAT ON THE WOODEN porch and entered the central hallway of the Hotel Wolf. To his left was the doorway to a dining room filled with set tables and a woodstove glowing red on the east wall. Straight ahead was kitchen access and restrooms. A wide staircase to the hotel rooms was buttressed against a west-facing wall. To his immediate right were a pair of bat-wing doors. He pushed through them into a lobby of sorts with a pool table in the center and a counter near his left elbow. Beside the counter was an opening with a side view into the adjacent bar and a cooler filled with wine bottles and six-packs to go.
The bartender looked up at him from where she was rinsing glasses. She raised a finger to indicate it would be a moment. He nodded back. There were two drinkers at the bar. One was a wide-faced man in his seventies with a bulbous nose who wore a polyester trucker cap that looked like he’d worn it long enough that it had come back into style again and a hipster-looking dude with sun-bleached hair who appeared to have parked his surfboard outside in a snowdrift. Both leaned forward on the stools so they could get a look at Joe through the opening near the beer cooler.
He nodded to them as well and they sat back out of view. He heard the old man mumble something and recognized the phrases game warden and Steve Pollock.
While he waited for the bartender, he checked out the room, which smelled of fresh popcorn from a half-full machine behind the counter. There were elk, mule deer, and pronghorn antelope mounts. He studied an old photo of the hotel looking exactly as it looked now except instead of Joe’s pickup out front, there was a stagecoach pulled by a team of six white horses. The inscription on the bottom of the photo indicated it had been taken in 1893.
Joe liked the feel of the place.
The bartender approached the counter, drying her hands on a towel. She was short and compact and she wore a long-sleeved henley T-shirt and tight Western jeans. Her light brown hair was pulled back and tied with a red bandanna. She had wise brown eyes with gold specks in them and a full mouth. Joe thought she had the presence of a woman who was friendly enough but didn’t suffer fools.
He placed his hand on the short counter. “Is this where you rent a room?”
“This is the place.”
“I don’t have a reservation.”
“That’s too bad, because we’re booked solid until Christmas,” she said. Then, flashing a sarcastic smile, she said, “I’m kidding. It’s January in Saratoga. Except for the Ice Fishing Derby weekend, we’re wide open. Just tonight?”
“Actually, I was thinking maybe a week.”
She arched her eyebrows in surprise as she pulled out a large ledger and flipped through the pages. Joe smiled.
“We’re updating our software so we’re back to the old-fashioned method,” she said by way of explanation. “What I’m looking for here is a room that’s available for a week so we don’t have to move you.”
“Thank you.”
She tapped on an open space on the page. “How about number nine? It’s a deluxe room with a queen bed, a TV, a tub, and a handheld shower. Overlooks Bridge Street.”
“Sounds good,” he said. He liked the idea of being able to look outside onto the main downtown street to see what was going on—if anything.
“But I’ll warn you,” she said, “we don’t have phones in our rooms.”
“That’s fine. Is there—”
“Internet?” she answered. “Yes. When it works.”
“It’s a deal.”
As he reached for his wallet, she said, “Also, I need to tell you about the pedestal tub. It’s old-fashioned, but it works perfectly. Just don’t overfill it and thrash around. We had a very amorous couple here a couple of months ago who got a little excited”—she nodded toward toward the dining room—“and the bathwater dripped through the floor onto table number seven directly below.”
“I’ll try to stay calm,” Joe said, handing her his state credit card.
“Don’t worry about that for now,” she said with a wave of her hand. “We’ll settle up when you know for sure how long you’re staying.”
He thanked her and wrote Joe Pickett, Saddlestring, Wyoming on the ledger. He glanced over her shoulder at the two customers to confirm that they were perched on the edge of their stools so they could hear. They were.
“So,” she asked, “what brings you to town?”
“Oh, I’m here on a project,” he said.
“What kind of project?”
“I’m with the Game and Fish Department.”
“That’s obvious,” she said with a sly roll of her eyes. “I don’t mean to be nosy. I just asked because our last game warden just went away—literally. I assumed you were the replacement.”
“Temporarily,” he said. There was no reason to explain further and he didn’t want to make something up.
“And my daughter works around here,” he added. “I’m eager to see her.”
“Good for you,” the bartender said as she extended her hand. “I’m Kim Miller. Who is your daughter?”
“Her name is Sheridan Pickett.”
Recognition flicked in Miller’s eyes. “Silver Creek Ranch.”
“Yup.”
“Everybody knows everybody around here,” Miller said. “She’s a nice kid and I hear she’s a good hand.”
“Good to hear,” Joe said. And it was. Reputation in a small community like this meant everything.
Kim Miller handed over a single key attached to a maroon plastic oval stamped #9.
“Take a left at the hallway at the top of the stairs. It’s the first room on your left.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I get you something from the bar?”
“I’ll wait.”
“‘I’ll wait,’” she repeated. “Those aren’t words I hear very much around here. Especially in the winter.”
“Oh, I’ll be back,” he assured her.
Joe looked over her shoulder at the taps. Stella Artois, 312, Deschutes, Dale’s Pale Ale, Bud Light, Coors Light, and two beers from Black Tooth Brewing Company in Sheridan.
“When I come back, I’d like a Saddle Bronc,” he said. The brown ale was from the Black Tooth.
“Good choice,” she said.
*
THE ROOM WAS SMALL, simple, and clean, and furnished to look like it might have looked when the hotel was opened. He hung up his uniform shirts and winter gear in a chifforobe and kicked his empty duffel bag under the bed. He touched the warm radiator with his fingertips while he looked around. The bed was covered with a floral comforter. A Samsung flat-screen television was mounted high on the wall in a corner. There were two reading lamps and an overhead light and fan. An ancient transom was painted closed over the entry door.
Joe texted Sheridan to tell her he’d arrived in town and that he could meet her in the bar if she was free. As he did it, he thought that he’d never before told any of his daughters that he’d meet them “in the bar.”
She replied that she was just about done with evening chores and she’d meet him as soon as she could.
Excited to see you! she texted, followed by a string of happy emojis.
Joe was wary of emojis and texted back, Me too.
He rinsed his face in the antique sink, beheld the pedestal tub directly over table number seven, changed from his uniform shirt into a heavy chambray Cinch cowboy shirt, clamped his Stetson back on, and went back downstairs.
The Saddle Bronc was waiting for him in a chilled glass on the bar.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Start a tab?”
“Sure.”
He sat at a tall narrow table that faced the bar. The hipster was gone, but the old man in the trucker hat sat hunched with his back to Joe cradling a Budweiser in a bottle.
The saloon was narrow and intimate. There were more elk, mule deer, and pronghorn antelope heads on the wall, as well as University of Wyoming paraphernalia and historical photos of fly fishermen and community fish fries. Sawdust covered the floor and baskets of shelled peanuts were set on the top of the tables.
Two mounted televisions were tuned to basketball with the sound off. There were eight high-backed stools at the bar and a long high table that sat six and a smaller round table that sat four. Warm yellow light fused through the stems of wineglasses on the back bar. Cigars were for sale in a display case on the left side of the back bar and packs of cigarettes were available on the right. An errant blue marlin hung from the ceiling and arched over the length of the room.
Joe sat at the corner behind the long table and sipped the beer. It tasted good. He drew out his phone and sent a quick email to Allen’s chief of staff that he’d arrived in Saratoga. Before he could text Marybeth to tell her the same thing, Hanlon replied:
Getting there and getting results are two different things.
Joe narrowed his eyes and did a slow burn.
When he looked up, the old man had spun around on his stool and was facing him. His Budweiser rested on his right thigh.
“If you’re not here to take over for Pollock, what in the hell are you here for? We’ve got enough government types doing nothing around here as it is. Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, Army Corps of Engineers—and that’s not to mention the state government types like yourself.”