Again, Joe cursed. And the curse released something that started in the back of his throat like a hard, hot lump and burst forward, and he sat there in the dark and he cried.
The cell phone on the dashboard burred at 10 P.M., and Joe could see from the display that it was Marybeth. He had avoided calling her.
“So, are you coming home tonight?” she asked, an edge of irritation in her voice.
“Yes, I’m just about to leave. I’ll be home in forty-five minutes.”
She obviously picked up on the tone of his voice, the solemnity: “Joe, are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“Maxine ran away,” he said, telling her in as few words as possible what happened.
For several moments, neither spoke.
“I don’t want to tell the girls,” Marybeth said.
“We’ll have to.”
“Okay, but in the morning. Otherwise, they’ll cry all night long.”
Joe nodded, knowing she couldn’t see the gesture.
“Oh, Joe,” she said, in a way that made him feel guilty for once again bringing pain into their family.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said.
As Joe drove down the mountain, he kept honking. He wondered if Bud Longbrake could hear him down at the ranch, and figured that he probably could. He called Bud from his cell phone, told him why he was making so much noise, asked Bud to keep an eye out for his dog.
“Your dog?” Bud said, genuine sympathy in his voice. “Damn, I’m sorry, Joe.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“When my first wife left me I didn’t feel nearly as bad as when my dog died.”
Joe didn’t dare respond to that one.
A quarter of a mile from where he would turn onto the highway, Joe looked into his rearview mirror and saw something in his taillights. “YES!” he shouted, and slammed on his brakes.
Maxine was exhausted, her head hung low, her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth like a fat, red necktie. She literally collapsed in the road.
Joe walked back and picked her up, seventy-five pounds of dog, and buried his face in her coat as he took her to his truck. He saw no obvious wounds on her, although she was shaking. He lay her on her seat, and she looked at him with her deep, brown eyes. Filling a bowl with water from his water bottle he tried to get her to drink, but she was too tired.
As he wheeled on to the highway with giddy relief, he called Marybeth, and she burst into tears at the news. He called Bud, and said not to worry about the dog. After punching off, Joe told Maxine, “Don’t ever, ever do that again, or I’ll shoot you like the dog you are.” He meant the first part but not the second. She didn’t hear him because she was sleeping, her head where it always was when he drove, on his lap.
As he pulled into his driveway, he glanced up to see Marybeth at the window pulling the shade aside. The porch light lit up the cab of the truck, and he looked down to see if Maxine was awake. He didn’t really want to have to carry her again.
That was when he noticed something wrong. Her coat seemed lighter than it should.
He snapped on the dome light and simply stared. Whatever she had seen or experienced had scared her so badly that her coat was turning white.
“Okay,” Joe said aloud. “Enough is enough. Now I’m starting to get mad.”
Sheridan and Lucy were still up, even though it was past their bedtime, because Marybeth wanted them to tell Joe what had happened earlier on the Logue property. As Joe entered the house and hung his jacket on the rack in the mudroom, he saw two guilty-looking girls in their pajamas standing near the stair landing. Marybeth was behind them in the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Tell him, girls,” Marybeth said to them.
Sheridan sighed and took the lead. “Dad, we screwed up this afternoon and we’re sorry for it. We went out to that shack on the Logue place . . .”
He leaned against the doorframe of his office and listened to Sheridan tell him how they had deceived their mother and how they snuck up to the old shack. She described the contents inside the shack; the bedroll, books, stove, the long line of gleaming silverware on a dark cloth, then the appearance of “Bob” who called her a bitch. Lucy twisted the bottom of her pajama top in her fingers while her sister spoke, betraying her guilt.
“He called Sherry a bitch!” she repeated unnecessarily.
“But he didn’t follow you,” Joe said, wary.
Both girls shook their heads.
“You’re sure?”
Sheridan nodded. “We checked behind us when we were running. I saw him go back into the shack.”
Joe asked Marybeth, “Did you call the sheriff?”
“No, I wasn’t sure if you would want him involved. We still can, though.”
“Cam Logue needs to call Barnum,” Joe said. “I don’t know why he didn’t the first time the girls saw this guy.”
“I think he was just some homeless guy,” Sheridan said. “I feel bad about bothering him, now. I feel sorry for a grown man who has to live like that.”
Marybeth shot Joe a look. She was admonishing him to hold the line, to reinforce the talking to she had given the girls earlier in the evening. She knew Joe well enough that she feared he would soften. She was right, he thought. He tried to keep his expression stern and fixed.
“Girls, it’s past your bedtime now,” Marybeth said. “Kiss your dad goodnight and get into bed. We’ll discuss your punishment later.”
Relieved to be done with it, both girls approached Joe. It was then that Sheridan froze, looking around Joe toward the figure in the mudroom. “What’s wrong with Maxine?”
“She’s exhausted, girls,” Joe said. “I thought for a while tonight I lost her.”
Sheridan stepped around Joe and turned on the light switch in the mudroom.
“She’s white!” she howled.
“What happened to her? Did she fall into some paint?” Lucy asked.
Joe said, “No. I think she got really scared. I’ve heard of it happening sometimes to animals. They get so scared that their hair turns white.”
“Is she okay?” Sheridan asked, bending over the dog and patting her white fur.
“I think so,” Joe said. “She’s probably just tired from running to catch me.”
He watched as both girls nuzzled the sleeping dog, telling Maxine that everything would be okay. Marybeth gave it a few moments before scooting the girls along.
When the girls were in bed, Marybeth turned to Joe. “I can’t believe how white she is.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Joe said, slumping into his office chair. “I’ve never seen a lot of things before, that have happened around here.”
“What are you doing now?” she asked.
He sighed. “I need to check my messages, see if anything is happening. Then I’ll be up.”
“Don’t be long.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
He called to her before she went upstairs. “Try not to go to sleep right away, I’ve got some things I want to talk with you about.”
“Oh, sure,” she said, smiling at him. Her smile took him off guard, and he welcomed it. With her schedule, it had been a while since they had gone to bed together with both of them not too tired.
“Really,” he said, grinning back. “It was quite a day. I investigated a crop circle that wasn’t a crop circle, met with Nate, then lost our dog.”
“Hmmmm,” she purred, obviously thinking of what to say next. “I had an interesting day as well. Don’t be long.”
Nothing from Robey, nothing from Trey Crump, nothing from anyone. Except another email from
[email protected]. “Oh, no,” he whispered aloud. There were no photos this time, only text.
Dear Joe:
I hope you got my last e-mail—didn’t hear from you so I wasn’t sure :) I hope you liked the pictures
Love ,
Deena
Joe replied:
Deena:
I’ll be by in the
morning. I hope you’re okay. If you need to talk to me away from him let me know and we can go somewhere. It’s important that you stay safe. If you need help now, call 911 or my direct line.
Joe Pickett
As he prepared to go to bed, his head swimming once again with the unwanted images she had previously sent him, he saw a glow of light from beneath the closed bathroom door. He stopped and knocked.
“Come in.” It was Lucy.
He opened the door wide enough to stick his head in. Lucy was standing at the sink, looking carefully at herself in the bathroom mirror.
“What are you doing, darling?”
Lucy’s cheeks flushed red. “I was really scared today, Dad, when that man came out. Sherry said I looked funny. So I was just checking myself.”
Joe smiled. “You were checking to see if your hair was turning white?”
“I guess so. That’s what Sherry said.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s still blond.”
To Sheridan, as he passed their dark bedroom: “Quit scaring your sister, Sheridan.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Sheridan said from beneath her covers, where she had no doubt been hiding to muffle her giggles. “She deserved it, is all.”
“Good night.”
Marybeth was in bed and she looked as beautiful as he could ever remember. Her blond hair was loose and brushed to the side, fanning across a pillow. Her knees tented the covers, but the quilt was turned down enough that he could see she was wearing the dark-blue silk chemise that drove him crazy. One of the thin straps had fallen over a shoulder.
“Get in here now,” she said. “We can talk later.”
24
JOE WAS IN A FOUL MOOD at breakfast when he heard the sound of an engine and the crunching of gravel outside. He’d been stewing about what Marybeth had just told him about Cam Logue. Although she had handled it well—Marybeth always handled these things well, he thought—the very idea of it infuriated him. She had made Joe promise that he wouldn’t do anything; wouldn’t go to the office and confront Cam, or urge her to find another job. Chances of finding another job with this kind of promise in Saddlestring, as they both knew, were remote.
“I knew I never really liked him,” he told her, buttering his toast.
“Joe,” she cautioned him, imploring him with her eyes to let it go. As she did, Sheridan came to the table. She was always first, before Lucy. Lucy took much more time to color-coordinate her outfit and determine what her hair would look like for the day.
“I had that dream again,” Sheridan announced. “I’m starting to think I know where it’s headed. It’s a showdown of some kind.”
Joe dropped his knife on the tabletop, looking at her. “A showdown between whom?”
“Good and evil,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“Who wins?” he asked.
She shrugged. “The dream hasn’t gotten that far along yet.”
“Well, let me know,” he said cautiously.
“I will,” she said, reaching for the jam. “Oh, somebody’s outside. They parked next to your truck.”
“Did you see who it was?” Joe asked.
“A four-wheel drive with a light-bar on top,” she said, filling a bowl with cereal. “Probably Sheriff Barnum.”
“Great,” he said, pushing away.
“Joe,” Marybeth cautioned again.
Joe strode outside feeling as if he were about to enter a boxing ring. He clamped his hat on his head while he walked, and pushed through the front gate harder than he had intended to, making it slam open.
It was Barnum, all right, as well as Agent Portenson. They both sat in a cloud of smoke inside the vehicle. They squinted at him as he approached. Simultaneously, the driver and passenger doors opened, and both men swung out. What a good morning for them to show up, Joe thought sardonically. If only they had Cam Logue with them, he could deal with two problems at once.
“Sorry to disturb your breakfast,” Barnum said, his voice more gravelly than usual and his face more gray.
“No, you aren’t,” Joe said, taking a position on the other side of his truck and leaning his forearms on the hood. He did not trust Barnum, and the early-morning surprise meeting had a confrontational feel about it. If something was going to happen, he wanted his truck between him and Barnum and Portenson. At least until he bridged the gap.
“What do you want?” Joe asked. “Why don’t you get right to it? I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.”
“You could at least invite us in for a cup of coffee,” Barnum said, pretending he was offended.
Portenson snorted, and lit another cigarette.
Joe said to Barnum, “You are not welcome in my house, Sheriff. This is where my family lives. If you need to talk with me all you have to do is call, and I’ll meet you anywhere.”
“It’s also your office, right?” Barnum said, squinting. “Working among all of those girls, it must be tough to get anything done.”
“Right,” Joe said, looking squarely at Barnum. “Unlike the Sheriff’s Department, where things get done but they’re usually wrong.”
Barnum stood still, but Joe saw the sheriff’s jaw muscles twitch. Barnum’s flat, blue eyes didn’t look away.
“Boys,” Portenson said, waving his cigarette in the air. “We are getting nowhere.”
“What do you want?” Joe asked again. Barnum finally broke the stare-down. “I mean, that can’t be discussed at a task-force meeting?”
“Sheriff,” Portenson said, “you want to start?”
“Keep the fuck away from our investigation,” Barnum growled. “Just stay the fuck away. You’re wasting everyone’s time.”
Joe smiled bitterly. “I suspected that was what this was about.”
“Just worry about your furry animals, and the alien hunter you were assigned by Robey,” Barnum said. “Don’t second-guess us and don’t reinterview all of our leads. There’s nothing you can find that we haven’t already.”
Joe looked to Portenson. The FBI agent seemed to be concentrating on his cigarette, and watching the morning sun hit Battle Mountain. He looked so out of place here, Joe thought. Portenson’s coat was too heavy for the fall, and too outdoor-gear trendy. His slacks and black slip-on shoes belonged beneath a desk in a temperature-controlled office.
“I talked with Robey,” Joe said to both of them. “I told him what I wanted to do. I’m not second-guessing anyone, but I thought that maybe I could find an angle on this whole mess that had been overlooked. You’re welcome to go talk to Cleve Garrett, if you want to. Go ahead and check up on me. I don’t care. Maybe you’ll turn up something I missed. We’ve got nothing so far. Not a damned thing. If I can look at the murders with a fresh eye . . .”
“You’re a goddamned game warden!” Barnum thundered, stepping around the nose of Joe’s truck toward him. “You’re no investigator. You’re only on the task force because the governor needed somebody from your agency.”
Joe watched as Barnum’s face reddened. He had stopped just before he fully came around the truck.
“You should be out finding that bear, or counting fish, or whatever the hell it is you do. Leave the professional work to the professionals!”
“And who would that be?” Joe asked calmly.
“You son of a bitch!” Barnum spat, and Joe squared himself, ready.
This had been brewing for years. He noted that Barnum wore his gun. Joe was unarmed. Fine, Joe thought. He couldn’t imagine Barnum actually shooting him, not in front of an FBI agent, anyway. And it would be against Barnum’s nature to hurt him directly. Barnum was more of a corrupt, behind-the-scenes man.
Nevertheless . . .
Because of the rush in Joe’s ears, he didn’t hear the school bus on Bighorn Road until the brakes squealed to a stop and the accordion doors wheezed opened.
“Hello, Sheriff!” the bus driver called out cheerfully. “Hey, Joe!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Portenson roll his eyes heavenward.
&
nbsp; The front door of the house opened and Sheridan and Lucy came out. Both girls were pulling on jackets and fumbling with their backpacks and lunch boxes. Marybeth stood in the doorway, watching them skip up the walk. But she was really watching Joe, Barnum, and Agent Portenson, Joe knew.
Sheridan made a point of walking between Joe and Barnum, and stopped long enough in front of Joe to tilt her chin up for a good-bye kiss. Lucy was right behind her.
The men watched as the girls boarded the bus and the doors closed. Both girls took seats near the window and waved as the bus pulled away. Joe waved back. A thin roll of dust bloomed from the tires of the school bus as it labored away.
It was uncomfortably silent. Barnum still stood near Joe’s fender, but his hand had dropped away from the butt of his weapon. Marybeth still stood in the open doorway, watching the bus. Portenson leaned back against the sheriff’s Blazer, and laughed silently.
“This is over,” Portenson said.
“No, it isn’t,” Barnum said, his voice low. “It’s just postponed.”
“Anytime, Sheriff,” Joe said.
Barnum turned his back on Joe, nodded his head to Marybeth, and walked back to his GMC. He threw himself into the driver’s seat with more dexterity than Joe would have guessed, given Barnum’s age and health, and slammed his door shut.
“Agent Portenson,” Joe said. “How come you’re mixed up with him?”
Portenson stared at Joe, smiling coldly. “I’ve got to go.”
“It isn’t birds, Portenson.”
Portenson waved his hand in front of his face, as if shooing away a fly. “Then what is it?”
“It’s two things, I think,” Joe said, keeping his voice low enough that Barnum wouldn’t hear. “I think we’ve got one set of killers responsible for most of the animals and Stuart Tanner. I think we’ve got another entirely separate killer who did Tuff Montegue.”
Portenson looked pained.
“Whether they’re connected or not I don’t know,” Joe said. “But if nothing else, we’ve got to figure out one or the other. We can’t look at the mutilations as one thing any longer, or we’ll never get anywhere.”