by C. J. Box
“I’m ready to move on Finotta but need Sandvick’s affidavit and your okay,” was how he ended his message.
14
To Joe’s surprise, Marybeth had both horses in the corral and saddled when he got home. She was bridling her paint, Toby, as he walked up. She looked at him provocatively and said: “Let’s go for a ride.”
“Sounds real good to me,” Joe grinned.
Joe rode his buckskin, Lizzie, who was happy to follow the gelding, and they wound up the old game trail behind their house through the Sandrock Draw.
While they rode, Joe watched his wife and her horse and admired them both. Marybeth had taken an interest in horses in the last year, and he had learned things about them through her. Previously, he had always thought of horses the same way he thought about an all-terrain vehicle. A horse was a tool; a way of getting to places without roads, of accessing rough country. In Joe’s opinion, a horse would lose in many, if not all, of the straight-up comparisons with an ATV, in fact. Although the initial investment was about the same, horses required daily maintenance and care. ATVs could be parked in the garage and forgotten. Hay, grain, and vet bills were expensive, and horses were always breaking things in the corral or injuring themselves in ridiculous ways. ATVs just sat there. If a single stray nail flipped into the corral, there was a 100 percent chance that a horse would step on it, eat it, or puncture himself on it while rolling. Horses could be counted on for eating things that would make them sick or not eating enough to keep them healthy. They were magnificently proportioned and heavily muscled and all of that bulk was held up by four thin bony legs that could, and did, snap at any time. And despite their size and heft, a horse was a prey animal. In the face of a real threat like a grizzly bear or a perceived threat like a motorcyclist on a side road or even a plastic bag blowing in the wind, a horse could bolt and take off like a rocket. Most of the injured hunters Joe encountered in the mountains had been injured by horses. He couldn’t even guess the number of times that horses simply ran off from camps or makeshift corrals. Lizzie had once trotted miles away after Joe dismounted to look through his binoculars, and he spent the rest of the day chasing her on foot. In comparison, ATVs sometimes ran out of gas or broke down, although not very often.
But through Marybeth, Joe was starting to think about horses differently. She was firm with them, but nurturing. She brought out their personalities. Toby had been an impetuous youth. He was never mean or dangerous, but he preferred his own company and was loath to do anything he didn’t want to do—and what he wanted to do, primarily, was eat and rest. But she worked with him for months. Unlike old-time horsemen who were quick to reach for a whip or a two-by-four, Marybeth “asked” the horse to do things and he eventually did them. It was amazing that a woman Marybeth’s size could gain the trust and respect of a big lazy gelding like Toby who weighed 1,100 pounds. It was as if she had convinced him—connected with something somewhere in his cloudy, preconditioned, herd-instinctive brain—that she was bigger and more dominant than he was.
All these years, Joe had simply been using Lizzie, not riding her. She was a good horse, trouble at times, but generally docile. He had been lucky she was so easy to manage because he was no horseman. Through watching and admiring Marybeth he was coming to appreciate true horsemen and horsewomen. And horses.
And there was something to be said for the feeling he got when he was riding a horse. That feeling—Marybeth called it “equine communication” or “being one with the horse”—could not be replicated in an ATV.
They cleared the Sandrock Draw and emerged on a grassy bench strewn with glacial boulders. The Bighorn Mountains, as well as the distant encroaching foothills furred with early summer grass were in the distance in front of them and the view was awe-inspiring. A fading jet trail cut across the sky, calling attention to the lack of clouds. Joe urged Lizzie forward so he could ride side-by-side with Marybeth.
That’s when she told him about Stewie Woods and Hayden Powell and the reporter who kept calling.
Joe listened, asking only a few questions, steering away from the one he really wanted to ask.
“I slept with him once. Only once,” Marybeth said, wincing, anticipating Joe. On cue, Joe moaned and slumped in his saddle as if hit by a rifle bullet.
“Aaugh,” he groaned. “Yuck. Yipes.”
She stifled a smile.
She told him that she had read in the library that Hayden had died recently as well; killed just a week ago in a fire in his home. Joe said he had learned of the fact from two anti-globalist drifters.
“So were you an ecoterrorist?” Joe asked, still wounded. This was a disquieting circumstance to be in, asking his wife about things he had never known about her.
“No, I never was,” Marybeth answered. “But I was with them a few times when they did things like pull up survey stakes and pour sugar in gas tanks. I never did any of those things, but I was there. And I never told on them.”
Joe nodded.
“This reporter,” he asked. “Has he called back?”
“Twice,” Marybeth said.
“Do you want me to talk to him? Would that help?”
She waved her hand. “He’ll go away. I’m not worried about that.”
Joe fell behind because they had to thread through two boulders, then caught up again.
“So why didn’t you ever tell me any of this? Stewie Woods was a pretty famous guy in his way.”
Marybeth thought for a moment. “It just didn’t seem necessary. How could it have mattered?”
“It might just have been good to know,” Joe said, unsure of whether or not that was true.
“Why?”
Joe shrugged. Like most men, he had a tough time believing that his wife had had any kind of interesting life before she met him. Which was ridiculous on its face.
“The good part of my life started when I met Joe Pickett,” Marybeth said, looking deeply into his eyes. Joe felt his face go red. He knew what that look meant. He had just never seen it on horseback before.
“I brought a blanket,” she said, in a tone so low he hoped he had heard her correctly.
They approached the corral as the school bus stopped and the door opened and the girls ran out. Lucy and April ran into the house to dry their hair from swimming. Sheridan, with her towel and sack of clothes in her arms, walked up to meet them, her thongs snapping on her bare feet.
“Hi, darlin’,” Joe greeted her, leading Lizzie into the corral.
Sheridan just looked at him. Her gaze moved from Joe’s face to her mother’s. Joe noted that Marybeth’s face glowed and she looked very pleased with herself, although she now sternly returned Sheridan’s gaze.
“What?” Joe asked.
Sheridan slowly shook her head. It was the same gesture Marybeth used when she couldn’t believe what her children had just done.
“You still have grass in your hair,” Sheridan told her mother, her voice deadpan.
Marybeth gently scolded Sheridan. “You should be happy that your mom and dad like each other so much that they go on a ride together.” While she talked she self-consciously brushed through her hair with her fingers to remove the grass.
Then Joe got it. For the second time in an hour, he flushed red.
From the house, Lucy yelled out that there was a telephone call for Marybeth.
“Go ahead,” Joe said. “I’ll untack. Sheridan, why don’t you go with her?”
He didn’t want Sheridan staring at him anymore. She was getting too old, and too wise. She huffed and went into the house, making sure to stay several feet away from her mother.
As Joe was hanging the bridles on a hook inside the shed, Marybeth entered the barn. Joe assumed she was there to talk about how Sheridan had reacted. He was wrong.
“It happened again,” Marybeth said.
“That reporter?”
“I think so . . .” Marybeth looked troubled. “But this time he was posing as Stewie. He said he wanted to see me again.”
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“Are you sure it was the reporter?”
Marybeth held up her palms. “It had to be.”
Joe carried the saddles to the saddletrees and folded the warm, moist horse blankets over a crossbar to dry.
“Did he sound like Stewie?” Joe asked.
Marybeth let a chuckle creep into her voice. “I haven’t talked to Stewie Woods in years. It kind of sounded like him, but it didn’t sound right. It was sort of as if someone were trying to imitate his voice.”
Joe stopped and thought. He gripped his chin in his hand in a pose that made the girls whisper, “Dad’s thinking!”
“It was weird,” she said. “I just hung up on him.”
“Next time,” Joe said, “Don’t hang up. Keep him talking until you can figure out who it is. And if I’m here, let me know so I can get on the other line.”
Marybeth agreed, and they walked back to the house together. Before they opened the door, Joe reached out for her hand and squeezed it.
That night, in bed, Joe lay awake with his hands clasped behind his head on the pillow and one knee propped up outside the sheets. It had been the first warm evening of the early summer and it hadn’t cooled off yet. The bedroom window was open and a breeze ruffled the curtains.
“Are you awake?” he whispered to Marybeth.
Marybeth purred, and turned to look at him.
“Sometimes I wish I were smarter,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” Her voice was hoarse—she had been sleeping. Marybeth was a light sleeper, a carryover from when the children were younger.
“You’re one of the smartest guys I know,” she said, putting her warm hand on his chest. “That’s why I married you.”
“I’m not smart enough, though.”
“Why?”
Joe exhaled loudly. “There’s something big going on all around us, but I can’t connect the dots. I know it’s out there, and I keep trying to look at things from a different angle or perspective, thinking maybe then I’ll see it. But it’s just not coming clear.”
“What are you talking about, Joe?”
He raised his hand and counted off: “Stewie Woods, Jim Finotta, Ginger Finotta, that Raga character and his friends, the reporter, Hayden Powell, Jim Finotta—”
“You already said Jim Finotta,” she murmured.
“Well, he really pisses me off.”
“Anyway—” she prompted.
“Anyway, I think that if I were smarter I could see how they all connect. And there is some kind of connection. That I’m sure of.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
He thought, rubbed his eyes. The breeze was filling the room, taking the temperature down to comfortable sleeping conditions.
“I just am,” he said.
She laughed softly. “You’re smarter than you think.”
“You’re shining me on, darling.”
“Good night.” She hugged him and rolled over.
“That was fun this afternoon,” he said. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Now, good night.”
Joe remained awake for a while longer. He recalled Raga saying the “people who did this will come back.” He wondered if he would recognize them if they did.
15
Choteau, Montana
June 29
Charlie Tibbs and the Old Man were parked behind a chain-link fence bordering an airstrip near Choteau, Montana. To the west were the broad shoulders of the Flathead range under a bleached denim sky. A morning rain—one of those odd ones where the bank of clouds had already passed out of view before the rain finally made it to earth—had dampened the concrete of the two old runways and beaded the black hood of the pickup.
Three-quarters of a mile away, a door opened on the second of four small private airplane hangars. Charlie Tibbs raised binoculars to his eyes. He would provide the commentary.
“They opened the door.”
“I see that,” the Old Man said.
The Old Man was, if possible, even more miserable than he had been the week before. Even though they had eaten a real dinner at a truckstop (steak, mashed potatoes, corn, apple pie, coffee) and had taken a break en route to Choteau to sleep the night at a motel in Lewistown, he didn’t feel like he had gotten any real rest. His mind was doing things to him that were unsettling and unfair. He had nightmares about Peter Sollito, Hayden Powell, and Stewie Woods, as well as dreams peopled by friends and neighbors he hadn’t seen in forty years. Everyone seemed to disapprove of him now. They clucked and pointed, and shunned him when he walked over to them. His own grandmother, dead for twenty-two years, pursed her lips defiantly and refused to speak to him. He’d had the same kind of disturbing, unconnected, fantastic dreams before, but only when he was feverish. His back was sore from sitting in the pickup and even the real bed two nights before hadn’t helped unbend him. His back muscles were in tight knots and it hurt to raise his arms. His eyes were rimmed with red and they burned when he opened them. He wouldn’t have been all that surprised if his reflection in the visor mirror showed two eyes like glowing coals. He had taken to wearing dark glasses. It flabbergasted him that Charlie Tibbs did not seem to require sleep. This must have been what the Crusades were like, the Old Man thought.
Now they were here in Choteau, 150 miles south of the Canadian border, waiting for a woman to get her airplane out of a hangar and fly away so she would die. The world did not seem particularly real to him this morning.
Their target was an effective and obsessive wolf-reintroduction advocate named Emily Betts. Betts had almost single-handedly brought about gray wolf reintroduction into Yellowstone and Central Idaho through her writings, protests, website, and testimony at hearings. The reintroduction was violently opposed by ranchers, hunters, and other locals. She had been photographed several years before walking side-by-side with the Secretary of Interior when he helped carry the first reintroduced wolves through the snow to their release pens in Yellowstone Park. The Old Man had once read the transcript of a speech Emily Betts gave before the Bring Back the Wolf Foundation in Bozeman. She had said that if the Western ranchers and Congress would not allow nature to exist in the sacred circle of predator and prey, then the same disgusting breed of animals that eliminated the predators in the first place must take the responsibility for their animal genocide and legally or illegally reintroduce the species they had destroyed. By “disgusting breed of animals” she meant humans, and by “animal genocide” she meant the poisoning, trapping, and shooting of wolves in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
But the reintroduction by the federal government wasn’t happening fast enough for Emily Betts, and so she was now running a secret operation of her own, funded by donations. Wolves were being trapped in Canada where they were plentiful, transported to Choteau, and reintroduced throughout the mountain West by Betts in a private plane.
Remarkably, when they arrived at the hangar at three A.M., the Old Man and Charlie Tibbs had found an unlocked side door and they quietly entered, shutting the door behind them. It was completely dark inside.
Before the Old Man could thumb the switch on his flashlight, there was a desperate scramble of sounds. They were not alone in the hangar.
The Old Man had instinctively dropped to one knee, and Charlie Tibbs did the same. The Old Man heard the distinctive sound of Charlie working the slide of his pistol to jack a cartridge into the chamber and fully expected a blaze of light to suddenly reveal them—caught at last!—followed by a volley of explosions as Charlie blazed away. But instead of light, there was a low rumbling growl that had chilled the Old Man to his bones.
They were frozen in place, completely in the dark, all senses tingling. The Old Man imagined the yawning muzzle of Charlie’s pistol sweeping across the inside of the hangar.
Finally, Charlie whispered for the light. The Old Man lowered the toolbox until it settled silently on the concrete floor and then unsnapped his gun holster. The Old Man aimed the unlit flashlight to
ward the sounds with his left hand and with his right, parallel to the flashlight, pointed his 9mm. He snapped on the flashlight and beyond the beam, in the gloom, eight dull red eyes looked back. The growl tapered into a whine.
Four full-sized gray wolves, ranging in color from jet black to light gray, their heads hung low, stared at Tibbs and the Old man with pagan laser eyes reflecting from behind the bars of a stout metal cage. The wolves had no doubt been live-trapped in Glacier Park or Canada, and transported to Choteau. From there they would be loaded on Emily Betts’s aging Cessna airplane and flown south to the unknown mountains to further reestablish the breed.
Tibbs and the Old Man stood up, their old bones crackling. Tibbs holstered his revolver and followed the Old Man toward the airplane.
It was simple work, but it required skill. The Old Man held the flashlight while Tibbs took a razor blade utility knife to a half-dozen black hydraulic hoses snaking out from the motor. He shaved long slices from them, but was careful not to cut through the hoses completely. The idea was to weaken the hydraulic hoses so that under pressure, in the air, they would burst. It wouldn’t do to cut all the way through the hoses and leave telltale puddles of hydraulic fluid beneath the aircraft that might be seen in the morning. The hoses need to burst in flight, while Emily Betts was flying down the spine of the Rocky Mountain front.
Whether Emily Betts would realize she was out of fluid from the gauge and turn back or continue on would make no difference. Either way, she wouldn’t likely be able to land safely, unless she was just one hell of a pilot. Tibbs had said he doubted that was the case.
Look. There she is,” Tibbs said, and leaned back. The Old Man rubbed his eyes beneath his dark glasses, trying to see.
The propeller of the small airplane was nosing out from the dark inside, as Emily Betts and a man pushed it out. Betts was wearing an olive-drab flight suit. She was a heavy woman, and looked strong as she bent forward, pushing the strut. The Old Man could not see her face clearly from such a distance.