by C. J. Box
It had been the Old Man’s idea to drive to Thermopolis and he had been mildly surprised that Charlie had agreed. The Old Man had limped from the pickup, rented a suit at the counter, and located the hottest and calmest water. In another part of the complex, children and families splashed and shrieked and funneled down a water slide. The pool he sat in was for old people. The Old Man’s only company was an ancient Shoshone woman with jet black eyes and droopy, chocolate-colored skin. Occasionally, she coughed wetly. After half an hour, she left the pool and the Old Man was alone.
From the corner of his eye, the Old Man saw the black Ford pickup come into view through the chain-link fence that surrounded the pools. The truck parked against the curb. Afternoon sunlight penetrated the smoked windows enough that the Old Man could see Charlie inside the cab talking on the cell phone. The Old Man had not expected that Charlie would join him and was relieved that he hadn’t. They had been spending too much time together and the Old Man couldn’t even imagine what Charlie would look like in a swimsuit. Charlie had said he would try to contact their employers, and apparently he had. The cell phone was a technologically advanced model that scrambled voices so that eavesdroppers, or innocents with FM-band radios, could not overhear the conversation.
The pickup truck was a wonder and a virtual weapon in itself. Although from the outside it simply looked like an intimidating late-model four-by-four, the truck had been customized to serve as a rolling armory capable of “taking on an entire police department if necessary,” as Charlie had put it. Even though the job was nearly finished and they had so far accomplished what they had set out to, they hadn’t used even one-tenth of their available firepower and equipment. Apparently, Charlie said, their employers had listened to him when he told them he believed strongly in the old Western maxim about never being caught outgunned. And they hadn’t been.
In addition to the pickup truck, they were also armed with shotguns and hundreds of rounds of double-ought buckshot shells, a MAC-70 machine pistol, plastic explosives with both altitude-sensitive and remote-control detonation devices, a 400-pound crossbow with telescopic sites, night-vision goggles and scopes, remote audio transceivers, nerve gas, and concussion grenades. Charlie Tibbs was especially proud of the custom-made, machine-tooled Remington Model 700 .308 sniper’s rifle with the Leupold 4 x 14 scope. The rifle had been built to his specific demands and specifications. It used custom match .190 grain boattail bullets that were accurate beyond 1,000 yards, even after the slug began to flip end over end. The rifle could be steadied by bolting it to a special pole-mounted stand in the bed of the black Ford pickup. The stand itself was connected to a small atmospheric theodolite computer that gauged wind, altitude, trajectory, and distance to enable incredibly long-range shots.
Under hidden panels beneath the bed of the pickup was a shoulder-fired rocket launcher as well as an armored pod of pressure-sensitive and frequency-activated land mines.
The cab of the pickup had the scrambled cell phone, handheld wireless e-mail, and a pager, as well as an experimental computerized GPS directional mapping system loaded with American backroads and routes. They had only used the road-map computer once, and that was on the streets of Washington, D.C. Both the Old Man and Charlie Tibbs knew the Rocky Mountain region well enough that the computer was not necessary.
Their employers had supplied them with a lockbox of cash—thousands of dollars in used bills. Charlie kept track of their expenditures, but there was nothing they were prevented from buying at any time. They paid for everything with cash and cashiers often acted as if they didn’t know what to do when, for example, Charlie counted out $400 in bills to pay for hotel rooms. They left no paper trail, no credit card receipts anywhere in the United States.
Originally recommended for this job by Charlie Tibbs himself, who had already been hired to oversee the field operations, the Old Man had been contacted late at night by a man who wouldn’t leave his name. When the Old Man stated that he was interested in hearing more, a meeting with Charlie Tibbs was arranged at a local Denny’s Restaurant to fill him in on the details. Tibbs told him that their employers had recommended at least six operatives, and possibly two different teams, but Charlie had convinced them that everything could be accomplished by two experienced men. Since then, only Charlie Tibbs had been in contact with their employers. The Old Man was not included in these conversations by design, to minimize the number of people involved in the planning of the operations. It was understood that Charlie would speak to the intermediary, who would then speak directly with their employers. The Old Man was kept in the dark except for the details of the operation most immediately at hand. The Old Man had agreed to this, but now wished he had a better idea, overall, of what was going on. Obviously, they were targeting high-profile environmentalists. But how many? And for how long? He had expected their work to take about two weeks going in, and they were now into their second month.
He had no idea what Charlie Tibbs had told their employers about him. He wondered if his recent doubts and complaints were being reported. Charlie could honestly say that the Old Man had recently shown more reluctance on the job. Would they relieve him if the complaints got too loud? Would they pay him off? Would they have Charlie Tibbs walk up behind him and put a bullet in the back of his head?
The Old Man had begun to question Charlie Tibbs’s sanity. One of the reasons for this was that Tibbs had recently insisted on replaying a CD of Oklahoma! over and over again while they drove. Tibbs sang along with full force. And even before Emily Betts crashed, Charlie seemed to like this job way too much. He enjoyed what they were doing. It was as if Charlie had been given the opportunity to vent a lifetime of rage, and he just got a big old kick out of it. Charlie was driven by something, and absolutely relentless. He believed in this cause even more, he said, than their employers believed in it. And he still did not sleep.
Charlie emerged from the pickup and signaled through the fence for the Old Man.
Grunting, and moving very slowly, the Old Man pulled himself out of the hot pool and trudged over to the fence where Charlie was waiting. He left wet splayed footprints on the pavement behind him. His skin had turned bright pink in the hot water. As he approached the fence, he bowed his wet head to listen.
Charlie spoke softly. “They’ve located the lawyer so we have to get going.”
“Please tell me he’s close,” the Old Man said, dreading another cross-country trip.
“Yellowstone,” Charlie said. “Very close.”
“In the park?”
Charlie nodded yes.
“Then we’re through?” the Old Man asked with hope.
“Not quite.”
The Old Man felt as if Charlie had reached through the fence and punched him in the side of the head. Charlie knew how the Old Man felt about this. He had told Charlie countless times in the last few days: he wanted this job to be over.
The Old Man shook his head. “I can’t see our luck holding out forever, Charlie. They can’t keep adding targets to the list. They just can’t.” His voice was anguished.
“Just one more after the lawyer,” Charlie said. “And please keep your voice down.”
The Old Man looked up. Charlie was staring at him coolly, evaluating him. Under this withering glare, the Old Man capitulated.
“But this will have to be the last one, Charlie. Any more, and so help me, I’ll quit. And you can tell our employers that. This is it.” The Old Man spat out the last word.
Charlie Tibbs was silent.
“So after the lawyer where do we have to go? Who is the target?”
Charlie hesitated. The Old Man understood why. This was violating their agreement not to discuss the details of more than one job at a time. It had probably been a good idea, the Old Man conceded, since he wouldn’t have stuck with it this long if he had known in advance how elaborate and twisted their mission would become. The Old Man wished he were stronger, more sure of himself and their cause—more like Charlie.
&nbs
p; Charlie quickly looked left and right before speaking, and then leaned closer until his hat brim touched the fence.
“Our duty isn’t to question.” Charlie bit out the words. “We don’t know the reasons these targets were chosen and that’s good. All we know is that a lot of thought has gone into this and they’ve got the whole thing figured out. We just follow orders.”
“No one’s questioning anything,” the Old Man answered, his tone deliberate. He wondered why Charlie seemed so defensive.
Charlie sized up the Old Man again, his light blue eyes raking across the Old Man’s face like talons.
“Saddlestring, Wyoming,” Charlie spoke in a voice that was barely audible over the amplified swimming pool sounds from elsewhere in the complex. “That rumor about Stewie Woods isn’t going away. Now it’s that he—or somebody pretending to be Stewie Woods—is contacting his old colleagues.”
The Old Man felt a rush of anger. “That’s not possible. You know that’s not possible.”
Charlie nodded. “It’s probably one of his hangers-on trying to get something going. But we have to check it out.”
“It’s not possible,” the Old Man said again, shaking his head, trying unsuccessfully to come up with a scenario where Woods could have walked away from that explosion.
“And there’s something else,” Charlie said. “Because this guy, whoever he is, is pretending to be Stewie Woods, the local game warden in Saddlestring is snooping around. Other law enforcement might follow. That’s heat we don’t need. So we need to squash this pretender as quickly as possible.”
“Do they have any idea who the pretender is?” the Old Man asked.
“Not yet,” Charlie answered, narrowing his eyes. “But they expect they will shortly.”
PART TWO
Early in April of 1887, some of the boys came down from the Pleasant Valley, where there was a big rustler war going on and the rustlers were getting the best of the game. . . . Things were in a pretty bad condition. It was war to the knife between cowboys and the rustlers, and there was a battle every time the two outfits ran together. A great many men were killed in the war.
From Tom Horn,
The Life of Tom Horn: Government Scout
and Interpreter, 1904
18
It was a month after elk-calving season in the Bighorns and Joe Pickett was doing a preliminary trend count. The purpose of the trend count was to assess how the elk had wintered, and how many babies had been born to replenish the herd. The season for calves was generally May 20 through June 30, so all of the new ones should have dropped. He rode near the tree line on his buckskin, Lizzie, looking down the slope into the meadows and brush for the elk. It was one of those rare, perfect, vibrant July mornings that pulsed with color and scent. Wildflowers were bursting open in the meadows like strings of mute fireworks, and saplings were stretching sunward after recently breaking out of the solitary confinement of the snowpack. Swollen narrow streambeds were flexing their muscles with runoff. Summer was here, and it was in a hurry.
The cow elk used the tall sagebrush just below the tree line for calving, and Joe had found seven elk cows and six month-old newborns so far. It was a good year for elk given the fairly mild winter and the moist spring. He could smell their particular musty presence even before he saw the first mother and calf. The mothers eyed him warily as he quietly rode by in the shadows of the trees. One tried to lure him away from her calf by fully exposing herself in the meadow and trotting through the open field toward the opposite rise. She stopped in clear view to look over her shoulder, and snorted when Joe rode on and didn’t pursue. Her calf looked at him through a fork in the tall brush. The calf was all eyes and ears, and Joe was close enough to see a bead of condensation on the calf’s black snout.
Joe rode deeper into the trees and further up the mountainside until the mother elk turned back to her calf. He goosed Lizzie through the timber, toward a patch of sunlight that became a small grassy park and dismounted. He tied up his horse and sat on a downed log, where he stretched out and let the sun warm his legs. Pouring a cup of coffee from his battered Thermos, he tipped up the brim of his hat and sighed. The coffee was still hot.
Joe had put off doing any serious thinking until he was in the mountains, hoping the quiet solace of the outdoors would help him find the answers he was looking for. Now, he reviewed the particularly odd chain of events that had started with Jim Finotta getting to Sandvick and Judge Pennock’s refusal to advance Joe’s charges against Finotta.
Judge Cohn in Johnson County had reluctantly agreed to review the charges against Finotta but had yet to take any action. It was very likely that the charges, and the case, would go nowhere. The previous day, Joe had received a call from Robey Hersig saying that Judge Pennock was furious with him—and Joe, for taking the case out of the county. Hersig reported that Finotta was burning up the telephone lines between his law office in Saddlestring and the governor’s office in Cheyenne. Joe was being accused of engaging in a vendetta against Finotta. Words like “harassment,” “land owner abuse,” and “bureaucratic arrogance” had been used. It wouldn’t be long, Joe knew, before he heard something from Game and Fish headquarters in Cheyenne. He could imagine the furtive meetings and hand-wringing that was almost definitely going on at headquarters over what he had done. If the governor got involved, which was likely, the issue would be elevated immediately, probably to the office of director. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten in trouble, and probably wouldn’t be the last time. He hoped if the boys at headquarters in Cheyenne decided to admonish him that they’d do it in a straightforward manner, but sometimes that was too much to expect from them.
If it weren’t for mornings like this in a place like this, Joe thought, they could have this job.
He was not very good about letting things drop, Joe decided. It wasn’t as if elk were an endangered species. There were tens of thousands of elk in the state, and probably more than there should be. Elk were killed every day by cars, disease, and predators. Hunters harvested thousands every fall. Other elk would replace dead elk.
But a huge bull elk had been killed out of season by a man who simply wanted the head of the animal on his wall. The elk’s headless, massive body was left where it fell, and seven hundred pounds of meat left to rot. And nobody, it seemed, was as outraged about the crime as Joe Pickett was. For reasons he had trouble defining, he had taken this particular offense personally.
It wasn’t that Jim Finotta was a millionaire lawyer, or a rancher, or a developer. Joe didn’t harbor any ill will toward successful men. What outraged Joe was the casualness of the crime and Finotta’s reaction when accused.
Most poachers Joe caught lied about their crime when confronted. But Finotta lied with contempt and a haughty arrogance that suggested that it was somehow beneath him to have to waste his good, valuable lies on the likes of Joe. Jim Finotta didn’t need a trophy head on his wall for any other reason than to impress his guests and boost his own sense of worth. He certainly didn’t need the meat, like a lot of poachers and hunters, but instead of giving it away or donating it to a shelter in town, he left it. If it was just a trophy Finotta had wanted, he could have hired a guide and hunted the elk in season like a sportsman. Instead, Finotta chose to shoot the bull elk off season, when no one else could hunt it, order his lackeys to behead it, cover up the crime when accused, and use his influence and connections to discredit his accuser. As Robey Hersig had put it, the assholes usually won.
But Joe had more than just Jim Finotta on his mind.
Two days before, “Stewie” had called again. This time Sheridan had answered the telephone. When she asked who was calling, the caller had, at first, refused to tell her. But when Sheridan said she would have to hang up, the man identified himself as Stewie Woods and said he would be calling back when her mother was home. Sheridan wouldn’t tell him when that would be.
Marybeth confided that evening when they were in bed that she had a strange feeling ab
out this. If it were some kind of joke, there was nothing remotely funny about it. She said it didn’t make sense that even the most dogged reporter would call twice using the same ruse. It had to be someone else, she said, calling for some other reason. She hoped it wasn’t some morbid follower of One Globe.
But it couldn’t actually be Stewie Woods. That was one thing both Joe and Marybeth left unsaid. There wasn’t any reason to speculate further.
Whoever it was, Joe was irritated by the calls. They had requested Caller ID in the hope of tracing the number, but it not yet been installed. He hoped he would be there the next time a call came so that he could snatch the telephone away and try to determine what was going on. It offended him that a stranger would call his wife, and it offended him even further that the reason they were calling was because of her past relationship with another man. As innocent as Marybeth made it out to be, it made him grit his teeth when he thought about it. It was hard to imagine her in her high school and early college days laughing and trading jokes with two guys like Stewie Woods and Hayden Powell. Both of those men would later become well known, at least in the environmental community. They were semifamous and charismatic. And both of them had loved his wife. However, Marybeth had chosen Joe and opted out of her potential life of excitement and notoriety. He hoped like hell she didn’t regret the path that she had chosen. Instead of hanging out with two big-shot environmentalist celebrities, Marybeth got to move around the state of Wyoming with Joe Pickett from one falling-down state-owned house to another. Choosing Joe had resulted in discontinuing her legal career and adopting severe month-by-month budgeting to make ends meet, not to mention getting shot in her own house and being left for dead.
Joe sighed, smiled grimly to himself, and tried to calm down. But he vowed that when he found out who was calling Marybeth he would punch him right in the nose.