by C. J. Box
“Go away,” he croaked, raising his left arm and waving it.
The sound startled them, and they flinched. The silver wolf backpedaled, turned on her haunches, and vanished into the brush. But the black wolf stood his ground, lowered his head, and arched his shoulders. For a terrifying moment, Joe braced for an attack.
“Get out of here!” he bellowed, and flung a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The cuffs arced through the air and landed with a jangle five feet in front of the wolf, and the animal turned with a lazy shrug and followed the silver wolf back into the shadows.
Joe stood for a moment, breathing hard, trying to hear where they’d gone, if anywhere. It was extremely rare for a wolf to attack a human in the wild. There were very few instances of its happening. But they’d certainly shadowed him for a mile or so, and he thought how appealing he must look to them: obviously wounded, caked with dried and fresh blood, without a serious weapon. He could imagine one of them darting across the creek and hamstringing him like wolves hamstrung elk and moose. Once their prey was incapacitated, the rest of the pack could move in.
He found a stout branch that was still heavy and green, that looked like it had been blasted from a tree by a lightning strike. The branch was nearly three feet long, bulbous on the butt end, and tapered like a baseball bat. His right shoulder was worthless, but he took a few practice swings with his left and the branch whistled cleanly through the air. He smacked the trunk of a pine tree with a reassuring thunk, which sent a shower of pine needles to the forest floor.
“Hear that?” he shouted into the air, hoping the wolves were listening. “That’ll be your head if you try to take a bite out of me!”
He could neither see nor hear where the wolves had gone, but despite his shouts and his club he didn’t think they’d gone far.
“Wolves this far south,” he thought, as he continued down the creek. “Wait until they hear about this in Cheyenne.”
Farther down the creek, Joe stumbled on a massive five-point elk antler that had been shed earlier that summer. He tossed the branch aside and picked up the antler, turning it and admiring the thick beam. One tine was sixteen inches long and an inch thick at the base. Forked tines on the end were six inches each and sharp as spear points. The antler was heavy but a hell of a weapon, he thought. Much better than a club.
If the wolves attacked he could really do some damage, he thought.
HIS MANTRA EVOLVED from a country-and-western rhythm into reggae and then into blues. Joe kept thinking about what had happened, what he’d seen, what he didn’t know.
Why was Terri Wade in an isolated cabin? What was her relationship with the Grim Brothers? What was with the store-bought picture frames containing promotional shots? And could that have possibly been who he thought it was with them? The girl? He shook his head, not able to wrap his mind around the prospect. Again, he thought he’d seen her visage too many times on fliers and in the newspapers. He’d imagined her, he was sure. But there had been four faces. That, he was convinced of.
And what about the brothers themselves? Why were they up there and what were they doing? What caused them to hide in one of the roughest and most remote sections of the least populated state in the union?
IT WAS ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLE how the terrain changed, how cottonwoods took over from the pine trees, how bunches of cheater grass replaced the pine needle floor. Without actually realizing it, Joe knew he’d descended from the mountains into a valley. He veered right away from the creek and the trees, and as the sun set he was on the edge of a hay meadow. Instead of the smell of pine and the dank vegetation of the creek, he smelled the sweet smell of cut hay and thought he caught a whiff of gasoline.
Joe turned and looked behind him. The mountains went up and back, peak after peak, until the range melded with the sky countless miles away. He was struck by how big the mountains were, how hulking, imposing, and still. And he was awed by the fact that he’d actually walked out of them.
At the edge of the timber, in the shadows, he saw the lone black wolf. He stood broadside, big and dark, his eyes seeing Joe much more clearly than Joe could see him. The wolf stood as if he were prevented from coming any closer, as if he’d hit his boundary line and could proceed no farther.
Joe nodded toward the wolf, whom he respected for tenacity, and said, “See you later.”
AS HE BROKE OVER A RISE, the hay meadow was spread out before him as far as he could see. Cut hay, smelling even sharper now, lay thick in long straight channels. After days of mountain randomness, he was impressed by the symmetry of the rows.
A half mile away, a green John Deere hay baler crawled across the field, its motor humming and grunting as it turned rows of cut hay into fifty-pound bales that it left behind like tractor scat. It was dark enough the rancher had his headlights on, and the twin pools of yellow made the hay look golden and the cut field an electric green carpet.
As Joe walked toward the baler with the antler in his hand, something in his brain released and his wounds exploded in sudden pain. It was as if now that his rescue was at hand, the mental dam holding everything back for three days suddenly burst from the strain.
His legs gave way and he fell to his knees and pitched forward into the cut hay.
The mantra slowed to a dirge. “Marybeth-Sheridan-Lucy-April, Marybeth-Sheridan-Lucy-April, Marybeth-Sheridan-Lucy-April . . .”
IN THE DARK, what seemed like hours later, he heard a boy say, “Hey, Dad, look over here. It’s that damned game warden everyone’s looking for.”
PART TWO
RELOADING WITHOUT BULLETS
He is mad past recovery, but yet he has luci intervals.
—MIGUEL DE CERVANTES, Don Quixote
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
11
ON THE THIRD DAY OF HIS STAY IN THE BILLINGS HOSPITAL, after he’d been moved out of the intensive care unit, Joe awoke to find a tall, thin man in ill-fitting clothes—white dress shirt, open collar, loose tie, overlarge sports jacket—hovering near the foot of his bed. The man had world-weary brown eyes and a thin neck rising like a cornstalk out of the gaping collar of his shirt. His hair was light brown, peppered with silver. A pair of smudged reading glasses hung from a cord around his neck. Joe got the immediate impression the man was or had been in law enforcement. His aura of legal bureaucracy was palpable. He said, “Joe Pickett? I’m Bobby McCue, DCI.”
Wyoming Department of Criminal Investigation.
McCue reached into his jacket with long spidery fingers and came out with a shiny black wallet, which he flipped open to reveal a badge. Just as quickly, and before Joe could focus on the shield or credential card, he snapped it shut and slid it back inside his coat.
“I read the statement you gave the sheriff down in Carbon County,” McCue said. “I was hoping I could ask you a few more questions just to clarify some things. We’re trying to fill in some of the gaps.”
“What gaps?” Joe raised his eyebrows, which elicited a sharp pain where they’d removed the shotgun pellet behind his ear and stitched it closed. The skin on his face seemed pulled tight from scalp to chin and ear to ear, and it hurt to do much more than blink his eyes.
“Nothing major,” McCue said. “You know how this works.”
“I should by now, yes.”
Joe had already given statements to Carbon County Sheriff Ron Baird, Baggs Police Department Chief Brian Lally, his departmental supervisor, and the Game and Fish Department investigator assigned to the case. Although Joe had absolutely no reason to lie about anything, he was concerned there could be contradictions or problems if all the statements were compared. Each investigator had asked basically the same questions but in different ways, and Joe had no control or approval over what they wrote down when he answered. Even though what had happened in the mountains was clear in his mind, it was possible that his statements, when laid side-by-side, might not completely jibe. It was the nature of the game, and one played—sometimes unfairly—by investigators, prosecutors, and defense a
ttorneys. Joe had played it himself. So he knew to be alert and careful each time he was questioned. He couldn’t afford to be sloppy or offhand. He wished he could recall more of the interrogation by Baird immediately after he’d been rescued, when his head was still cloudy with exhaustion and his wounds were fresh. He hoped he hadn’t said something he’d come to regret.
“Mind if I borrow this?” McCue said, gesturing toward Joe’s tray table.
“Fine.”
McCue nodded man-to-man to Joe, slid the tray table toward himself, and opened a manila folder on top of it. He fitted the glasses to his eyes, then slid them as far down his nose as they would go before they fell off. Joe was distracted by how cloudy the lenses were.
“Just a couple of questions,” McCue said, peeling back single pages within the file. Joe recognized them as copies of the original sheriff’s department statement given to Ron Baird.
“About the Brothers Grim . . .”
“They prefer ‘the Grim Brothers,’ ” Joe said.
McCue looked over his lenses at Joe appraisingly. “They do, do they?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, then. Caleb, the first one you encountered at that lake. It says here he gave you permission to look through his possessions.”
Said Joe, “Yes, and when I think back on it, I don’t know why he did. He must have known he didn’t have a fishing license, which is all I wanted to check on. But, yes, he let me look through his bag.”
McCue placed a bony finger on a dense paragraph of text. “It says here he had a variety of items in the pack.”
“Yes.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I thought I had.”
McCue nodded and read from the statement, “‘The subject’s daypack contained several items, including a water container, a knife, a diary, half of a Bible, and an iPod and holder.” He looked up e xpectantly.
“I think that was pretty much it,” Joe said, trying to recall all the contents. “There were some matches and some string I think, also. Oh, and there wasn’t the iPod itself, just the holder. I’m pretty sure I made that clear to the sheriff, but he must have misunderstood me.”
McCue nodded quickly, and Joe noticed the agent seemed to be tamping down his reaction to avoid revealing anything.
“Is there a problem?” Joe asked.
McCue ignored the question. “Can you describe the iPod holder to me?”
Joe searched his memory. “It was one of those things that strap to the upper part of your arm. My wife Marybeth has one for workouts at the gym.”
“What color was it, can you recall?”
“Pink.”
“You’re sure?”
Joe nodded.
“You’re positive?”
“Why is that important?” Joe asked.
“It may not be at all. I’m just covering all the bases. You know how this works,” McCue said, then quickly flipped over the page to another. Joe saw something in ink written in the margin, and McCue stabbed his fingertip on the passage.
“You say Caleb claimed he was from the UP.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought, being from the Rocky Mountain West, that UP meant ‘Union Pacific.’ ”
Joe didn’t say anything.
“Did you know it could have meant Upper Peninsula, as in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan? That’s what they call it there, the ‘UP.’”
“I know that now,” Joe said. “One of the sheriff’s deputies down in Baggs was from Michigan and told me. I feel kind of stupid, now, not knowing it.”
McCue nodded, apparently agreeing with Joe’s assessment of himself.
“Hey . . .” Joe said, but McCue flipped another page and stabbed another note.
“You say there were four people besides you at the cabin that burned down. Caleb and Camish Grim, Terri Wade, and one other. You suggest that when you saw the profile of the fourth person you thought of Diane Shober. Is that correct?”
Joe felt his face get hot. He realized how ridiculous it sounded when McCue said it.
“She came to mind,” Joe said. “But nowhere in that report did I claim it was her. As I said to the sheriff down there, and my own people in Cheyenne, her name came to mind probably because I’d seen her photo on so many fliers in that part of the state. Plus, I knew that’s where she went missing because I was part of the search team. So when I caught a glimpse of a youngish female in the dark down there, I think I naturally thought of her. I’ve never said it was her.”
McCue bored in. “Do you stand by your impression, though?”
Joe shook his head. “I stand by the fact that I thought of her at the time. I don’t know how I can stand by an impression. And the more I think about it now, the more I think my mind might have jumped to conclusions.” Joe smiled, which pulled at his scalp. “I’ve been accused of that before. Sometimes I’m right. Usually, I’m not.”
“So I hear,” McCue said without irony. “Can you describe her?”
“I already did,” Joe said. “I didn’t get a clear look at all. In my mind, I can recall I thought she was blond, female, and younger than Caleb and Camish and Terri Wade.”
“How tall was she?”
Joe shrugged, which hurt. “I don’t know. She stood away from the others, so I’ve got no perspective.”
“How old?”
“Like I said, my impression was she was younger. But I’m not sure why I say that.”
“What was she wearing?”
“I have no idea.”
“Her build?”
“Thin,” Joe said. “Like you.”
McCue nodded to himself, as if Joe had confirmed something.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Joe asked.
McCue looked up. “Eventually.”
“I’m done answering questions until you let me know why you’re asking them.”
“Fine,” McCue said, closing the folder. “I’ve got what I need for now.”
“That’s it?”
McCue unhooked his reading glasses from his ears and let them drop on the cord. “That’s it.”
“Where can I contact you?” Joe asked, “Cheyenne? One of the other offices? Where are you out of? I’ve never seen you around.”
McCue simply nodded.
“Was that a yes or a no?”
“Thanks for your time,” McCue said. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”
“Leave me your card,” Joe said. “I may think of something later.”
McCue said over his shoulder, “I’ll leave one for you at the nurses’ station.”
And he was gone.
Ten minutes later, Joe pressed his nurse call button and asked for Agent McCue’s DCI business card.
“What?” she said. Then: “There’s no card here I can see. I’ll check with the other nurses, but I didn’t see him stop by on his way out.”
“Is there another nurse station?”
“There are several on each floor.”
“Would you mind checking with them?”
The pause was no doubt accompanied by rolling eyes, Joe thought. She said, “I’ll ask around and let you know.”
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Joe opened his eyes and saw something he didn’t want to see, so he closed them again, hoping it would go away.
“I know you’re awake,” his mother-in-law, Missy, said from the foot of his bed.
“I’m sleeping,” Joe said.
“You most certainly are not.”
“I’m sleeping and having a real bad dream.”
“Open your eyes. I need to talk to you.”
Joe sighed and cracked his right eye. He knew he was wincing because it hurt when he winced. “Where’s Marybeth?”
“She’s getting some lunch down in the cafeteria with the girls. She should be back in a half hour or so.”
“I wish she’d hurry,” Joe said.
Missy narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, her small manicured hands gripping
the footrest. “You could be a little more grateful,” she said. “Earl and I sent one of his jets to bring you up here from that little Podunk clinic near Baggs so you could have the finest medical care available in the region. Where was it?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Craig, Colorado, or someplace vile like that.”
Joe vaguely remembered the flight. He nodded his appreciation, but he knew strings would be attached. As far as Joe knew, Missy had yet to perform a stringless act in her adult life.
“So the least you can do is hear me out,” she said.
“I don’t like the doctor,” he said. “He’s arrogant.” Joe based his appraisal on an exchange he’d had with Dr. Nadir two days before, when Nadir had shaken his head at Joe and said, “An arrow and buckshot wounds? What is this, the Wild West again? The OK Corral?”
“All good doctors are arrogant,” she said. “Especially the Indian ones. That’s because they’re good. The only ones better are Japanese or Chinese, you know. Unfortunately, it’s a little too cold for Asians out here. They like warm weather, I understand.”
“I was fine in the clinic,” Joe said, ignoring her comments.
“That clinic is for oilfield workers who get hit on the head with a wrench. It isn’t for the husband of my daughter or the father of my grandchildren.”
Joe shrugged, which hurt his right shoulder where they’d removed the double-ought shot pellet.
“Listen,” Missy said, “I want to know where Nate Romanowski is hiding.”
“Lots of people want to know that,” Joe said.
“I need to ask him for a favor.”
Joe nodded. Marybeth had filled him in on her mother’s plan to hire Nate to intimidate her ex-husband. “So that’s why you’re here?” Joe said. “The reason why you flew me up to Billings? So you could be here if and when Nate shows up?”
Her eyes sparkled, revealing her answer.