by C. J. Box
Nate wasn’t sure he was making sense, based on Joe’s quizzical expression. Nate paused, thought about it, and said, “Nemecek is the greatest falconer I’ve ever seen. He’s better than I will ever be, and I’m good. But what you need to realize is that great falconers, master falconers, see the world differently than anyone else. Think about it, Joe. A falconer devotes his life to a wild raptor and develops a partnership based on killing prey. But at any time, the falcon—the wild, untamed weapon—can simply fly away. Imagine devoting years of your life to a potential lethal partnership that could dissolve in an instant. It takes a crazy devotion to a possible outcome that may never materialize. Falconry is as old as human civilization. It goes against the nature of things that a human and a killer bird should work together for a common purpose. But when it happens, man … it’s the greatest thing in the fucking world. When it does, all the normal human social conventions seem like bat shit. And humans become just another hunk of meat compared to the rapture of wild and man when they intersect.”
Joe seemed stunned and said nothing.
Nate said, “What I’m telling you is that really great falconers, like Nemecek, think they’ve transcended low human boundaries in regard to behavior and morals. Therefore, everything they do is on a different and higher plane.”
Joe nodded.
Nate said, “So you take a person like this and you have to understand that he’s worst when he’s cornered. He has nothing but contempt for those who put him in that position, because they’ve never experienced what he’s experienced, and they don’t even comprehend the sacrifice that he’s undergone. And something has made him feel cornered. Believe me, he’s capable of anything.”
Joe shook his head, not fully comprehending what Nate was getting at.
Nate said impatiently, “Once, in a country I won’t name, I watched him saw the face off of a child with piano wire in front of her father to make the old man talk.” Nate paused and said, “He talked.”
“My God,” Joe said, as an obvious shiver ran through him.
Nate said, “I’ve seen him do worse than that. But what you have to understand is that when you’ve devoted your life to studying and worshipping birds of prey, you can lose your empathy for mere humans. When you turn yourself over to the call of the wild and understand it, things we would consider cruel are just part of the game.”
Joe looked even more uncomfortable than before, the way he was shifting his seat on the log. He said, “I guess what it comes down to is values. And I’m in no position to argue that.”
Nate said, “You could argue, but this isn’t the time.”
Minutes went by.
Joe asked, “Tell me what I can do to help. Since you don’t have a phone, how can I reach you if I find anything?”
“Give me your notebook,” Nate asked.
Joe handed it over, and Nate flipped it open to a fresh page and jotted down the address for a website: www.themasterfalconer.com.
“It’s an old website,” Nate said, handing the notebook back. “It hasn’t been updated since it was put up over ten years ago. It’s one of those sites where there are dozens of comment threads on it about different aspects of falconry. No one monitors the comments, and there are probably less than a few dozen people who even look at it anymore. But if you need to reach me, call it up. You’ll find a recent thread with words or references in it you know are mine. Register on the site and keep your comments brief and vague. I’ll understand.”
Joe looked at the address. “How often will you check it out?”
“I can’t say for sure. But at least every couple of days from a public computer somewhere.”
Joe shook his head. “If there are dozens of threads, how will I know which one you’re using?”
“Look for a recent thread with a question about flying kestrels.”
“Why kestrels?” Joe asked. “Aren’t they little tiny birds?”
Nate nodded. “Yes, they’re the lowest and the most unreliable of the falcons. There’s a royalty of falcons, starting with the eagle, who is the emperor. The gyr falcon is the king, the peregrine is the duke, and so on. On the bottom of the pecking order is the kestrel, which is considered the knave or servant. The reason I’m choosing a thread with a kestrel is because no self-respecting falconer would give a rip and look at it. Even so, don’t say anything directly that could be interpreted by a lurker.”
“Can’t we do better than this?” Joe asked. “Can’t you call me from a pay phone or something?”
“Not a chance,” Nate said. “Nemecek has his tentacles everywhere. It’s better to be low-key and obscure. And remember—don’t write anything that could possibly be used to tie you to me.”
“Nate …”
Nate stood and ground the last of the fire out with his boot heel. It was suddenly very dark.
“One more thing, Joe,” he said. “If you get the word from me to evacuate, that means grab your family and fly away somewhere. Don’t even take the time to pack—just get the hell out.”
From the dark, Joe asked, “Do you think he’d come after us to get to you?”
“I told you,” Nate said. “He’s capable of anything.”
AS THEY made their way through the downed timber back to the vehicles, Nate heard Joe clear his throat in a way that indicated he wanted to say something.
Over his shoulder, Nate asked, “What is it?”
“This thing you did,” Joe asked. “How bad was it?”
Said Nate, “Worse than you can imagine.”
“And Nemecek was there?”
“Yes.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Joe said. “I mean, I know you pretty well after all these years.”
As Nate reached his Jeep, he said, “You just think you do, Joe.”
Joe reached out and grasped Nate’s hand. He said, “Be safe, my friend.”
“I will.”
Joe turned to leave. Nate said, “And if I don’t ever see you again, I just want you to know it was an honor to know you and you’re a good man and a good friend. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing better I can say.”
Joe was uncomfortable, obviously, but he met Nate’s eyes and said, “Knock it off. When did you get so mushy?”
And Nate said, “When he came here after me.”
9
JOE RETURNED home shortly after ten to find another Game and Fish pickup parked in his place in front of the garage. The lights were on inside the house, and Joe swung in next to his trainee’s vehicle.
He got out and took a deep breath of the cold, thin air. Nate had rattled him and he didn’t want to show it.
Luke Brueggemann sat on the living room sofa and looked up when Joe came in. He was wearing his uniform and cradling a can of Pepsi between his knees. He looked at him expectantly, his eyes wondering why Joe hadn’t called him.
“I called your room,” Joe said. “I left a message. In the future, you need to be prepared or let me know your cell phone number.”
At the same time, though, Joe was grateful Brueggemann hadn’t been along to see Nate Romanowski.
His trainee plucked his cell phone out of his pocket and punched numbers. Joe’s own phone burred in his pocket and he leaned back to pull it out but Brueggemann said, “That’s me. You have my number now.”
“Okay.”
“Did you find anything up there?” Brueggemann asked.
“Nope,” Joe said, as he turned and hung his jacket on a peg in the mudroom and put his hat on the shelf. “Somebody’s idea of a prank call, I guess.”
Brueggemann shook his head. “I’ve heard that happens.”
Joe sat down in a chair facing Brueggemann and said, “It does.” Then: “Why are you here?”
The trainee grinned and his face flushed. “I got your message when I got back to my room. So I threw on my uniform and waited for you to pick me up. When you didn’t, I started driving up here thinking I’d meet you here. But when I got here, you were gone.”
As he talked, Marybeth came into the living room from the kitchen, shaking her head at Joe. “My husband has forgotten what being a trainee is like,” she said. “Even though it should be scarred into his memory. It sure is scarred into mine.”
“I said I left a message,” Joe said, sitting back in the chair.
His wife looked casual and attractive in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, making her look young, Joe thought. She wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses Joe referred to as her “smart glasses.” It was obvious she’d taken pity on Luke Brueggemann.
She said, “I saw him sitting in his truck out on the road, so I invited him in and fed him some dinner,” she said. “I told him you’d be back soon. I didn’t think it would be two hours.”
Joe shrugged.
“I tried to call you on the radio,” Brueggemann said, looking away from Joe so as not to pile on too much, “but you must have been out of range.”
“I guess so,” Joe said. He’d turned his radio off when Nate had appeared in the woods.
“Anyway,” Marybeth said, apparently finished with her admonishment, “Luke here helped April with her math and listened to Lucy recite some of her part from the play. So all in all, a nice evening.”
She winked at Joe to show Joe she was teasing. Joe shook his head at his wife. Those items would have been on his agenda for the evening.
To Brueggemann, Marybeth said, “Remember this when you get married and move your new bride to your game warden quarters in the middle of nowhere. Advise her that you are always on call so she won’t be angry when you suddenly have to leave the house at any hour. In fact, before you get married, have her give me a call.”
“Don’t do it,” Joe said to Brueggemann. “Keep her in the dark. It’s better that way.”
The trainee looked from Marybeth to Joe, and to Marybeth again.
“I’m kidding,” Joe said.
Brueggemann visibly relaxed and realized he’d been played by both of them. “You had me going there,” he said.
“And another thing,” Joe said. “Don’t ever go out on a call without your trainee.”
“Ha! I never would.”
MARYBETH SENT Brueggemann back to his room at the TeePee Motel with leftovers, which the trainee was enthusiastic about.
“I’ve been eating too much fast food and microwave soup and drinking too many sodas,” he said. “A home-cooked meal is pretty nice.”
“Anytime,” Marybeth said.
Joe told Brueggemann he’d call him in the morning.
“Are we going to check out those elk camps?” Brueggemann asked at the door.
“Maybe,” Joe said. “It depends on the weather and circumstances. Everything’s fluid at all times.”
Brueggemann nodded earnestly and shut the door.
“I like him,” Marybeth said, giving Joe a delayed hello peck on the cheek. “He’s an eager beaver. He reminds me of you when you started.”
Joe nodded, and realized how hungry he was. He asked, “Did you give him all of the leftovers?”
“Oops,” she said.
WHILE MARYBETH cooked Joe an egg sandwich in the kitchen, he said, “Nate was out there.”
He noticed how her back tensed when he said it. She looked over her shoulder from where she stood at the stove. “I had a feeling about that,” she said. “In fact, I knew we could have reached you by cell phone, but I didn’t suggest it to Luke. I thought if you’d hooked up with Nate, you probably wouldn’t want your trainee showing up.”
“You’re right about that,” Joe said.
“So how is he? Was he … involved with those men they found in the boat?”
Said Joe, “Nate’s injured, but he claims he’s okay. And yes, that was him who shot those men in the boat. He says they tried to ambush him and it was self-defense.”
Her eyes got big and she started to ask Joe a question, when she suddenly looked around him and said, “Hello, Lucy. Time for bed?”
“Yeah,” Lucy said. “I wanted to say good night.”
Fourteen-year-old Lucy was in the eighth grade at Saddlestring Middle School. She was blond and green-eyed and lithe—a miniature version of her mother. She was still getting used to not having her older sister Sheridan in the house, but was using the occasion to bloom into her own personality, which was expressive and good-hearted. She was growing into an attractive and pleasant young lady, Joe thought.
Joe said, “Sorry about missing your speech tonight.”
“It wasn’t a speech,” Lucy said. “It was the first act of the play. I’ve got to have it memorized by the end of the week.”
“And how’s it going?”
“Good,” she said, and flashed a smile.
Sheridan had been an athlete, although not an elite one. Lucy had opted for speech and drama, and had recently been chosen for one of the female leads in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
“My character is Lucy Pevensie,” Lucy said, and cued Marybeth.
Marybeth said, “‘The White Witch? Who’s she?’”
Lucy’s face transformed into someone younger and more agitated, and she said, “‘She is a perfectly terrible person. She calls herself the Queen of Narnia though she has no right to be queen at all, and all the fauns and dryands and naiads and dwarfs and animals—at least all the good ones—simply hate her. …’”
When she finished, Joe said, “Wow.”
“I always think of Grandma Missy when I say those lines,” Lucy said. “She’s my inspiration.”
Joe laughed and Marybeth said, “Get to bed, Lucy. That was a cheap shot.”
“But a good one,” Joe said, after Lucy had padded down the hallway to her room, pleased with herself for making her dad laugh.
“Don’t encourage her,” Marybeth said.
“Yeah,” sixteen-year-old April said, as she passed her sister in the hallway. “She gets enough of that as it is.”
April was wearing her tough-girl face and a long black T-shirt she slept in that had formerly belonged to Sheridan. Although the shirt was baggy, it was obvious April filled it out. Joe caught a whiff of wet paint and noted that April had painted her fingernails and toenails black as well.
April had come back after years of being passed from foster family to foster family. She’d seen and done things that couldn’t be unseen or undone. Marybeth and Joe had thought they were on a path to an understanding with April, and then Marybeth had discovered April’s stash of marijuana.
“Good night,” April said, filling a water glass to take to bed with her. Then: “Seven more days of hell.”
Joe and Marybeth exchanged glances, and Marybeth arched her eyebrows. For a second there, she seemed to communicate to Joe, April forgot she was angry with us.
“Maybe,” Marybeth said, “the sentence could be reduced by a day or two for good behavior. But there will have to be some good behavior.”
April turned and flashed a beaming, false smile and batted her lashes. “Good night, my wonderful parents!” she said. “How’s that?”
Joe stifled a smile.
“Not buying it,” Marybeth said. “But close.”
“Why did you paint your nails black?” Joe asked.
April recoiled as if shocked by the stupidity of the question. “Because it matches my mood, of course,” she said.
“Ah,” Joe said.
MARYBETH POURED herself a glass of wine and sat down at the kitchen table while Joe ate his egg sandwich. After April’s bedroom door closed, she said, “It’s been tough, but in a way this grounding might turn out to be a good thing for all of us, if it doesn’t kill me first.”
Joe raised his eyebrows.
“In a weird way, she seems happier.”
“She does?”
“Not judging by what she says, of course. But she seems to have an inner calm I haven’t noticed since she’s been back,” Marybeth said, sipping at her glass. “Maybe it’s be
cause she finally knows where the boundaries are. Sheridan and Lucy just know, but April, I don’t think, has ever been sure. She probably doesn’t even realize it, and she’d never admit it. But I think she might be kind of like my horses: she just needs to know the pecking order and where the fences are and then she’ll be more comfortable.”
Joe finished his sandwich and opened the cupboard door over the refrigerator, where he kept his bottle of bourbon.
Marybeth said, “But judging by the way things usually go, something could always happen that screws things up.”
“Are you thinking about Nate?” Joe asked.
She nodded.
“Me, too,” he said, thinking of what Nate had said earlier. Thinking of Nate’s devotion to Joe’s family, his tenderness toward Sheridan, his protection of Marybeth. How much he’d miss Nate if he never saw him again.
10
AT THE SAME TIME, fifteen miles upriver and four and a half miles to the east, Pam Kelly slammed down the telephone receiver and cursed out loud: “Fuck you, too, Bernard!”
Bernard was her insurance agent. He didn’t have any good news.
She spun around in her kitchen on the dirty floor—she’d quit scrubbing it years before when she realized Paul and Stumpy would never learn to take off their muddy boots outside—and jabbed her finger at two yellowed and curling photographs held by magnets to her refrigerator door, Paul squatting next to a dead elk with its tongue lolling, and Stumpy holding the severed head of a pronghorn antelope just above his shoulder, and shouted, “Fuck you, Paul. And fuck you, too, Stumpy! How could you do this to me?”
SHE’D MET Paul Kelly thirty-two years before at a rodeo in Kaycee, Wyoming. She was chasing a bareback rider across the mountain west named Jim “Deke” Waldrop who had charmed her and deflowered her behind the chutes at her hometown rodeo in North Platte, Nebraska, and she was convinced he’d marry her if she could only get him to slow down long enough. So she’d borrowed her father’s farm pickup and stolen her mother’s egg money and hit the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association circuit that July, trying to locate Deke and nail him down. She’d missed him in Greeley, caught a glimpse of him getting bucked off in Cody but couldn’t find him afterward, and had a flat tire just outside of Nampa, where she could hear the roar of the crowd in the distant arena as he rode to a 92, and Deke Waldrop, flush with cash, went off to celebrate with his buddies.