Force of Nature

by C. J. Box

  She checked the clock behind her and went back, once again, into the business office. “The library will close in five minutes,” she said, and again blinked the lights.

  She hoped the driver of the crossover would appear and go out into the lot for his car. Marybeth didn’t enjoy going back into the library to roust patrons, because she never knew what she’d find. Once, it was a couple of teenagers she knew making out under a study table, partially undressed. Sometimes it was a homeless old man sleeping in one of the lounge chairs in the reading area and she’d had to wake him up. Once, she’d found an ancient sleeping ranch hand with his sweat-stained cowboy hat lowered over his face. When she awakened him, he jumped up wild-eyed and hollered: “Close the damned gate, Charlie! The fucking horses are getting out!”

  THERE WAS a creak from the shadows beyond the stacks, and she looked up but could see no one.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  There was no response.

  “Oh, please,” she whispered, “it’s time to go.”

  There were myths that the old library building was haunted, but she didn’t believe in ghosts. Lucy told her the library was now a stop on the Halloween night “Ghosts of Saddlestring” tour the chamber of commerce sponsored. According to Lucy, the story recounted on the tour by Stovepipe—the county court bailiff who volunteered to lead the ghost tours—was about a workman who’d died from an accident while the building was under construction. Because the man who died was an ornery Swede and the foreman a resentful Norwegian, the body was left where it lay and the walls were built up around it. Now, according to Lucy via Stovepipe, passersby sometimes heard Swedish wailing from inside the library late at night. Marybeth had laughed off the story at the time and said, “Swedish wailing? How would they know?”

  But now she thought about it. And felt foolish for doing so.

  Then she heard another creak from the stacks of books.

  She took a deep breath and walked out from behind the counter. She’d need to find whoever was still inside the building.

  Several times over the last year, Joe had driven into town and waited for her to come outside after the late shift. She’d told him it wasn’t necessary. Tonight, though, she wished he was out there.

  Before leaving the desk, she retrieved her purse from under the counter. Clutching her cell phone in one hand and a small container of pepper spray Joe had pressed on her years before in the other, she went to find the last remaining patron. Joe had once tried to talk her into carrying a gun in her purse and she’d disagreed with him, saying it was dangerous and unnecessary. Now, though …

  SHE ASSUMED the last remaining patron would be at the tables. But there was no one in the study area or reading lounge. On the way to the back she’d glanced down the aisles between shelves of books and hadn’t seen anyone loitering. She pushed open the door to the women’s restroom and called, “Hello?” No response. She leaned in, glanced for shoes beneath the stalls, shut the lights out, and did the same with the men’s. Both were empty.

  Marybeth took a deep breath and walked from one side of the building to the other, methodically checking each aisle of shelves for the owner of the vehicle outside. She speculated that perhaps the driver wasn’t even in the library—that he or she had simply parked his or her car in a public lot and walked elsewhere or was picked up. It seemed unlikely, though, since there were no retail stores open in the neighborhood and the Stockman’s Bar was four blocks away, with plenty of parking available on the street.

  There was no one in the aisles.

  As she walked back up to the front counter, she defied her inner librarian and called out, “Is anybody still in the library? I’m ready to turn out the lights and lock up.” Her voice sounded weak to her. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  From the front of the building, she heard a man clear his throat.

  She froze for a moment, squeezing hard on both the phone and the pepper spray. At least she thought she’d heard a man. But it might be that damned boiler….

  _______

  HE STOOD at the checkout counter with his back to her as she approached. The man was tall, with light hair, wide shoulders, and long legs. He wore a heavy brown suede leather jacket that looked expensive.

  “May I help you?” she asked. “We need to close up the building.”

  The man swiveled his head toward her, and she instantly felt a chill. He was pale, with sharp, close-set blue eyes and high cheekbones that looked sculpted. What was striking about him were his full red lips. His mouth was set in a slight, bemused smile.

  “I think you can,” he said softly. There was a twinge of a Southern accent. He held up a stack of three or four books.

  She bustled around the end of the counter, putting it between them. She felt his eyes on her as she casually moved the hand with the pepper spray behind her back. As she bent over to sit in her chair and slid close to the counter, she placed the phone on her desk and the spray can on her lap where he wouldn’t be able to see it. She tried not to appear rattled.

  “I’d like to check these out,” he said. “But I can’t seem to find my library card.”

  “I can’t issue you a new one right now,” she said, “but we can have it done tomorrow for a five-dollar replacement fee.”

  “Five dollars?” he asked, amused. “That’s just highway robbery.”

  She looked up at him. He seemed to be playing with her, and she tried to make him know she wasn’t entertained. “You can check out the books with a temporary voucher, provided you’re a county resident. But you’ll need to find your card or get a new one as soon as possible.”

  “Or what happens to me?” he asked, smiling with his mouth.

  “What happens to you?” she repeated.

  “Yeah. Do I get thrown in jail? Does the sheriff come to my house and lock me up?”

  She felt the hairs prick up on the back of her neck and her forearms as she said, “No. You can’t check out any more books.”

  “What if these are the only books I’ll ever need? Then what?”

  She looked back at him, exasperated. “I really don’t have time for this,” she said. “We need to close the library.”

  She reached out for the three books, and he handed them to her. As she took them, he kept a grip on them for a second, then released. His smile never wavered.

  “Please,” she said.

  She quickly scanned them. The Art of War by Sun Tzu, The Looming Tower by Lawrence Wright, and Falconry and Hawking by Phillip Glasier. She paused before she scanned the last book.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “No.”

  She’d seen a copy of the book before. Nate had given it to her daughter Sheridan when she first showed interest in becoming an apprentice.

  “It’s kind of dated,” he said, “but the basic foundation hasn’t changed for thousands of years. So how dated can it really be?”

  “I have no idea,” she said, scanning the book. She had trouble meeting his eyes again. How could that book be a coincidence? She turned to the side to face her computer monitor.

  “What’s your name, please?” she asked, calling up the database of county residents who had library cards.

  “Bob White,” he said, chuckling. “Just like the bird.”

  She entered the name. “There’s a Randall White and an Irene White but no Bob. Do you go by Randall?”

  “I’m surprised,” he said, but his tone wasn’t. He said, “There must be some kind of mistake.”

  She turned back to him and shrugged.

  “Maybe you can try again,” he said. “Maybe you entered the wrong name.”

  “I don’t think I did.”

  “Try it again,” he said. “Just for grins.”

  She didn’t want to but had no good reason to refuse other than reluctance to turn her back on him again. But if it would move things along and get him out of there …

  While she tapped the keys he said, “So where is your husband these days? Still out inve
stigating?” The last word simmered with sarcasm and she mistyped “W-h-i-t-e” and had to delete and rekey. It wasn’t unusual for patrons to ask about Joe. The location of the game warden was valuable information in a hunting and fishing community. But the question was tinged with malice, and was too familiar from someone she’d never met.

  “No, he’s on his way here now,” she lied.

  “He is, is he?” he chuckled. He obviously didn’t believe her, and she felt her neck flush.

  Then: “What about your kids? Are they home?”

  A chill rolled through her. She couldn’t type. She swiveled in her chair and stared at him.

  “Why are you asking about my family?” she whispered.

  “I guess I’m just neighborly. I’m a neighborly guy.”

  “You need to leave,” she said, dropping her right hand below the counter and gripping the pepper spray. “You have no idea who you’re talking to. You do not talk about my family,” she said, her eyes flashing.

  “Who are you?” she asked, terrified that she already knew.

  “Bob White. Like the bird. I already told you that.”

  “I could call nine-one-one right now,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, you could, Marybeth. And we could both wait here in embarrassed silence until they arrived.”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. When he used her name, she felt as if she’d been slapped.

  “Your name tag,” he said, gesturing toward her breast.

  She felt her face flush.

  “What I’m really interested in,” he said, leaning forward on the counter so his face was two feet away, “is falconry. They call it the sport of kings, you know. It’s an ancient art with almost religious overtones.” He tapped the book as he talked. “I understand you’re acquainted with a master falconer. I’d love to talk with him and, you know, pick his brain.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  He shook his head slightly, as if disappointed.

  “Please,” she said, her mouth trembling. “Just leave.”

  A low hum suddenly came from the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and she saw a split-second look of irritation in his eyes. He rose off the counter and pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the caller ID.

  He stepped back away from the counter until he was in an aisle of shelving. Close enough to keep an eye on her but far enough not to be overheard. Or so he thought. Due to the strange acoustics in the building, she could clearly hear him when he raised the phone to his mouth and said, “Yes?”

  Beneath the counter, out of his view, Marybeth reached down and opened her own phone. She kept her chin and eyes up, though, so he couldn’t sense what she was doing. Opening her phone, she opened up her “favorites” screen. Joe’s number was at the top, and she pressed send. Quickly, and without looking down, she keyed the speaker button and turned down the volume of his voice message. It was good to hear his recorded voice, even briefly, before she dialed it down. When the prompt came to leave a message—she had the cadence memorized and knew without hearing it—she increased the volume all the way. She was now recording on his phone, wherever it was. And he’d hear what happened in the library if anything did.

  The man who called himself Bob White listened to his phone without responding. But even at that distance and in the poor light, she could see him stiffen.

  “But not our target?” His voice was clipped and angry.

  Then: “I don’t care. We can talk about it when you get here.”

  After a minute more of holding the phone up to his ear, the man closed it without another word and dropped it into his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then strode back toward her out of the shadows. His head was tilted slightly forward, and his eyes pierced into her from under his brow. She felt her heart beat faster.

  He turned sharply toward the door to the parking lot, as if changing his mind from his original intention. Over his shoulder, he said, “You can keep the books. I’ve already read them.”

  He walked toward the doors swiftly, retrieving his phone and raising it to his face. Before he pushed his way out, he covered the speaker and looked back over his shoulder.

  “It was a real pleasure to meet you, Marybeth Pickett,” he said through clenched teeth. “I look forward to the next time.”

  And he was gone.

  SHE WAITED until he was clear of the vestibule before running to the doors herself and throwing the locks. Even though she was sure she’d attended to all of them, she double-checked each. Through the glass, she could see him backing out of his space and turning toward the exit onto Main Street.

  She was shaking so badly she had to concentrate to punch the three numbers on the handset back at her desk. When Wendy, the dispatcher, answered, Marybeth said, “This is Marybeth at the library. A man was just here….”

  And after she hung up, she picked up her cell phone and said, “Joe, I hope you heard that. It was him. Get home now. I’m calling the girls to tell them to lock everything up and stay inside. Joe, he knows too much about us.”

  22

  JOE PICKETT didn’t receive the message, because at 9:30 he was miles away from the highway, on the side of a mountain, grinding his departmental pickup down a brutal and narrow two-track in the falling snow. He was looking for an abandoned line shack deep in the timber that might or might not contain the remains of Alice Thunder. By the time he neared the shack, he was quietly fuming.

  Heavy wet snowflakes shot through the beams of his headlights like meteors. Luckily, the road was knuckled with protruding rocks so the traction on his tires was sound, but they made for painfully slow progress and a ride similar to being caught inside a tumbling clothes dryer.

  “We’re getting closer,” Luke Brueggemann said, the GPS unit glowing in his lap. “That is, if those hunters who found the body gave the sheriff the right coordinates.”

  Joe leaned forward and tried to see the sky through the top of the windshield. “I don’t like this snow right now,” he said. “We’ve got to get in, check out that line shack, and get out. I don’t want to get stuck back here on the dark side of the moon.”

  “I think I’ve heard that story,” Brueggemann said, grinning.

  “There’s not much funny about it.”

  “It’s kind of a legend among the trainers,” Brueggemann said, referring to the time Joe had been handcuffed to his steering wheel by a violator, who escaped during a blizzard. “In fact, there’s probably more case studies of things you’ve gotten into than any other game warden.”

  “Is that so?” Joe said, not knowing whether to be angry or impressed.

  “Seems that way.”

  “How far until we reach the line shack?”

  Brueggemann held the GPS up and traced the contours on the screen. “A mile, maybe.”

  “Good. I’ve got a lot of patience, but I’m just about ready to call Cheyenne and ask them to cut us loose from this investigation. I’ve never done that before, but we’re doing nothing out here except burning fuel and calories.”

  “So you don’t think we’ll find her body?”

  “Look around us,” Joe said. “We’re forty miles from the res. Do you really think a nice middle-aged lady like Alice Thunder would end up here?”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “I do,” Joe said. “This is a wild-goose chase.”

  “But we’re gonna check out the shack first, right?” Brueggemann asked.

  “Of course. But first thing tomorrow morning—provided we can get out of here tonight—I’m calling Cheyenne.”

  “Does that mean we’re going to get to do real game-warden stuff?” the trainee asked. “Like checking out hunters and finally visiting all those elk camps?”

  _______

  FOR THE PAST day and a half, they’d been assigned to Sheriff McLanahan through an agreement reached between the governor’s office and the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department. To both Joe Pickett’s and Sh
eriff McLanahan’s chagrin, County Attorney Dulcie Schalk had gone over the sheriff’s head and pulled together a multiagency effort that involved local, county, state, and federal law enforcement personnel. In addition to the state DCI and the Bureau of Indian Affairs investigators, Schalk had also commandeered state troopers and had borrowed deputies and investigators from adjoining counties, over the sheriff’s objections. But characteristically, McLanahan claimed credit for the effort to the Saddlestring Roundup and described it as “a show of force not seen since the Johnson County Range War.” Despite McLanahan’s frequent interviews with radio journalists and television stations from Billings to Casper and the impressive coordination effort spearheaded by Schalk, no progress had been made on either the three missing-persons cases or the triple homicide.

  Because of Joe’s familiarity with the vast and empty corners of the county—and to keep him out of the way—McLanahan had assigned him the job of following up on far-flung anonymous tips and unsubstantiated sightings of Bad Bob Whiteplume, Alice Thunder, or Pam Kelly. All the leads had gone nowhere. Bad Bob was reportedly seen in Las Vegas and in the crowd of a Denver Nuggets basketball game. The Feds got those to follow up on. But when someone called in that they’d witnessed Bad Bob rappelling down the steep walls of Savage Run Canyon, it fell into Joe’s bailiwick. Joe and his trainee had driven as close to the rim of the canyon as they could and hiked the rest of the way, to find no evidence of Bad Bob or anybody else.

  Pam Kelly had been reported lurking around the corrals of a neighboring ranch, but when Joe and Brueggemann got there, the mysterious person turned out to be a barmaid from the Stockman’s Bar. She explained haltingly that she was “moonlighting”—performing an erotic dance routine for three Mexican cowhands in the bunkhouse for money. They drove her back to her car.