Out of Range

by C. J. Box

"So he thinks there's something there?" Joe asked, a little surprised. He had assumed, incorrectly, that Graves was as anxious to put the death behind him as Tassell seemed to be.

  "He's not sure," Tassell said. "But he made that suggestion. Dumped it in my lap, actually. Of course, the cost for that kind of expert wouldn't come out of his budget."

  Joe grinned sourly. "So that's what this is about, huh? Maybe the state DCI would—"

  "I don't want the state involved, coming in here after the fact," Tassell said impatiently. "Not based on a couple of photos and the fact that you thought the gun was uncomfortable to hold in a certain position. Jesus, why would a guy so strung out that he wanted to commit suicide even care if he was uncomfortable at the last second of his life?"

  "It just doesn't fit," Joe said.

  "Is that a reason to raise the issue? Unless we've got more than that, I can't spend our money for a high-priced outside expert."

  "Don't you want to be sure?" Joe asked.

  Tassell said, "Don't put that on me, Joe. You're as bad as Graves."

  "You're the sheriff," Joe said. "It's your decision."

  Tassell moaned and cursed. "Okay, I'll give it some thought. Those photos aren't going anywhere. Maybe once we get the VP out of town and I know where our budget is—"

  "Why wait?" Joe asked.

  "Because," Tassell shouted before hanging up, "that's what I do."

  HE HAD JUST rolled the maps into tubes for his trip and cleared his inbox when Mary Seels appeared at his office door and said, "Joe, your truck is on fire."

  THE ONLY THINGS he was able to save were the panniers he had packed in the back of his truck the night before. The cab and engine were engulfed in flames, loud, crackling, angry flames so loud he almost didn't hear the two biologists screaming at him from second-story windows in the building, "GET AWAY FROM THAT BEFORE IT EXPLODES!"

  Which he did and it did, with a ground-shaking WHUMP, as he stood near the corrals with the scorched panniers at his feet. A huge black roll of smoke mushroomed from his pickup and hung in the air at roof level. The morning smelled of burning gasoline, oil, plastic, and melting rubber. His truck was a hot black shell by the time the fire department arrived. When the firemen turned their hoses on it the metal steamed and sizzled and the wet clouds of condensation rolled across the parking lot and made him gag as he attempted to duck beneath them.

  AS JOE CIRCLED the truck, marveling that the only thing that looked intact was the gear shift knob, Assistant Director Randy Pope showed up.

  "How did this happen?" Pope asked, touching the metal of the window frame and snapping his hand back from the heat.

  "I have no idea," Joe said. "I drove it to work this morning, parked it, and it caught on fire."

  "Were you in it at the time?"

  Joe shook his head. "I was at my desk."

  No one had seen the truck catch fire. The few employees who were in the office had been in the lounge area, celebrating the birthday of one of the biologists. No one had been in the parking lot, and the lot couldn't be seen from the street in front.

  "Did you smell anything burning when you drove it last?" Pope asked. "Did the gauges tell you anything? Were you overheating? Brand-new twenty-nine-thousand-dollar vehicles just don't catch on fire."

  "No," Joe said, "nothing." But he thought how disoriented he had felt that morning, how dizzy he had been. Maybe some wiring was bad and he hadn't noticed it?

  Pope stopped and shook his head. "Let's see," he asked rhetorically, "isn't this your third department vehicle that's a total loss?"

  "I didn't do anything," Joe said, aware of how weak that sounded. "It just caught on fire somehow and burned up."

  "When was the last time it was in for maintenance?"

  Joe tried to remember. "When I got the bodywork done on it after I damaged the frame." He added, "I think. The maintenance log got burned up too."

  Pope looked at Joe with condescension. "Three vehicles in five years is some kind of record, I believe."

  Joe tried to remain calm. "Maybe someone torched it."

  "Think so?" Pope asked. "Who have you made angry enough to do that? You haven't even been here a week."

  Joe thought, Pi Stevenson, Smoke Van Horn, the society woman who killed the deer, Don Ennis ... maybe even Sheriff Tassell. But he said, "I don't know."

  FROM HIS OFFICE window, Joe watched the tow truck hook up his burned vehicle and take it away. He felt profoundly unhappy, verging on pathetic, he thought. He didn't have his family, his house, his horses, his dog. Now he'd lost his truck, along with his cell phone, weapons, and records. Plus, he still felt strange.

  "How are you doing, Joe?"

  He turned. Mary Seels stood at his door.

  "Come in," he said. "I'm just waiting for them to bust in and take my clothes and my manhood."

  She didn't laugh, but held up a key ring. "These are spare keys to Will Jensen's vehicle," she said. "There's no reason why you shouldn't use his old truck. It's perfectly fine, as far as I know."

  Joe grimaced. The irony was inescapable. "I have a dead man's job, a dead man's house, the dead man's problems, and I've been mistaken for a dead man," he told her. "And now I have a dead man's pickup truck." He left out that he also had the dead man's ashes in an urn in the panniers he had saved.

  She didn't respond.

  He took the keys and thanked her, but she didn't leave, just lingered near the door. This time, he decided not to push her. After a few beats, she stepped back into his office and eased the door shut behind her.

  "Joe, about a week before he died, Will said something to me."

  Joe sat down.

  "He was in pretty bad shape when he came into the office that morning," she said. "I thought he was hungover, and frankly, I wasn't very kind to him. Now, when I look back on it, I think he was sick, or really depressed.

  "I gave him kind of a hard look, I guess, when I gave him his messages. He just stood there. He looked so lonely, but at the time I didn't feel sorry for him."

  Mary stopped and took a breath, kneading her hands together, looking around the room as if she suspected someone might be listening. "Will said he thought they were out to get him, and they were closing in. He said he thought there was only one person he could trust in this valley. I thought at the moment he said it he meant me."

  "He didn't?" Joe asked.

  "No," she said, "he said someone else. That really hurt me, Joe. I know it's emotional, and irrational, but it really hurt me. I'd been covering for him for so long ..."

  "So who was it?" Joe asked.

  Mary's face hardened. "He said the only person he trusted was Stella Ennis."

  IT WAS LATE afternoon before Joe set off for the trailhead in Will Jensen's pickup, the horse trailer hooked up behind. The interior of the truck was so similar to his own that when he realized he had not called Marybeth, he reached for the cell phone that wasn't there.

  He cursed. He had to reach her before he rode north, into country where he would be inaccessible. He stopped at a pay phone on the side of the highway, but it was out of order. Finally, he called the dispatcher over his radio and asked her to patch him through to his home number. He hoped Marybeth would be there, and maybe he could speak to Sheridan and Lucy since school was over. God, he missed them.

  His wife answered, and the sound of her voice lifted his spirits.

  "Marybeth, I'm glad I caught you."

  "It's about time, Joe. I was starting to think you'd run off on me."

  "Honey," he said, wondering how many game wardens, dispatchers, brand inspectors, and citizens with scanners were listening to every word, "I've been patched through on the radio. So this isn't a private call."

  "Oh," she said, obviously disappointed. "Why didn't you call me on the cell? Or from your office?"

  "My cell phone burned up. In fact, my whole truck burned up."

  Silence.

  "I know it sounds ridiculous, but my truck caught on fire this morning in the parking
lot. I'm calling from Will's old pickup."

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  "Fine. Don't worry about anything. Look, I'm going to be out of touch for three or four days. I wanted to check in with you before I go."

  Her hesitation told him everything he needed to know.

  "Three or four days?"

  "At least," he said. "I'm sorry."

  He was in a bind, he thought. He didn't want to tell her where he was going in case someone who knew Smoke Van Horn, or Smoke himself, was monitoring the radio traffic. He wished he could explain himself fully to her to alleviate her concern and lessen her anger.

  When she finally replied, she sounded cold, businesslike: "Joe, when you get back and to a phone, we need to talk."

  "I know. I'm looking forward to it."

  "That's nice, I guess."

  "Marybeth—"

  "A man threw a dead fawn on our lawn last night. Oh, and we keep getting those calls."

  His heart sank. He had hoped to hear that things were going surprisingly well. "I hope you called Nate," Joe said.

  "Yes. He helped us out with the fawn."

  "Good—"

  "But there are still the calls. And Joe, we need to talk again about one of our daughters."

  "Sheridan?"

  "I thought you said this wasn't a private call," Marybeth snapped.

  "It isn't, I'm sorry. Is she okay?"

  "She's fine, but we're having some difficulties."

  "Marybeth—"

  "Joe, this isn't working. This call, I mean. I don't like talking with you this way. So just make sure to call me the minute you can, okay? If you can spare the time."

  He heard the phone slam down and felt needles of ice shoot into his heart.

  AT THE SAME time, not far from the Twelve Sleep River, Nate Romanowski released his red-tailed hawk and peregrine falcon to the sky. He stood back and watched them search until they found a thermal current, then climbed into the sky in wide circles. It was a clear, cloudless fall afternoon. As the birds rose, he walked away from his home into the field of sagebrush.

  He walked noisily, tromping through the brush and occasionally crushing it under his boots. His noise and activity would alarm any hidden prey in the field, and startle them into flight. Nate functioned as a human bird dog for his falcons.

  The peregrine released first, and dropped through the cobalt sky like a rock being dropped. He could hear it slice through the air, wings tucked, talons balled into fists. Nate hadn't seen the cottontail rabbit, but no matter. His bird had. The collision on the ground was a muted thunderclap amid a puff of dust and rabbit fur.

  The red tail continued to circle, surveying the ground, while Nate walked. He passed the peregrine, who was cracking the bones of the rabbit and eating it whole. Ten minutes later, there was a flurry in the sagebrush a few feet in front of him, and a full-sized jackrabbit launched into the open and ran toward the far ridge in the direction of the road. He watched it go, marveling, as always, at the long lopey stride of the creature that produced the optical illusion of being three times larger than it actually was. He felt as much as saw the red tail target the jackrabbit and start its stoop. Nate stopped, watched the rabbit streak toward the ridge and go over it out of sight while the hawk shot downward in a perfectly murderous nexus.

  Suddenly, the red tail flared, halting its descent, and altered its path. The bird clumsily flapped its wings, climbing again. Had the rabbit escaped? No, Nate decided. Jackrabbits didn't hide in holes, and it couldn't have simply disappeared. Something, he thought, had spooked the red tail. Something on the other side of the ridge.

  Or somebody on the other side of the ridge.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  For ex-sheriff Bud Barnum, the morning started out on a bad note when Stovepipe, the man behind the counter at the city/county building, asked him to walk through the metal detector.

  "You've got to be shitting me," Barnum growled.

  "I ain't," Stovepipe said. "In order to enter the sheriff's office you've got to go through the machine and get a pass. The sheriff says no exceptions."

  "Does it even work?" Barnum asked, knowing that the metal detector was often broken when he was the sheriff.

  "It does now."

  "This is bullshit."

  Stovepipe shrugged in response.

  "I hired you, Stovepipe."

  "And I appreciate that, Bud, I truly do."

  Barnum glared. Stovepipe had always called him "sheriff," not "Bud." As he stepped through the machine, the alarm sounded. Shaking his head, Stovepipe motioned for him to step back.

  Barnum angrily did so, then emptied his pockets, took off his belt, and dropped his gold pen into a plastic bowl. This time, he made it through.

  "I'll need to keep this stuff until you come back," Stovepipe said, handing Barnum a yellow pass.

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope."

  "My pants ..." Barnum said, feeling his neck get hot.

  Stovepipe said, "I got string, if you need it." Barnum recognized the lengths of twine—they were what they gave prisoners in their cells so they couldn't hang themselves with their belts.

  Stovepipe looked into the plastic bowl. "Hey, I remember chipping in on this pen for you. That's a nice one, all right. Looks like they ran outa room for the words though, the way they spelled 'service.'"

  "Keep your fucking hands off it," Barnum said, turning toward the hallway and gripping the top of his pants so they wouldn't fall down around his ankles.

  HE EXPECTED TO see Wendy at the reception desk. Instead, a matronly, dark-haired woman looked up.

  "May I help you?"

  "Where's Wendy?"

  "She's been reassigned. May I help you?"

  "Reassigned where? Who are you?" He was surprised he hadn't heard of the move, and hurt that McLanahan hadn't bothered to consult him about it.

  The receptionist cocked her head in annoyance. "Back to dispatch, I believe. Now, should I know you?"

  Deputy Reed had apparently heard the exchange because he poked his head over the top of his cubicle and said, "Donna, this is Sheriff Barnum."

  "Oh," she said. Barnum caught the shadow of revulsion that passed over her face, and he was shocked by it.

  "I'm here to see McLanahan," Barnum said, unable to bring himself to say Sheriff McLanahan.

  Donna quickly looked down at a sheet in front of her for his name.

  "I don't have an appointment," Barnum said, adding, "I shouldn't need one." He looked to Reed, expecting to see him smiling or nodding, but Reed had sunk back down behind his cubicle.

  Donna picked up her phone, pushed the intercom button, and announced to McLanahan that "Mr. Bud Barnum" was here to see him.

  "No," Donna said into the phone, avoiding Barnum's eyes and lowering her voice, "he just came in."

  "Fuck it," Barnum spat, and strode through the batwing doors at the side of the reception desk. As he passed Reed he looked over, but Reed pretended not to see him. A new deputy—Barnum couldn't recall his name—watched him cross the office with contempt on his face. Barnum entered his old office and closed the door hard behind him.

  McLanahan looked up and gestured toward a chair on the other side of his desk. My old desk, Barnum thought.

  "So, what brings you here, Bud?"

  Barnum sat down, grateful to be able to let loose his grip on the top of his pants.

  "I was thinking about reporting something to you," Barnum said in his most gravel-filled voice, "but after the way I've been treated since I walked into this building, I'm starting to wonder why I'm wasting my time."

  McLanahan smiled coldly, his eyes on his old boss. "We take security a lot more seriously than we used to around here, Bud. We don't have a choice about that."

  "That son of a bitch Stovepipe took my belt."

  "Sorry, but I told him no exceptions."

  "Even for me?"

  McLanahan raised his palms in a "what can I say?" gesture.

  "Why'd you replace We
ndy?" Barnum asked. "I promoted her to that desk job."

  "Things change, Bud," McLanahan said, running his fingers through his thick hair. "As sheriff, I need to make hard decisions."

  "Was it a hard decision to get your hair permed?"

  McLanahan sat forward and narrowed his eyes. "Bud, I'm trying to be civil here ..."

  "What's that cost, anyway? Thirty bucks? Forty? You could just get your head wet and go stand in the wind for the same effect."

  McLanahan looked away. "I'm kind of busy right now. Is there a point to any of this?"

  Barnum sat silently, seething. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

  "I groomed you for this job," Barnum said. "I overlooked your fuck-ups and taught you everything you know. Now that you've got the job, you've forgotten who got you here. What about some respect? A little acknowledgment?"

  McLanahan finally turned his head back around and met his eyes. "Your exit wasn't exactly pretty. A lot of stuff came out. You're lucky I didn't pursue it after I got elected."

  Barnum felt something inside him pop.

  "What do you mean, pursue it?" he shouted.

  "Bud, lower your voice or I'll have you thrown out of here," McLanahan cautioned.

  "You'll have me ... what?" Barnum hissed, scrambling to his feet. "I can't believe your disloyalty, you little prick."

  The sheriff glared back, his face tight with anger. Barnum decided to try a different approach. "Look, McLanahan—"

  "That's Sheriff McLanahan. Now get out."

  Barnum's rage returned to a boil. He looked down to see that his hands were trembling. How easy it would be to dive over the desk and sink his fingers into McLanahan's windpipe, he thought.

  "I'm leaving," Barnum said, his voice a whisper. "I came here to do something good, to tip you off about something. But it seems you know it all now. You don't need my help."

  "If you came in to report a crime, sit down out there with Deputy Reed and give him the information. You know how the procedure works," McLanahan said evenly.

  Barnum turned and walked out, feeling the eyes of Reed, the new deputy, and Donna on him.

  Just let it happen, he thought. Just let the killing take place. Let McLanahan and his department of clowns try to figure it out. Maybe next time they'll show me a little more respect.