Out of Range

by C. J. Box

  Joe nodded grimly and dismounted. He could feel the scab of the wound in his side crack open under the dressing.

  "How bad are you hurt?" Tassell asked. "Not too bad," Joe said. "I need some stitches, I think. Lost some blood."

  "You need the ambulance to take you in?" Tassell asked.

  "No."

  Tassell turned to his deputies and gestured toward the third horse. "Untie the body and put it in the ambulance," he told them. "Tell the driver to go straight to Dr. Graves's."

  Joe walked slowly toward his pickup.

  "You're not driving yourself," the sheriff called after him, exasperated. "What in the hell are you thinking?"

  Randy Pope stepped out from the small crowd. He wore crisp jeans, new boots, a snap-button shirt, and a denim jacket.

  "I talked to Trey Crump," Pope said. "He said to tell you you're on administrative leave until the investigation of the shooting is concluded. As you know, it's routine procedure."

  Joe nodded. "I figured that would happen." Looking Pope over, he said, "Looks like you've been to the western-wear store."

  He ignored Joe's comment. "He said to tell you to give him a call as soon as you could."

  "I planned to," Joe said.

  Pope stepped in close. "So was it a gunfight, like they say?"

  "It was more like assisted suicide," Joe said glumly. "Smoke fired first."

  "Then you shot him?"

  Joe nodded, too tired to speak.

  Pope sighed and looked toward the darkening sky. Stars were beginning to poke through like needle pricks in dark fabric. "I need to work overtime just to keep up with the paperwork you generate," he complained.

  TASSELL TURNED HIS SUV over to a deputy and drove Joe's pickup, while Joe slouched in the passenger seat.

  They were on the blacktop when the sheriff said, "This is Will Jensen's truck, isn't it?" Joe nodded. "Mine burned up." The sheriff shook his head. "I heard about that. Things tend to happen around you, don't they? Just like Barnum said they would."

  Joe didn't respond.

  "Will tried for years to build a case on Smoke, and in the three days you're up there you kill the guy."

  "It wasn't like that," Joe said, but didn't want to explain. He was thinking about the contents of the last spiral notebook. How it was all coming together. How ugly it had been for Will at the end.

  THEY DROVE IN silence until Joe could see the lights of Jackson in the distance. It seemed as if he had lived there forever, not just a few days. The ambulance was stopped on the highway in front of them so that a long column of tourists on horseback could cross the highway en route to their guest ranch for the night. Tassell stopped directly behind it, the headlights of the pickup shining into the ambulance and illuminating the body wrapped in the ground tarp.

  "There goes my budget for medical examinations for the fiscal year," Tassell sighed.

  AFTER AN EXAMINATION, a blood test, twenty stitches in his side and eight in his arm, Joe was remanded to the hospital for a night of observation. He was given sedatives by a doctor whose name tag identified him as "Dr. Thompson," who also wore a Day-Glo button that read "SKI BUM." The sedative was starting to dull the pain and bring him down. Before he went to sleep, he reached for the telephone at the side of his bed.

  "Marybeth," Joe said, thrilled at hearing the sound of her voice, "I just killed the only man in Jackson Hole I really understood."

  THIRTY-ONE

  As he dressed the next morning, Joe tried to recall the conversation he'd had the night before with Marybeth, and snippets came floating back. It had been difficult to concentrate with the drugs kicking in, and the only thing that kept him awake during the conversation was the tone of her voice, which was urgent and somehow melancholy at the same time, as if she wanted to be angry with him but the circumstances prevented it. At the time, it was important for him to hear her voice, to touch base, to reestablish something. He needed her to be his anchor, to reel him back home from where he was. But she had other concerns. Sheridan was being difficult, having attitude problems, and life between Marybeth and her oldest daughter was getting tougher. "It's a mother and daughter deal," Marybeth said, as if Joe would understand that. In response, he offered to talk with Sheridan—they had a special rapport, he thought—but Marybeth said their daughter was already in bed.

  He vividly remembered her telling him that Barnum was the 720 caller, the "720" being from a calling card, and that

  Nate had caught the ex-sheriff in the act in the Stockman's Bar. The news of Barnum's humiliation had swept through town, she said, and the old ex-sheriff was lying low, nowhere to be found. Joe cautioned his wife to watch out for Barnum.

  "He blames me for his bad luck," Joe said.

  "Don't worry," she said, "Nate is around."

  "That's good."

  "Yes," she said, after a long pause, which led him to wonder. Then: "It is good, isn't it?"

  It seemed there was something else she wanted to say but didn't.

  She had offered to leave the girls with her mother and come to Jackson right away to see him, but he told her not to.

  "I'm more tired than hurt," he said, fixing his eyes on a blank television screen to keep them from closing, "and there's a lot I need to do in the next couple of days. Remember that missing notebook I told you about?"

  He could not remember how their conversation had concluded. What had he told her? Had he outlined his suspicions? If he had, he couldn't remember her response. The details weren't there, but what stayed with him as he dressed was a recollection of vague misconnection, as if they had been talking past each other, telling each other different stories, each with a point that the other didn't, or couldn't, grasp.

  "So YOU'VE DECIDED you're fine and you'll release yourself from the hospital?" Dr. Thompson said. "Usually a doctor does that. Namely me."

  Joe was standing with his back to the door, cinching up his belt. He turned to see Dr. Thompson holding a clipboard chart and leaning against the doorjamb. "I needed a good night's sleep more than anything," Joe said.

  "I don't disagree with your prognosis, given your, um, condition."

  Joe was confused.

  "Let me look at your wound and get it redressed," Thompson said. "Then we should probably have a little talk. You need to start taking better care of yourself, Mr. Pickett."

  "I'm not sure what you're talking about," Joe said. "Am I sick?" He thought of how he had felt since arriving in Jackson, the foggy mental state, the sleeplessness, his lack of ability to concentrate. He steeled himself for bad news.

  Thompson looked at Joe with amusement in his eyes, as if signaling him they could drop the pretense.

  "Look, I'm a doctor, not a cop," Thompson said. "The blood test we took last night is confidential information. No one can find out what's on it. But you seem like a nice enough guy, and you have law enforcement responsibilities, and you carry lots of guns around with you. So you need to be aware of the side effects of your, um, indulgences."

  "My what?"

  "First, take off your shirt and let me look at that wound."

  STELLA ENNIS WAS waiting for him in the hospital lobby, and the sight of her stopped him cold. She looked up at him over the top of a Jackson Hole newspaper.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked.

  "Not as good as I thought, apparently." His voice was shaky from the discussion he'd had with Dr. Thompson.

  "You look pretty good," she said, smiling.

  "You do too."

  She laughed, throwing her head back. "You should have seen me ten years and fifteen pounds ago. I would have blown you away."

  She wore a black turtleneck sweater with silver and gold threads running through the fabric, and gray slacks. Her thick auburn hair brushed her shoulders. She shook the newspaper with exaggerated force.

  "Did you know you're a celebrity?" she asked.

  "No."

  "How about I buy you breakfast?"

  "Okay."

  "We need to talk."<
br />
  "Yes," Joe said, "we do."

  THE MORNING WAS crisp and bright, the sun not yet well enough established to have burned the frost off windshields and lawns. They walked along a slick wooden sidewalk to a restaurant near the hospital that was crowded. The place specialized in baked goods and had a sign out front that read GET YOUR BUNS IN HERE.

  "I used to love this place," Stella said, taking him by the hand and leading him past it, "but I'm a little too familiar in there and it isn't as good as it used to be. Let's go to the Sportsman's Cafe."

  "That's my favorite," Joe said.

  "I know," she said, rolling her eyes. "It was Will's favorite too."

  ED SEATED THEM in the back booth near the kitchen door, and Joe ordered the Sportsman's Special. Stella smiled knowingly at the order.

  "I know," Joe said. "Will's choice too."

  "It's spooky," she said, ordering coffee and a bagel.

  Joe looked at her across the table, and she looked straight back. Her name had come up so many times since he'd met her. He'd thought about her, even dreamed about her. The fact that he hadn't told Marybeth about her said more than he cared to think about. When Stella looked back at him he had the impression he'd been on her mind as well, but he wasn't sure in what context. It was as if they'd been circling each other for days, each looking for an opening.

  "You start," she said.

  He sipped his coffee, burning his tongue. "It's been a long time since I've had breakfast with a woman other than my wife," he said.

  She smiled. "I believe that. Do you want to leave?"

  It took him a moment to respond. "No."

  "I don't want you to leave either."

  He took another sip, looking at her over the top of his cup, trying to convince himself that what he was doing was part of his investigation.

  "You've never met a woman like me," she said softly. He watched her lips, saw a flash of white teeth when she spoke.

  "You're right."

  "Don't worry," she said, cutting the words off, as if she'd planned to say more.

  "I found Will's last notebook," he said.

  "In the state cabin?"

  He nodded.

  "I looked for it afterward," she said wistfully, breaking their gaze. "I'd hoped he brought it down with him. Where was it—under the mattress?"

  "Yes. I saw your initial in the guest book. I recognized it from the invitation you sent."

  She smiled, and her eyes filmed over, as if remembering something that touched her. It wasn't guilt, he thought.

  "I wanted to leave some kind of record," she said. "In case something happened to me. Or to both of us. You know that outfitter Smoke Van Horn? The one you shot? He saw us together up there. He didn't approve."

  "I know."

  "He was the least of our worries, though. He didn't realize I was trying to save Will."

  "Were you?"

  "Obviously I didn't do a very good job of it."

  Joe started to speak when Ed slid a big platter in front of him and handed Stella her bagel on a plate.

  "These are on the house," Ed said. "Enjoy!"

  Joe looked up. "What's the occasion?"

  "This is my last day of business here," Ed said, his eyes betraying his beaming mouth-only smile. "Jackson has plumb outgrown me."

  "Damn," Joe said.

  "I'd have done the same for Smoke," Ed said. "He was a good customer too.

  "See that up there on the shelf?" Ed gestured to a garishly painted ceramic lion's head. "That was in honor of Smoke, the Lion of the Tetons. Some of his hunters presented it to him at breakfast once, and he forgot it when he left. I put it up there and it's been there ever since. He always said he wanted it back, but he never took it with him."

  Joe could feel Stella's eyes on him, watching his reaction.

  "It's a shame," Ed said.

  "You mean Smoke? Or your last day of business?" Joe asked.

  Ed turned back toward the kitchen. "Both, I guess," he said over his shoulder.

  JOE AND STELLA talked long after the dishes were cleared. He had drunk so much coffee he felt jittery. She asked him about what had happened at the cabin, and he recounted it all. She seemed fascinated by the story, but focused in on what he was thinking at the time, and how he felt after, not the details of the shooting. He was again taken by how comfortable he was with her, how easy she was to talk with. He wondered if Will had felt the same way. Then he answered his own question: of course he did. He'd said as much in his notebook.

  "I DON'T KNOW what to say," Joe said. "I'm talked out."

  "I think you do," she said. "You're just scared of the words."

  He looked up at her.

  "Just because you love someone doesn't mean you can't care for another just as much. It's about context. It doesn't have to be an either/or situation. You can have both."

  Joe felt his eyes grow wide, and squinted them back. He felt the ZING.

  "I don't know," he stammered.

  "I'm safe," she said, leaning across the table toward him. "You will never meet a woman as safe as I am. I have no agenda, and I don't want either of us to get hurt. But I want to be with you, Joe, if only for a little while. As long as it's real, and as honest as we can make it."

  "What about Don?" Joe asked, not even believing he had asked.

  "Don't ruin the mood," she said abruptly. "Don thinks of me as part of him. And since Don is obsessed with the very idea and concept of Don Ennis, well..."

  Ed appeared with the pot of coffee. Joe didn't know whether to embrace him or send him away.

  "WHAT IS IT you're trying to find out here?" he asked, looking out the window.

  She was quiet for a few moments. Then: "I told you. I'm looking for authenticity. Genteel authenticity. All my life I've been surrounded by people who pose, who play a role. For the first twenty-five years of my life, I didn't know the difference between actors and the real people they based their performances on. I'm sick of the interpretation. I want to go to the source."

  "And you think you'll find it here?"

  She laughed, tossed her head back. "Not in Jackson, no. But yes, I think I'll find it out here. I think I'm getting real close right now."

  Joe felt his face get hot. He wondered what kind of authenticity Stella thought she could find in a married man. How could it be authentic if lying was integral to the relationship? But he couldn't say it.

  "We're the last people left in here," Joe said, looking around. "I should get going."

  "And do what?"

  He thought about it. "I've got some things I need to check out."

  She narrowed her eyes, trying to read him.

  "Look," he said, "I'm not sure why I trust you, but I do. Maybe it's because Will did. You've got to answer a question."

  He saw a flash of fear in her dark eyes. What did she think he was going to ask?

  "When you went up to the state cabin with Will, did he seem to get better? His mental state, I mean?"

  "At first, yes," she said. Was that relief he noticed in her face? "The first day up there he said he felt like himself again. He loved Two Ocean Pass, and said he wouldn't mind spending the rest of his days there."

  "He is," Joe said, "but go on."

  She hesitated a moment before continuing. "By the second day, though, he was in bad shape again. He'd have terrible headaches, and he couldn't eat. His hands shook. I tried to help him, you know, keep him distracted. But he was too far gone. He was really depressed when we rode back down. That was a week before, you know ..."

  Joe nodded, thinking.

  "What?" she asked.

  "This morning Dr. Thompson gave me a little lecture about taking care of myself. He said I had drugs in my system."

  Stella looked at Joe, puzzled.

  "He said it was barbiturates. He said even though I'd taken the stuff days before, there were still traces in my blood. He asked me about Valium and Xanax, and warned me that both have some serious side effects."

  She listene
d intently, watching him, something going on behind her eyes.

  "Stella, I've never taken drugs in my life. Somehow, they were introduced. It must have happened before I went up into the Thorofare. I haven't really felt normal since I got here, so now I'm guessing this has been going on for a while."

  "I don't understand," she said.

  "I think the same thing happened to Will. Maybe somebody got to him, figured out a way to drug him. He was under a lot of pressure, and if he didn't know he was being drugged it would have made it worse for him, made him think he was going crazy. It was just a matter of time before he did something horrible."

  She looked stricken, her face drained of color. She knew something, but he didn't know what.

  "You're coming to our party tonight, aren't you?" she asked suddenly.

  Joe sat back. "I hadn't thought of it. I forgot about it, to be honest with you. I never RSVP'd."

  "You need to come," she said, reaching across the table and grasping his hand.

  "Why? It doesn't seem like the kind of thing I'm good at."

  "It's important to me that you come," she said, her eyes burning into his. "It's essential. I'll make sure you're on the guest list. The Secret Service wants a guest list by noon."

  "Stella..."

  "What you just told me opens everything up," she said. "It's like a light just went on. But I need to think about it, and make sure I'm on the right track."

  "What are you talking about?" he asked.

  "Come tonight," she said, grabbing her jacket and sliding out of the booth. "Everything will come together tonight. We'll have everybody we need in one room."

  He didn't know what to make of that. He wanted to believe she was on his side, on Will's side. That she was going to help solve the puzzle of Will's death, but in her own way.

  She seemed to confirm it when she strode around the table and bent down and kissed him full on the mouth. Her lips were warm and soft, and he could still taste them as she walked out of the Sportsman's Cafe without looking back.