by C. J. Box
He didn’t look at them because he didn’t want them to see mist in his eyes. “I’m going to miss you girls.”
And he wished, for a moment, that he wasn’t so damned thrilled about getting his job back.
MARYBETH WAS STILL at home when he returned, which was unusual. So was the fire in the seldom-used stone fireplace. Joe noted that the curtains were drawn, and recalled opening them that morning.
When she came down the hall in her robe, Joe understood.
“The girls are gone, Bud and Missy went to town, and I called the office and told them I’d be late,” she said. Her blond hair fell on her shoulders, her eyes caught the flames of the fire.
“I was thinking of a proper send-off,” she said, smiling. “But I decided on an improper one.” She gestured toward a jumble of quilts that were spread out in front of the fireplace. He hadn’t noticed when he entered.
“What, again?” he said, instantly regretting his choice of words.
“Mr. Romantic,” she said, shaking her head.
“Please ignore what I just said,” stepping toward her.
“I already have.”
“You make it tough to go.”
“Exactly.”
AS HE CLEARED the timber, mountain meadows opened up and so did the view. Dark folds of timbered slopes stretched in all directions and the pale sky fused into the horizon, giving Joe a once-familiar “top of the world” view that now matched his attitude. The two-lane ribbon that was U.S. Highway 14 was rolled out straight and narrow before him. As he approached Burgess Junction, in the heart of the Bighorn National Forest, he had a decision to make. He could stay on 14 all the way to Yellowstone via Greybull and Cody, or take 14-A, the high-altitude route that included the Medicine Wheel Passage. Remembering that when he went to Jackson two years before he chose 14-A and bad things followed, he opted to stay on 14 this time. Superstition.
On top, he got a cell signal again and his phone burred. Chuck Ward was calling from Cheyenne. Joe eased off the highway onto the shoulder and parked.
“We’ve notified the National Park Service that you want to meet with the investigating rangers,” Ward said. “They’ve assembled the principals for a meeting at four this afternoon at their offices. The chief ranger, James Langston, will be there as well. They didn’t seem real excited about the prospect of meeting with you, but they agreed.”
“I thought I was going incognito,” Joe said, puzzled at the change in strategy.
“The governor had a slight change of mind,” Ward said flatly. “He didn’t want to risk them finding out about you after the fact and raising hell with us. Our relationship with the Feds is bad enough without that. We told them you were up there to write a report about the crime and the investigation for the state attorney general’s office. A summary of what’s happened.”
“You mean there isn’t already a report?”
“If there is such an animal,” Ward explained, “the Feds have kept it all to themselves, which isn’t unprecedented. All we’ve got is what was in the file the governor gave you. Lots of pieces, but no definitive white paper. The Park Service has agreed to cooperate with you as long as you don’t interfere with them.”
Joe held the phone away for a moment and looked at it as if it would provide more information. Then: “Won’t the Park Service wonder why the governor isn’t sending the AG or one of his lawyers? Why send a game warden?”
“Because,” Ward said, changing his voice and cadence to imitate Rulon’s rapid-fire speaking style, “ ‘You’re well versed in many facets of outdoor issues including law enforcement and resource management.’ ”
“I am?”
“I’m quoting, so don’t ask.”
Joe didn’t.
“Also, don’t wear your uniform. It might spook ’em. They don’t like state interlopers up there in their park. They consider the place their own little private fiefdom.”
Joe nodded, although he knew Ward wouldn’t know he had.
“And, Joe, nothing about that letter from Rick Hoening should be brought up, understand?”
“Not really,” Joe said, feeling as if Ward was already tugging at the rug he was standing on.
“And if they want to make you a ‘special policeman,’ don’t do it,” Ward said. “You can’t divide your loyalty.”
“What’s a special policeman?” Joe asked, the image of a helmeted Keystone Kop appearing in his mind.
“Who the hell knows? Something the Park Service does for local law enforcement. Like deputizing you, I guess. The guy who set up the meeting, Del Ashby, suggested it. He’s your contact. His title is supervisory special agent, Branch of Law Enforcement Services, Office of Investigations. How’s that for a mouthful?”
“Sounds official,” Joe said.
“Just wait,” Ward laughed. “They’ll need to order bigger business cards up there if their titles keep getting longer. Anyway, ask for Del Ashby.”
“They won’t like me second-guessing their investigation,” Joe said.
“Nope, they won’t.”
“Four o’clock,” Joe repeated.
“Yes. And remember, nothing about the letter.”
Joe found himself frowning. “So, what is it I’m supposed to report?”
“You’ll have to figure that out on your own. The governor said to do what you do and try not to create any problems. You’ll be there as our representative, but it’s federal and they have the right to throw you out anytime.”
“I’m confused,” Joe said.
He could hear Ward sigh. “So am I,” he confessed.
“It seems like you’re really hanging me out there.”
“We are. Why did you ever think different?”
As Joe started to close the phone, he heard Ward say, “Don’t contact me unless it’s an emergency. And whatever you do, don’t call the governor.”
AT BURGESS JUNCTION there was a gas station, a restaurant, a gift shop, a sporting goods store, and a saloon all located in the same weathered log building. The owners also rented cabins. As Joe pulled into the parking lot, it appeared that the place was busy. Of course it was, he thought, it’s hunting season.
Unshaven men in camo coats and blaze orange hats milled on the wooden porch and around the cabins in back. Four-wheel drive vehicles and ATVs were parked wherever the trees were cleared. The air smelled of wood smoke, gasoline, and tallow. Field-dressed mule deer and elk carcasses hung in the trees, rib cages opened to the air to cool, the view inside the cavities red-white-red like split and flattened barber poles.
“Those yours?” Joe asked one of the hunters on the porch.
“The elk? Got ’em this morning.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Feel free.”
He couldn’t help himself; old habits die hard. The first thing he noticed as he inspected the hanging carcasses was that the elk were well taken care of. Hides had been removed, cavities scrubbed clean, tags visible. He searched for entrance and exit wounds and could see that only one of the animals had taken a body shot. The others, apparently, had been killed by bullets to the head or neck. Very clean kills. The hunters knew what they were doing and they took pride in their work. The elk were big and healthy, another good thing. The inch-thick layers of fat along their backbones, white and scalloped, was proof of the excellent habitat and resource management.
“Nice,” Joe said to the hunter who had accompanied him from the porch.
“Want to see the antlers?”
“Nah, that’s all right.”
Joe didn’t care about antlers, just that the herd was healthy and the job of harvesting done right.
“Good work,” he said, nodding.
“We take it seriously,” the hunter said. “If you’re going to take an animal’s life, you owe it to that elk to take responsibility.”
“Exactly.” Joe smiled.
Nodding at the rest of the hunters on the porch as he passed them, he reached for the door handle.
&
nbsp; “Got your elk yet?” one of them asked.
“Nope,” Joe said pleasantly. In Wyoming, “got your elk yet” was a greeting as ubiquitous as “good morning” was elsewhere, but Joe was momentarily struck by it. For the first time he could remember, he was taken for a hunter and not the game warden. In the past, his arrival would have been met with stares, sniggers, or the over-familiar banter of the ashamed or guilty.
Inside, he bought water, jerky, and sunflower seeds because he had forgotten to pack a lunch. While he was paying for the items at the counter, a stout, bearded man in the saloon eyed him and slid off his bar stool and entered the store. Joe assessed him as the man pushed through the half-doors. Dark, close-cropped hair, bulbous nose, windburned cheeks, chapped lips. Watery, bloodshot eyes. A hunter who’d been at it for a while, Joe guessed. No other reason for him to be up there this time of year. The hunter had rough hands with dried half-moons of dark blood under his fingernails. Joe could tell from his appearance that he wasn’t a member of the group out on the porch. Those men were sportsmen.
“Got your elk?” the man asked, keeping his voice low so the clerk wouldn’t hear him ask.
Joe started to shake his head but instincts kicked in. “Why do you ask?”
The hunter didn’t reply, but gestured toward the door with his chin, willing Joe to understand.
Joe shook his head.
Frustration passed across the hunter’s face because Joe didn’t appear to get it.
“Come outside when you’re through here,” the hunter said, sotto voce, and went out the door to wait.
While the clerk bagged his snacks, Joe shook his head. He knew what the hunter was telling him but had played it coy. Over the years, he’d learned that deception, unfortunately, was a necessary trait for a game warden. Not open dishonesty or entrapment—those ruined a reputation and could get him beaten or killed. But in a job where nearly every man he encountered in the field was armed as well as pumped up with testosterone—and calling backup was rarely an option—playing dumb was a survival skill. And Joe, much to Marybeth’s chagrin, could play dumb extremely well.
The bearded hunter was not on the porch when Joe went outside, but was waiting for him near a cabin at the side of the building. Joe shoved the sack of snacks into his coat pocket as he walked down the length of the wooden porch onto a well-worn path. As he approached the hunter, he wished the .40 Glock Nate had given him wasn’t disassembled in a duffel bag in his Yukon.
The hunter studied Joe with cool eyes and stepped on the other side of his pickup and leaned across the hood, his blood-stained fingers loosely entwined, the truck between them.
The hunter raised his eyebrows in a greeting. “You might be a man who’s looking for an elk.”
“Think so, huh?” Joe said, noncommittal.
“Me and my buddies jumped ’em this morning early, down on the ridge. They was crossing over the top, bold as you please.”
Joe nodded, as if to say, “Go on.”
“That’s the thing about elk hunting. Don’t see nothing for five straight days, and all of a sudden they’re all around you. Big herd of ’em. Forty, fifty. Three of us hunting.”
Joe glanced behind the cabin, saw three big bulls hanging from the branches, their antlers scraping the ground, hides still on, black blood pooling in the pine needles. Despite the distance, Joe could see gaping exit wounds on the ribs and front quarters. Even in the cold he could smell them.
“Yeah, three good bulls,” the hunter said, following Joe’s line of sight. “But my buddy went a little crazy.”
“Meaning,” Joe said, “there are a few more killed down there than you have licenses for.”
The hunter winced. He didn’t like Joe saying it outright.
“At least four cows if you’ve got a cow permit,” the hunter whispered. “A spike too. That’s good eating, them spikes.”
Spikes were young bulls without fully developed antlers. Cows were female elk. Five extra animals wasn’t just a mistake, it was overkill. Joe felt a dormant sense of outrage rise in him but tried not to show it.
He said, “So a guy could drive down there with an elk tag and take his pick?”
The hunter nodded. “If a guy was willing to pay a little finder’s fee for the directions.”
“How much is the finder’s fee?”
The hunter looked around to see if anyone could hear him, but the only other people out were back at the building.
“Say, four hundred.”
Joe shook his head. “That’s a lot.”
The hunter grinned. “How much is your time worth, is what I think. Hell, we’ve been up here five days. You can go get you a nice one without breaking a sweat.”
“I see.”
“I’d go three seventy-five. But no less.”
“Three hundred and seventy-five dollars for a cow elk?” Joe said.
Again, the hunter flinched at Joe’s clarity. Again, he looked around.
“That’s the deal,” he said, but with less confidence than before. Joe’s manner apparently created suspicion.
Joe glanced down at the plates on the hunter’s pickup. Utah. He memorized the number.
“Would you take a check?” Joe asked.
The hunter laughed unpleasantly as his confidence returned. “Hell, no. What do you think I am?”
“I’ll have to run back to Dayton to get cash from the ATM,” Joe said. “That’ll take me an hour or so.”
“I ain’t going anywhere. Them elk aren’t either.”
“An hour, then.”
“I’ll be in the bar.”
Joe leaned across the hood and extended his hand. The hunter took it, said, “They call me Bear.”
Joe said, “They call me a Wyoming game warden, and I’ve got you on tape.” With his left hand, he raised the microcassette recorder from where he always kept it in his pocket. “You just broke a whole bunch of laws.”
Bear went pale and his mouth opened, revealing a crooked picket fence row of tobacco-stained teeth.
“Killing too many elk is bad enough,” Joe said. “That happens in the heat of battle. But the way you take care of the carcasses? And charging for the illegal animals? That just plain makes me mad.”
JOE CALLED DISPATCH in Cheyenne on his radio. He was patched through to Bill Haley, the local district warden.
“GF-thirty-five,” Haley responded.
“How far are you from Burgess Junction, Bill?”
“Half an hour.”
Joe told him about the arrest.
“His name is Carl Wilgus, goes by Bear,” Joe said, reciting the license plate number. “Cabin number one. Five extra elk, Wanton Destruction, attempting to sell me an elk and the location. You can throw the book at him and confiscate his possessions if you want. We’ve got him down cold, on tape, telling me everything.”
While Joe talked on the mike, Bear was handcuffed to the bumper of his pickup, embarrassed and angry, scowling at him.
“You going to stick around?” Haley asked. “Grab a burger with me?”
“I’m here just long enough to give you the tape and turn him over,” Joe said. “I’ve got a meeting to get to in Yellowstone.”
“I heard you were back,” Haley said. “How’s it going, Joe?”
“Outstanding,” Joe said.
“We’re all trying to figure out what’s going on with you. Did Pope give you a district?”
“Nothing like that,” Joe said, not wanting to explain the situation further.
“What are you up to, then?”
Joe thought. “Special projects,” he said, not knowing what else to say. Special projects sounded vague yet semiofficial.
“Well, welcome back.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“See you in a few.”
“GF-fifty-four out.”
“Fifty-four? They gave you fifty-four? For Christ sake.”
THE SPEED LIMIT through the Wapiti Valley en route to the East Entrance of Yellowstone dropped to f
orty-five miles per hour and Joe slowed down. He checked his wristwatch. If he kept to the limit and didn’t get slowed by bear jams or buffalo herds, he should be able to make it to the park headquarters at Mammoth Hot Springs by 3:30 P.M., enough time to locate Del Ashby and get the briefing.
As he drove on the nearly empty road, winding parallel to the North Fork of the Shoshone River, Joe thought again about the murders and how they’d taken place because the circumstances of the crime bothered him. All those shots, multiple weapons. That’s what jumped out. Most people reading the reports would come to the conclusion the park rangers apparently had, that the crime had been committed in anger, in passion. Joe wasn’t sure he agreed with that assessment, despite all the blasting. Just because Clay McCann fired a lot of shots didn’t mean he had gone mad. It might mean he wanted to make sure the victims were dead. Most of the wounds Joe read about could have been fatal on their own, so they were well-placed. There was nothing in the reports to suggest McCann had shot at the victims as they stood in a group, or peppered the shore of the lake with lead. Just the opposite. Each shot, whether by shotgun or pistol, had been deliberate and at close range. Although there were no facts in the file to suggest McCann was anything other than what he was—an ethically challenged small-town lawyer—Joe couldn’t help thinking the murders had been committed by a professional, someone with knowledge of death and firearms. Since McCann’s biography didn’t include stints in any branch of the military and didn’t include information that he was a hunter, Joe wondered where the lawyer had received his training.
Joe had spent most of his life around hunters and big game. He knew there was a marked difference between the way Bear and his friends killed those elk and the way the men on the porch hunted. Bear and his friends were clumsy amateurs, firing indiscriminately at the herd and finding out later what fell. In contrast, the men on the porch were careful marksmen and ethical hunters.
Simply pointing a long rod of steel (a gun) and pulling the trigger (Bang!) didn’t instantly snuff the life out of the target. All the act did was hurl a tiny piece of lead through the air at great but instantly declining speed. The bit of lead, usually less than half an inch in diameter, had to hit something vital to do fatal damage: brain, heart, lungs. To be quick and sure, the bullet had to cause great internal damage immediately. Rarely was a single shot an instant kill. That only happened in the movies. In real life, there was a good chance a single jacketed bullet would simply pass through the body, leaving two bleeding holes and tissue damage, but not doing enough harm to kill unless the victim bled out or the wounds became infected. Pulling the trigger didn’t kill. Placing the bullet did. McCann had placed each and every shot.