Vicious Circle

by C. J. Box

  “I’m not talking to you,” she said.

  “You just did. Now who gave you five thousand dollars in cash? I can’t imagine you earned it legitimately.”

  “I said I’m not talking to you.”

  “Was it Dallas? Did Dallas get you all riled up and send you out with the addresses of two of my daughters? How much more money did he promise you if you got to them?”

  “You murdered my Bull.”

  “It wasn’t murder, and I was cleared for it. You forget the part where he ambushed me and shot up my truck without warning. He got it when he got too close to look in the cab to make sure I was dead. I had no choice, but that was a dumb move on his part. Bull was always kind of dumb—but not dumb enough to risk it all by agreeing to kill innocent people for five thousand dollars.”

  She glared at him, but she had trouble focusing. He found it hard to glare back because he was distracted by her missing teeth.

  “The only way to play this out is to cooperate with law enforcement,” he said. “I’m sure the judge will take it into account that you decided to help uncover what this is all about. There’s no need to protect Dallas anymore. If the situation was reversed, you can bet he wouldn’t protect you. I can hear him now. He’d say, ‘Cora Lee? She was the skank that run off on my brother when he needed her the most.’”

  Joe thought he picked up in Cora Lee’s face that somewhere deep in her reptile brain he’d hit a nerve.

  “What did he promise you if you hurt members of my family?” Joe asked. “How much more cash to keep you knee-deep in meth?”

  “He didn’t promise me nothing,” she said. “I did it for Bull.”

  “The man you left? That’s really hard to believe, Cora Lee.”

  “I didn’t do nothin’ for Dallas,” she half croaked, half cried.

  The tremor that had been isolated in her leg seemed to spread through the rest of her body. Her hands shook violently and her teeth chattered in spasms.

  Joe sat back, unsure what to do or say next.

  McNamee said, “Maybe we better stop before she has a seizure right here. I’ll call the EMTs.”

  Cora Lee was sweating now, and Joe could smell her metallic, chemical odor.

  He looked up at the camera and said to Estrella, “You heard it. Her name is Cora Lee Cates, and it was a clean interview until she ended it. And she never asked for a lawyer.”

  Joe slid his chair back and stood up. McNamee was in contact with the hospital on his shoulder mike. They were sending a team to the jail as soon as possible.

  The deputy ushered Joe out of the room and shut the door.

  “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on her until the EMTs get here and take her away,” he said. “You can go back with your family.”

  “Are you done transcribing their statements?” Joe asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Thanks again,” Joe said, shaking McNamee’s hand. “I had no idea how that would go.”

  “She scares me,” McNamee said.

  “Me too,” Joe agreed.

  “Bad things happen when you take the meth away.”

  “Yup.”

  “So what’s the deal about you killing her bull?”

  Joe told the story, and McNamee’s eyes widened. When he was done, the deputy said, “Now that you tell me, I think I heard something about that.”

  They traded cards and contact details, and Joe turned to reunite with his family.

  Halfway down the hall, Joe paused in his step.

  I didn’t do nothin’ for Dallas, she’d said.

  20

  At the entrance gate for Teton Shadows, Joe, Marybeth, and the girls found it blocked by a sleek Wyoming Highway Patrol cruiser that was parked across both lanes. Missy’s H2 had been rolled into the grass in the borrow pit.

  As Joe slowed to a stop, a uniformed trooper stepped out from the brush on the side of the building, zipping up his fly. He strode into their headlights, gesturing for them to stay back.

  He was a big man with a flat-brimmed Highway Patrol hat, and he was wearing aviator sunglasses in the dark. The sole purpose of the glasses, Joe saw, was the effect it gave when he reached up to theatrically whip them off his face and glare angrily through the windshield at who was inside. Then he put his right hand on the grip of his weapon and walked slowly around the front of Joe’s pickup.

  Joe sighed.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t let you through,” the trooper said. He was red-faced and beefy and his name tag read TILLER. “We’ve got a crime scene inside.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “My family came from there. Now they’ve been cleared by the sheriff to leave and we’re going back to get their stuff.”

  “Not on my watch,” Tiller said.

  Joe wondered how many times Trooper Tiller had aggressively whipped off his glasses and said things like “Not on my watch” in his law enforcement career. He was that kind of cop—the kind who was spoiling for a fight or a confrontation.

  Joe was determined not to do or say anything that would complicate the morning any further. He said, “I’m slowly reaching for my ID” as he leaned forward and removed his wallet from his back pocket. He made sure to let his left elbow slip over the open rim of the driver’s-side window so that Tiller could see the Wyoming Game and Fish patch on his uniform shoulder in the beam of the flashlight.

  Tiller took Joe’s driver’s license and looked it over. Then he shined the light on Joe’s face to match it up with the photo, then he did the procedure a second time. Joe knew he was being messed with, but he didn’t know why.

  “I know you,” Tiller said without warmth. “You’re that game warden.”

  “Yup.”

  “Joe Pickett,” Tiller said as he handed the license back. “You know, some of us in law enforcement try to keep our names out of the paper.”

  “So do I,” Joe said. “I just have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  As he said it, he heard April and Lucy titter in the backseat. They didn’t yet realize there was sometimes a conflict between state agencies that did law enforcement, and that some cops like Tiller resented the freedom and autonomy game wardens had as part of their job. Joe had heard troopers over the radio complaining that all game wardens did was drive around in their state pickups with their dogs and do little other than fish or hunt. It wasn’t true in Joe’s case, but he didn’t want to broach the subject with Tiller. He just wanted to get past the gate.

  “When can I get through?” Joe asked.

  “When I get authorization,” Tiller said. Meaning: Sometime tomorrow when I go off shift.

  For the second time that night, Joe was responsible for a call that woke up Sheriff Tassell. In person this time, he briefed him on the situation. “If you want me to leave your county, you’ll need to talk to this trooper,” Joe said.

  Tassell sighed and said, “Hand him the phone.”

  After a brief talk, the trooper gave the phone back. “He said he’s getting tired of special requests to contaminate the crime scene, but you’re free to go.”

  “Who else is he talking about?” Joe asked.

  “The man of the house. Marcus Hand.” He said the name with obvious distaste. “You heard of him?”

  “Sure have,” Joe said. He thanked the patrolman and put the transmission into drive.

  As they rolled past the guardhouse, Marybeth cautioned the girls not to look inside, but they did anyway.

  “There’s a lot of blood in there,” April said.

  “I hope I don’t get sick,” Lucy whispered.

  —

  MARCUS HAND WAS SPLAYED out in a huge leather recliner in his living room with a full tumbler of dark-hued bourbon and the bottle on the floor next to him within easy reach. His feet were up and he wore shearling slippers, but he hadn’t undr
essed from the suit and string tie Joe had seen him wear the day before in Judge Hewitt’s courtroom.

  Hand watched Marybeth, April, and Lucy troop through his home to pack their clothes and belongings from their respective rooms without saying a word.

  Behind Hand, Joe saw the splintered opening in the front door and a bloody single-blade ax on the tile with an evidence marker next to it. The central heating was humming in the background, trying in vain to ward off the cold fall air pouring through the hole.

  Hand gestured to Joe to come into the living room and have a seat on the couch next to him.

  “This is Jefferson’s Ocean,” Hand said as he took a sip. “It’s some of the finest bourbon I know. They put the bourbon barrels on sea vessels and sail around the world, and the whole time the liquor is subject to temperature swings and the gentle rocking of the ship that brings out the smoky and vanilla taste of the charred wood. Supposedly, every barrel crosses the equator four times.”

  Joe sat on the edge of the couch, but didn’t respond.

  “I usually save it for when I win a big case or a huge judgment, but I have to say I might be cheating this time, given how quickly and easily it went. Would you like a taste?”

  “No, thank you,” Joe said. “I’m driving.”

  “A gentleman would offer that you all stay the night, but as you know this isn’t a house as much as it is an official crime scene.”

  Joe said, “They’re ready to leave anyway.”

  “And I’m ready to get my house back,” Hand said quietly. “I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but my home is my sanctuary. I can’t imagine living in a house filled with estrogen.”

  “I’ve lived in a house filled with estrogen all my adult life,” Joe said. He wondered how much bourbon Hand had consumed before they got there.

  Hand shuddered at the thought and changed the subject.

  He said, “Herself is staying at the Four Seasons in town tonight. She doesn’t want to revisit the scene of the crime quite yet.”

  Joe nodded. He thought that Missy not coming right back also had to do with the fact that her daughter and granddaughters were clearing out. For a second, he almost felt sorry for her.

  He came right out with it. “How did Dallas Cates afford your fee?”

  Hand flinched theatrically, as if Joe’s question had startled him. But Joe knew nothing really startled the man.

  “I don’t know the answer to your question. All I know is that a cashier’s check from the Bank of Winchester cleared my bank. That’s all I was concerned about.”

  Winchester was a small ranching community twenty miles west of Saddlestring in the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains. Joe was very familiar with it.

  “Now he’s back on the street,” Joe said. “He’s been out long enough to threaten my family and me. And I think he was in contact with Cora Lee Cates, his sister-in-law. She’s the crazy woman who tried to break down your door with an ax.”

  “Yes?” Hand said. “And what? Are you intimating that I should be wallowing in shame for facilitating his release?”

  “Yup. At least a little.”

  Hand chuckled and took a sip. It was apparently so good he had to close his eyes for a moment.

  When they reopened, Hand said, “The money, manpower, and resources of the almighty state were all lined up to put my client in prison for the rest of his life. This was after they—with your willing approval—overcharged him the first time, just so none of you would have to look at him.”

  Joe felt his cheeks flush.

  Hand continued. “Even with all those advantages, they still felt the need to cheat. We exposed the cheating, is all. The prosecution should be feeling guilt and shame—not me. Unfortunately, though, the politicians, bureaucrats, and their beady-eyed minions are incapable of those emotions. Being a bureaucrat means never having to say you’re sorry. And the system won’t hold them accountable. Thank God I’ve got Bruce White on my payroll to do that.

  “Joe, too many cops on your side of the law look down on defense attorneys, and I know it. I know in particular they look down on me. But it’s your side that has every advantage. The cops and the prosecution use taxpayer money to bankroll their actions, while on my side an honest defense has to be paid for by a private individual. The deck is always stacked against us, so there is some satisfaction in drawing three cards and winding up with a straight flush—if you know what I mean.”

  Joe grunted that he’d heard and understood what Hand was saying.

  “Unlike the prosecution,” Hand said, “I don’t hold everybody on the other side in contempt. I appreciate good cops and good prosecutors, even if I’ll fight like hell for my client and try to beat them. I appreciate you, Joe, because I know you’re a good man and you take your oath seriously. But people like Spivak . . .” Hand faux spit onto the tile next to his lounger. “People like Spivak hurt men like you more than you’ll ever know.”

  “Yup,” Joe said.

  “Dallas Cates is free, and that’s too bad, because I think we’re both pretty sure he’s guilty as sin,” Hand said.

  “You admit it,” Joe said with surprise.

  “It was obvious. But that’s no justification for perverting the judicial system any further. There are already too many innocents in jail and too many guilty people walking free.”

  Joe said, “But he can’t be tried again for murdering Dave Farkus. It’s not right that a murderer gets away with it.”

  “That’s correct, but it isn’t my fault,” Hand said. “Our founders built in protections to guard against people like Deputy Spivak. The mighty power and money of the state shouldn’t be used to try a defendant over and over again until they get a jury to agree with them.”

  Hand paused a long time before he leaned forward in his chair and placed his big hand on Joe’s knee. “Dallas Cates is a danger to society, and most of all he’s a danger to all of you.”

  Joe felt a chill go through him. He said, “Don’t I know it.”

  “You’ll have to deal with him in other ways.”

  Joe nodded and looked away.

  “I hope you’re successful,” Hand said. “As for Herself . . . well, she might come down a little differently. At least as far as you go.”

  “Believe me, I know,” Joe said.

  —

  “THAT’S WHAT CORA LEE SAID,” Joe told Marybeth. “‘I didn’t do nothin’ for Dallas.’ She said it twice, and it got me thinking.”

  Joe drove his pickup with Marybeth in the passenger seat as they climbed Togwotee Pass toward Saddlestring two hours before dawn. The bed of the pickup was filled with bags and suitcases. It was a two-vehicle caravan with April at the wheel of Marybeth’s van. April had called twice to complain that Lucy was loudly singing show tunes to keep them both awake.

  Through the speaker in his wife’s phone, Joe could hear Lucy singing from Hamilton:

  “I’m young, scrappy, and hungry

  And I’m not throwing away my shot!”

  Lucy had a good singing voice.

  After Marybeth told April that it was better to be awake and annoyed than exhausted and at the wheel of her car, she disconnected the call and picked up her discussion with Joe.

  “So where are you going with this?” she asked.

  He said, “As you can imagine, one of the most important factors in figuring out a crime or a scheme to commit a crime is the motivation of the criminals. Sometimes it’s obvious: they want money to buy drugs or they want to poach an elk to hang the head on a wall. But when bad things happen almost at random, it gets confusing. It’s hard to keep your guard up when you don’t know what’s coming next, or most of all why.

  “I understand why Dallas wants retribution, as much as I hate to say that,” he continued. “But what doesn’t make sense is how his two thugs and Cora Lee fit into the picture. Dallas has a way
of conning people into doing what he wants them to do, but is he really so convincing that he can get a couple of low-life convicts and his sister-in-law to go along with him? What do they get out of it? Dallas used to be a big-shot rodeo star with cash to burn. Now he’s a busted-up ex-con.”

  “How does Cora Lee fit into this?” Joe asked rhetorically. “She walked out on Bull—and the whole Cates family—days before he bought the farm. Even when they were together, they had a rough relationship. They used to get into drunken fistfights at the Whistle Pig Saloon. Once, Cora Lee chased Bull out into the parking lot with a pool cue and split his head open with it. I know they threatened divorce against each other a half dozen times. I just can’t see that Bull buying it somehow made Cora Lee so distraught that she devoted her life to coming after us.”

  Marybeth said, “No one knows what really goes on within a family or a marriage. Sometimes you learn that the couple that looks the happiest together really hate each other. And the unhappy couple can’t live without the other one, despite appearances.”

  “That’s kind of wise,” he said with admiration.

  “But in Cora Lee’s case, I have to agree with you,” she said. “I can’t see why she did what she did unless she’s just crazy with drugs. But where did she get the money to travel around and stalk our girls? Somebody financed that. Plus, there are too many people involved. We’re missing something.”

  They drove in silence for a while, each with their own thoughts.

  Finally, Joe said, “Marcus Hand said he got a cashier’s check from the Bank of Winchester for his fee. Doesn’t it seem kind of odd that Dallas would bank forty-five minutes from his compound when there’s five or six banks closer in Saddlestring?”

  “Not really,” Marybeth said. “He got that from his mom. She made a point of not doing any business in town if she could do it somewhere else. They used to drive all the way up to Billings to shop for groceries, even though it took the entire day. Brenda was at war with us even if we didn’t know it or appreciate it, which probably made her even more angry. It was her way of showing what she thought of the business owners and everybody else in Saddlestring—including me.”