by C. J. Box
Nate followed Joshua on a metal grated walkway that spanned all six of the raceways. He half-listened as Joshua explained that males were confined to one lane and females to the other, except for spawning season, and that brown and rainbow trout matured at two to three years. One lane was filled with massive two-foot-long trout used strictly as brood stock.
The grate led to a steel door at the end of the building.
“Now you’ll see where the magic happens,” Joshua said. “Now you’ll see how we get through the winter.”
Nate stayed behind Joshua’s shoulder while he dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Before opening it, he grinned.
What if Kate was kept inside? Not likely, but...
The smell from inside was a mix of paint thinner and ammonia and it was so strong it made Nate’s eyes tear up.
And they entered the Teubner meth lab.
*
THE ROOM WAS made of concrete and it had no windows. Fifty-five-gallon drums sat in the middle of it and a bench was filled with Pyrex containers, mason jars, and rolls of hoses. A tall anhydrous ammonia gas cylinder with a blue-colored brass valve stood near the drums, and in the corner of the room was a loose bundle of red-stained bedsheets that were used for straining. The odor was nearly overpowering, and as if in response Joshua hit a switch that turned on a fan to vent it outside.
Nate stepped back through the open door until the air in the room cleared.
“What we got here,” Joshua said, “is a fucking perfect setup for making high-quality crystal. I get the pseudoephedrine through my old man’s industrial chemical accounts because he buys a lot of different stuff to keep this place disinfected. The fish smell disguises the meth cooking, so as long as I keep the door closed, even the smartest cop or fish inspector wouldn’t notice it.”
He refilled his pipe and lit it again.
“I’ve doubled my product in the past year and I could do it again. You’ll never have to worry about supply,” he said.
“So you’ve got a lot of customers around here?” Nate asked.
“Oh yeah,” Joshua said with a wide grin. “I go along when Pop delivers fish and sell hits to the ranch hands and shit. You’d be amazed how many Crystal Cowboys there are around here.
“But let’s talk business,” Joshua said. “Let’s talk territory.”
“Okay.”
“I’m thinking I want you distributing in the northern half of the state. From Casper up, but I get Casper. Casper’s a fucking gold mine with all those unemployed energy workers. I keep the south. That means you get Jackson Hole, Sheridan, Gillette, Cody. That ought to keep you busy and make you rich. Gillette’s a gold mine, too, but you have to compete with asshats from Rapid City and Sturgis. But my product is better, though. You’ll do fine,” Joshua said.
“And make you even richer,” Nate said.
“That’s how it’s supposed to work,” Joshua said with a stoner smile.
He said, “You can charge fifty dollars or more for a quarter gram because this is really good meth. You set the price—I don’t want anything to do with your business. But don’t set it too high and scare off customers. If I was you, I’d start low and build up your clientele, then gradually increase the price. That’s what I did down here and it worked out just fine for me.”
“How much?” Nate asked.
Joshua looked at Nate with a hint of suspicion. “I thought we talked about that. I’ll sell you each quarter gram for twenty-five dollars. A hundred dollars for a gram and you’ll clear a hundred for your pocket. Or,” Joshua said, waggling his eyebrows, “you can get that half kilo we talked about for fifty grand. Did you bring the money with you?”
“In my Yukon,” Nate said. He hoped the person Joshua had been expecting wouldn’t show up while they were talking in the lab.
“Cool, cool,” Joshua said. “You want to sample the product?”
Nate’s head was still clouded from the single inhalation of Joshua’s marijuana and he shook his head no. Nate wasn’t used to how strong weed was these days.
“I trust you.”
“You should. This is high-quality shit. So go get the money and I’ll measure out that half kilo. You can watch if you want, so you know you’re getting what you paid for.”
Nate didn’t want to be rushed into revealing himself, so he asked, “So you go on fish runs with your dad and sell on the side. That gives you cover.”
Joshua nodded.
“Do you have customers at the Silver Creek Ranch?”
“I’ve got a few customers there, sure.” He’d answered quickly, impatiently. Joshua wanted to see the money.
“Do you recall a British woman last summer? Blond?”
Joshua narrowed his eyes. “Are you talking about Kate?”
Nate felt a jolt go up his back.
“What about her?” Joshua asked with suspicion.
“Did you sell to her?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Joshua asked, suddenly alarmed. “Why would you care about her?”
He reached into his coat and pointed a 9mm Charter Arms semiauto at Nate’s nose. It was a cheap handgun, a favorite of drug dealers, and Nate had no respect for people who carried one. Joshua held the weapon sideways like gang-bangers did in the movies. That also irritated Nate.
But he cursed himself because he’d let it happen. His head had been too clouded to react.
“You need to put that away,” Nate said.
“I asked who the fuck you were,” Joshua said, spittle forming on his lips. “You’re not Hargrove.”
“My name is Nate. Hargrove sent me in his place.”
Joshua processed that, and as he did, his face screwed up quizzically. But the muzzle of the gun stayed up.
“I’m gonna call him and check that out,” Joshua said, nodding his head and finally deciding on a plan. “He didn’t say nothing about sending another guy. But you need to get rid of your piece.”
“Okay,” Nate said.
“Don’t try nothing.”
“I won’t.”
Nate pulled his coat aside with his left hand and slowly reached for the grip of his revolver with his right. Joshua’s eyes followed Nate’s right hand. Those eyes didn’t track that Nate had leaned his upper body a few inches to the side so that if Joshua’s weapon went off the bullet would miss his head and slam into the concrete wall behind him.
In one lightning motion, Nate drew the .454, cocked it while he raised it, and shot Joshua in the right shoulder. The concussion was thunderous in the closed room and Joshua’s body spun a hundred and eighty degrees from the impact. The 9mm clattered on the floor.
Nate closed the distance between them with two long steps and grabbed Joshua by the back collar of his coat and dragged him out through the meth lab door. The exit wound had spattered the wall with blood and the slug had penetrated the concrete, leaving a neat O in the wall. Joshua cried out for help and he didn’t stop screaming until Nate plunged into the raceway used for brood stock and pulled him in after him.
In the cold waist-high water, Nate holstered his gun and plunged Joshua’s face into the water as most of the big trout in the lane fled for the inlet end in a rush that made a froth on the surface.
After holding him down long enough that Joshua began to panic and thrash his legs, Nate pulled him back up. A ribbon of red from his shoulder wound streaked the lane and curled toward the outflow grate.
“I told you to put that gun away,” Nate hissed.
Joshua gasped for air and said, “You shot my arm off.”
“Not completely,” Nate said. “But I’ll rip it out of the socket if you don’t tell me what you know about Kate.”
“I don’t know anything,” Joshua yelled.
“You knew her name.”
Joshua’s eyes pleaded with Nate. “I knew her name and that’s all. I saw her out there and thought I’d really like to hit that, you know? But I didn’t do nothing. I never made a move on her.”
“Was she
a customer?”
“No!”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
When Joshua hesitated too long, Nate dunked his head under the water again and held it there until the man kicked at the surface of the water in a panic. Then he pulled him back up.
As he did, a ball of brood stock trout that had retreated to the outlet end of the lane decided as one to muscle past Nate to join the others on the far end where they’d pooled together. As the brown trout went by, Nate reached down and grasped one just in front of its powerful tail. It was about four pounds.
“I asked if you knew what happened to her,” Nate said while swinging the trout. He smacked Joshua in the side of his head with a wet slap.
“I heard at a bar that she’s still around,” Joshua gasped.
“Who told you that?”
“I overheard it at the Rustic from a couple of old guys. I don’t know them. I really don’t. I was texting a buddy of mine at the time—making a deal. I kept my head down.”
“What did they look like?”
“Old, I told you. Like my dad.”
“Who do they work for?”
“I don’t know. Shit.”
Nate smacked him with the trout hard enough that the fish spasmed and died after the blow.
“Stop hitting me with that fish,” Joshua said. “I was out of it at the time.”
“When was this?”
“Last fall. October, November—I don’t know.”
“Think. What can you tell me about them?”
“That’s all I can remember,” Joshua pleaded. “I thought I heard ’em say they saw her and she was hiding out. But I ain’t even sure that I didn’t imagine it. Like I said, I was testing out my own product at the time.”
Nate studied Joshua’s face, which was twisted from pain. Then he let him go. Joshua dropped into the raceway and scrambled back to his feet while sputtering. He’d swallowed a lot of water. His right arm hung straight down and he pinned it to his body with his left hand.
“It’s a through-and-through meat wound,” Nate said to Joshua. “You’ll recover if you don’t bleed out. Go get your dad to clean it out and bind it up.”
“It hurts really bad,” Joshua said in a little-boy voice.
“It’s supposed to,” Nate said.
In his Yukon on the way back toward Saratoga, Nate watched his cell phone until it finally found a signal. Joe had called, but not left a message. Probably checking on him, Nate thought.
As the Teubner Fish Hatchery receded in his rearview mirror, he saw a jacked-up four-by-four with Campbell County license plates coming through the snowdrifts Nate had bucked to get there. Nate pulled over to let the vehicle pass by and saw it was driven by a nervous-looking skinny guy with a pointed nose and a wisp of beard.
“Sorry, Hargrove,” Nate said as the car went by.
The large brown trout lay on the passenger-side floor mat. It was a beautiful fish and Nate felt guilty for braining it. Joe liked a fish dinner and maybe he’d approve.
He wouldn’t approve of Nate’s interrogation methods, however.
17
JOE FOUND SHERIDAN RIDING LONG FIGURE EIGHTS ON A SORREL gelding on the loose sand surface of the indoor arena. Although the arena was heated with forced-air furnaces the size of pickup trucks in each corner, it was cold enough outside and the arena was so massive that the gelding puffed clouds of condensation as it loped.
Sheridan looked good in the saddle, Joe thought. Better than he ever had. Her movements were fluid and she guided the horse by leg pressure rather than tugging on its bit with the reins. She saw him come through the door and she tipped her hat as she rode. He waved back.
There were five horses in a stall on the far wall. Three had the sweaty imprint of a saddle still on their backs.
After completing the pattern, Sheridan rode up to Joe and pulled the gelding to a sliding stop.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Joe said with a proud grin.
“Got to keep ’em all tuned up so they remember they’re horses,” she said. “I’ve got one more to go today and then I’ll dry them off and turn ’em out.”
“Don’t let me rush you,” Joe said.
“Have you had lunch?”
“Nope.”
“How about a late afternoon snack? Soup okay?”
“Yup. Your mom would love to do your job. So would April.”
Sheridan grinned. Her face was flushed red from the exertion of saddling and riding four horses, one right after the other. “I think about that. I kind of feel bad about it sometimes.”
With that, she clicked her tongue and the gelding spun away.
*
SHERIDAN’S APARTMENT was located on the second floor above the arena itself. There was a small kitchen, a bathroom, a fabric couch and matching chair, a desk with her laptop, and a wall filled with family photos that tugged at his heart. The room was neater than Joe would have guessed it would be, judging by the state of her room when she lived at home.
The apartment overlooked the empty arena on one side and the vast white winter landscape on the other. Outside, with the sun reflecting off the snow, it was so bright it hurt his eyes.
He sat at a small table while she emptied condensed tomato soup into a pot and added water. She’d hung up her jacket on a rack near the door and kicked off her cowboy boots.
“Grilled cheese?” she asked.
“That would be great,” he said.
Joe excused himself to use the bathroom while she prepared the food. He couldn’t recall her ever having done that for him before. Sure, his oldest daughter had helped Marybeth with some meals, usually during holidays, but it used to be that Joe was often the cook when his girls were growing up—especially breakfast. He could tell she was thinking similar thoughts about the role reversal as well.
In the bathroom, he glanced at the shower—generic and exotic hair products, a loofah—and looked hard at the mirrored medicine cabinet but decided not to open it. He didn’t want to find any men’s items, and thought it best not to look, even though he guessed Marybeth would have if given the same opportunity.
*
“THANK YOU,” HE SAID as he spooned the last of his soup. “It was delicious.”
She looked at him to check out his sincerity. “It came out of a can.”
“Still, it was good.”
She gathered up the dishes and told him that her apartment was one of the few reserved for senior staff and she was lucky she didn’t have to share it with anyone. Most of the employees spent the summer season in dorm-like buildings located about a quarter mile away and had to bunk together.
“This is a good place,” she said, sitting back down. “I never thought I’d want to work at a guest ranch.”
“How much of it is because of Lance Ramsey?” he asked.
“Dad,” she said, blushing.
“So tell me about Kate,” he said, changing the subject for the benefit of both of them.
Sheridan said, “Well, some guests really like to stand out while they’re here. It’s strange. You’ve got these rich and famous people trying to impress all of us nobodies. But Kate wasn’t like that. She blended in and just seemed to enjoy herself. I’d say she was a perfect guest.”
Joe nodded for her to go on.
“She was hungover most mornings,” Sheridan said, with a knowing smile. “She was English, after all, so it’s not unusual. But there’s no doubt riding was her thing. It was her passion.
“We’re encouraged to accommodate the guests as much as we can, so if we have one who wants to ride outside of the scheduled rides, we do our best to make that happen. By the end of the week, she wanted to go on early-morning rides and evening rides after the rest of the guests had turned their horses in.”
“Did she go alone?” Joe asked.
“We can’t allow that,” Sheridan said. “That’s against policy and it should be. For the safety of our guests.”
“So you accompanied her?”
“A couple of times, yes. But she mainly went out with Lance. It’s kind of a big deal for a guest to ride with the head wrangler and she really liked that.”
“When you were with her, did she talk to you about anything?”
“Mostly horses and scenery,” Sheridan said. “She said she tried fly-fishing and shooting, but that wasn’t her thing. Really, what we talked about was her, even though she asked me about my background once. She was really interested to hear how I grew up and that I wasn’t as crazy about horses as my mom and my sister were. She really didn’t get the concept of you being a game warden, I don’t think. But we didn’t talk about me much.”
“Did you find that odd?”
“Not at all,” Sheridan said. “It’s part of the training here. We have to keep in mind that this isn’t about us. That’s hard for some of the staff, because they’re naturally so self-centered. A lot of kids my age have grown up being told they were the center of the universe—I get that. But if they don’t learn to put that aside for the sake of the guests, they don’t last long around here.”
“I approve,” Joe said.
Sheridan laughed and said, “I thought you would.”
“What kinds of things did she tell you when you rode together?”
“Stuff I’ve heard before, but she was really intense about it. She talked a lot about the contrast between the ranch and her life at home. It weirded her out at first not to be connected all the time. She said the first time she turned off her iPhone and left it back in her room she nearly had an anxiety attack. That kind of thing.
“I got the impression that her life back in England was really high pressure and that just getting from place to place was a major hassle. Kate loved the natural beauty of the ranch and she said the slower pace made her crazy at first until she got used to it. She said it took a lot of getting used to just to enjoy herself and soak it all in—to realize that people around here weren’t going to demand anything of her.”
Joe noted that.
“Kate did once say that she’d never felt more free in her life,” Sheridan said. “She told me I didn’t know how lucky I was to live with such freedom. Of course, she didn’t have any idea how many hours we work while the guests are relaxing.