by C. J. Box
As she approached their van, Missy saw Joe, and she paused for a second, her eyes narrowing into slits, threatening to create a network of hairline fissures in the varnish of makeup on her face.
Joe got out, said, “Good to see you, too.” He determined that a good part of his animosity was due to the after-effects of an astonishing dream he’d had one night in Baggs featuring . . . Missy. The recollection of the dream made his scalp crawl, and he’d forgotten about it until he saw her in person.
Missy ignored him and said to Marybeth, “I was just calling your house. I knocked but nobody answered, even though I could hear loud music.”
“Sheridan’s home,” Marybeth said, her voice chilly. “She gets dressed and listens to the radio. She probably couldn’t hear you.”
“I just got back,” Missy said. “I’ve got some presents for the girls.”
“Got back from where?” Marybeth asked without enthusiasm.
Missy went to the Hummer and gathered two packages wrapped in exotic foil wrapping paper. “Bali! It was wonderful.”
“Bali?”
“Earl had a conference. We stayed in a hotel on the beach that was the most magnificent place I’ve ever been in. Who would think a Muslim country could be so wonderful and romantic with all that chopping off of heads and hands and all? But I miss it already.”
Marybeth rolled her eyes.
Joe said, “I saw Bud a few weeks ago coming out of the Stockman’s Bar. He looks like he’s aged twenty years.”
Missy fixed her coldest look of disapproval on him. “Was he with his friend?”
Joe shook his head, not understanding.
“His friend Jack Daniel’s. The two are rarely apart these days. In fact, I think they’re in love.”
Six months ago, Bud Longbrake had returned from a bear-hunting trip to Alaska to find all the locks on their ranch house changed and his clothing in a steamer trunk on the front lawn. Missy had traded up again in breathtaking fashion.
They called Earl Alden the Earl of Lexington. Alden was a Southern multibillionaire media mogul who had owned what used to be the Scarlett Ranch. For several years, he’d divided his time among the ranch and three other residences in Lexington, Kentucky; New York City; and Chamonix, France. In an effort to be civic-minded, Alden had joined the library board, where he met its chairwoman, Missy Longbrake. From that moment on, Bud Longbrake’s days were numbered, only he didn’t know it.
“Duchess,” Joe said, looking at her license place. “The Earl and the Duchess, got it.”
Missy waggled her fingers. “One might as well have fun with it, right?”
“Who’s next,” Joe asked, “the president of France?”
Missy actually laughed. Then she composed herself and leveled her ice-blue eyes at him. “That would be going the wrong direction, my dear. Earl could buy and sell the president of France.”
The divorce battle had been vicious. Missy had produced a prenuptial agreement signed by both parties that said in the event of a divorce the Longbrake Ranch would be divided evenly between them, even though the property had been owned by Longbrakes for three generations. Bud claimed he couldn’t remember signing the document, and besides, if he had, he thought it was something else. Bud now lived in a log cabin that was once used for winter cowboys six miles from the main house. He lived there with his friend Jack Daniel’s. Between the Earl and the Duchess, who had consolidated their holdings, they were now the largest landowners in northern Wyoming.
Joe shook his head. To Marybeth, he said, “I need to do some work inside.”
He turned and headed for the front door.
Behind him, he heard Missy say, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I’m really busy, Mom.”
“Of course you are. But I have these gifts for the girls. Wait until you see them—they’re beautiful. Hand-painted Indonesian batik boho skirts. You’ve never seen anything like them before. Lucy will look great in hers. She looks good in anything.”
He heard Marybeth sigh.
“Eight hundred dollars each,” Missy said, following Marybeth up the walk, “in case you were wondering.”
Said Marybeth, “I wasn’t.”
Once inside, Joe quickly darted for their home office so he wouldn’t have to see Missy when she came inside. He closed the door and reached for the road atlas.
He opened the book to the relief map of the U.S., tracing a route from Chicago to Madison on I-90, then continuing on the same interstate through Minnesota and across South Dakota to Keystone. It was a long drive, and there were hundreds of towns and cities en route. He wondered if there were other incidents besides the ones Marybeth had found.
From Rapid City he followed U.S. 18 south to Hot Springs, South Dakota, then south all the way to Cheyenne on U.S. 85. They could have stayed on 85 or jumped onto I-25 south through Denver to I-70 west, south on U.S. 24 past Vail, west on U.S. 82 to Aspen.
He sat back. A hell of a journey, he thought. But where were they headed next? What were they driving?
He hoped he would be present if April contacted Sheridan again so he could feed his daughter questions to ask. He made a list:
Who is Robert?
What is the name of Robert’s father?
Are there any others with you?
What kind of car are you in?
What do you mean when you say people died? How? When? Why?
Where are you now?
What is your destination?
How did you get away from that compound six years ago?
Are you willing to meet with me?
Through the door, he heard Missy say, “. . . and you need to quit telling people in town we’re estranged. I hate that word. It makes it sound like I’m strange or something. It’s not a good word.”
Then, and he could visualize her gesturing toward his closed door, “Him I wouldn’t mind being estranged from. But not you, Marybeth. You’re my daughter.”
He smiled grimly to himself. Sheridan had the right idea, he thought. He clicked on the radio to the local country station. Brad Paisley. He turned it up loud.
HIS FIRST CALL was to Duck Wallace, chief investigator for the Wyoming Game and Fish Department in Cheyenne. Wallace was good, and he was sometimes loaned out to other agencies, departments, the Division of Criminal Investigation, and local police departments because of his skill, knowledge, and rock-solid reputation. Duck was a Shoshone from the reservation, and so dark-skinned he was sometimes mistaken for black.
“Wallace,” he said, answering on the first ring. He sounded bored and bureaucratic.
“Duck, Joe Pickett.”
“Ah, Joe,” he said, the inflection indicating he was already interested in what Joe would have to say and a little cautious because Joe only called when a situation was critical.
“Duck, I’ve got a situation. Without getting into specifics, can a text message be traced?”
“You mean to a certain number? That’s easy. Look at the message, Joe.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. What I’m wondering is can a phone be traced to a physical location from a text message? Like a voice call can?”
Duck was silent for a long time. Joe knew it meant he was thinking, and he had no need to make conversation while he was thinking.
Duck said, “We can’t take an old text message and determine what the location was it was sent from. That just can’t be done, I don’t think. Of course, the feds have all sorts of tricks these days, especially Homeland Security, so I can’t completely rule it out.
“Now if we’re talking about tracing a phone to its geographic location when it’s turned on or while it’s being used, yes, that’s possible.”
Joe sat up. “How?”
“It’s not easy. There’s a way to do it, but it’s beyond my capacity, Joe. I don’t have the expertise. You need to go to the feds with this one. The FBI.”
Joe winced. The agent in charge of the Cheyenne office, Tony Portenson, was still furious at
Joe for letting Nate walk the year before. Portenson had threatened federal charges against Joe and would have had him arrested if the governor hadn’t personally gotten involved and recruited the state’s U.S. senators and congresswoman to lean on Homeland Security.
“Yeah, I know about your relationship with the FBI,” Duck said. “But if you want this thing figured out, you’ll need to go to them. They’re the only ones with the expertise, equipment, and ability to get a quick subpoena from a judge to make it happen.”
“Crap.”
“Well put.”
“Is there any way to do this, um, unofficially? Any equipment I can buy, anything like that?”
A long silence. “The only way to do it unofficially is to get many billions of dollars and buy up all the cell phone companies. That’s the only way I can think of.”
“Gee, thanks, Duck.”
“You asked.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask why you’re being so close to the vest with this? If it’s an official investigation, I can run interference for you, maybe.”
“It’s not official, Duck. I really don’t want to say any more than that.”
“Okay,” Duck said. Joe could almost feel the shrug through the phone. “I won’t ask any more because I don’t think I want to know.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Why is it I get the feeling that I may see the name Joe Pickett in the newspaper again? Why is it that I have that feeling?”
This time, Joe shrugged. Then Duck asked: “How’s Marybeth and the girls?”
Joe said fine and asked about Duck’s four kids. After ten minutes of trading family information, debating how well the Wyoming Cowboys football team would do this year (not well, they agreed), and discussing where and when each planned to hunt elk in a month, Joe hung up.
He sat back, tried to think of a way around the FBI to get what he needed. But there was no choice.
“Crap.”
HE GOT UP and cracked the door. Missy was still out there, and Sheridan had joined them, standing in a robe with a towel on her head and looking uncomfortable. Missy was explaining, in the sweeping but definitive generalizations she used whenever she visited a new city or country and took a two-hour scenic motor coach tour given by a guide in native dress, everything there was to know about Bali. How the people were simple, content, and spiritual, telling them it was beautiful and the food was good and the staff at the hotel treated her like she was royalty, “like a real Duchess.”
When Missy unveiled the painted skirts, Sheridan saw them and scowled, but Joe shut the door again and called the FBI office in Cheyenne.
He’d met Special Agent Chuck Coon several months earlier, when Coon was in the Little Snake River Valley investigating a cattle-rustling operation. Over beers in the cinder-block saloon once frequented by Butch Cassidy, Coon told Joe that since food prices had skyrocketed so had incidents of large-scale cattle rustling. “And this isn’t like Western movie rustling,” Coon explained, “where a couple of local outlaws change some brands. In terms of dollars, this is like stealing a whole damned street of houses.”
The rustlers specialized in isolated areas like south-central Wyoming, where cattle were grazed on forest service and Bureau of Land Management land far from any town or highway where suspicious activity might be seen. Using eighteen-wheelers and commercial cattle movers, the rustlers stole entire herds, hundreds of thousands of dollars of beef, in quick nighttime strikes. Coon was new to the job, new to Wyoming, boyish but enthusiastic. He wasn’t aware of Joe’s history and apparently had not been briefed about his supervisor Tony Portenson’s animosity to Joe.
A few nights after meeting Coon, Joe was doing an antelope count in the Sierra Madre foothills when he saw a semi-truck on a remote two-track road in the distance, heading toward a series of forest service mountain meadows where cows grazed on leased grass. It seemed an odd time of year to move cattle, he thought, since the summer grass was lush and bad weather was still months ahead. Using his spotting scope, he was able to get the make and model of the truck as well as a partial plate. He called Coon with the info, and Coon was able to track the vehicle down to a used-truck outfit in New Mexico, who provided the name of the purchaser, who turned out to be an undocumented Mexican national suspected of cross-border rustling. The case was made, six men and two women were arrested, and Chuck Coon was responsible for nailing his first major case.
Coon was at his desk, and Joe ran through the same scenario he had with Duck.
Coon said, “Yeah, we could do it. We’d have to get subpoenas for the cell phone providers, and we’d have to move fast because the companies only keep texts on their servers for a few days before they delete them because the volume is unbelievable. Blame teenagers. But yes, we could do it. When I say could that means we have the capability. That doesn’t mean we will.”
Joe said, “So you talked to Portenson, then?”
“Your name was in the warrant for the rustlers, Joe. Portenson saw it. When we finally scraped him off the ceiling, he told me his version of events. He doesn’t exactly like you, Joe.”
“I know.”
“And I really can’t get a procedure going like the one you’re describing unless I’ve got more to go on,” Coon said. “Somehow, we need ownership in this, a reason to go down the hall to see the judge. Judge Johnson doesn’t go for fishing expeditions.”
Joe knew telling Coon anything meant risking the chance the FBI might move in, take over, make him marginal. He thought of the last time the feds got involved in a situation that involved April and what happened. He didn’t dare put her into harm’s way again.
So he said it: “You owe me, Chuck.”
He heard Coon sigh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t play that card, Joe.”
“Me, too. But believe me, I’d never bring it up if it weren’t the most important thing in my life right now.” He surprised himself—he’d said too much.
“Look,” Joe said, “I’ll work with you if you’ll work with me. But I can’t give you any details just yet. How about we have a meeting to discuss it? Outside your office, of course.”
“Meaning away from Portenson,” Coon said. “I understand. Yeah, I can do that. When?”
Joe said, “How about tomorrow afternoon? In Cheyenne?”
“You’re in a hurry,” Coon said.
“Yes, I am,” Joe said, trying to figure out a way to give Coon something to go on without including the name April Keeley.
MISSY WAS OUTSIDE, starting up her Hummer, when Joe came out of his office.
Marybeth said, “Good timing.”
He nodded. Sheridan was holding up the Indonesian skirt, turning it one way and the other, with bemused puzzlement. “Where would I possibly wear this?” she asked rhetorically. As if to answer her own question, she dropped the skirt over the back of a chair and went down the hall to her room to get dressed.
To Marybeth, Joe said, “I need to go to Cheyenne and see the governor.”
Marybeth nodded. “Well, it was good to see you.”
That hurt. But she softened quickly. “Go,” she said.
AS HE EMERGED from the shed with the eagle bound once again in his sweatshirt with duct tape, Sheridan came outside, and asked, “Where are you taking the bird?”
“Eagle rehabilitation center,” Joe said, not meeting her eyes. “I can’t get it to eat.”
“She’s stressed,” Sheridan said. “There are stress lines in her feathers from the day she got shot. Feathers are like the rings in a tree—you can tell all sorts of things from them. She won’t eat until she feels safe. So tell Nate hi for me.”
Joe flinched.
“I’ll keep my phone on,” she said, “and I’ll call you if I hear from April. I have a feeling it might be tonight.”
“I’ve got a list of questions I want you to ask her,” Joe said. “It’s in on my desk. Of course, you’ll need to do it casually, in that text-speak language you use. That’s why I can’t ask h
er. I don’t know the code.”
Sheridan nodded, keeping her eyes on him. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“If you’re going to go find her, I’m going with you.”
Joe took a step back. The eagle screeched, sensing his angst. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.
“Think about it,” Sheridan said. “She’s texting me on my phone. If I’m with you, we might be able to find her.”
He started to object, but he knew she was making sense.
“Talk to your mother,” he said. “We’re talking about you missing some school, not to mention what else might happen.”
She beamed. Her smile filled him with joy. “You’ll need to talk with her, too.”
“I will,” Joe said.
“She wants you to find her more than anyone.”
“Yup,” said Joe.
Sheridan said, “I’ve been thinking about something, Dad. The last thing you guys told me the day April’s mom came to school and took her was to watch over her. I didn’t do it. I really feel bad about that.”
“Don’t,” Joe said. “No one knew that would happen.”
Sheridan shrugged. “Still . . .”
“Look,” Joe said. “April called you, Sheridan. Not your mom. Not me. She’s doesn’t blame you.”
Sheridan looked at him, bored into him with her green eyes. “Do you realize what you just said?”
Joe shrugged.
“You said April. You didn’t say ‘whoever sent you those messages’ or something. You said April.”
“Slip of the tongue,” he said, flushing. “You know what I meant.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know what you meant.”
PART TWO
Future generations may well have occasion to ask themselves, “What were our parents thinking? Why didn’t they wake up when they had a chance?” We have to hear that question from them, now.