by C. J. Box
“Which means,” Lothar said, “we have a good chance of finding a footprint. If the shooter was dragging the body, he was setting his feet hard into the ground to pull. Urman wasn’t a small man, so it would have been hard work. Even though the ground is hard and dry, he might have made a footprint we can find because he was stepping down with so much effort in order to drag the body along.”
Joe nodded.
“I’ve got a question for you,” Lothar said. “You mentioned that far hillside would be a good place to hunt because one can see so well from there.”
“Yup.”
“If it were you, where would you set up to look for elk? Where specifically?”
Joe studied the slope, fixing on the granite outcroppings. Several were too low down to provide a good field of vision into the valley. But there was one outcropping toward the top of the slope that not only offered a hunter enough cover to hide behind, but was high enough up the slope to see well into the valley below. Joe pointed at it. “There.”
THE SPLASH of blood on the granite was dark, almost black. It was puncture-wound blood, entry-wound blood. A few feet away on the rock was a spray of bright red arterial blood where the bullet exited Frank Urman’s body and tumbled somewhere down the saddle slope. From where Joe stood above the outcropping, he could visualize a herd of elk grazing on in the meadows below, downslope.
“From the angle of the entry and the exit,” Lothar said, “we can assume without doing any definitive ballistics or testing that the shooter”—he turned and pointed over Joe’s head to the top of the ridge behind them—“was there.”
Joe followed Lothar’s finger. On the horizon was a bump of a knoll—perfect to hide behind.
“Will we be lucky enough to find a shell casing?” Lothar asked aloud but rhetorically as they climbed toward the knoll. “A cigarette? Anything? It’s a shame Americans don’t smoke anymore. In Europe, Asia, and the Middle East I can always count on finding butts.”
Joe labored up the slope directly toward the knoll.
“No!” Lothar said. “Stop. Do not go up there.”
Joe stopped, confused.
“Look,” Lothar said, and Joe turned. In a depression in the granite, filled with fine sand deposited by the wind over the years, was a definitive boot print.
“It’s perfect,” Lothar said, as if examining a diamond. “I’d guess size eleven, Vibram soles but worn enough so the track is distinctive, one eighty, two hundred pounds based on the impression. Perfect!”
“It looks fresh,” Joe said. “The wind or weather didn’t get to it overnight.”
“Even better than that,” Lothar said, “is I doubt it was made yesterday. I think it’s today’s track, last night’s at the very worst. Our man is still around.”
Joe felt a chill wash over him.
While Lothar slipped his daypack off to prepare to make a composite cast, Joe looked back at the knoll.
“Don’t you want to see what’s up there?” Joe asked.
“Not now.”
“What do you mean? When, then?”
“Not until dark,” Lothar said. “We come back at dark.”
“Why wait?”
Lothar looked up. “Joe, do you remember how when you got down on the ground down there you could see clearly where the victim was dragged? But that when we were just walking along we couldn’t discern a thing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why we track at night. It all comes out at night. You’ll see what I mean. Trust me.”
“But won’t he get away?”
Lothar nodded. “He might. But if he took the chance of coming back here, for whatever purpose, he might have reason to stick around.”
BACK AT the crime scene, Lothar briefed Pope on what they’d found and how he intended to take action. When Lothar mentioned the possibility of the shooter still being in the area, Joe saw Pope’s face drain of color.
“Maybe we should retreat to the vehicles,” Pope said, “you know, so we can rest up.”
“You mean get out of the line of fire,” Lothar said. “Good idea.”
As they hiked back to the trucks, Pope said, “The governor is prepared to issue a warning urging hunters to pack up their camps and go home. He’s preparing to close all state lands and alert the Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, and private landowners of what’s going on.”
“My God,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” Pope said. “I begged him to hold off, to give us a few days. But he’s worried as hell that Klamath Moore will spill the beans anytime now. If Moore tells the world that hunters are being systematically hunted down and executed and it looks like the governor has been withholding that information, he’ll look worse than incompetent. He’ll be liable, and so will we.”
Joe grunted.
AS THEY walked up the hill toward the trucks, Joe felt vulnerable and exposed in more ways than one. Literally, they were in the open on the slope, and if the shooter was still out there it would be an easy shot with a scoped, high-powered rifle. He looked over his shoulder at the mountainside he and Lothar had just scoured. It wasn’t inconceivable that the shooter could drop back over the rim into the knoll he’d used to kill Frank Urman and train his rifle on the four of them.
“AND THE hits just keep on coming,” Robey said to Joe and Pope as they approached the vehicles. “I talked with the sheriff’s departments in Albany and Fremont counties. One guess what was among the items found in John Garrett’s pocket when his body was brought in, and what was found inside the mouth of Warren Tucker but wasn’t included in the reports for some unknown goddamned reason?”
“Red poker chips,” Joe said.
“Yes,” Robey said. “Red poker chips.”
“Maybe the governor should close things down,” Joe said. “It’s looking like what we hoped it wasn’t.”
“That’s what Rulon’s new chief of staff is advising him,” Pope spat. “She’s telling him he should have done it yesterday.”
Joe thought, She’s a smart woman.
Pope reached out and grasped Lothar’s arm. “We’ve got to find this shooter. Do you understand? We’ve got to find him tonight.”
Lothar pulled away, annoyed. “I can’t promise anything,” he said.
“But you need to,” Pope said, his eyes bulging with the kind of intensity Joe had seen directed at him several times. “That’s why we brought you here. That’s why we’re paying you. This guy out there is about to destroy my agency.”
Lothar looked away from Pope to Joe and Robey and mouthed, Asshole.
Wally Conway, who’d seen the interaction, looked away passively, not taking sides.
10
THE AFTERNOON got colder as they waited for darkness. Joe sat in his pickup next to Robey and glassed the timber and meadows through his spotting scope, looking for movement of any kind. He got the strange feeling that the birds and wildlife had subtly withdrawn from the area, clearing the stage for whatever was going to happen later. Robey nervously ate pieces of jerky from a cellophane bag he’d brought along. Piece after piece, chewing slowly. The cab of the truck smelled of teriyaki and anticipation.
Pope appeared at Joe’s window, blocking his view through the scope.
“I’m heading back into town,” Pope said, not meeting Joe’s eye. “I can’t run the agency with a cell phone that keeps going in and out of signal range. Let me know how things go tonight. Wally has agreed to stay here with you. Lothar’s getting all of his stuff out of my Escalade. He’ll have to wait with you.”
“You’re leaving?” Joe said.
“Do I have to repeat myself? You heard me.” With that, he patted the hood of Joe’s pickup and walked away.
“Bastard,” Robey said through a mouthful of beef jerky.
“Would you rather have him here with us?” Joe said.
“No, but . . .”
“Let him go,” Joe said. “Wacey Hedeman once said of Sheriff McLanahan—before he was sheriff—‘Having h
im on the payroll is like having two good men gone.’ That’s how I feel about Pope being here.”
“He’s scared,” Robey said.
“So am I,” Joe said, getting out to help Lothar retrieve his gear from Pope’s vehicle.
AS DUSK approached, the wind died down and the forest went silent, as if shushed. Joe used his tailgate as a workbench and checked the loads in his Glock and shoved an extra twelve-shot magazine into the pocket on the front of his holster. He loaded his shotgun with double-ought buckshot and filled a coat pocket with extra shells. Because of the cold stillness, the metal-on-metal sounds of his work seemed to snap ominously through the air. He’d strapped on his body armor vest and pulled on his jacket over it, and filled a daypack with what he thought he might need: flashlight, radio, first-aid kit, bear spray, GPS unit, rope, evidence kit, Flex-Cuffs, a Nalgene bottle of water.
Lothar approached him. “I think it should just be the two of us,” he said.
Joe looked up at the back of Robey’s head in his pickup. He could see his friend’s jaw working as he ate more jerky. “I hate to leave Robey alone,” Joe said. “He’s not used to this kind of thing.”
Lothar said, “Man tracking isn’t a group sport. The more people we have, the more likely we’ll blow our advantage. You have the experience and the equipment and he doesn’t. Simple as that. Besides, we need someone here in camp with a radio in case we need to relay information. If all of us are deep in the timber without a way to call for help if we need it, we’re screwed.”
Joe started to object when Robey swung out of the pickup. “I overheard,” he said, “I’ll be fine, Joe. I’m a big boy.”
Wally Conway, who’d stood by silently watching Joe prepare his weapons, said, “I’ll be here with him.”
Joe felt bad about overlooking Conway, said, “You’re right, I’m sorry. But at least call the sheriff’s office so he can send up a couple of deputies. Or get those DCI boys back that Pope sent home. You may need help and we may need reinforcements.”
“I said I’m fine,” Robey said, adding some heat to his voice. Joe didn’t want to press it at the risk of further alienating his friend. Robey had rodeoed in college until he broke both his pelvis and sternum in Deadwood, which is when he decided to get serious about law school. Although he’d gotten plump and soft over the years, he didn’t want to acknowledge the fact.
“Robey—”
“Really,” Robey said to Joe with force. “Just get me set up with a weapon and a radio and I’ll be here when you guys get back.”
“I can shoot,” Conway said weakly. “I’ve hunted all my life. I can help out any way you want me to.”
Lothar looked away as if he had nothing to do with the quarrel.
“I’m just wondering about our strategy here,” Joe said to Lothar. “There’s just four of us. I was thinking we might want, you know, an overwhelming show of force.”
Lothar shook his head. “That’s old school. We’re going for a small, deadly force here. Matching wits with the bad guy and taking him down with as little fuss as possible. Isn’t the idea here to get this guy before he makes the news? Isn’t that what Pope and your governor want most of all?”
Joe grimaced. “Yup.”
“Then let’s do it this way,” Lothar said. “We can always apply overwhelming force later if we need to. Your governor can fill the trees with the National Guard and the sky with helicopters. But in my experience, and we’re talking fifteen years of it on just about every continent, it’s better to go light and smart instead of dumb and big. If we can find this guy before he knows we’re on him, we lessen the chance of unnecessary casualties. Plus, if we get him, we’ll look damned good and maybe you can send this Klamath Moore guy home.”
Joe looked at Robey and Conway. “You sure you don’t want to call for backup?”
“I’m sure,” Robey said.
Conway nodded, deferring to Robey.
Against his instincts, Joe let it lay.
FAR ENOUGH AWAY from the vehicles not to be overheard, Joe pulled out his cell phone. Despite what Pope had said about signals fading in and out, he had all bars. “Pope . . .” Joe hissed, as if it were a swear word. He punched the speed dial for home. While he waited for someone to answer, he saw Lothar showing Robey and Conway how to arm and fire an AR-15. Robey was sighting down the open sights as Lothar talked him through it.
Sheridan answered.
“Hi, Sherry,” Joe said. “Is your mom around?”
I DON’T WANT to come out again, but I have no choice. When I saw him in the airport and found out why he’s here and what he’s doing, I knew I had an opportunity I may never get again. He has forced my hand. The question is whether or not he’s doing it deliberately as part of his plan or it’s something that just happened. But when I saw his face, heard his voice, saw that his attitude hadn’t changed, I knew at that second that I would be out again, despite the fact that I’m physically tired and my absence may be noted.
I’m out of my vehicle and into the forest as the sun drops behind the mountains. I move much more quickly than before, more recklessly than I am comfortable with. I skirt the path I blazed but once again I have no choice but to walk right through the middle of the elk hunters’ camp on the trail. Luck is with me because the hunters aren’t back yet and the camp is empty. Luck is also with them.
My objective is to get to the saddle slope where I made my statement yesterday and isolate my target and kill him before he knows I’m back.
I know the terrain so well now. It seems to flow under my feet. I feel like I’m gliding . . . .
11
IN THE opaque blue light of the full moon, Joe saw what Lothar meant when he said it all comes out at night. Joe stayed back, giving Lothar room to work, nervously rubbing the stock of his shotgun with his thumb, watching the master tracker work while keeping his ears pricked to sound and peering into the shadows of the forest for errant movement.
Lothar started at the single good boot print they’d found earlier. As the moonlight fell on the short grass it created shadows and indentures that couldn’t be seen in the day. Using a slim flashlight held inches above and parallel to the ground, they could detect more now-visible footprints going up the hill toward the knoll. Lothar placed the tip of the tracking stick on the depression where the ball of the shooter’s foot had pressed into the grass, and telescoped out the instrument to the ball of the second. With a twist of his wrist, he locked the tracking stick into the exact length of the shooter’s stride.
“Thirty inches,” Lothar whispered to Joe. “He has a normal stride for a man in good shape. At that rate, even weighted down with a weapon and a light pack, we can expect him to travel at a normal pace of a hundred and six steps per minute, four to eight miles a day. A healthy and well-fed man can sustain this pace for four days.”
Joe nodded.
“We’ll use moonlight as long as we can,” Lothar said, twisting the flashlight off. “We can see his footprints in the moonlight—”
“Which amazes me,” Joe said.
Lothar grinned. “It’s all about the ambient light. It strikes at a different angle and in a different way and it brings the shadows and depressions of a footprint out of the ground. It gives the ground a whole different texture. And now that we know the shooter’s stride length, if we lose the track—like if he was walking on solid rock or something—we can estimate where he should have stepped and maybe find a dislodged stick or a mud transfer or something.”
“Since we’ve got his track, why aren’t we using the dogs?” Joe asked.
“Too loud,” Lothar said, shaking his head. “Dogs might run him down, but of course he’d know we were behind them. This way, if we’re able to find him purely on our own, we might catch him totally by surprise.”
THERE WAS nothing left behind in the knoll they could see with the red flashlight lenses, no spent rifle cartridges, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, or definitive markings to reveal the shooter’s height or weight.
But Lothar had no doubt this was where the shot was fired by the way the grass was still pressed down in places and the clear view it afforded of the granite outcropping where Frank Urman was hit. They picked up the track as they cleared the top of the ridge, and in the moonlight it was so obvious even Joe could see it with his naked eye. Only once did Lothar need to use the flashlight and his tracking stick to find it again.
They followed the boot prints for half an hour as the moon rose. Because they were not using artificial light, Joe’s eyes adjusted and he found himself able to see well by moon and starlight.
“There’s something I don’t get,” Lothar whispered to Joe. “I get the feeling he came here the first time taking every possible precaution because I simply don’t see his tracks on the way in or out, but that when he came back the second time he was sloppy and careless, just trucking along. What made him drop his guard?”
Joe shrugged. He was wondering the same thing.
“I like it,” Lothar said, patting his weapon. “If he’s become sloppy, we have a better chance of taking him down.”
“That’s what you want to do?” Joe asked. “Take him down? How about we try to arrest him first?”
Lothar snorted. “Do you think he’ll let us?”
“I say we try.”
Lothar grinned wolfishly. “I say we light him up and smoke his ass.”
IT WAS difficult to walk without making any sound, Joe found. There was too much downed, dried timber and finger-thick branches that snapped when stepped on. Joe felt remarkably uncoordinated, and it seemed like he made twice as much noise as Lothar, who had a way of walking deliberately and silently by leading heel first and shifting his weight forward into each step. Joe tried to mimic the technique, stepped on an errant twig, whispered, “Sorry!”