Trophy Hunt

by C. J. Box

  “And?” Sheriff Harvey prompted.

  Portenson sighed theatrically. “Their conclusion was that this cattle-mutilation stuff is a pile of horseshit. Let me read . . .” He flipped open the report to a page near the back he had marked with a Post-it. “I quote: ‘ . . . It was concluded that the mutilations were caused by scavenging birds, pecking away at exposed soft tissues like eye, tongue, rectum, etc. The smoothness of the “incisions”—note the quote marks around that word, fellows—is produced as a result of postmortem gas production in the cattle’s bodies that stretched the tissues . . .’ ”

  Portenson looked up from the report and his upper lip hitched into a sneer. “So how did the cattle die?” Joe asked.

  To answer, Portenson found another marker in his report and turned the page.

  “ ‘The cows examined died of mundane causes, such as eating poisonous plants.’ ”

  Joe sat back and rubbed his face with his hands. Birds? That was what the FBI concluded? Birds? The report made him angry, as well as Portenson’s delivery of it. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  Hersig broke it. “I guess I don’t see how a thirty-year-old report and our crimes here—including the deaths of two men—have anything to do with each other.”

  Portenson shrugged. “Maybe nothing, I grant you that. But maybe you all need to step back a little and take a deep breath and look at the whole situation from another angle. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “What other angle?” Brazille asked.

  Portenson slowly looked at each person seated at the table. Joe noticed the brief hardness in Portenson’s eyes when they fell on him.

  “Let’s say that the cattle died naturally. Maybe they got a virus, or ate some bad plants. Hell, I don’t know shit about cows. But let’s say that happened. So the cows died. Birds found them and started pecking at the soft stuff, like the report says. It could have happened that way here, gentlemen. After all, the carcasses weren’t really fresh when they were found.

  “But in this atmosphere of near hysteria, a cowboy falls off of his horse in one county and an old man dies of a heart attack in another county. That’s a strange coincidence, but that’s maybe all it is: a coincidence. People die. Two men dying in the same night wouldn’t be a very big deal in any American city. No one would even make a connection. Only out here, where the deer and the antelope play and hardly any people live, would it be a big deal.

  “So the cowboy gets pecked on a little while he’s on the ground and then he gets mauled by Joe Pickett’s grizzly bear. And the other guy gets found by birds and other critters that start eating on him. So what?”

  Portenson stood up and slammed his report shut. “What you may have here, boys, is a whole lot of nothing.”

  During a break, Joe stood in the hallway with Hersig as the others used the restroom, refilled their coffee cups, or checked their messages. Hersig sagged against the wall near the doorway to the deliberation room. He winced and shook his head slowly.

  “Portenson’s report sucked all the air out of the room,” Hersig said morosely.

  Joe said evenly, “It’s not birds.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Hersig sighed. “Are we jumping to wild conclusions here, like he said?”

  Joe shook his head.

  “It’s going to be you and me, Joe.”

  “I came to the same conclusion,” Joe said.

  “Shit.” Hersig said, rolling his eyes. He had made no secrets about his own political ambitions. He wanted to be thought of when Governor Budd replaced the soon-to-be-retiring state attorney general. If the investigation floundered, so would his chances of moving to the capital, Cheyenne.

  “I do admire you, Joe,” he said. “You don’t have much of a dog in this fight, but you seem to be the only guy in that room who wants to figure out what happened. The others are concerned with protecting their turf.”

  “I wanted to work on my own, anyway,” Joe said. “Looks like I’ll be doing that.”

  Hersig smiled. “That wasn’t exactly the idea, you know.”

  “Yup,” Joe said. “What does Portenson want?”

  Hersig folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “That I can’t figure out.”

  “Me,” Joe said. “I think he wants me.”

  “Think he’s got a hard-on for you and Nate Romanowski because of that bad business last winter?”

  “Maybe so.”

  Robey Hersig was the only man who knew enough about the circumstances surrounding the death of Melinda Strickland, a federal land manager, to legitimately suspect that Joe knew more about it than he let on. But Hersig had never asked Joe anything about the incident, and Hersig’s silence in the matter told Joe everything he needed to know about his friend’s suspicions. Justice had been done, and Robey asked no questions.

  When they got back to work, Hersig asked the members of the task force for additional theories on the crimes.

  He addressed the group. “We know what the FBI concluded thirty years ago, and we can’t discount that. But I think we’d be doing a disservice if we didn’t consider other possibilities. So fire away, gentlemen. The ideas can be off the wall,” Hersig urged. “Nothing is too crazy. Remember, it’s just us in this room. Who or what is killing and mutilating wildlife, cattle, and people in our county?”

  “Your county,” Sheriff Harvey corrected, “the wildlife and cattle in my county are just fine, thanks.”

  Robey stood up, approached a whiteboard, and uncapped a red felt-tip marker. He wrote BIRDS.

  “Gentlemen?”

  No one spoke. Great, Joe thought.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of cult,” McLanahan said finally. “Some kind of satanic cult that gets their jollies by collecting animal and human organs.”

  Under BIRDS, Hersig wrote CULTS on the board.

  “Or just one or two sickos,” Sheriff Harvey said. “A couple of lowlifes who like headlines and attention. They started with the moose, then moved on to cows. Then they took a giant step to humans.”

  Hersig wrote DISTURBED INDIVIDUALS.

  “Not that I agree with any of this,” McLanahan said, sitting back in his chair and stretching out with his fingers laced behind his head, “but I’ve heard some things around town. Hell, I’ve heard ’em in the department.”

  McLanahan didn’t see Barnum shoot a glare at him for that, but Joe did.

  “One theory is that it’s the government. CIA or somebody like that. The thought is that they’re testing new weapons. Maybe practicing some counterterrorism tactics.”

  “Maybe it’s the FBI?” Barnum said, smiling at Portenson.

  “Fuck that,” Portenson replied sharply. “We’ve got enough on our plate.”

  “Another theory I’ve heard is that it’s Arabs,” McLanahan said. Joe snorted, and the deputy turned slightly in his chair to scowl at Joe. His voice rose in volume as he spoke. “There was a report of a white van filled with Middle Eastern–looking men in town during the past week, Mr. Pickett. No one knows why they were in town.”

  Since there was little color in Saddlestring other than Mexican ranch hands, Indians from the reservation who occasionally shopped in town, and only two black citizens, Joe wasn’t surprised that a van containing dark-skinned people would result in calls to the sheriff. But still . . . Arabs? Terrorizing Wyoming? Regardless, Hersig wrote ARABS on the board.

  “What about that bear?” Barnum asked, turning to Joe. “Longbrake saw a grizzly and Montegue was chewed up. Maybe we’ve got a crazy-ass bear on our hands that likes to eat faces and dicks? Maybe years of animal lovers coddling bears has turned one of them into a murderer.”

  “I think the killer Arab theory makes more sense than that,” Joe said.

  Barnum angrily slapped the table. “I would like to know why Joe Pickett is on this task force. He’s a pain in my ass.”

  There, Joe thought. It was out.

  “Because Governor Budd wanted a Game and Fish representative,” Hersig answered c
oolly. “And if I recall, Joe has been involved in some real big cases in this county.”

  “Bring it on, Sheriff,” Joe said, feeling his neck get hot. “Let’s get this on the table right now.”

  Barnum swiveled in his chair and acted as if he were about to argue but he apparently thought better of it. Instead, he glared at his coffee cup.

  To divert this unexpected turn in the discussion back to the subject at hand, Hersig wrote GOVERNMENT AGENTS and GRIZZLY BEAR on the board.

  “Maybe a virus of some kind?” Brazille offered. It was the first time he had spoken during the meeting.

  “There’s one more, and all of you know it,” McLanahan said, slowly sitting upright. “But since no one wants to say it, I will.”

  Hersig was writing even before McLanahan said the word.

  ALIENS.

  We’ve even got some guy calling the department offering his expertise in extraterrestrials mutilating cattle,” McLanahan smiled. “He says he’s got experience in the ‘field of the paranormal.’ ”

  “Who is it?” Hersig asked.

  “Some guy named . . .” McLanahan searched his spiral notebook for a moment, “Cleve Garrett.”

  Joe sat up. That was the name Dave Avery had mentioned. The “expert” who had shown up in Helena.

  “Apparently, he’s in town because he heard about the mutilations. He came down from Montana and set up shop at the Riverside RV Park.”

  “Have you talked with him?” Hersig asked.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Joe volunteered.

  “He’s yours!” McLanahan laughed.

  “You get the nut cases,” Hersig said, assigning the job to Joe.

  Joe briefed the room on what he had learned from Dave Avery. He noticed that even Barnum’s eyes got wide when he heard that other mutilations had taken place in Montana the winter before. And he saw Brazille and Barnum write the word “oxindole” in their files as he told them about it.

  “We’ll need that in a report, Joe,” Hersig said.

  “I’ll write it up.”

  Hersig said, “Agent Portenson, can you request that chemical analysis of the blood and tissue be done on the two human victims in Virginia to determine if there is oxindole or anything else unusual in their systems?”

  “I’m sure they’ll cover that,” Portenson said. “But yes, I’ll make the request.”

  After the meeting had finally drawn to a close Joe walked across the parking lot from the county building. He was confused. He needed time to sort out all he had heard today. The puzzle had, in his mind, suddenly mushroomed into something bigger and murkier than it had been before. Portenson’s explanation—if that’s what it was—had unsettled him.

  As he approached his pickup, he looked back at the county building. Portenson stood in the doorway with Sheriff Barnum. They were having a heated discussion, but Joe was too far away to hear what it was about. Joe watched as Portenson and Barnum stepped closer to each other, still talking. Suddenly, Portenson turned and pointed at Joe. Barnum’s face turned to Joe as well.

  What were they saying? Joe wondered.

  Portenson left Barnum in the doorway and made his way across the parking lot.

  Joe stepped around the front of his pickup to meet him. He felt a flutter in his stomach as he did. Portenson obviously had something to say.

  “The sheriff and I were just agreeing that it would be best if you took a backseat in this investigation,” Portenson said.

  Joe didn’t hide his annoyance. “I don’t know what your problem is,” Joe said. “The FBI was exonerated last year. You guys did an investigation of yourselves and determined that you were a bunch of heroes.”

  Portenson grimaced. “Officially, yeah. Unofficially, it’s different on the inside with my fellow agents. I’m a fucking leper. Because I helped you and didn’t support my brethren.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “As if that had anything to do with anything. Tell that to my office, okay? I’m going nowhere fast. I don’t want to be stuck here for the rest of my career. I really don’t.”

  “Unless you redeem yourself to get promoted out of here,” Joe said. “Unless you do something big.”

  “Like if I figure out how you and your pal Nate Romanowski were involved in the suicide of a federal-land manager.” Portenson said the word “suicide” with dripping contempt.

  Joe said nothing. He knew this would always hang over him, always weigh him down. And it should, he thought, it should. He tried to think of something to say.

  “Birds?” Joe asked.

  “What?”

  “Do you really think birds are the answer to the mutilations?”

  Portenson got close to Joe, his face inches away. Joe could smell coffee and tobacco on his breath.

  “It’s as good as any other theory in that room and better than most of them.”

  “It wasn’t birds,” Joe said.

  12

  ON THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN, Marybeth Pickett glanced into her rearview mirror to check on her passengers. Lucy and Jessica Logue were huddled together on the middle bench seat, and Sheridan occupied the rear seat of the van. Sheridan sported an expression that shouted: I AM EXTREMELY BORED!

  Lucy and Jessica had once again made plans to play at the Logues’ home after school.

  “Why does she have to be so social?” Sheridan asked Marybeth.

  “I can hear you, you know,” Lucy said over her shoulder to Sheridan. “Maybe it’s because I have good friends.”

  “She’ll probably be a cheerleader, for goodness sake.”

  “That’s because I’ll have something to cheer about and won’t be crabby all the time, like some people.”

  Which caused Jessica to giggle.

  “Put a gag in it, Lucy.”

  “Girls . . .” Marybeth cautioned.

  Driving down Second Street, Marybeth smiled to herself. Although Sheridan participated in plenty of activities at school and church, she had never felt the need to fill her social calendar beyond that. She didn’t get many calls at home, and rarely made any to classmates. Sheridan’s best friend, Marybeth thought with a gulp, was probably Nate Romanowski.

  Marybeth turned into the winding, tree-shrouded driveway out of habit and nearly rear-ended a stopped vehicle. She slammed on her brakes, the van did a quick shimmy, and they avoided hitting the pickup with a camper in the back of it by less than a foot.

  “Cool,” Sheridan said. “Nice maneuver.”

  Marybeth blew out a breath and sat back. That had been too close. It was her fault. She had assumed the driveway would be empty the way it always was.

  “Everybody okay?”

  They all said they were, and then Lucy and Jessica were scrambling for the door handles.

  Because the van was designed to automatically lock all the doors when it was in gear, Marybeth had to hit a toggle switch to open them. She hesitated as she reached for the switch to let the girls out.

  The camper pickup she had almost slammed into was old, red, dented, and splashed with mud. It listed a bit to the side, as if one of the shocks was bad. The old truck had dirty South Dakota plates.

  “Do you have visitors, Jessica?” Marybeth asked, turning in her seat.

  Jessica gave up on the door and looked up nodding. “My grandma and my grandpa are here.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s nice for you,” Marybeth said, trying to think if either Cam or Marie had mentioned their company at the office. If they had, she couldn’t remember it. The atmosphere in the office had been tense all week, with lots of closed doors.

  “Yeah,” Jessica said without enthusiasm.

  “They’re from South Dakota?”

  “Um-hmmm.”

  “Will they be staying with you very long?”

  Marybeth saw Sheridan look up at her with an exasperated expression. She wanted to go home, not listen to her mother pry for information.

  “I don’t know.”

/>   “How long have they been here?”

  “A week, maybe more.”

  Maybe that’s why Cam has been so irritable at work, Marybeth thought. It was bad enough with the mutilations in the news, the stubborn Overstreet sisters causing problems, the poor financial conditions in general for the Logues—and now his parents were visiting. Cam’s dark moods seemed to make a little more sense.

  “Lucy, maybe it would be best to skip it tonight if the Logues have company,” Marybeth said.

  Both Lucy and Jessica howled in protest.

  “You’re sure it’s okay?”

  “Yes!” Jessica insisted.

  “And you’re sure your mom said she’ll bring Lucy home tonight?”

  “YES!”

  “Okay, then,” Marybeth said, pushing the toggle to unlock the doors.

  Lucy bolted forward and gave Marybeth a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you, Mom.”

  Marybeth watched both girls skip around the pickup and toward the house. Sheridan sighed from the back. Marybeth started to put the transmission into reverse, then halted. Something didn’t seem right to her. Nothing logical, nothing she could articulate. But when it came to her children, she always let her feelings hold sway, and she did that now.

  “Mom? Are we leaving?”

  Maybe it was simply because Marie had not said anything to her, Marybeth thought. They shared everything, Marie and Marybeth, things she knew Joe would blanch at if he overheard. They discussed wants, needs, ambitions, sometimes like schoolgirls. Marybeth knew, for instance, that Cam had not been interested in sex since he got the Timberline Ranch listing. This troubled Marie, especially since they had agreed to try to get pregnant again. Marybeth was more guarded with her secrets, although she had poured out her frustration on the disheartening state of the Pickett family finances.

  The arrival of a father- and mother-in-law was a big event, Marybeth knew. How could Marie have failed to mention it? Or had Marie said something and Marybeth, in the nonstop rush her life had recently become, simply not heard?

  “Okay,” Marybeth said, as she began to back out of the driveway. She saw Sheridan slump back into her seat in over-obvious relief. “I just . . .”