by C. J. Box
"What do you mean you don't have it?" Joe asked.
"Exactly that," the biologist said, the righteous annoyance of a higher rank apparent.
"No one here has seen it or recalls receiving it. How did you send it to us?"
Joe described the small box wrapped in brown paper and tape.
"You sent it regular mail? Not UPS? Not Federal Express? Not registered mail?"
the biologist fired at Joe. "So there's no receipt. You sent it so there was no way to trace it?"
Joe felt his temper rise. He kept his voice low and even.
"I called ahead and was instructed to send it by mail," Joe said. "I was told that in these days of limited state budgets, we were to avoid extravagances like Federal Express."
"Who told you that?" the biologist asked flatly.
"I think it was you," Joe said. The voice sounded the same. "I called you the day I found it."
There was a long, frustrated sigh over the telephone. "Well, we don't have it."
"Can you look again? It's important," Joe said.
"Nothing I've had examined has ever been lost before, either from there to here or from here to there." There was a long silence. "Sure, we can look. But no one here recalls getting it."
He asked Joe to confirm the address he sent it to and the section. He asked Joe if he had put enough postage on the parcel.
Joe started to answer when the biologist asked him to hold again because he said someone might have found it. Joe sat back in his swivel chair with the receiver up to his ear. He recalled how the boys in Cheyenne often felt about the wardens in the field and vice versa. Vern had warned him about it years ago--how the agency directors sometimes felt that field wardens would go native and forget they were state employees, that the wardens would start to think of themselves as advocates for local ranchers or hunters or boosters. Some of the Cheyenne brass thought of the field wardens as prima donnas out there with their fancy trucks, guns, and badges. Like they were local celebrities rather than subordinates. But the resentment could be mutual. Joe had never placed a call to headquarters before 8 a.m. or after 5 p.m." knowing that anyone he needed to talk to would only be in during those hours. He might start the day by patrolling the Bighorn break lands at 5 A.M." but things were different in Cheyenne. Biologists got paid the same whether they found a package or didn't find it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sheridan and Lucy playing in the living room. Lucy was being a dog or something and was raising up on her hind legs for an invisible treat that Sheridan was giving her. It was cute. Marybeth had said the night before that the girls seemed to be doing extremely well and that the Ote Keeley incident had not seemed to upset them. Marybeth said both girls had spent the last two days playing near the woodpile in the backyard and never even mentioned what had happened there. She said Sheridan, Miss Emotional, had even been consistently sunny. Marybeth said she was beginning to feel that maybe there would be nothing to worry about after all.
"Nope, sorry," the biologist said as he came back to the telephone. "We found a package and opened it, and it was a piece of a dead eagle a warden sent us from Ranchester to see if it had been shot."
Joe cursed under his breath. The biologist agreed to call him if the package ever showed up.
***
Joe walked into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Marybeth and Missy were sitting at the table and stopped talking when he walked in, confirming that they had been talking about him. He filled his cup and turned and leaned against the counter. Marybeth looked radiant, and she smiled at him. Missy was smiling, too, and she looked at him with a kind of detached respect he had not seen from her before. Neither was about to ask him about the job offer or what he thought about it. Yet. They were both trying to gauge his mood.
Lucy crawled into the kitchen on all fours and propped up on her haunches near the table with her mouth open. Missy fed her a piece of a waffle from a plate. Joe guessed this routine had been going on most of the morning.
"There's your treat, little doggie," Missy said.
"I'm not a doggie," Lucy said over her shoulder as she scooted back into the living room to be with her sister.
"I don't know what's going on, but the girls are being angels," Marybeth told Joe.
"Maybe their grandmother brings out the best in them."
Joe laughed, and Missy gave Marybeth a look. The telephone rang in the office, and Joe excused himself to answer it. There was silence on the other end after Joe identified himself. The barely perceptible hiss in the line indicated it was long distance.
"You don't know me." It was a woman's voice.
"I work at headquarters in Cheyenne." Her voice was steady, but nervous. She was barely audible.
Joe reached behind him without looking and closed the office door. It was now quiet in the room. He sat down at his desk.
"You called about a package today," the woman said.
"I saw it come in Tuesday and it went to Game Biology. Then it disappeared."
"What do you mean it disappeared?" Joe asked.
"It disappeared."
Joe thought about it, saying nothing. The woman again said that it had disappeared. She clipped her words, and he could sense the caution in her voice, as if someone might walk in on her any minute.
"Who are you?" Joe asked.
"Never mind," she said. "I've got two kids and a husband who's out of work. I'm a state employee with benefits. I need this job."
"I've got a couple of kids, too," Joe said. "And another one on the way."
"Then you had best just forget about that package," the woman said sharply, not wanting to establish any kind of common interest. "Just forget about it and go on with your life."
Joe frowned. It was the second time he had received that advice. While she talked, he slid open his desk drawer. The other envelope, the one with the last few pieces of scat, was still there.
She paused briefly, then continued. "Let me put it this way: anything you send us will get lost."
"Why are you doing this?" Joe asked. There was a hint of exasperation on the other end of the phone.
"I don't know," she said. "I just felt that I had to. I have to go now."
"Thank you," Joe said but she had already hung up.
Joe thought about what to do. Still holding the receiver, he sifted through his desk until he found his old address book and then dialed his friend Dave Avery.
Joe and Dave had gone to college together and Dave now worked as a game biologist for the Montana Fish and Game Department in Helena. After they had caught up (Dave had divorced but was engaged again), Joe asked him if he could send him a sample for an independent analysis.
"Where was it found?"
"My backyard."
"And my Wyoming colleagues can't decide what squeezed it out?"
"There's some dispute," Joe hedged. He didn't want to go into the story of the lost sample. There wasn't any need to.
"Sound's like you're challenging me," Dave said. "Name That Shit."
"I am," Joe said, forcing a laugh. Dave agreed to take a look at it, whatever it was, and to keep both the sample and the results in confidence.
Joe sat back in his swivel chair. He thought about what the woman at the lab had told him. He wondered how he could go about finding out who she was and if he even should. He believed she had told him the truth about the missing sample. He wished she hadn't, because things had suddenly become a lot more complicated.
***
The tires Of Joe Pickett's pickup made a sizzling sound as he drove through the wet streets of Saddlestring to the county sheriff's office. It was still raining, and there were very few people out on the streets. Those who were out were scurrying from one door to another holding their hands on top of their heads. Joe thought how strange it was that the rain had continued throughout the day. Rain was a rarity this time of year; in fact, it was a rarity, period.
Wyomingites, Joe had observed, didn't know what to do when it rained except
get out of it, watch it through the window, and wait for it to go away. The same people who chained up all four tires and drove through horizontal snowstorms and bucked snowdrifts just to go have lunch in town during the winter had no clue what to do when it rained. A few ranchers stretched plastic covers, sometimes referred to as "cowboy condoms," over their John B. Stetsons but few people owned umbrellas. Fewer yet would let themselves be seen with an umbrella open because it would appear urban and pretentious, and the only rain slickers he ever saw were rolled up neatly and tied to the backs of saddles, where they generally remained. But Joe liked rain and wished there were more of it.
Vern had been right. Saddlestring was dying. A decade ago the coal mines in the county were operational and the Twelve Sleep Oil Field was pumping, but now both were silent. Only a reclamation crew still worked at the mine, and the oil wells had since been capped, waiting in vain for the price of a barrel of oil to rise.
Even the agricultural jobs had shrunk as out-of-state wealth bought local ranches for tax write-offs and in some cases took them out of production. Cattle prices were the lowest in a decade. A quarter of the storefronts on the main street were boarded up. In the past five years, the population of the town had decreased by 30 percent. Houses were available in all parts of town, and the prices were cheap. Saddlestring's one radio station had announced it was going off the air as of the first of next month. Unemployment was high and getting higher. Vern's pipeline would pump not only natural gas but new blood and dollars back into the community.
Saddlestring was a classic western town borne of promise due to its location on the railroad, but that promise never really played out. In the 1880s, a magnificent hotel was built by a mining magnate, but it had faded into disrepair. The main street, called Main Street, snaked north and south and had a total of four stoplights that had never been synchronized. The two-block "downtown" still retained the snooty air of Victorian storefronts designed to be the keystones of a fine city, but beyond those buildings, the rest of Main Street looked like any other American strip mall, punctuated by gun shops, sporting goods stores, fishing stores, bars, and restaurants that served steak.
Joe entered the sheriff's office and hung his jacket and hat on a rack.
"Still raining?" asked Deputy McLanahan from his desk behind the counter. Joe said it was and asked if Sheriff Barnum was available. Wendy, the receptionist/dispatcher, eyed Joe coldly, long enough to remind him that she still didn't like him after their telephone conversation on Sunday. But then she relented and buzzed Barnum on the intercom, saying "Game Warden Joe" was here to see him.
Sheriff Bud Barnum sat behind a desk stacked with mountains of paper and mail. He was sipping from a large white foam cup that he appeared never to put down. Although Barnum's office was good sized, there were stacks of magazines and documents everywhere, and the untidiness of it gave Joe a claustrophobic feeling. There was a single, brown Naugahyde chair across from Barnum's desk, and Joe moved a few pieces of unopened mail from it and sat down.
Barnum sipped loudly from his cup. Joe could smell the strong coffee.
"You ever been to that new coffee place down the block?" Barnum asked. Joe nodded that he had. Marybeth liked to meet him there for coffee and oversized muffins when he took a morning break.
"It's a pretty good place," Barnum said quietly. "The people who own it are a little goofy, though. It's kind of a hippie establishment. They moved here from California, and she doesn't wear makeup or shave her legs, which I don't understand the significance of. He was some kind of computer engineer before he sold his stock and moved out here. All their food is vegetarian."
To Joe, Barnum looked very tired. His pallor was grayish, and there were bags under his eyes.
"They've got all these different kinds of coffee these days," Barnum said, looking at the big foam cup. "This is Ethiopian JabaJava. All my life I thought there was only one kind of coffee and that it came out of a big red can with a little Mexican or Colombian farmer on it. Then all of the sudden there are a hundred kinds of coffee. They feature a new kind of special coffee every day in that place. I've been trying a different one every day to try and make up for all of those years I was sheltered. I don't know why it is that alcohol and tobacco are now bad, but jolts of caffeine are suddenly good. It is beyond me, and it makes me feel old."
He handed Joe the cup for Joe to try it. To be polite, Joe had a sip. Barnum had a disarming and likable way about him. Joe nodded.
"Pretty good, eh?" Barnum said. "Who'd a thought there could be coffee from Africa? Plain old American coffee just isn't good enough for us anymore, I guess."
Joe felt awkward. Then he came right out with it: "Can I ask you a question about the outfitter murders?"
"Pertaining to what?" Barnum asked, sitting a little straighter in his chair, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Joe. Joe started to answer, but Barnum spoke again. "First I need to know whose camp you're in," Barnum said.
"Whose camp?"
"Wacey Hedeman's or mine," Barnum said. "The guy who is running against me. Your pal."
"I'm neutral," Joe said truthfully. "I don't have a position on that."
Barnum's expression never changed. Joe had no idea what Barnum was thinking. It was unnerving.
"Stay that way," Barnum warned.
"I intend to," Joe replied.
"I'm going to lose the election," Barnum said flatly. "I've been around long enough to know this is the last one, even if no one else realizes it."
Joe had no idea how to answer that. He couldn't imagine Bud Barnum not being the sheriff of Twelve Sleep County. Clearly, Barnum couldn't either.
"I don't know what the hell I'm going to do after that," Barnum said. "Maybe the governor will give me a job, but then I'd have to move to Cheyenne. Probably I'll just stay here and drink a lot of coffee."
Joe lamely suggested that there was still a month and a half until the election and that anything could happen in that time. Barnum nodded wearily.
"You had a question."
"I'm wondering what the status of the investigation is."
"The status of the investigation," Barnum mimicked, his expression theatrically perplexed, "is obvious. The state crime-lab ballistics has proven that all three Mississippi yahoos were shot with the same nine millimeter semiautomatic pistol at close range, and that pistol was found on Mr. Clyde Lidgard by Deputy McLanahan and yourself and Mr. Hedeman. Lidgard is in critical condition in the Billings hospital, having never regained consciousness, and the doctors up there say every day that he won't live through the night but he has so far. Unless Mr. Lidgard regains consciousness and tells us a story that is different from what we already know, the case is all but closed."
Joe waited for more. No more was coming. "So when Clyde Lidgard dies, the investigation ends," Joe said.
"Unless there is some kind of new evidence to open it back up," Barnum said. "Simple as that."
Joe nodded. "His trailer was searched?"
Barnum's tone was mildly sarcastic, "It was searched both by the sheriff's office and by the state boys. Nothing could be found that either implicated or exonerated Lidgard. The report is in the file if you want to read it over. Lidgard was a strange bird, and his trailer was a strange place. He liked to take a lot of pictures with his Kodak Instamatic. There are thousands of photos out there. He also liked to collect pictures of Marilyn Monroe, including that first-ever Playboy magazine with her in it. That magazine's probably the only thing Clyde owned that was worth anything. If that magazine is still out there, it will amaze me because more than likely it ended up in the briefcase of one of the state investigators. But aside from the magazine, everything that was in the trailer is still in the trailer, and the unit has been sealed and locked."
Joe took it all in and waited for Barnum to finish. "Do you mind if I take a look on my own?" Joe asked.
Barnum again resumed the perplexed look. Then he smiled slightly as if Joe amused him.
"You going to do some investigati
ng?"
"Just curious."
"Can I ask why?" Barnum said, his eyebrows arching.
Joe shrugged. "I guess I'm taking this whole thing a little personal because Ote Keeley died in my yard. This whole thing has affected my family."
"What's there to solve?" Barnum asked. "In my twenty-odd years of experience dealing with things like this, I've come to the painful and sometimes unpopular conclusion that many times things are exactly what they seem to be."
"Maybe so," Joe said. "But I need to convince myself."
The sheriff studied Joe for what seemed an inordinate amount of time.
"Go do what you need to do," Barnum finally said. "Lidgards trailer keys are in the file. Just don't take or disturb any of the evidence, because we might find a next of kin who wants some of that crap out there."
Joe thanked him and stood up.
"Joe," Barnum said, as Joe reached for the doorknob, "shouldn't you be out there in the woods catching poachers or counting gut piles or whatever it is you boys do?"
That stopped Joe and turned him around. "Yes, I should be," Joe said quietly. He did not say what he was thinking, which was, Shouldn't you be out there following up every last possibility instead of sitting here on your butt, drinking coffee and worrying about the election?
***
Joe got a copy of the crime report and the trailer keys from Deputy McLanahan.
"Depressing, ain't he?" McLanahan asked Joe. "This is a really fun place to work these days. When I try and make a joke or even smile about something, he tells me to quit trying to act like Jerry Lewis."
Joe nodded and got his jacket and hat.
"Jerry Lewis," McLanahan echoed as Joe stepped outside. It was still raining.
Written with a felt-tipped marker, the cardboard sign on Clyde Lidgards trailer read: Anyone caught vandalizing or attempting to enter these premises will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law by order of the Twelve Sheep County Sheriff's Department.
The rain had caused the letters on the sign to blot and run, and there were several long rivulets of black running the length of the door. It was dark inside the trailer, the heavy rain only allowing a meager amount of light to filter in through the grimy louvered windows. Joe searched for the light switch but discovered that the electricity had been cut off. It smelled musty, and there was the sharp stench of rotting food from the refrigerator and garbage. He decided to check them last, on his way out, because he guessed that the smell would be overpowering once he opened the doors. Joe drew his flashlight from his belt and turned it on. He felt wary and voyeuristic standing in the middle of the dead man's home. The investigations Joe conducted were usually done outside, more often than not over the carcass of a game animal shot and abandoned. In the trailer, Joe felt closed-in. He believed that he didn't know Clyde Lidgard well enough to be in his home. Plus he had no idea what he was looking for in the trailer. The trailer was small and filthy, years of grit coating the floors and counters.
