by C. J. Box
Joe was stunned for the second time that day. He couldn't believe this was happening. He didn't know what to say to Vern. This was exactly the opposite of what he thought he would be able to tell Marybeth when he got home. And his girls. And his mother-in-law. The worst thing about it was that he had not really wanted to come to Vern and ask in the first place. He had talked himself into it as he drove and drank on the highway. He had done it, he thought, because it was the most responsible thing to do. As Joe stood up, he considered raising his fist and smashing Vern in his grinning mouth as hard as he could.
But he didn't. He felt too defeated for that.
"All is not lost, Joe," Vern said as Joe clamped on his hat.
"Wacey might need a new deputy, you know. He's going to get rid of that McLanahan guy just as soon as he takes office. All is not lost."
Joe turned and leaned forward into the booth, with both of his hands on the tabletop, and put his face directly in front of Vern's.
"You're wrong, Vern," Joe said, nearly whispering. "All is just about lost."
"Now, Joe ..."
"Vern." Joe cut him off. "Shut up and listen for a change."
Vern's eyes quickly confirmed that no one in the bar was paying them any attention. He looked suspiciously back to Joe.
"Vern, I lost my job and my house today. My faith in the belief that if you do your job and you work hard and you're honest then good things will happen is real shaky right now. My family is one paycheck away from being on the street. One paycheck. Now I've lost my only prospect for another job. And to top it off, you tell me I've lost my reputation. Then you tell me that all is not lost."
Vern reached up and put a hand on Joe's shoulder, but Joe angrily shook it off.
"Hey, Joe," Vern said, "it's time to start thinking a lot more about Joe Pickett and a lot less about what your family and everybody else thinks. That's what I've learned, Joe."
Vern's eyes turned hard and his lip curled back in a sneer.
"Welcome to my world. The real world. It's a place where nice things don't necessarily happen to nice people. I," Vern said in his most grandiloquent way, "am an entrepreneur. I create wealth. I empowered this Inter West deal into being. An offer was made to you, and you passed on it when you had the chance."
Their eyes locked.
"Vern, have you ever heard of a species called the Miller's weasel?"
The corners of Vern's mouth twitched slightly, then out came the false smile.
"Miller's weasels are extinct," Vern said. "They don't exist, even though every decade or so a rumor pops up that somebody saw one. Kind of like sightings of Bigfoot or something."
"Vern," Joe hissed. "If I find out you're involved in all of this, things are going to get real western."
The look Joe had seen on Vern's face when he walked into the bar passed over it again. But this time there was some fear mixed in. It was good to see.
The weather had turned sharply colder and the stars were shrouded by clouds.
Joe's hands were shaking as he dug in his pocket for his keys. He started his truck and began to drive to his house. He hit the brakes and cursed loudly when he realized that he was headed in the wrong direction. His family was at Eagle Mountain now, so he turned in the middle of Main Street and roared away in the other direction.
PART FIVE
LAND ACQUISITION
Sec. 5(a) Program. The Secretary, and the Secretary of Agriculture with respect to the National Forest System, shall establish and implement a program to conserve fish, wildlife, and plants, including those which are listed as endangered species or threatened species pursuant to section 4 of this Act. To carry out such a program, the appropriate Secretary (1) shall utilize the land acquisition and other authority under the Pish and Wildlife Act of 1956, as amended, and the Migratory Bird Conservation Act, as appropriate; and (2) is authorized to acquire by purchase, donation, or otherwise, lands, waters, or interest therein, and such authority shall be in addition to any other land acquisition authority vested in him.
(b) Acquisitions. Funds made available pursuant to the Land and Water Conservation Fund Act of 1965, as amended, may be used for the purpose of acquiring lands, waters, or interests therein under subsection (a) of this section.
--The Endangered Species Act Amendments of 1982
In the dining room, there was a long, dark hardwood table that could seat fourteen people comfortably. In the middle of the night, Joe sat in his robe at the foot of it under a dimmed chandelier and felt sorry for himself. Hours before, he had switched to drinking water, and he
filled up a stubby cut-glass tumbler from a pitcher that was older than he was.
The Kensinger house was magnificent, but he had surveyed it with amused dispassion. The bar area alone was half of the square footage of his house on Bighorn Road. The walls were hung with original Bama and Schenck contemporary western paintings and eighteenth-century English sporting prints.
Two-thousand-dollar Navajo rugs hung from ceiling beams. There was a pure stainless steel kitchen with a walk-in refrigerator freezer giving Joe the impression that food preparation in this place was a serious, almost clinical affair. In the book-lined den (the books were mainly leather-bound editions of sporting and history categories with stiff, un cracked spines), a powerful telescope was mounted on a tripod to study the Twelve Sleep River and the wildlife that came down from the foothills to drink from it. To Joe, the house was not built or arranged to be lived in as much as it was a stage for entertaining. Small children would kill this house, and this house would kill small children. It was a kind of rancho deluxe contemporary western living museum.
Joe sipped his glass of water and looked around the dining room in the dark. The unreality of this place, given his situation, was overwhelming.
"Can I get you anything?" It was Marybeth. She stood in the shadow of the double doors. He gestured at the half-empty pitcher of water to indicate he was okay.
He looked at her as if he were seeing her for the very first time. To sleep in, she was wearing an extra-large T-shirt that extended to mid-thigh. The cotton cloth strained across her pregnant belly and substantial breasts, her nipples poking out like buttons. Beneath the T-shirt, her legs were firm and thin, and her toes were curled into the nap of the thick carpet. Her hair was down around her shoulders and sleep-mussed. She was lovely.
When he had first come in, he had told her everything. The kids had been in bed, and Missy Vankeuren was who knows where within the house. He had held nothing back as they sat across from each other at the dining room table: what had happened at Game and Fish Headquarters, what Dave Avery had confirmed, what Vern had said about the job and his reputation.
"One way or other, that man has made sure he still has power over you," Marybeth had said.
"Vern Dunnegan may be the only person I have ever truly learned to hate."
He had told her about his plan to go back up into the Crazy Woman Creek canyon tomorrow where the outfitters had been murdered--while he still had the authority to do so. Maybe he could find something that would substantiate what he was beginning to suspect about the outfitters' murders. He had laid it out in flat, declarative sentences. When he was through, she had looked at him and had said, "That's a lot to think about," and then she had gone to bed. They had left things on a difficult, unresolved note. Now she was back.
She came from the doorway, pulled out a straight-backed chair next to him, and sat down. She reached over and slipped her hand between the folds of his robe and put a warm hand on his leg. She looked into his eyes.
"Joe, I've been thinking about everything you said."
He waited for what would come next.
"Joe, all is not lost. You have me. You have your family. You have character. That's a lot, and not many people can say that. We love you and appreciate who you are and what you've done."
He looked at her quizzically.
"Joe, you are a good man. You're the last of your kind. Don't forget that. There aren't
many like you left. You have a good heart and your moral compass is a model of its kind. You need to do what you need to do. Things will work out, and we can talk about it all later. We're being tested, God knows why."
Joe was taken aback. For some reason--and he felt more than slightly guilty about it now--he thought she was going to tell him that she had had it and maybe the best idea was for her to take the children and go and live with her mother in Arizona for a while. He felt he had failed her. But she was showing that she was stronger and more committed to him, and them, than he had given her credit for. He started to speak and ask her why, but she didn't let him.
"Don't ask me, Joe. There isn't anything logical about it. There's nothing I can really explain to you other than I trust you and I'm with you until the bitter end."
"That's a lot to live up to." Joe said.
"You bet it is," Marybeth answered. "But you haven't let me down yet."
Joe thought she had never seemed as beautiful as she did at that moment.
"I'm not sure what I should say next," Joe said, flushing.
She withdrew from his robe and guided his hand under the T-shirt to her belly. He rested his hand on her and then spread his fingers. Beneath the taut flesh he could feel the baby shifting inside of her.
"We make wonderful babies," she said softly. "We're bringing good little people into the world who have a mom and a dad who care about them and love them. They know right from wrong because their parents teach them which is which, and because their parents live by example. Somewhere, there is a reward for us, Joe. We need to believe that. We won't just be abandoned."
Joe stared at Marybeth, still unsure what to say.
"But right now, I just want you in my bed," she continued. "I need you there."
He followed her to a bedroom he had never even seen before and to a bed he had never slept in. In it, they made love in a warm, clumsy way that at least for a few wonderful moments made him forget where he was.
***
He didn't know how long he had been sleeping, but when he opened his eyes it was still dark outside. He eased out of the bed, not wanting to wake Marybeth, and padded along the cold stone tiles in the hallway. Then he realized, standing in the strange house, that he wasn't sure where the closest bathroom was. He stopped at a curtained window and brushed it aside to look outside. There was still no sign of dawn. Stars shown brilliantly in the black sky. His intention was to be in the saddle by seven and to the elk camp by noon. Beyond that he wasn't sure where he was going or how far he would go. By the faint blue light from the moon, he saw the shadow of a lamp on a table in the hall; he bent down, turned it on, and looked at his wristwatch.
"Dad?"
The voice made him jump and spin around. He hadn't known which room the children were sleeping in. When he entered the bedroom, he saw Sheridan sitting upright on the bed, her fingers wrapped tightly around the covers.
"Honey," Joe said as he sat down on the bed, "it's three-thirty in the morning. Why aren't you sleeping?"
He couldn't see her well in the dark. She looked like a tangle of blond hair and thin limbs. He stroked her hair and eased her back to her pillow.
"I can't sleep," Sheridan said, her voice hoarse.
"Is it the new house?" he asked. "Sleeping in a new bed?"
She didn't answer, but he had the feeling that she wanted to say something. Tell him something. He petted her hair and shoulder to calm her. Something was wrong. He heard her sniff and realized that she had been sobbing. He felt her cheeks, which were moist with tears.
"You can tell me," he said, his voice gentle.
Suddenly, she sat up and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his chest. He assumed she must have heard some of the earlier conversation with Marybeth. Maybe she was worried about their situation ... like he was. He told her that everything was going to be okay. He told her that she needed to get some sleep. He waited for her to tell him what the problem was. She had never been shy before when it came to talking about her feelings. Far from it, Joe thought.
Finally: "I don't like this place," she told him, crying.
He didn't tell her that he wasn't real sure he liked it either. Instead, he once again eased her back into her bed.
"Is that all?" he asked.
She paused for an inordinate amount of time. She covered her face with her hands. "That's all," she said, meekly.
"We won't be here forever," he said, aware of the irony of that statement. He rubbed her shoulder until he thought she had drifted back to sleep. He rose eventually and quietly walked across the room toward the hall.
"I love you and Mom," she said. "I love our whole family."
He turned at the door. "Your whole family loves you, too, Sheridan. Now get some sleep."
***
Joe rode hard, pushing Lizzie as fast as he dared, and made it to the elk camp by midday. It was cold. Gray, scudding clouds filled a sky that seemed especially close. He dismounted in the camp, stretched, and unsaddled his horse.
They had both worked up a sweat. Steam rose like contrails from Lizzie's back, and he rubbed her down with his gloved hands while she drank from the trickle of cold water that was Crazy Woman Creek in early fall. He set out some grain for Lizzie and then draped the smoky, wet saddle blanket over a branch. He would wait for Lizzie to dry and rest before he continued on.
Except for a few early rising hunters waiting for their coffee to brew in the campground before sunrise, Joe had not seen another living person since seven that morning. On his hard ride up the mountain, he had spooked a small herd of cow and calf elk and had nearly ridden on top of a coyote who was loping lazily down the same trail he was riding up.
As Lizzie rested, he carried his saddle and walked through the elk camp. He sat on a rock, pulled his Thermos from a saddlebag, and poured a cup of coffee. In addition to the new Smith & Wesson revolver he wore on his hip, he had brought his Remington shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot. He arranged the saddle scabbard on top of the pommel so he could pull the shotgun out quickly.
Even though it was the same place he, Wacey, and McLanahan had moved in on that morning just two weeks before, it seemed very different now. The tents were gone, as were the stoves and wooden floors. The earth within the camp had been trampled flat and hard by investigators. The fireplace had been kicked apart, and the cross beams in the trees that were used for hanging elk had been dismantled. In a year or two, with plenty of snow and new grass and erosion, the elk camp would be unrecognizable, nothing more than a wide, flat place along the stream.
He spread a topographical map across his knees and studied it until he found the location of the elk camp where he now was and the creek that ran alongside it. Along the creek a few inches up from the camp, the contour lines narrowed and became dark and thick, indicating a steep and narrow canyon. The creek became a hairline. The trail, marked by dots and dashes, ended at the mouth of the canyon.
On the map, the canyon looked incredibly long and narrow. He traced it with his finger as it snaked through the heart of the mountain. But what Joe was most interested in was where the creek began, and where the walls appeared to widen.
It looked like a huge bowl or depression, two miles long by three miles, all four sides rimmed by sharp cliffs. The area was in a roadless section, and the map showed virtually no access from above. The only way in, it seemed, was upstream along the creek.
Joe had never been to the bowl before. He had asked Vern about it, back when he had just started in the district, because it was such a unique topographical feature. Vern had said he had been there once but hadn't been back as it was so hard to get to. Hunters avoided it, Vern said, because, although it was remote and probably rich with game, it was one of those places where "the only way to get an elk out was with a knife and fork."
But Ore Keeley, Kyle Lensegrav, and Calvin Mendes had spent a lot of time up here scouting and hunting elk. Joe wouldn't be a bit surprised if they had felt the urge to find out what
was upstream, beyond the narrow canyon. They had probably used the same topo map Joe had and could see, as he could, that the bowl could very likely be the home of magnificent elk that were rarely, if ever, hunted.
Joe looked up and searched upstream for the spot where the canyon walls began to narrow. That was where he planned to go.
***
"Why do you want to go back to the house so badly, Sheridan?" her mom asked as she gathered up the breakfast dishes from the table. Lucy had already left to go watch television. Lucy had fallen in love with all of the channels available on the satellite dish.
Sheridan had thought long and hard about a story that would work. She had forgotten her library books, she said. The books were due on Monday, she said.
It was a lie, Sheridan knew. But it was sort of a good lie.
"Can't we go tomorrow?" her mom asked. "Tomorrow is Sunday."
"I've got to read the books," Sheridan said, looking to her grandmother for sympathy. "I've got to do a book report on one of them."
Missy Vankeuren laughed. She had been in a good mood ever since they had come to the house at the Eagle Mountain Club. "She sounds like me in my school days."
"Yes," her mom said, looking with disapproval at her own mother. "But it doesn't sound like Sheridan."
Mom turned back to her.
"Sheridan, you know better than to wait until the last minute to do your homework," her mom admonished as she took the dishes to the kitchen.
"Well, it's been pretty busy lately," Sheridan said, indicating the move. That would instill a little guilt, Sheridan thought. Her mom knew Sheridan didn't really like the new "vacation home," as Missy called it.
"Just use your charm to get yourself out of it," Missy said, winking at Sheridan. "Bat your eyes and make up some good story. That's what I would do." Then she smiled.
