Open Season jp-6

by C. J. Box

  Grasping the pistol in front of him with both hands, Joe skirted a young pine and stepped through the open gate of the weathered fence to the place where the woodpile was. Joe sucked in his breath and involuntarily stepped back, his ears filled with the whumping sound of his own heart beating.

  A big, bearded man was sprawled across the woodpile, both of his large hands folded across his belly, palms down, and one leg cocked over a stump. The man's head rested on a log, his mouth parted just enough to show two rows of yellow teeth that looked like corn on the cob. His eyelids weren't completely shut, and where there should have been a moist reflection from his eyes there was instead a dull, dry membrane that looked like crinkled cellophane. His long hair and full beard was matted by blood into crude dreadlocks. The man wore a thick beige chamois shirt and jeans, and broad stripes of dark blood had coursed down both. It was Ote Keeley, and Ote looked dead.

  Joe reached out and touched Ore's meaty, pale white hand. The skin was cold and did not give to the touch. Except for the dried blood in his hair and on his clothes and his waxy skin, Ote looked to be very comfortable. He could have been reclining in his La-Z Boy, having a beer and watching the Bronco game on television.

  Clutched in one of Ote Keeley's hands was the handle of a small plastic cooler minus the lid. Joe kneeled down and looked into the cooler, which was empty except for a scatter of small teardrop-shaped animal excrement. The inside walls of the cooler were scratched and scarred, as if clawed. Whatever had been in there had been manic about getting out, and it had succeeded.

  Joe stood and saw the extra buckskin horse standing near the corral. The horse was saddled, and the reins hung down from the bridle. The horse had been ridden hard and had lost enough weight that the cinch slipped and the saddle hung loose and upside down.

  Joe stared at Ote's blank face, recalling that day in June when Ote had pointed Joe's own pistol at his face and cocked the hammer. Even though Ote had thought better of it and had sighed theatrically and spun the weapon around butt-first with his finger in the trigger guard like the Lone Ranger, Joe had never quite been the same. He had been expecting to die at that moment, and for all practical purposes he deserved to die, having given up his weapon so stupidly.

  But it hadn't happened. Joe had holstered his revolver with his hands shaking so badly that the barrel of the revolver rattled around the mouth of the holster. His knees had been so weak that he backed up against his pickup to brace him self so he wouldn't collapse. Ote had simply watched him with a bemused expression on his face. Without a word, Joe had written out the citation for poaching in a shaking scrawl and handed the ticket to Ote Keeley, who took it and stuffed it in his pocket without even looking at it.

  "I won't say nothin' if you don't about what just happened," Ote had said.

  Joe hadn't acknowledged the offer, but he hadn't arrested Ote either. The deal had been struck: Ote's silence in exchange for Joe's life and career. It was a deal Joe agonized over later, usually late at night. Ote Keeley had taken something from him that he could never get back. In a way, Ote Keeley had killed Joe, just a little bit. Joe hated him for that, although he never said a word to anyone except Marybeth. What made it worse was when word of the incident filtered out anyway.

  During the summer Ote had gotten drunk and told everyone at the bar what had happened. The story about the new game warden losing his weapon to a local outfitter had joyously made the rounds, and it even appeared in the wicked anonymous column "Ranch Gossip" that ran in the weekly Saddlestring Roundup. It was the kind of story the locals loved. In the latest version, Joe had lost control of his sphincter and had begged Ote for the gun back. Joe's supervisor in Cheyenne heard the rumors and had called Joe. Joe confirmed what had actually happened. In spite of Joe's explanation, the supervisor sent Joe a reprimand that would stay in his personnel file forever. An investigation was still possible.

  Keeley's poaching trial date had been set to take place in two weeks, but obviously Ote wouldn't be appearing. Ote Keeley was the first dead person Joe had ever seen except in a coffin at a funeral. There was nothing alive or real about Ote's expression. He did not look happy, puzzled, sad, or in pain. The look on his face--frozen by death and for several hours--told Joe nothing about what Ote was thinking or feeling when he died. Joe fought an urge to reach up and close Ote's eyes and mouth, to make him look more like he was sleeping. Joe had seen a lot of dead big game animals, but only the stillness and the salt-ripe odor was the same. When he saw dead animals, he had many different emotions, depending on the circumstances--from indifference to pity and sometimes to quiet rage aimed at careless hunters. This was different, Joe thought, because the dead body was human and could be him. Joe made himself stop staring.

  Joe stood up. There had been a monster. He heard something and turned around.

  The backdoor slammed shut, and Sheridan was coming out in her nightgown, skipping down the walk with her hands in the air to see what he had found.

  "Get BACK into that house!" Joe commanded with such unexpected force that Sheridan spun on her bare feet and flew right back inside.

  On his way through the house and to the phone, Joe told Marybeth who the dead man was.

  Of course, County Sheriff O. R. "Bud" Barnum wasn't in when Joe called the dispatch center in Saddlestring. According to the dispatcher--a chain-smoking conspiracy buff named Wendy--neither was Deputy McLanahan. Both, she said, had responded to an emergency that morning in a Forest Service campground in the mountains.

  "Some campers reported seeing a wounded man on horseback ride straight through their camp last night," Wendy told Joe. "They said the suspect allegedly rode his horse right through their camp while displaying a weapon and threatening the campers with said weapon."

  Joe could tell that Wendy loved this situation, loved being in the center of the action, loved telling Joe about it, loved saying things like "allegedly" and "said weapon." She did not get a chance to use those words often in Twelve Sleep County.

  "I called out the entire sheriff's office and both emergency medical vehicles at seven-twelve a.m. this morning to respond."

  "Did you get a description of the man on horseback?" Joe asked. Wendy paused on the telephone, then read from the report:

  "Late thirties, wearing a beard, bloody shirt. A big man. Crazy eyes, they said. The suspect was allegedly swinging some kind of plastic box or cooler around."

  Joe leaned his chair back so he could see out of the small room near the front door that served as his office. Both girls were still lined up at the back window, looking out. Marybeth hovered behind them, trying to draw their attention away by rattling a box of pretzels the same way she would shake dog biscuits at Maxine to get her to come into the house.

  "Why wasn't I called?" Joe inquired calmly. "I live on the Bighorn Road."

  There was no response. Finally: "I never even thought about it." Joe recalled what Marybeth had said about Vern Dunnegan but said nothing. "Sheriff Barnum didn't mention it neither," Wendy said defensively.

  "The injured man was displaying and threatening a weapon with one hand and swinging a plastic box with the other?" Joe asked. "How did he steer his horse?"

  "That's what the report says." Wendy sniffed. "That's what the campers reported. They was out-of-staters. From Massachusetts or Boston or some place like that."

  She said the last part as if it explained away the inconsistency.

  "Which campground?" Joe persisted. "It says here they was at Crazy Woman Creek."

  Crazy Woman was the last developed U.S. Forest Service campground on Bighorn Road, a place generally used as a jumping-off site for hikers and horse-packers entering the mountains.

  "Are you in radio contact with Sheriff Barnum?" Joe asked.

  "I believe so."

  "Why don't you give him a call and let him know that the man on horseback was Ote Keeley and that Ote is lying dead on my woodpile behind the house."

  Joe could hear Wendy gasp, then try to regain her composure. "Say
again?" she replied.

  Joe hung up the telephone and started for the backdoor.

  "You're not going back out there?" Sheridan whispered.

  "Just for a minute," Joe said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

  He shut the door behind him and slowly walked toward the body of Ote Keeley, his eyes sweeping across the yard, taking in the bloodstained walk, the woodpile, the canyon mouth behind the house. He wanted a clear picture of everything as it was right now, before the sheriff and deputies arrived. He didn't want to screw up again.

  Squatting near the plastic cooler, Joe drew two empty envelopes and a pencil from the pocket on his robe. Using the tip of the eraser, Joe flicked several small pieces of scat from the cooler into an envelope. He would send that to headquarters for analysis. He gathered several more pieces of scat and put them in another envelope. He sealed both and put them back in his pocket. He left the rest for the sheriff.

  Back in the house, Joe dressed in his day-to-day uniform: blue jeans and his red, button-up chamois shirt with the pronghorn antelope patch on the sleeve. Over the breast pocket was his name plate, which read game warden and under that J. Pickett.

  When he came downstairs, the girls were sprawled in front of the snowy television, and Marybeth was sitting at the table flanked by dirty dishes. She held a big mug of coffee in her hands and stared at something in the air between them. Her eyes raised until they met Joe's.

  "It'll be okay," Joe said, forcing a smile. He asked Marybeth to gather up the children and some clothes and go into Saddlestring. They could check into a motel until this was over and the backyard was cleaned up. He didn't want the kids seeing the dead man. Sheridan's dreams were already vivid enough.

  "Joe, who will pay for the room? Will the state pay for it?" Marybeth asked softly so the children couldn't hear.

  "You mean we can't?" Joe replied, incredulous. She shook her head no. Marybeth kept the meager family budget under a tight rein. It was the end of the month.

  She would know if they were broke, and apparently that was the case. Joe felt his face flush. Maybe they could stay with somebody? Joe dismissed that. While they had made a few friends in town, they were still new, and he didn't know who they could call to ask this kind of favor.

  "Can we use the credit card?" he asked.

  "Nearly maxed out." She said. "It might work for a night or two, though."

  He felt another wave of heat wash up his neck.

  "I'm sorry, honey," he mumbled. He fitted his dusty black hat on his head and went outside to wait.

  ***

  After inoaSUrillO, marking, and photographing, the deputies sealed off the woodpile with yellow crime scene tape and unfurled a body bag.

  Joe stationed himself outside with his back to the window so no one who looked out could see the deputies bend Ote Keeley into the bag, folding his stiff arms and legs inside so they could zip it up and carry it away. Ote was heavy, and the middle part of the bag hummed along the top of the grass as the deputies took the body out of the yard and around the side of the house to the ambulance.

  Sheriff O. R. "Bud" Barnum had arrived first and had briskly ordered Joe to show him where Ote Keeley's body was. Despite his age, Barnum still moved with speed and stiff grace. His pale blue eyes were set in a pallid leather face and rimmed with paper-thin flaps of skin. Joe watched as the blue eyes swept the scene.

  Joe had expected questions and was prepared for them. He informed Barnum that he had gathered the scat evidence to send to headquarters, but Barnum had waved him off.

  "Yup, that's Ote all right," Barnum had said, before returning to his Blazer.

  "You'll write up a report on it?" Joe nodded yes. That was all there was. No questions, no notes. Joe was surprised and felt useless. From the side of the house, Joe observed the sheriff as he held the mike of his police scanner to his mouth with one hand and gestured in the air with the other. By his movements, Joe could tell that Barnum was becoming frustrated with somebody or something. So was Joe, but he tried not to show it.

  Joe went inside the house. Marybeth watched him nervously from her place on the couch.

  "Is it gone?" she asked, referring to the body. She didn't want to say Ote's name.

  Joe assured her that it was.

  She was pale, Joe noticed. Her face was drawn tight. Marybeth rubbed her hand across her extended belly. She didn't realize she was doing it. He remembered the gesture from before, when she was pregnant with Sheridan and then Lucy. It was something she did when she felt that things were on the verge of chaos. She held her arms across her unborn baby as if to shield it from whatever unpleasantness was happening outside. Marybeth was a good mother, Joe thought, and she reared the children with care. She resented it when outside events intruded on her family without her prior consent, permission, or planning.

  "He's the guy who took your gun a while back," Marybeth said with dawning realization.

  "I've met his wife. In the obstetrician's office. She's at least five months along also." She grimaced. "They have a little one about Sheridan's age and I think one younger. Those poor kids ..."

  Joe nodded and poured some coffee in a mug to deliver to Sheriff Barnum out in his Blazer.

  "I just wish it wouldn't have happened here," Marybeth said. "I know these things happen but why did he have to come here, to our house? Right to our house?"

  It's not our house, Joe said to himself. It belongs to the State of Wyoming. We just live here. But Joe didn't say that and instead went out the front door after a quick "I'll be right back."

  Barnum was signing off from a conversation, and he angrily hung up the microphone in its cradle on the dashboard. Joe handed him the cup of coffee, and Barnum took it without a word.

  "What we know so far is that Keeley went into the mountains with two other guides to scout for elk and set up their camp last Thursday," Barnum said, not looking directly at Joe.

  "They have an outfitters camp up there somewhere. They weren't expected back until tomorrow so nobody had missed them yet."

  "Who were the other guides?" Joe asked.

  "Kyle Lensegrav and Calvin Mendes," Barnum replied, finally looking at him.

  "You know 'em?"

  Joe nodded. "I've run into them a few times. Their names have come up along with Ote Keeley s in connection with a poaching ring. But nobody's caught them doing anything as far as I know." Joe had once had a beer in the Stockman Bar with both of them. They were both in their mid-thirties, and both mountain-man throwback types. Lensegrav was tall and thin, and he wore thick glasses mounted on a hooked nose. He had a scraggle of blond beard. Mendes was short and stout, with dark eyes and a charming, flashbulb smile. Pickett had heard that Mendes and Ote Keeley had been in the army together and that they had both served in Desert Storm.

  "Well, nobody's seen Lensegrav or Mendes," Barnum continued. "My guess is that they're trying like hell to get out of state because they shot their good old pal Ote Keeley right in the chest a couple of times, for whatever reason."

  "Or they're still up in the mountains," Joe said.

  "Yup." Barnum paused, pursing his lips.

  "Or that. The word is out to the Highway Patrol statewide to watch out for 'em. Problem is I don't know yet what they're driving. Keeleys truck and horse trailer are up at Crazy Woman Creek where they left it. We're trying to find out if one of them took a vehicle up there as well."

  Joe nodded at Barnum and said "Hmmmm." There was an uncomfortable minute of silence.

  Sheriff Barnum was an institution in Twelve Sleep County, and he had been in office for 24 years. He rarely had opposition when he ran for election, and in the few times he had, he'd taken 70 percent of the vote. He was a hands-on sheriff, involved in everything from civic organizations to officiating at high school football and basketball games. He knew everybody in the county, and they in turn knew and respected him. Very little got by Sheriff Barnum. Over the years, he had become a storied and colorful character. Specific incidents had become l
egend. He had put a .357 magnum bullet into the eyebrow of a ranch foreman who had just used an irrigation shovel to bludgeon to death his own mother, brother, and a Mexican hired hand. He had taken Polaroid snapshots of cows who had apparently been mutilated by alien beings who had arrived on earth in cigar-shaped flying objects. He had arrested a Basque sheepherder in his sheep wagon and confiscated a ewe named Maria that had been dyed pink. He had once turned back two dozen Hell's Angels en route to Sturgis, South Dakota, by firing up a 24-inch chain saw while straddling the yellow line on the highway.

  "Your office should have called me this morning," Joe said abruptly. "I was closer to the scene than anyone else."

  Barnum sipped the coffee and squinted at Joe as if sizing Joe up for the first time.

  "You're right," Barnum answered. Then: "Wasn't it Ote Keeley who took your gun away from you while you were giving him a citation?"

  "Yes, it was," Joe replied, feeling his ears flush hot.

  "Strange he came here," Barnum said.

  Joe nodded.

  "Maybe he wanted to take your gun away from you again." Barnum smiled crookedly to show he was joking. Barnum was wily, no doubt about it. Joe hardly knew the sheriff, but Barnum had already tweaked one of his weak spots. There was a moment of hesitation before Joe asked if Barnum planned to investigate the elk hunting camp.

  "I would, but right now I'm screwed," Barnum said, banging the dashboard with his fist.

  "That camp is in a roadless area so we can't get to it. Our chopper's on loan to the Forest Service so they can fight that fire down in the Medicine Bow Forest. Tomorrow night's the earliest we could get it back.

  "And my horse posse guys are all in the mountains already because they're all getting' ready to go hunting." Barnum looked over at Joe, exasperated. "We can't get to that camp unless we hoof it, and I'm not walking."

  Joe thought it over for a moment. "I know a guy who knows where that elk camp is located, and I've got a couple of horses."