by C. J. Box
“Damn it,” Tommy said, thumping the table with the heel of his hand, “that’s what she was doing. And yeah, I guess it was sort of a, um, pleasant smile. Like she was, you know, happy.”
Reed rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
Although small details kept changing, which was very disconcerting if one wanted to believe Tommy Wayman’s story, the basic tale was the same: The outfitter took his fifteen-foot Hyde low-profile drift boat out on the Twelve Sleep River to do some fishing of his own after a pair of clients canceled. He brought along his cooler, which had been filled with beer for three. Fishing was good. The beer was cold. Tommy landed nothing smaller than twenty-two-inch rainbows on dry flies. He lost track of how many beers he had drunk after counting eleven, and how many fish he caught after twenty. He may have even dozed off. Yes, he did doze off, which wasn’t a good thing, generally.
Luckily, he thought to drop the anchor off the back of the boat before he settled back between the seats on a pile of life vests and took a little nap. No, he wasn’t sure how long exactly. Maybe a whole hour. When he awoke he didn’t know where he was at first. He raised the anchor and started to drift downriver, picking up speed. That’s when he saw her. Opal Scarlett, right on the shore, standing in thick brush. But close enough that he could see her face, even if he couldn’t hear what she was saying over the river sounds. He had drifted too far and was picking up too much speed to row back upstream to hear her words. Nevertheless, he had hollered back at her. “Turn yourself in, Opal, for Christ’s sake! Everybody thinks I drowned you in the river!”
“You said she was closer to Hank’s place than she was to her own house,” Robey said to Tommy. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Tommy was getting annoyed with the questions, and a hangover of industrial strength was starting to settle in, which made him even tougher to deal with.
“The whole fucking thing strikes me as odd, Robey,” Tommy said. “What has she been doing out there for a month when she knows the whole county is wondering what happened to her?”
Reed reviewed his notes, sighing loudly. Tommy looked over at him.
“What?” he asked.
“When I first got here and wrote down your story, you said you were fishing and you looked up and there she was,” Reed said. “Then, an hour later, you say you passed out in your boat, and when you woke up there she was. Now you say you were drifting downriver and picking up speed, and you didn’t see her until you looked back and by then it was too late to go back. That’s three different versions of the same event, Tommy. Which one are we supposed to believe?”
Joe had noted the discrepancies as well. Tommy was turning red. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his scalp.
“The last one, goddammit,” he said. “It was the last one. The last version.”
“That doesn’t sound too credible,” Robey said, sounding more sympathetic to Tommy than Joe expected him to be.
“And what exactly was she wearing?” Reed asked, not kind at all. “You say she was in jeans and a plaid shirt. What color was the shirt?”
“Huh?”
“What color was it? You said earlier it was a certain color. Do you remember now?”
Tommy looked down at his coffee cup and mumbled something.
“What was that?” Reed asked.
“He said ‘light yellow,’” Joe repeated.
Reed rolled his eyes again. “Light yellow is the color of the shirt he originally claimed Opal was wearing that day he threw her into the river. Are we supposed to believe she’s been wearing the same clothes for a month?”
“Yeah,” Robey said, rubbing his jaw. “And I think you said earlier she was wearing a dress, didn’t you?”
“If I did, I didn’t mean it,” Tommy said.
“Tommy Wayman,” Deputy Reed said, snapping his notebook closed and shoving it in his shirt pocket, “you are full of shit.”
Tommy moaned and sat back in his chair.
“I did see her, you guys,” he said thickly. “I just can’t remember all of the little details ’cause I’d been drinking.”
Robey said, “Of course, it would just be a coincidence that if Opal were actually seen on her ranch then you’d be completely off the hook, right?”
Tommy looked from Reed to Joe to Robey and said, “Really, guys . . .”
“I’m out of here,” Reed said. “You want me to give Tommy a ride back to his house?”
“Really, guys,” Tommy said again as Reed helped him to his feet.
JOE AND ROBEY sat at the table. It was midnight, and Tommy Wayman and Deputy Reed had been gone for fifteen minutes. Joe had poured a bourbon and water nightcap for both of them.
“That was interesting,” Robey said. “I thought for a minute there we had something.”
Joe nodded.
Robey said, “I think he wanted to see her alive, so he did. She’s probably on his mind all the time, since he could wind up in Rawlins because of her. He probably dreamed she was there while he was passed out, and when he woke up he convinced himself she was there. Tommy is losing it, is what I think. I hope he holds together long enough to go to trial. He’s a good man, Joe. He drinks too much, but he’s a good guy.”
Robey looked up for a response. Joe stared at his drink, which was untouched.
“What? Something is bugging you.”
“Sheridan said she had a dream about something similar to Tommy’s. She said Opal was alive out on the ranch.”
Robey stared. “A dream, Joe?”
“Hey,” Joe said, raising his hand. “I know. But Sheridan’s had some dreams that turned out to be pretty accurate. She’s like Nate Romanowski that way,” he said, wishing immediately he hadn’t brought Nate into it.
“Speaking of . . .”
“Nothing,” Joe said. “Honestly. Not a word.”
MARYBETH CAME DOWN the stairs in her robe. Her blond hair was mussed. Joe could see one bare foot and ankle and she looked particularly attractive standing there. He was suddenly ready for Robey to head home.
“Are you guys about finished?” she asked.
Joe said, “Yup.” He was glad he was the one staying. He wondered if Robey had the same thought and guessed that he did. Go away, Robey, Joe thought.
“Did Tommy have anything interesting to say?”
Robey chuckled. “That was the problem, Marybeth. He had so many interesting things to say—so many versions—that in the end he had nothing. It was a waste of time.”
“Maybe I should have called Nancy to come get him,” she said.
“You did the right thing.”
“He scared us when we saw him out there,” she said. “With all the things that have been happening around here, we’re a little jumpy.”
“I understand,” Robey said.
Joe said nothing. It made him angry to think about it.
He saw Robey to the door. As they passed his office, Joe said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that search warrant for Hank’s place. Do we have it yet?”
Robey turned, his face wary. “You haven’t heard?”
“Not a thing.”
“Judge Pennock refused to issue it.”
“What?”
Robey nodded. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. The judge said we needed probable cause, that the anonymous tip wasn’t enough to search a man’s home. Even though you transcribed the call real well.”
Joe was confused. He’d never had a search warrant refused before.
“Judge Pennock and Hank are friends,” Joe said.
“I’m afraid so. I didn’t realize it before. They must be pretty close.”
Joe snorted. “If they are close, Pennock would have recused himself. It’s got to be more than that.”
“I don’t even want to speculate, Joe,” Robey said cautiously. “I have to appear before Judge Pennock all the time. I can’t push this one too hard or he could make my life miserable.”
“Can’t we go over his head?”
Ro
bey suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “We could, but I hesitate to do so.”
“You ‘hesitate to do so’?” Robey’s choice of words was so formal and bureaucratic that Joe repeated them.
“Look, Joe,” Robey said, “there are things I will go to the mat with, as you know. There are some subjects, for example, I won’t discuss with you because I don’t want to know the answers. But this fight between Hank and Arlen . . . I don’t know. It’s so dirty, and so . . .” He searched for a word. “. . . epic, you know? I’m not sure how hard I want to come down on either side. And we’re just talking about what? The possibility someone may have taken some animals out of season? That’s not even a felony.”
As Robey talked, Joe felt his anger rise.
“How about if we try to enforce the law,” Joe said. “You know, on a lark?”
“Joe . . .”
“Enforcing Game and Fish regulations is what I do, Robey. I take it seriously, because I’ve learned if a man will do something illegal or unethical out in the field when no one is looking, he’s capable of anything, no matter who he claims to be, or how big a man he is in the county.”
Robey sighed, reached out, and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder to calm him. “Joe, sometimes I think you take things a little too far, you know? It seems like you think bad character is a crime. Again, we’re talking about some game animals that might have been poached.”
“No,” Joe said. “We’re talking about looking the other way because we don’t want to appear to take sides in a conflict. Well, I’m not taking sides, and I’m not looking away. I’m doing my job.”
Robey shook his head. The silence grew uncomfortable.
“I’ll run it by Tucker Fagan in Park County,” Robey finally said, sighing, referring to the new judge there. “Thunderhead is so big it’s in Park also, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you, Robey.”
“Good night, Joe. Sometimes you piss me off.”
JOE AND MARYBETH lay in bed facing each other. They talked softly so the girls wouldn’t hear them. Marybeth’s reading lamp was on low and the light cast a buttery glow on the side of her face and softly illuminated her blond hair. As they talked she stroked his forearm, rubbing it with her thumb.
She had broached the subject about moving the girls to the ranch. Joe had grunted at the idea.
“I know you don’t like it,” Marybeth said. “Frankly, neither do I. But if this continues . . .”
Joe started to argue, but caught himself. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t continue. And get worse. The sheriff’s department had done nothing he was aware of to investigate the incidents. His hands were tied by Pope to investigate himself. But enough was enough. This was his family, and his wife was talking about moving.
SHE HAD TURNED off her light and shifted to his side of the bed in the dark, her hands moving over him under the covers, her lips brushing his neck and ear. Joe liked it. He smiled in the dark.
They both froze when they heard the sounds.
A two-beat noise, a sharp snap, then a tinkle of glass downstairs.
“What was that?” Marybeth whispered.
Then the roar of a vehicle racing away on Bighorn Road.
Joe shot out of bed, naked, and cast back the curtain on the window. There were no lights outside, and no moon. The starlight was shut out by cloud cover.
He looked right on the road, the way to town. Nothing. Then left, nothing. But he could hear the motor, so how could it be?
Then he saw a flash of brake lights in the distance. Whoever had been outside was fleeing without his lights on, and revealed himself when he had to tap on his brakes at the turn that led to the foothills and the mountains beyond.
But aside from the brief flash of brake lights, he could see nothing about the vehicle itself, whether it was a car or pickup or SUV.
He cursed for two reasons: he could never catch who had been out there, and whoever had been out there had destroyed the mood in bed.
“What do you think that sound was?” Marybeth asked.
“I’ll go check.”
“Put some clothes on . . .”
JOE SNAPPED ON the lights in the living room. He had pulled on his robe, and he carried his .40 Glock loosely in his hand. He could see nothing amiss. He might have to get Marybeth to come down, he thought. It was one of those male/female things, like his inability to notice a new couch or when his daughters got a haircut unless it was pointed out to him. Conversely, he could see a moose in a faraway meadow on Wolf Mountain when it was a speck and Marybeth wouldn’t see it unless it charged her and knocked her down.
But when he walked near the front window, he felt slivers of glass dig into his bare feet and yelped in pain.
Then he saw the hole in the glass, like a tiny star. Someone had shot into their home.
He turned, visualizing the trajectory. The shot originated on the road and passed through the glass into the family portrait. Marybeth had arranged for it the previous summer. They had stood smiling against the corral fence rails so the mountains framed them in the background. In the photo, Joe thought they all looked a little uncomfortable, as if they were dressed for a funeral, and the smiles were forced. Except for Lucy, who always looked good. The portrait was slightly askew.
Joe limped across the living room, his feet stinging, and stared at the photo. The bullet had taken off most of his face and lodged into the wall behind the frame. Beneath the hole, his mouth smiled.
A chill rolled through him. Followed by a burst of rage.
Again, whoever was doing this had come right to his house and this time, in his way, he had entered it. The bullet hole in his face in the portrait was no coincidence. Joe thought, if Nate were around he’d ask for help now. But Nate wasn’t around, and Joe was officially prevented from investigating.
Screw that.
Marybeth came down the stairs looking at the bloody footprints on the floor. She followed them to where Joe stood.
Joe said, “You’re right. Let’s get the kids. We’re moving to the ranch.”
“Joe . . .”
“I’m going to get this guy.”
IT WAS ALMOST dawn when he felt her stir beside him. He was entangled, spooning, skin against skin, his leg thrust between hers, pulling her so tightly into him that he could feel her heart beat from where his hand cupped her right breast. His feet were bandaged. She was wide awake, as he was.
“It’s so personal,” she said in a whisper, “it scares me to death.”
“I’ll find him, Marybeth.”
She didn’t speak for a long time. As the minutes lapsed, he started to fear what she would say. He thought she might mention Nate Romanowski. That she wished Nate were there to protect them, instead of him. If she said Nate’s name, Joe wondered if he could go on, because he would feel that he had lost everything. Their tight little family was the only thing that anchored him to earth, the only constant. A breach could tear them apart and unmoor him to a degree he didn’t even want to imagine.
The sun slowly rose and backlit Wolf Mountain and fused the blinds with soft, cold gray light.
He was deep into melancholy when Marybeth said, “I love you, Joe Pickett. I know you’ll protect us.”
Despite the situation, Joe was suddenly filled with joy and purpose. He rolled over and kissed her, surprising her.
“What was that about?” she asked.
He tried to answer. The only thing he could come up with was “It’s about everything.”
But as he rose, the thought that they were running away came rushing back at him. And he hated to run.
21
SATURDAY BROUGHT THE GRAND OPENING OF THE SCARLETT Wing of the Twelve Sleep County Historical Society. The day was fresh with early summer, aching with sunlight, character provided by the new wildflower smells and the first bursts of pine pollen drifting down from the mountains.
Joe sat next to Marybeth on metal folding cha
irs set up in the parking lot of the museum. It seemed as if most of official Saddlestring and the county was there, including Missy and Bud Longbrake, who sat in the row in front of them and had saved seats for the girls. Although no usher greeted each arrival with an extended hand and whispered “Arlen or Hank’s side?” the effect was the same, with Hank’s backers on the right facing the podium and Arlen’s on the left.
On the raised podium itself, Arlen sat comfortably in a chair looking out at the audience, waving and winking at his friends. There was an empty seat on the other side of the podium. The chair was for Hank, as both brothers were supposed to speak at the event. The closer it got to ten A.M., when the wing was to be dedicated, the emptier the seat seemed to be.
JOE HAD AWAKENED in a foul mood that continued to spiral downward as the day went on. It had started when he opened his eyes in bed, looked around, and realized once again that his family was on the Longbrake Ranch instead of in their own home. It continued through breakfast, as Missy held court and pointed out repeatedly to his daughters how many fat grams there were in each bite they were taking. His black mood accelerated and whipped over into the passing lane when he started to contemplate just how ineffectual he had become; how useless, how he was no better than the bureaucrats he worked with.
Then there was the message on his cell phone from Randy Pope: “You left your house? Don’t you realize that is state property? What if it is vandalized even more while you’re gone? Do you plan to take responsibility for that?”
Joe seethed as he drove.
He was tired of following procedure, asking permission, seeking warrants, waiting for instructions, hoping for help.
No one, except him, was going to get him out of this.
As he drove his family to the grand opening, Joe made a mental list of things that were driving him mad. While he did so, he vaguely listened to Sheridan tell Lucy about the incredibly boring English literature class she was in. They were now reading Shakespeare, she said. Suddenly a thought struck him with such force that his hands jerked on the wheel and Marybeth said, “Was there a rabbit in the road?”
