by C. J. Box
That was the difference, once again, between those stupid convicts in there and John Wayne Keeley out here. If one of those jokers had broken into a jewelry-restoration shop he would have walked right past the chemicals used to refurbish diamonds and gold—cyanide—and straight to the jewelry itself. And then he’d have had a bunch of worn trinkets to try and fence. Not John Wayne Keeley. Not J.W., as he liked to be called. Keeley stopped when he found the cyanide in a locked drawer of the little workroom. And he only took as much of the white powder as he needed, before reshelving the bottle. The proprietors would know they’d been broken into, of course, but would be flummoxed by their good fortune that the thieves had stolen nothing of value. They probably wouldn’t even notice the small amount of missing chemical.
He tried to imagine what was happening back there at the prison right now. Had Wacey filled his mouth with the Copenhagen right outside the door? Or had he tried to sneak it back to his cell, where he could smell and savor the tobacco, out of view of the two hundred cameras? Either way, it would kill within minutes of ingestion. Keeley remembered a hunting client, a forensic pathologist from Texas, telling him how it worked. The victim looks flushed, then has a seizure, like he’s had a heart attack. He collapses, fighting for breath. His skin turns pink, and his blood inside his veins has turned cherry red. Bright pink foam might burble out of his nose, looking like something . . . festive. Then, Sayonara!
“Have a good chew, Wacey!” he hollered. “That was for Ote!”
And he was thinking that he really hadn’t learned all that much from Wacey, because he already knew what he wanted to do to Joe Pickett—hit him where he lived. Make him hurt. Take him down. Make that son-of-a-bitch game warden find out what it’s like to feel lonely, worthless, unable to protect his own.
3
AT THE TWELVE SLEEP COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE, THE Scarlett brothers sat in molded-plastic chairs, with an empty chair between each of them, across from the sheriff who was at his desk. Arlen was on one end of the line, Hank on the other, Wyatt in the middle. All three were still cuffed. Wyatt’s and Hank’s hands were bound behind their backs but Arlen had his cuffed in front, so he could dab his head wound with a cloth. Deputies stood close to the brothers. Joe had found them like this when he arrived, and was surprised emotions had cooled down enough that McLanahan had chosen to put them all into the same room. Joe sat on the edge of McLanahan’s desk, a gesture sure to annoy the sheriff. Fine, Joe thought. Arlen had apparently persuaded the sheriff to forgo the hospital for the time being, and he held a bloody cloth to the side of his swollen head. His eyes were alert, Joe thought, and his expression was mildly amused.
Robey Hersig, the county attorney, had been called away from dinner with his family to come to the sheriff’s office and interview the brothers.
“You asked what happened,” Arlen said to Robey. “I’ll tell you. As you know, the legislature broke for the session Tuesday morning. I stayed in Cheyenne that night to pack, and drove back to the ranch. Two nights ago, I had a nice supper with my mother and Wyatt at the Holiday Inn here in town, and we went back to the ranch.”
“They got good prime rib,” Wyatt interjected, then looked back at his big hands in his lap.
“Yes, well,” Arlen said, looking at Wyatt with an expression that wasn’t quite sympathy, wasn’t quite annoyance, but a kind of uncomfortable acceptance. “Anyway, we were home that night around ten, which is late for Mother. She’s an early riser. The game warden can attest to that,” he said, nodding at Joe.
Robey looked to Joe for an explanation of why he had been brought into the conversation.
“I saw her early yesterday morning when I floated the river,” Joe said. “I guess it was about seven.” But he wasn’t sure why Arlen had thrown it to him, other than to make the point, yet again, that Joe might have been the last person to see her.
“And why were you there, Mr. Game Warden?” McLanahan asked from behind his desk.
Joe bristled at the way McLanahan asked, knowing there was sarcasm in the question.
“Fishing access,” Joe said, and left it at that.
“How did she appear when you had your conversation with her about . . . fishing access?” McLanahan asked.
“She was fine,” Joe said, “her normal self.”
“Did you two have a dustup?” the sheriff asked.
“No more than usual.”
Joe was grateful when Arlen jumped back in. “As I said, she’s an early riser. Yesterday, we had a nice breakfast in the house, Mother, Wyatt, my niece Julie, and me.”
At the mention of Julie’s name, Hank suddenly sat up. His mouth was now pulled back into an ugly grimace. Joe noted that Arlen had confirmed what Reed had told him about Julie being Hank’s daughter.
“Yes, Julie,” Arlen said, aware of his brother’s reaction but pretending, Joe thought, not to notice it. “Such a sweet, sweet girl. She’s developed a real interest in political science and history, and she’s a good student. We talked about the legislature, how laws are made, how the system works. Things she never would have learned at home if she’d stayed with her father . . .”
At that, Hank twitched, and his neck and face got darker. His eyes were boring into Arlen now, as Arlen continued in a pleasant voice that was somehow grating.
“This morning, Mother wasn’t around, which was highly unusual. Nevertheless I assumed she’d gone to town so I made breakfast for Julie and myself and then took her out to the main road in my pickup so she could catch the bus to school. Then I went back to the main house, to my office on the third floor, and remained there all day catching up on correspondence and paperwork. You’d be amazed how many things pile up while I’m away at the session.
“I remember hearing a bit of a discussion outside near the bank of the river. I heard raised voices, one of them being Mother’s.”
Joe leaned forward, asked, “Who was the other?”
McLanahan cleared his throat, a signal to Joe that he’d intruded on the interview.
Arlen shrugged. “A local fishing guide. I’m not sure I know his name. They were having an argument about trespass fees. This wasn’t that unusual, really. It happened all the time. In the end, Mother always got them to pay up.”
“Then”—Arlen furrowed his brow, trying to recall something—“I believe it was about three when Wyatt pounded on the door. It was three, wasn’t it?” Arlen asked Wyatt.
Wyatt shrugged.
“It was three,” Arlen said. As he spoke, his voice lapsed into a bit of a singsong. Joe thought the cadence of Arlen’s speech was another way to get at his brother Hank. It was probably a way of speaking that had been established long ago specifically because it enraged Hank, who hardly talked at all. “Wyatt said our brother Hank called in a rage. Apparently Hank had been to the house and couldn’t find Mother, or her car. And, Hank being Hank—who isn’t really supposed to be on our side of the ranch in the first place—immediately came to the conclusion that Mother met with foul play . . .” Joe watched, amazed, as Hank’s face turned almost purple and a vein in his throat swelled to look like a writhing baby snake. “. . . and of course if there was foul play involved, then in my brother’s twisted mind, that meant I must somehow be involved with it. My brother needs professional help in the most serious way, which is obvious to all who meet him, and especially to those of us forced to, um, coexist with him. So, Hank being Hank, he assumed the worst and was ready to act out his own western movie. That’s pretty much what Hank told you, isn’t it, Wyatt?”
Wyatt didn’t look up, but said reluctantly, “Pretty much. Not all the movie stuff, though.”
Arlen chuckled in a condescending way Joe found irritating. “In an effort to stave off another violent confrontation, of which there have been many over the years, I decided to drive over to Hank’s side of the ranch and try to calm down the situation. Wyatt decided to follow me in his truck. I spotted Hank just across his side of the line . . .”
“Hold it,” Robey said
, raising his hand. “You’ve made a couple of references to ‘his side of the ranch’ and ‘our side of the ranch.’ And now you say there’s a line. What’s that about?”
Arlen smiled paternalistically at Robey, as if graciously offering an explanation that should have been well known by all. “In order to keep the peace, Mother decided a few years ago that we should live on opposite sides of the ranch. Hank built a fine hunting lodge on the east side, and the rest of the family remains on the original homestead on the west side. There’s an old fence line that more or less cuts the ranch in two, and we’d all come to understand that it wasn’t to be crossed. Nothing legal, just an understanding until Hank decided to lock all of the gates. Julie and her mother moved down to live with us. I have adopted Julie as my own. Unofficially, of course, and much to Hank’s dismay. He would rather they both stay up there on his side, pining for him while he takes clients to Kenya to hunt for months on end. But Julie needs some stability.”
“Thanks,” Robey said. “Go on.”
“I saw Hank’s truck tearing across the ranch toward our side at the same time we were trying to find him. I pulled over and waved him down, so we could talk. After all, Wyatt and I are just as concerned about where Mother might be as Hank is. I thought, for once, we could put the animosity aside and try to work together and figure out where she was.”
Joe was struck by how Hank and Arlen used the word “Mother” when they spoke. Men their age should say, “My mom,” “my mother” or “our mother,” or “our mom,” it seemed.
“So I got out of the truck and went to talk to Hank. Wyatt came up behind us. But alas”—Arlen paused, and again took the rag away from his head—“instead of talking, Hank grabbed his irrigation shovel and started swinging. I grabbed mine in self-defense. I guess that’s when you were called.”
Arlen stopped speaking, and winced, as if a sudden jolt of pain had coursed through his head. Either that, or a conspicuous play for sympathy, Joe thought.
“Is that how it happened, Wyatt?” Robey asked.
Wyatt slowly nodded his head, but refused to look up.
“Hank, you agree?” Robey asked warily.
Instead of answering, Hank sighed and stood up, a movement so swift and unexpected given his previous stillness that the deputy beside him didn’t reach out. Joe slid off the desk, ready to step between Hank and Arlen if necessary.
“It’s pretty accurate,” Hank said, his voice tight. “I ain’t gonna dispute what he said about the fight. I think he left out the part about what he did to Mother, and where he hid her.”
Hank turned to Arlen, who was still seated. Arlen looked back calmly, knowing, Joe thought, he had already done as much damage as he could do. Wyatt took that moment to look up, see what was happening, and drop his head again, as if figuring that if he didn’t watch it nothing could happen.
Hank couldn’t raise his hand to point since it was cuffed behind him, so he set his shoulders in a way that seemed to point at Arlen’s face. Hank said, “And I don’t want to hear another fucking word about Julie coming out of your mouth.”
Arlen arched his eyebrows. “Why? Because she’s come over to my side? Just like her mother?”
That did it. Hank emitted a guttural, anguished sound and hurled himself at Arlen, head down, closing the space between them so quickly that neither the deputy nor Joe could stop it.
Hank head-butted Arlen square in the face, and the force of his body took them both backward, smashing into the filing cabinets. Framed photos fell from the wall and broke on the floor. Both deputies pulled at Hank’s bound arms and shirt collar, but his thrashing legs tripped Reed and the officer fell heavily on the pile. Joe and the other deputy grabbed Hank’s ankles and pulled him away, facedown along the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the linoleum.
“You got no idea what he’s capable of!” Hank shouted.
Arlen’s face was covered with blood from his broken nose, and he shouted: “THROW THAT ANIMAL IN A CAGE!”
Joe breathed deeply after the scuffle and watched the deputies carrying Hank through the door to a cell. While Robey helped Arlen to his feet, he looked at Wyatt, who had not moved. Wyatt sat still, his head hung low, his huge body settled into the cupped seat of the molded-plastic chair. As Joe watched, Wyatt reached up and covered his head with his huge hands, lacing his thick fingers through his hair.
Joe saw where the Flex-Cuffs had bitten into Wyatt’s fleshy wrists, and what remained of the cuffs on the floor under the chair where Wyatt had snapped them off during the fight. Joe had never encountered a man strong enough to snap cuffs before. Next to the shredded cuffs, Joe saw a splat of moisture. Then another. He realized Wyatt was shaking, his big shoulders heaving up and down as he sobbed.
TWO HOURS LATER, after Joe had finished giving his deposition to Robey concerning his recent encounter with Opal Scarlett, Deputy Reed stuck his head into the office.
“I thought you guys would want to know we’ve sent a couple of cars out to pick up a fishing guide named Tommy Wayman,” Reed said, glancing at his notepad. “His wife, Nancy, called it in. They had a fight and Nancy said Tommy told her he would do the same thing to her that he did to Opal Scarlett if she didn’t shut up.”
After a beat, Joe said, “Which was . . . ?”
“‘Throw her in the river like fish guts,’” Reed said, looking at his pad to emphasize that he was quoting.
SO IT WAS Tommy Wayman, Joe thought. Tommy was a longtime local, a throwback, given to white snap-button shirts and stretch Wranglers. He ran three boats and two rafts on the Twelve Sleep River, his business doing well despite the fact that Tommy would much rather fish himself than tend to detail. The guided operation was flourishing now, though, due to MBP Management, Marybeth’s company.
Wayman had the oldest fishing service in the valley, and was the first to change from live bait to flies, flat-bottomed jon boats to beautiful McKenzie-syle drift boats, the first to preach catch-and-release instead of killing and taking caught fish. It had been a nod to progress and a realization that the resource was unique but limited. Joe encouraged Tommy and urged other guides to change their methods while he managed the river for quantity and quality of trout instead of meat in the water.
Tommy had contended with Opal Scarlett for years. Maybe he had finally snapped.
4
IT WAS AFTER TEN WHEN JOE DROVE TOWARD HIS home on Bighorn Road. Maxine was asleep on the passenger seat, tucked in on herself, her deep breathing punctuated by occasional yips as she dreamed of what? Chasing rabbits? Watching men beat each other with irrigation shovels?
The night was remarkably dark, the moon a thin white razor slash in the sky, the stars hard and cold. There were no pole lamps this far out of town, and it was one of those nights that seemed to suck the illumination out of the stars, rather than transmit the light, leaving pinpricks.
He had called Marybeth to tell her he’d be late.
“Sheridan told me what happened,” Marybeth said. “Julie, that poor girl. I wish she hadn’t seen her father and uncle fighting like that.”
Joe said, “My fault.”
Marybeth was silent, which meant she agreed with him that he’d screwed up. But at least she didn’t say it. For the past six months, since Joe returned from his assignment in Jackson, Marybeth had been unerringly patient with him, as if she were overcompensating for something that had happened while he was gone. While he wasn’t sure what that was, he knew it involved Nate Romanowski. He didn’t ask because he trusted her judgment more than his own and, frankly, he liked how things were going between them. Plus, he had a secret of his own—his surprising attraction to a married woman in Jackson. Nothing had happened, but it could have, which was nearly as bad. So things had been rocky for a while, like all marriages, he supposed, but the storm had passed over them without fatal damage. Now they were on smooth water again, which he preferred. He saw no good reason to dredge up past feelings with probing questions. She didn’t either. Life was good in gener
al, as it should be, he thought. Except for his job, his boss, and now Opal Scarlett’s disappearance.
IN SPRING THE animals came out, so he was cautious as he drove. The deer, rabbits, badgers, elk, and occasional mountain lions were on the move, reestablishing their hierarchy and territory, having babies, kicking up their heels after a long winter. Joe imagined them puzzling over new human and natural developments on the land, processing the changes, and moving forward with slight instinctive variations. He slowed when two bright blue lights winked just beyond the arc of his headlights, and he stopped the truck while a badger, her belly fat quivering while she scuttled, crossed the two-lane blacktop. Her young one, which was sleek and shiny, froze in the roadway for a moment and displayed its attitude with a teeth-rattling display of juvenile aggression as it rocked from side to side, then followed her. Both vanished into the darkness of the barrow pit beside the road.
He was always grateful for the drive home, because it allowed him to wind down, to sort out the events of the day, to try to put them in a mental drawer for later.
Joe was still buzzing from what had happened at the sheriff’s office with the Scarlett brothers. Although the rift between them—especially Arlen and Hank—was the stuff of local fable, he had not seen it for himself in its fury.
TOMMY WAYMAN HAD been brought to the county building as Joe left. Before starting his truck, Joe watched as Wayman was pulled out of the car and steered toward the door by two sheriff’s deputies. Curiosity got the best of him, and Joe went back inside to hear what Tommy had to say.
Someone had tipped off the Saddlestring Roundup, and a reporter (who, to Joe, looked all of seventeen years old) had arrived with a digital camera. The flash popped and lit Tommy’s face in stark relief, freezing an image of tiny eyes set in a face of deep tan from spending so many hours on the river, and a bulbous red nose from drinking so many beers while spending so many hours on the river.
