Out of Range

by C. J. Box

  "She's not here," Lucy said.

  "Well," Joe asked, after a beat, "where is she?"

  "She had to take Sheridan to the hospital."

  He suddenly sat up. "What?"

  "Somebody poked her in the eye during volleyball practice."

  So that's where she was when he called earlier—at Sheridan's practice. Jeez. "How badly is she hurt?"

  "I don't know."

  "Lucy," Joe said, trying to speak softly, "tell me what happened."

  Joe could hear the television in the background. Lucy watched a string of cartoons every night before dinner, and he recognized the voice of SpongeBob SquarePants.

  "I'm not sure," Lucy said, distracted. "Sherry called Mom a while ago and said she needed to come pick her up from practice."

  "So it was Sheridan who called, not a coach or a doctor?" Joe felt mild relief, assuming Sheridan couldn't have been too badly injured if she had used the telephone.

  "I think it was Sheridan."

  "Lucy."

  "Mom just told me they'd be back for dinner. That's all I know."

  Joe shook his head. There was no reason to be angry with Lucy, or to admonish her. It had probably been a frantic call, and Marybeth had likely rushed out of the house. He would try her cell phone.

  "Okay, sweetie," Joe said. "Tell your mother I'll call back soon."

  "Dad," Lucy said, "I miss you."

  Lucy liked to twist the knife, Joe thought.

  "I miss you too. I love you."

  "Love you ..."

  Joe speed-dialed Marybeth's cell phone, but was switched to her voice mail. In her haste, he assumed, Marybeth hadn't turned it on, or was out of range. There were several dead spots between their house and Saddlestring along Bighorn Road. He left a message, sat back, replaced his phone, and stared with frustration at the river. When he looked back at the phone he noticed that the LED display on his cell read: YOU HAVE 1 MESSAGE. Joe checked it; it was from Sheriff Tassell.

  "The meeting's running late," he said wearily, "and then I've got a dinner. Meet me at the statehouse at ten tonight. I'll bring the keys."

  Joe sighed.

  The tourist boat passed in and out of view, obscured by trees and brush. The occupants of the boat were on vacation, Joe thought. They got to see an eagle's nest, and they'd go to a nice dinner after their trip and retire to their hotel rooms. Real life was suspended for them.

  He looked at the Tetons, at the raft, at the urn, and thought, They aren't the only ones.

  AS JOE DROVE toward town he rounded a blind corner and hit the brakes. The Boxster that had passed him the night before was stopped, blocking the right-hand lane, twin spoors of black rubber on the road where the car had braked and swerved. Instinctively, he reached out with his right hand to keep a dog or a child—neither of whom was there—from flying forward into the dash and windshield. His front bumper stopped inches from the back of the Boxster.

  He swung out of the cab and walked around the Porsche with his flashlight, but he didn't need it. The headlights of the car illuminated the scene. It was ugly. A large doe mule deer lay in the road, blood pooling around her head. The Boxster's hood was buckled, the windshield a spider's web of cracks from the impact. A woman sat in the ditch, cradling a fawn in her arms. The fawn was small, spindly, its back covered with spots. Not more than six weeks old, Joe thought. It made him angry.

  "Are you okay?" Joe asked, not really caring. He tried to keep his voice level.

  The woman looked up. Her eyes reflected in the headlights. She had broad cheekbones and a drawn, skeletal quality to her face.

  "I'm fine, but that poor deer and her fawn ran right out in front of me," the woman said. "I tried to stop but I couldn't."

  Joe shone his flashlight on the crumpled hood of the car. "That's a lot of damage," Joe said. "How fast were you going?"

  "I don't know," she said. "The speed limit, I think."

  "No way," Joe said, looking at the damage, remembering how she tore around him the night before.

  "Is the mother dead?" the woman asked.

  Joe knelt down. There was shallow breathing from the doe, and her eyes stared into his. But he could tell from the unevenness of her fur over her rib cage that her ribs had been crushed. The blood that poured out of her mouth and nose was bright red and foamy, meaning her lungs were pierced by bone or cartilage.

  "She's not dead yet," Joe said.

  "Is she suffering?" the woman asked.

  Joe looked up, squinted. "What do you think?"

  The woman said nothing.

  He heard an oncoming car slow in the other lane and pull over. A door opened and slammed. When he looked up, he could see the shapely silhouette of a woman in the headlights.

  Joe stood and grasped the doe's front ankles below the joints and started to drag her off the road into the ditch. Her legs kicked involuntarily as he pulled, and she nearly kicked out of his hands. Stella Ennis, the other driver, appeared beside him and grasped the doe's rear feet. Joe looked over to see glistening tears in her eyes. But her face was determined. They got the deer off the pavement and into the grass in the ditch. Then he drew his Beretta.

  "Don't kill her!" the Boxster woman pleaded. "Please don't..."

  "Please turn away," Joe said softly. Stella turned, her hands to her face.

  Joe shot the deer in the head. The shot cracked loud, and bounced back and forth against the wall of trees on either side of the road. The body gurgled, then sighed.

  "My God," the woman with the fawn said. "That was horrible. What's wrong with you?"

  Joe holstered his pistol and stepped back on the road. "Let me see the fawn."

  "No!"

  "Move your hands and let me see the fawn."

  "Mr. Pickett..." It was Stella. Her tone was cautionary.

  Slowly, the woman released the fawn, her face a mask of horror. The fawn reacted as if suddenly shot through with electricity, and it scrambled and kicked free of the woman. It stood on thin, stilt-like legs, obviously not knowing what to do. Then it collapsed in a heap.

  "What did you do to it?" the woman cried. "Did you scare it to death?"

  Joe wasn't sure what had happened to the fawn until he got down on his knees and looked at it. The other side of the fawn's head was crushed in from the impact of the car.

  When he shone his flashlight on the woman he could see dark blood on her shirt where she had cradled it.

  Joe dragged the fawn to its mother. It weighed practically nothing.

  Then he turned on the woman. "There are deer all over this road. Every single night. You should know that."

  "It wasn't my fault," the woman protested, starting to rise. "The deer jumped out in front of me."

  "No," Joe said, a hard edge in his voice. "You were going too goddamned fast. In all my years, I've never hit a deer, much less two of them."

  "I said it wasn't my fault." The woman was angry now. Joe flashed back to Pope's admonition about being respectful, putting on a good face for the department. Then he looked again at the dead deer.

  "These animals aren't here just to make scenery pretty for you. They're real and you killed them," Joe said. "Lady, you're a guest here."

  The woman buried her face in her hands.

  "Oh, my," Stella Ennis said with admiration, and he saw the white of her teeth.

  "Thank you for your help," Joe said to Stella, starting to reach out with his hand but catching himself because of the blood on it. Despite that, she reached for him and squeezed his fingers. There was blood on her hands also.

  "Call me Stella," she said.

  Something inside him went ZING.

  FOURTEEN

  Marybeth Pickett had just finished feeding the horses when she heard the telephone ringing from inside the house. It was already cool and dark, and she was running two hours late for dinner because of their trip to the hospital. She ran from the corral toward the house and entered through the back door.

  "I hope it's Dad," Sheridan said from whe
re she was doing homework at the kitchen table. Lucy had told them he called and would call back. The kitchen smelled of onion, tomato, and garlic. A frozen pizza was warming in the oven, something Marybeth regretted. They were eating too much of that kind of stuff with Joe gone, she thought.

  The sight of Sheridan's bandaged eye jarred Marybeth, even though she had seen the square of gauze applied by the doctor just hours before. It was likely not serious, the doctor had said. It wouldn't have been anything at all except that an opposing player's fingernail had scratched her cornea. The injury had occurred during a skirmish for a ball, Sheridan had told them. Nobody called it, players went for it, Sheridan got to it, and somebody reached around her from behind and raked her across the eyes. Officially, it was considered an accident.

  "I hope it's him too," Marybeth said to Sheridan, snatching the receiver from the wall.

  Silence.

  "Joe?"

  She could hear labored breathing and something else— muffled conversation?—in the background.

  "Joe, are you on your cell? Can you hear me?"

  "I want to talk with him," Sheridan said from the table.

  Marybeth covered the telephone with her hand and shook her head at Sheridan, indicating, It's not him.

  Then she remembered the Caller ID unit that had just been installed, that she had forgotten to look at before answering. The number had a 720 area code, which was unfamiliar.

  "Who is this?"

  An intake of breath, as if the caller was gathering his thoughts to speak. But he didn't.

  "I'm hanging up," Marybeth said, and she did. "Damnit."

  The caller's telephone number vanished from the screen. She retrieved it from the backup and wrote the number down on the first thing she could find, the margin of the front page of the Saddlestring Roundup.

  "Who was that?" Sheridan asked.

  "Wrong number."

  "Then why did you write it down?"

  Caught, Marybeth looked up. "In case he calls again."

  "I heard you and Dad talking about someone calling us and not saying anything. Was that him?"

  "I have no idea," Marybeth said, her voice more shrill than she would have chosen.

  Sheridan glared at her mother. It didn't matter if one eye was obscured, the glare was the same. "You don't have to treat me like I'm an idiot, Mom. I'm thirteen. Do you realize how old that is?"

  Marybeth braced for another argument. They were occurring with more frequency these days. "Sheridan," Marybeth said, already regretting her words, "do you realize how young that is?"

  Sheridan slammed her pen down on her paper. "You treat me like I'm Lucy's age," she said. "I'm not. You forget how much I've gone through in my life."

  "Oh, stop it."

  "No," Sheridan said, her cheeks blooming red, "I won't stop it. If someone is calling our house and we might be in danger, I want to know about it. Don't keep me in the dark like a baby."

  Marybeth took a breath, counted to three. "I don't know that to be a fact," she said. "We have no idea who is calling, or why. We don't know if it means anything at all."

  Sheridan continued to glare. Lucy walked into the room, turning her head from her mother to her sister, as if watching a tennis volley.

  "Was it so hard to tell me that?" Sheridan asked.

  "Tell her what?" Lucy asked. "Was that Dad?"

  Sheridan told Lucy, "Never mind."

  "No," Marybeth said, "it wasn't your dad."

  "When is he going to call?"

  "I don't know," Marybeth said, an edge of frustration in her voice.

  "He'll call," Sheridan said, picking up her pen and going back to her homework.

  Don't be so smug, Marybeth thought, looking at her older daughter, for a moment resenting her and her absolute certainty, and just as quickly forgiving her.

  Marybeth picked up the newspaper with the telephone number on it and headed for Joe's office. As she passed by the table, Marybeth mussed Sheridan's hair affectionately. Sheridan turned her head away sharply, as if her mother's touch offended her.

  "Sheridan ..."

  "I'm trying to do my homework here, okay?" Sheridan snapped.

  Let it go, Marybeth told herself. Let it go.

  She put the newspaper on the stack of unopened mail for Joe. She intended to read him the return addresses on the envelopes when he called, to see if any of the letters were important and should be forwarded to him in Jackson. And she wanted to ask him if the phone number was familiar. That is, if and when he called.

  FIFTEEN

  Sheriff Tassell was late arriving at the statehouse. Joe had spent the time having an unsatisfying conversation with Marybeth, his cell signal fading and coming back, hearing snippets of sentences and asking her to repeat them.

  "So Sheridan's okay?"

  "Seems to be," Marybeth said. "It's her attitude that needs an adjustment...."

  There was more, but Joe didn't get it.

  "So Sheridan's eye is fine?"

  "Joe, I just told you ..." Lost it again.

  He got out of his truck and walked down the sidewalk, pirouetting occasionally, trying to find a steady, strong signal.

  "... another call where the caller didn't say anything ..."

  "What?"

  "It was from area code seven-two-oh. Do you ..."

  "Seven-two-oh?"

  ". . . she asked me about it, wondering if it was anything we needed to be concerned about..."

  "Marybeth, stop," Joe said, frustrated. "Wait until I get into the house. I can use the phone inside. I'll call you from there and we can talk, okay?"

  "... they miss you, Joe ..."

  "Did you hear me?"

  Suddenly the connection was good. "Hear what? Why are you snapping at me?"

  "I'm not snapping," Joe said, looking up at the streetlight. "My signal's going in and out. I'm only hearing parts of what you say."

  "... maybe you should call back tomorrow so you can talk with the girls ..."

  "I will. Now, Marybeth ..."

  The signal vanished.

  Joe sighed, punched off the call as Tassell's Teton County Sheriff's Jeep Cherokee cruised down the street and pulled in behind Joe's truck.

  "SORRY I'M LATE," Tassell said, swinging out of the Cherokee. Before the interior lights shut off when the door closed, Joe saw a woman he assumed was Tassell's wife in the passenger seat, and at least two children in the back seat.

  "You wouldn't believe how many social obligations there are here," Tassell said over his shoulder to Joe as he walked up the path to the front door, spinning a set of keys around his index finger. "Seems like we're obligated most nights."

  Joe grunted.

  Tassell said, "Tonight was the annual fund-raiser at the wildlife art museum. As sheriff, I have to go to these things. It's noticed when I'm not there."

  "You could have left me the keys at your office."

  Tassell stopped at the front door, fumbling in the dark with the keys and the lock. "I wanted to check this place out first."

  "Why?"

  Tassell turned, but Joe couldn't see his face in the dark.

  "I want to make sure they cleaned up."

  Joe hoped so too, but didn't say anything. He heard the zip of the key going in, and Tassell pushed open the door, the tape seals breaking open with a kissing sound. Tassell searched for a light switch, then both the porch light and the interior lights went on. Joe blinked and followed him in.

  "It's clean enough, I think," Tassell said, surveying the room.

  Joe stepped around Tassell. The home was no bigger than his own in Saddlestring. They stood in the dining room, with the kitchen appliances lining the wall near the door. The only nice thing, Joe noticed, was a fairly modern refrigerator with a water tap and icemaker on one of the doors. The table where Will shot himself was in the center of the room, with two chairs on either end of it. The cheap paneled walls were bare of adornments with the exception of a stopped clock. The ceiling was a dingy off-white and in nee
d of paint. The overhead frosted light threw out mottled light due to at least one burned-out bulb and the shadowed remains of dead miller moths gathered in the frosted glass fixture. The room smelled of strong disinfectant.

  Tassell walked to the head of the table, turned, and gestured to the ceiling. "That's where the bullet went," he said, pointing at a nickel-sized hole a few inches from where the paneling started. "I would have thought they'd plug that up, but I guess not."

  Joe looked at the ceiling. He could see dried arcing wipe marks reflecting in the light, where the blood had been washed off. The paneling on the east wall also looked freshly scrubbed.

  "This room was a mess," Tassell said. "A .44 Magnum does a lot of damage to flesh and bone. The damned gun kicked so hard it drove the front sight of the muzzle up into his palate." He demonstrated by jabbing his finger up into his mouth, pointing behind his front teeth.

  He handed Joe the key ring. "His pickup keys are on that too."

  "Thanks."

  "What can I say? It's a shitty house but I guess it's your new home," Tassell said. "Well, I've got my kids in the car. I need to get them home."

  "I'll probably be calling you with a few questions in regard to Will's suicide."

  Tassell hesitated at the door. "That's not necessary."

  FOR THE NEXT hour, Joe moved in. He stripped the bed and threw his sleeping bag on top of the mattress and hung his clothes in the closet, which was empty except for a pair of battered Sorel pac boots. Stacking Will's boxes along a bare wall in the living room, Joe thought the house had the same feel that Will's office did, as if he had no compulsion to make it his own. He guessed that when Susan left she took everything, and that Will was fine with that.

  Where to put the urn? No place seemed appropriate. Joe walked through the house, holding it in front of him with both hands. If there was protocol for this sort of dilemma, he didn't know it, so he left it on the table for the time being.

  Joe was pleased to find that the telephone had a dial tone and the television worked. He found an all-sports channel and left it on, mainly to provide background noise in the empty house. Between the girls, Marybeth, and Maxine, there was always noise in his house, and the complete silence was uncomfortable to him.