Vicious Circle

by C. J. Box

  “Judge Hewitt thinks I knew something about it,” she said. “He all but accused me of working with the sheriff’s department to falsify evidence. And he probably thinks you knew about it, too.”

  “Maybe,” Joe said. It didn’t sit well with him.

  “Did you see this coming in any way?” she asked him.

  “Nope. But now that I think back, I should have been more suspicious.”

  “I thought for a second that maybe . . . maybe Spivak had something to do with the killing. But I don’t think so. He just wanted to make sure we nailed Dallas.”

  Joe agreed.

  “This is the kind of thing I absolutely hate with every fiber in my being,” she said loudly. “I love the law. I love justice. I love putting dirtbags away. Lester Spivak has just made it so every defense lawyer I go up against can play this card against me. And every voter in the county will wonder if they’re voting for a corrupt prosecutor from now on—if they even vote for me at all.

  “I can’t run again,” she said solemnly, as if the thought had just hit her. “I’m going to have to move far away from here and go into private practice. But I’ll never be far enough away that people won’t know. T. Cletus Glatt and the Internet will make sure of that.”

  She wheeled on her stool and waved at Timberman. “Two more!”

  Joe had barely started on the last one. “Dulcie, I—”

  “Damn it,” she hissed as she rotated back around. “Now that son of a bitch is going to be bulletproof.”

  Joe was confused and shook his head.

  “Dallas Cates,” she said. “He’s just gotten a Get Out of Jail Free card courtesy of Lester Spivak. There’s no way Judge Hewitt would let him be tried again in his courtroom.”

  “Would it be considered double jeopardy?” Joe asked.

  “No, not technically. The charges were dismissed, so Dallas didn’t go through a trial. But we can’t try him again for the murder, because all the defense would have to do is call Spivak as a witness to show corruption and malice against Dallas Cates on behalf of law enforcement. Even if Judge Hewitt allowed a retrial it would result in an acquittal.

  “So now Dallas is out on the street and more dangerous than ever, because he knows we all have to tiptoe our way around him or he’ll scream harassment and file a civil suit that bankrupts the county.”

  She bent toward Joe and waved her finger in his face. Her eyes glistened with anger and alcohol.

  “The only thing Lester said today that made any sense was that Dallas murdered Farkus. In my heart, I believe he did. And now that son of a bitch is free as a bird and on our streets where he’ll strut around rubbing our noses in it.”

  He knew she was right.

  She said, “Did you see the way Marcus Hand looked at me? With pity? Do you know how much that hurt?

  “I’m calling Marybeth,” Dulcie declared. “She is absolutely not going to believe this.”

  He winced in anticipation.

  —

  AFTER DULCIE HAD GIVEN the news to an incredulous Marybeth in Jackson Hole, she handed her phone to Joe.

  “She wants to talk to you.” Then, to Timberman: “Two more!”

  “She didn’t just order two more, did she?” Marybeth asked.

  “She did.”

  “I don’t think she needs another one. You, either.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’ve been wondering what happened all afternoon. Don’t you answer your phone anymore?”

  “What? Oh, I had to leave it in my truck when I was at the courthouse,” he said, removing it from his pocket and unlocking it. “I guess I forgot to check it.”

  The screen showed five missed calls. Two from Marybeth, one from the governor’s office, one from game warden Rick Ewig, and one from an unknown number.

  Marybeth sighed. “I can’t believe what happened in court today. What do we do now?”

  Joe had no answer.

  She said, “Now sounds like it might be the worst time possible to come back, but I don’t see any other choice. My board has been very gracious, but it’s been two weeks and I’ve used up all my vacation time. I can’t run a library from here, and things are starting to fall apart. They’re starting to get anxious, and I don’t blame them.”

  “What are you saying?” Joe asked. In his peripheral vision, he watched Dulcie slam a drink and reach for another.

  “Sheridan went back to her job at the dude ranch today,” she said. “I couldn’t convince her to stay. She was bored, and she’s as stubborn as her father once she makes her mind up.

  “April is more than ready to get back to school. She wants to be there when Joy recovers and comes back, and she wants to get back on the rodeo team before they think about pulling her scholarship—and she has a point. Lucy can only do so much from here and maintain her grades.”

  Joe nodded to himself.

  “Joe, are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t nod. I can’t hear you when you nod.”

  He sat up and said, “Yup.”

  “I wish I could say that my mother is driving me out, but I can’t. She’s been a saint. I don’t even know who she is anymore, but she does everything she can to make us all comfortable and give us space. She’s so . . . nice. All I can think of is, she’s up to something.”

  “She has to be,” Joe agreed. “Maybe—”

  “No,” Marybeth said firmly. “I won’t ask her for money. I don’t want to be obligated to her any more than I am. There are always strings attached, and I’m beyond that.”

  “Yup,” he said, chastened.

  “We don’t have a choice,” she said. “We need to come back. We can’t run from a crazy tattooed woman for the rest of our lives.” After a beat, she said, “Or anyone else.”

  He knew she meant Dallas.

  He said, “See if you can get another week. Just a week. Talk to your board and the girls.”

  Marybeth didn’t say anything for a long time. Next to him, Dulcie was telling Timberman that maybe she could move to Cheyenne, Casper, or Cody and set up a private practice.

  “A week,” Marybeth said. “Do you think things will be better by then?”

  “I do,” Joe said, even though it felt like a lie.

  —

  AS THE DEER PASSED through his headlights, Joe found himself staring at their afterimage long after they were gone. Stopping his truck had given him a moment to think.

  His life was a dangerous mess and he couldn’t sort it all out.

  His family was gone, but making plans to come back when danger might be at its peak.

  He was exhausted, out of sorts, and hadn’t eaten a solid meal in two weeks.

  He asked himself:

  What had happened to Dallas’s accomplices from that night? Who were they? What motivated them? Would he ever learn what that was all about now that the trial had been dismissed?

  How in the hell did Dallas afford Marcus Hand?

  When would Wanda Stacy ever show up again?

  Why hadn’t the tattooed woman ever been caught?

  Would the poaching ring ever be identified and arrested?

  Did any of these things even connect?

  And most of all, what would Dallas Cates do now that he was back on the street? Would he follow up on his vague and specific threats to avenge what he claimed Joe had done to him and his family?

  —

  WITH A KIND OF MENTAL THUNDERCLAP, he knew the partial answer to the last question might soon reveal itself.

  As his headlights swept across his lonely house, there was Dallas. He half sat, half slouched against the white picket fence with his arms crossed over his chest.

  The brim of his cowboy hat rose as he looked up. There was a wide smile on his face. His big championship rodeo buckle glinte
d in the headlights like a flare.

  Joe was suddenly very sober.

  16

  Daisy saw Dallas Cates and growled. The hair on the back of her neck bristled into a ridge.

  With an unsteady hand, Joe plucked the microphone from its cradle on the dashboard to connect with the dispatcher in Cheyenne. He knew he had just a few seconds to decide whether to pull in, park, and face Dallas—or drive on.

  He decided. Driving on was an act of cowardice, even though he could hear Marybeth and all three of his daughters in the back of his mind imploring him to keep going.

  “This is GF-20 arriving at my home to find Dallas Cates standing here waiting for me in the dark.”

  “Come again, GF-20?” the distant voice asked.

  “Please note what I just told you in case something happens,” he said, and keyed off. He knew the exchange was recorded for posterity. He just hoped that no one ever had a reason to call it up.

  Joe turned into his usual place in the driveway of the detached garage. Dallas’s head swiveled slightly to follow him, but he didn’t move from his place on the fence.

  Joe took a quick look around. He still wasn’t used to arriving at his house to find it dark, vacant, and lonely looking. In normal circumstances, the arrival of Dallas would have cued barking dogs and porch lights going on. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

  Joe didn’t want to hesitate too long inside the vehicle and convey fear or trepidation. Dallas fed on that.

  He noticed Eldon Cates’s old Dodge pickup parked fifty feet up the road. There was no sign of Dallas’s compatriots, but Joe knew there were plenty of places for them to hide in the dark—including inside his own house. Like everyone else in Twelve Sleep County, Joe never locked the door.

  He turned off the engine but kept the headlights on to provide at least some light. Enough bounce-back illumination from the closed garage door light reached over to Dallas that Joe could see a condensation-cloud halo around his cowboy hat.

  Fishing his small digital recorder out of a seat pocket, he turned it on and slipped it into his right breast pocket. His twelve-gauge Remington Wingmaster shotgun was loaded with buckshot, but as usual, it was behind the seat. He wished it was in easy reach.

  “Stay, Daisy,” he said. He took a deep breath, opened his door, and swung out.

  If Dallas was armed, Joe couldn’t see the weapon on his person. He hoped not. Dallas was much more likely to hit what he aimed at with a handgun than Joe had ever been.

  Not that Dallas necessarily needed a weapon, Joe thought. Dallas was wider, stronger, and younger than Joe. The man’s neck was as thick as Joe’s thigh. And he had a well-deserved reputation for his volcanic temper and quick fists when he got into a fight growing up—which was often.

  Joe did a mental inventory of his gear belt: .40 Glock in its holster, two extra magazines, handcuffs, bear spray. He thought he’d likely reach for the bear spray before anything else if it came to a sudden physical confrontation.

  He walked within fifteen feet of Dallas and stopped. His own shadow covered Dallas and he couldn’t see him well.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping a foot to the side so he could see the man better.

  Dallas held his grin. “Your house is paid for by taxpayers, right? Well, I’m a taxpayer. I have as much right to come here as anyone.”

  Joe waited for more.

  Dallas chinned toward a wooden hand-painted sign on the fence next to him that read GAME WARDEN STATION. “April told me you have hunters and fishermen showing up here at all hours, and you have a duty to talk to them, right? It ain’t like it’s your own private home.”

  “Okay, so what can I help you with?”

  Dallas’s smile twitched. “I’ve got so many things to say, I don’t hardly know where to start.”

  “Start by stating your business. Then you can get in your truck and drive away.”

  Dallas chuckled and shook his head. “You’re nervous, aren’t you? I can’t remember seeing you so keyed up before. What is it—a guilty conscience? You look like you’re ready to snap.”

  Joe was ready to snap. He feared a kill-or-be-killed moment and he glanced toward the dark house to see if there was any movement of the curtains or blinds. Nothing.

  “It’s just me,” Dallas assured him.

  “Hey,” Dallas said, snapping his fingers, as if a thought had just come to him, “are you recording our conversation right now? I know that’s one of your game warden tricks—you can legally record a conversation in Wyoming if at least one of the parties is aware of it.”

  Joe didn’t answer.

  Dallas said, “But if one of the parties asks about a recording, you’re required to fess up. You can’t lie about it.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  The grin got larger and more boxlike. “Right.

  “See,” Dallas said with an Aw, shucks grin, “I learned a few things from the jailhouse lawyers down in Rawlins. Not that it was a good use of my time overall, of course. I wasted a fucking year and a half of the most productive time of my life sitting on my ass in a place you never should have sent me to.”

  “I’m recording our conversation.”

  “Then I guess I refuse to participate. Nothing I say from here on out can be considered truthful. Did you get that on your tape recorder?”

  Joe nodded. Dallas had used a tactic that would exempt whatever was said from being used later in court—if it ever came to that.

  “Now that that’s on the table, I’ll start. First,” Dallas said, “I knew it was a total frame-up the second I saw your Deputy Bonehead slinking around in the parking lot of the grocery store. I looked out and seen him standing there with his back to my dad’s truck.

  “He kind of looked the other way and did this”—Dallas raised a knee and kicked back with his boot—“and broke my taillight out. I knew then what was going on.”

  It was an old cop trick—a way to justify pulling someone over. Joe didn’t doubt that it had happened the way Dallas told it. Spivak must not have realized the license tags were expired until later.

  Joe darted his eyes toward the corner of his house and around the barn to see if the forms of Dallas’s thugs could be seen in the dark. He was pleased to see the side-by-side heads of Marybeth’s three horses—Rojo, Toby, and her new gelding, Petey—silhouetted against a low-hanging cloud in the sky. If the horses were calmly waiting to be fed that meant there were no strangers lurking in the corral.

  “Then, of course,” Dallas continued, “when Bonehead claimed that he found that rifle . . . I knew he was messing with me. I’m not gonna violate my parole by driving around with a gun in my car. Not when I know every cop in the county wants to bust me. I knew he was hoping I’d blow a gasket so he could pop me in self-defense. Luckily I kept my cool.”

  Joe nodded in agreement.

  “So what did that idiot do?” Dallas asked. “Did he actually shove them slugs into the bullet wounds on Farkus’s body? Did he do it with his finger or use a screwdriver or something like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure you don’t.”

  “Finding out he took Farkus’s blood sample was a surprise.”

  “What a dick,” Dallas said with a menacing laugh.

  “Why did you hunt Farkus down?” Joe asked.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I didn’t kill Dave Farkus. Why would I? He was just another old drunk in the bar.”

  Realizing he’d brought up the Stockman’s without prompting, Dallas said, “Sure, I seen him that night in the bar. But that was no reason to go after him. I didn’t hate him like I do you. If anything—and I’m not admitting a goddamn thing—I could see a situation where Dave Farkus just got himself in the way. It wasn’t personal, I’m sure.

&nb
sp; “And even if I did him in, it don’t matter now, does it? I’ve already been on trial and it got dismissed. There’s no way you can arrest me again for the same crime, and we both know it.”

  “That’s true,” Joe said. “I’ll wait until you do something stupid. Judging by your track record, I don’t figure I’ll be waiting all that long.”

  “Ha!” Dallas barked facetiously. “Good one, Joe.”

  “Where are your three pals?” Joe asked.

  “My three pals?”

  “The two men and the woman with tattoos. Randall Luthi, Rory Cross, and the woman.”

  Dallas shook his head slowly, as if perplexed by the question.

  “Start with the woman in the bar with you that night. Where is she? Who is she?”

  Dallas shrugged. “I didn’t get her name. She was just a random buckle bunny who was hopin’ I’d notice her. Believe it or not, that happens with me all the time. Think about your daughter, Joe.”

  “Her name.”

  “I already told you—I don’t know who she is or what her name was.”

  He was good at playing innocent, but there was a tell, Joe observed. Even though his facial expression didn’t change, Dallas blinked much more rapidly while he was lying. And he was blinking now.

  “Who were the two male thugs you were with? Luthi and Cross,” Joe asked. “The ones who got out of your house just before the cops showed up.”

  “‘Thugs’ is kind of a shitty word.”

  “And right on the money,” Joe said.

  “They were friends of mine. I met them in Rawlins. I have no idea where they took off to.”

  More blinking.

  “Why didn’t you tell us their names?”

  “Why? So you guys could frame them, too? I don’t do that to my friends.”

  “Do you know anything about the disappearance of Wanda Stacy?”

  “Who?”

  “The bartender that night. The one who might have overheard your plans.”

  Dallas feigned trying to recall her. Finally, he said, “She might have wanted me to pay a little more attention to her, is all. I think she was way past her sell-by date, if you want to know the truth.”