Vicious Circle

by C. J. Box

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, there is. And some snooty Brit official wants to meet with me in private.”

  “What’s it about, sir?”

  “According to him, rich English executive women have come to Wyoming and turned up missing. It sounds bogus to me.”

  “Are there more details?”

  “I haven’t met with him, so I don’t know. And when I have more information, you can bet I’m going to ask someone other than you to look into it.”

  With that, Governor Colter Allen terminated the call without another word.

  —

  AFTER THE DISCONCERTING CONVERSATION with the governor, Joe listened to a message on his phone from Sheriff Reed.

  “It’s her,” he said. He was out of breath and Joe could hear the wind whistling in the background. “Your buddy led us to the body of Wanda Stacy. It’s hard to tell the exact cause of death at this point because the animals have been at her, but it looks like she was hanged and then dropped from the cliff above us. There’s a rope around her neck.”

  The sheriff’s voice was hard to hear after that because there was a lot of cross talk. His deputies were asking him how he wanted the body transported back, whether or not they should try to climb the rock face, and several other questions.

  Joe waited, and Reed finally came back on his phone.

  “If you run into your buddy Nate, please give me a call right away. We need an official statement from him for the murder investigation. He led us up here, and when I turned around, he was gone. He just vanished. No one saw him go.”

  Sounds like Nate, Joe thought to himself.

  —

  AS HE PASSED the small town of Kaycee on the way to Casper and then Lusk, Joe raised an imaginary glass to the memory of rodeo star and country singer Chris LeDoux, who had ranched in the area. Joe never missed an opportunity to do that.

  It was important.

  He found LeDoux’s “Western Skies” on a playlist on his phone and blasted it through the cab.

  I gotta be where I can see those Rocky Mountains

  Ride my horse and watch an eagle fly

  The last line was about being buried beneath “these western skies,” and Joe smiled grimly to himself. He agreed with the sentiment—Chris LeDoux was buried under those skies, after all—but Joe didn’t want Dallas Cates to be responsible for it.

  He scrolled through the CALLS RECEIVED list on his cell phone and found the UNKNOWN CALLER one from two nights before. Then he waited for the spotty cell signal to improve.

  Now that he knew more about the size and scope of the forces lined up against him and how they were financed, it was time to go on the offense. Turn it right back around at them before they made their next move.

  This time, he knew, he had to put a stop to the cycle of revenge and recrimination. His family had to be safe to lead their lives without the fear that Dallas or one of his minions would knock on their door—or try to chop it down with an ax.

  He felt a slow roll of fear course through his body. He didn’t know if he was fast enough, mean enough, or smart enough to end the vicious circle once and for all.

  But he knew who might be.

  24

  Nate Romanowski had spent three hours moving from tree to tree and rock to rock to get into a position to see into the natural mountain alcove where the hunting cabin was located. He’d gone about it like a big-game hunter or a hunter of men: slowly, stealthily, with all of his senses opened wide.

  As he circumnavigated it, he’d take a few steps, then stop, listen, and sniff the air. He was careful not to step on any dry twigs and always to keep cover between himself and the cabin site.

  An hour before, he’d come upon a small group of elk—three cows, two calves—bedding down in a pool of deep shadow within the timber. He’d smelled them before he saw them, and he’d approached so slowly with the wind in his face that they hadn’t known he was there. One of the mother cows licked the face of her young one and he could hear her rough tongue on the surface of the calf’s forehead. Rather than spook the animals so they’d run away and risk the chance of being seen in flight, he’d backtracked and climbed a long half-circle around them through the trees.

  Not until he was a quarter of a mile away and upwind of the elk had he heard stirring—the sound of light footfalls and huffs of exhalation. They were moving, but doing so quietly—looking for another place to bed down.

  —

  THE HUNTING CABIN was hidden away in a strategic location: one way in through a natural break in a granite wall. Because of the high ridge on three sides and a thick copse of mature spruce on the fourth, there was no way to see inside the cirque unless he could get lined up with the opening or somehow from above. He noted that the opening was filled with fresh-cut brush and pine tree limbs to hide and block the entrance.

  Nate found an ancient cedar with gnarled and twisted branches that stood alone among much younger trees. It was an anomaly in the pine forest and it skied over the tops of their crowns. He used the weathered knobs along its trunk as handholds and he jammed his boot tips into the deep long creases to get leverage until he was able to reach up and get a firm hold on the lowest branch. Then it was a matter of pulling himself up branch by branch until he reached the top of the surrounding lodgepole pine trees. Although the branches were at times too far apart to climb easily, the palms of his hands had picked up enough sap from the sweating bark that his grip was tacky.

  Spiderlike, he was able to stick tight to the rough bark and to keep climbing. He pressed himself tight to the trunk and kept it between him and the cirque as he climbed farther, so his outline wouldn’t be seen against the sky.

  After climbing as far up as he could before he reached small and brittle branches that couldn’t support his weight, he wedged himself into the tight V of the trunk. He paused to rest and to get his breath back. When his breathing returned to normal, he hugged the tree with both arms and leaned off to the side to see around the trunk.

  Inside the cirque was a small log cabin with smoke hovering around its chimney, two beat-up vehicles parked on the side of it, and a flat mountain meadow that stretched from the structure to the wall of spruce. A high-banked spring creek cut through the meadow and he could hear the tinkle of live water.

  Then there was the sound of men’s voices and three of them came out of the cabin one after the other. They all had long guns, and the man in the lead had a heavy canvas bag thrown over his shoulder.

  —

  NATE WATCHED in total silence as Dallas Cates—he recognized him from before—lined up empty cans and bottles on a collection of cut stumps near the wall of spruce. The two others he was with, a big man who moved stiffly as if injured and a smaller wiry man who walked with a pronounced limp, stayed back and loaded the guns. The canvas bag was filled with boxes of ammunition. They also had handguns, which they placed side by side on an uneven picnic table.

  He could tell by the way the men appeared to chide one another that a shooting competition was about to begin.

  Nate was pleased they had their backs to him and were shooting the other way. Otherwise . . .

  He settled into his V and touched the grip of his .454 Casull. He didn’t like how it felt in his hand because his palm was covered with sap. But at this distance he knew he could steady the weapon against the trunk and make an accurate shot, and maybe two more if his targets got confused and didn’t know which way to run for cover.

  He’d start with Dallas.

  But there was no way he could shoot three men in the back. Especially not without knowing for sure that they’d been responsible for the death of the woman he’d found in the rocks or that they were absolutely guilty of taking out Dave Farkus and going after Joe Pickett and his family. Even in his wildest days doing special ops, and later when he was unmoored, he was never a back shooter or cold-b
looded killer. And he wasn’t going to start now.

  Nate located his cell phone in his falconry bag and powered it up. He was surprised to see that he had two of four bars in signal strength, and attributed his good fortune to being at the highest place on the mountain at the moment. He’d always hated cell phones, but he saw how necessary they were to his business. In fact, he’d received three missed calls from Liv in the last eight hours when he’d had his phone off. He’d call her back . . . later.

  He scrolled through the numbers listed as favorites to find the one he’d labeled DUDLEY DO-RIGHT. Before he could punch up the number, the phone vibrated with an incoming call. DUDLEY DO-RIGHT was calling him.

  Nate waited until Dallas and his two companions started shooting before pressing ANSWER.

  “I can’t talk long,” Nate said, raising his voice above the pop-pop-pop.

  “Where are you? Is that shooting I hear in the background?”

  “In a tree. Yes, it’s shooting.”

  “Who is shooting?”

  “Dallas Cates and his two thugs. Target practice.”

  “You’ve got eyes on them?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Are they at Eldon’s old hunting cabin?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “That’s where I thought they might be. That’s where Bull and I had it out.”

  “I can’t talk long,” Nate repeated. He glanced around the trunk. When they stopped to reload, there was the possibility he could be heard.

  “And you’re actually in a tree?”

  “Yes. A cool old cedar.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I can’t talk long,” Nate said again, this time with a hiss in his voice.

  The shooting stopped and Nate muted the phone so he could barely hear Joe, and for sure he wouldn’t be overheard by anyone in the cirque.

  “Does the sheriff or anyone else know where you are?” Joe asked.

  “No,” Nate whispered back.

  “Good. Can you keep your eyes on them for a while?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call when I can.”

  “Don’t call,” Nate said. “Come.”

  “I’ll do that.” Then: “If you see one of them take a cell phone call, let me know right away. Send a text if you can. I need to know if anyone makes contact with them.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “And Nate—thank you.”

  Nate disconnected the call and powered the phone down as the shooting resumed.

  He thought, Why target practice?

  Pop-pop-pop, followed by the boom of a heavy rifle.

  Then he heard a shout directly below him.

  “I see you up there, douche bag. Do not even think of reaching for that gun of yours.”

  Nate leaned back in the V and peered down through the branches. The first thing he saw was the black O of a shotgun muzzle pointed directly at him. Farther down the barrel, the cheek of Deputy Sheriff Spivak was pressed against the butt of the weapon. He had both eyes wide open and he was wearing civilian clothes.

  Pop-pop-pop. Boom.

  “Grab the grip of that revolver with your index finger and thumb,” the man said. “Draw it out gently and so I can see it the whole time. Then drop it, and don’t let it hit the ground anywhere near me.”

  Nate calculated his odds. Spivak had a clean shot and Nate had no place to hide. He was literally up a tree. And as fast as he was at drawing his weapon, cocking it, and firing, he wasn’t faster than a shotgun blast.

  He did as he’d been told. He dropped his revolver through an opening in the branches and heard it thump into the soft ground. He was angry that Spivak happened to arrive while Dallas Cates and his thugs were shooting. The sound of his vehicle coming up the two-track had been drowned out by gunfire.

  Pop-pop. Boom.

  “Climb down, tough guy,” Spivak said. “If I even think you’re trying anything hinky, I’ll cut you in half.” Then: “Dallas is going to be interested to hear what you have to say. So will I. Who were you chatting with a minute ago, anyway?”

  Pop-boom.

  25

  As Joe drove through downtown Lusk—population 1,567, elevation 5,015—he noted that the inscription carved into the stone archway of the Niobrara County courthouse stated: A PUBLIC OFFICE IS A PUBLIC TRUST. He said aloud, “Governor Allen needs to make a trip up here.”

  He slowly drove by Rawhide Drug and Silver Dollar Bar (“Welcome Hunters!”) and glanced up the hill at the elegant brick Victorian structure that overlooked the town like a weary matriarch. The building was crumbling and boarded up now, but it had once been a house of prostitution that served many of the local ranchers and ranch hands as well as passersby. It had been owned by a prominent woman who spent vast amounts of her hard-earned money on local philanthropy. The story Joe had heard was that the house had been such a focal point of the community that at one time the small town that had built up around it was called Lust—but the name was changed to Lusk by an offended post office employee in Washington, D.C.

  There were banners on restaurants, bars, and hotels announcing to visitors that they were ENTERING TIGER TERRITORY, and painted cats’ paws in the streets led to the high school football stadium. Homecoming week, Joe guessed.

  He turned left on Griffith Street and wound past the Niobrara County Weed and Pest Control building. He crossed over a set of railroad tracks that paralleled the road near the old train depot. Eventually, he saw a hand-painted and hand-lettered sign that read:

  STATE OF WYOMING

  WOMEN’S CENTER

  DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS

  —

  THE PRISON ITSELF was a low-slung and sprawling red-brick building set into a grassy hillside. It was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence mounted on poles that bent inward toward the building grounds and was topped with rolls of razor wire.

  There were four rows of parking within the circular lot, with one row designated for visitors. Joe pulled in. Nearly all of the other vehicles had state plates as well.

  He heeded the notice mounted on a light pole that said ATTENTION: PLEASE SECURE FIREARMS IN YOUR VEHICLE by securing his shotgun behind the seat and leaving his holster in a coil on the driver’s-side floor.

  Flagpoles bearing Wyoming and U.S. flags flanked the walkway to the entrance. There were banks of solar panels on the top of the building and no signs of life on the grassy yard inside the fence. The grass was still green on the lawn, unlike at the higher elevation he had just come from. He noted a puzzling whiff of dank sea air and saw that it came from a large building to the west marked AQUACULTURE. It seemed very odd, he thought, to smell the sea in an arid small town surrounded by vast ranches and located within an ocean of grass and short scrub and chalky bluffs.

  At a reception desk inside, he handed over his credentials and badge and asked a florid man wearing a DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS patch on his sleeve if he could see the warden.

  “We don’t get many game wardens,” the man said with an appraising eye. “I don’t think any of our petticoat prisoners are in here for game violations.”

  “Petticoat prisoners?”

  “That’s what they used to call ’em back in the old days,” the man explained.

  Joe wandered away from the desk as the check-in officer placed a call to the warden. Although Joe was not yet inside, he was struck by how different the facility already felt from the men’s prison in Rawlins. At the men’s prison, he could smell testosterone in the air, and he’d been on high alert for sudden acts of violence. The women’s prison felt almost gentle and relaxed. He doubted the high fence and razor wire had ever been tested.

  On a bulletin board mounted to the cinder-block wall, he looked at the schedule of classes held to help inmates obtain their GED. Also, workshops for quilting, needlepoint,
welding, and woodworking. A faded notice said, SIGN UP HERE FOR THE FAMILY DAYCARE FACILITY. He wondered what that was in reference to.

  Behind him, the check-in officer hung up his phone and swiveled to a computer monitor to process a visitor badge.

  “A CO is on the way to escort you to the warden’s office,” the man said. Then, in the tone of a mantra repeated thousands of times over the years, he said, “No cell phones in the facility, no knives in the facility, no tools including Leatherman tools in the facility, no guns in the facility, and you’ll need to sign this form to agree to a search or pat-down at any time.”

  “Gotcha,” Joe said. “But I’m law enforcement and I’m here to interview a prisoner.”

  “Oh.” The man assessed him over the counter and squinted. “I guess I don’t think about game wardens as, you know, regular cops. But I guess you are.”

  “We are,” Joe said.

  “Normally, no blue jeans. Black jeans are okay. But since you’re a game warden and it’s practically part of your uniform, I’ll allow it.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said, relieved. He’d purchased the new Wranglers in Casper, after all.

  While he waited, he turned his back to the counter and speed-dialed Marybeth. When she answered, he said, “Just listen, okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispered back.

  He slid his phone into his breast pocket.

  —

  A MOMENT LATER, a shadow darkened the opaque glass portal on the other side of a steel door next to the front desk. The check-in officer punched a button that unlocked the door and a corrections officer pushed it open. He wore a similar uniform to the man at the desk, but was equipped with a shoulder-mounted radio and handcuffs clipped onto his belt.

  “You’re here to see the warden?” he asked. He was short, with a beer-barrel chest, a round boyish face, and a red Vandyke beard. His name tag read DOOLEY.

  Joe followed CO Dooley down a narrow hallway painted institutional beige.

  “First time here?” Dooley asked over his shoulder.