by C. J. Box
Charlie Tibbs was eating piece after piece of beef jerky and drinking from a Thermos of iced tea. Periodically he would lift his binoculars to his eyes. Below them, in the swampy meadow, the grizzlies were eating Tod Marchand.
The sow had found him quickly after Tibbs had dumped the lawyer in the grass between her and her cubs and ridden away on horseback. She had killed Marchand by taking his entire head into her mouth and shaking it violently from side to side, like a puppy with a knotted sock. Marchand’s scream stopped so suddenly that it seemed to hang in the air like a lost ghost. A powerful swat from her paw had sent the body flying end over end. The strength of the bear was awesome.
“The cubs are feeding now,” Charlie Tibbs said, lowering the binoculars. “It would be a shame if those cubs ate every bit of the lawyer and nobody ever found him out there.”
Since they had ridden up on him that day, Tibbs always referred to Tod Marchand as “the lawyer.” He had never once spoken his actual name.
The Old Man felt sick. He had waved away the offers of jerky and iced tea by saying he thought he thought he was coming down with the flu.
“If folks just knew that the lawyer vanished and not that he was attacked by the grizzlies he saved, it would be a shame,” Tibbs said.
“I understood the first time,” the Old Man said with irritation.
Tibbs’s face had a way of going dead that had unnerved a lot of people. It unnerved the Old Man now.
“I just don’t like this, Charlie,” the Old Man said.
“It’s nature at work, is all,” Tibbs said, his face assuming life again.
Nature and four pounds of bacon, the Old Man thought.
“Far as I can tell those cubs gobbled that horse hair straight away,” Tibbs said, still peering through the binoculars. “No one’ll ever know he was tied up.”
I wonder who is impersonating Stewie Woods?” Tibbs asked suddenly, lowering the binoculars. It had become so dark that the Old Man could no longer make out the individual forms of the bears in the clearing, but he knew that Tibbs’s glasses gathered what little light there was, so he could still see. Tibbs also had a night-vision scope in his saddlebag. “Whoever he is, he was trying to draw the lawyer into some kind of situation.”
It was so still that the Old Man could hear the bears feeding, hear bones crunching.
“Who would do a thing like that?” the Old Man asked. His mouth was dry and he had trouble speaking. If Tibbs knew what he had been thinking, the Old Man figured he’d be in danger.
“Don’t know,” Tibbs shrugged.
“We couldn’t have screwed up with Stewie Woods, could we?”
Tibbs snorted. The question was beneath him.
From the clearing they could hear the sound of the two cubs fighting over something.
“I like this,” Tibbs said. “Great Grizzly Bear Savior Eaten by Bears in Yellowstone Park.”
“Yup,” the Old Man said, not agreeing, not disagreeing. He slowly stood up.
“Charlie, how much longer you going to wait here?”
“Couple a hours. Just to make sure.”
“Make sure of what?”
Tibbs didn’t answer. Long enough to make sure you see everything there is to see, the Old Man thought.
“I think I might ride back and get some sleep in the truck. My stomach’s doin’ flip-flops and I think I’m coming down with something.”
Tibbs leveled his gaze on the Old Man. The Old Man was glad it was almost dark, but knew he looked miserable anyway.
“It’s not a good idea to split up,” Tibbs said.
“Yeah, I know,” the Old Man said. “But it’s not a good idea to move in on that pretender tomorrow with me feeling like I do now. I need some rest.”
The Old Man sensed Tibbs giving consideration to the argument. Then without a word, Tibbs turned back to the bears.
“See you in a little while,” the Old Man said. “I’ll just stretch out in the horse trailer in some blankets. Don’t forget to wake me up.”
Tibbs said nothing. They both knew that the Old Man wasn’t going to get away, that he was in this until Charlie let him go. Charlie Tibbs had the keys to the truck, and the Old Man had never had a set. Tibbs didn’t offer them now, and the Old Man didn’t ask. They also knew how unlikely it would be for the Old Man to try to ride the horse away. Charlie was twice the tracker and horseman the Old Man was, and would be upon him within a few hours.
The Old Man mounted after being sure his horse had calmed down and likely wouldn’t bolt because of the bears. The horse was still spooked and white-eyed, but was under control.
Before he left, he looked over his shoulder. He could see Charlie Tibbs’s wide back in the moonlight, his shirt stretched tight between his shoulder blades. For a brief moment, the Old Man thought of how easy it would be right then to put a bullet in Tibbs’s back. Right into his spine, between the shoulder blades. Then he considered the possibility of the horse bolting as he fired, or of simply missing. He knew if either happened, it would be his last act on earth.
The Old Man had literally felt himself cross over a line and truly become evil. He knew it for a fact. There was nothing he could do to redeem himself in full. But he could, at least temporarily, stop the killing. He wasn’t doing it for Stewie Woods or Hayden Powell or Peter Sollito or Emily Betts or Tod Marchand. He still didn’t like what any of them stood for. He was doing it for himself.
Someday, in some place, he would need to answer for what he had done these past two months. He at least wanted to be able to tell the inquisitor about one good thing.
He shifted in his saddle and rubbed the right thigh of his trousers. The keys for Tod Marchand’s green Mercedes SUV, that the Old Man had found back at the Nez Perce Creek campsite, made a hard little ball in his pocket.
21
Early on Saturday morning, Joe Pickett finished his monthly report for his area supervisor, Trey Crump. In it, he dutifully explained the status of the situation regarding Jim Finotta. At the conclusion of the report, after a summary of elk herd trend counts and citations issued, he wrote that he had reason to believe that someone impersonating the environmental terrorist Stewie Woods was holed up in a remote cabin somewhere in the Bighorn Mountains. He said he planned to investigate the possibility later that day.
When the report was complete, he attached it to an e-mail and sent it to Crump’s office in Cody.
Joe rolled his chair back and exited his tiny home office. Both Lucy and April had been picked up earlier for a weekend church camp, leaving ten-year-old Sheridan (whose age group would go to the camp in the next week) alone and in front of the television watching morning cartoons and enjoying her solitude.
Marybeth was descending the stairs. Joe stopped and watched her, then whistled. She waved him away. She had already been out to the stables to feed the horses. She had returned, showered, and changed clothes. Her hair was up and she wore a white blouse and pleated khakis. She would be working at the library today until three. She looked concerned.
“Is it still your plan to see if you can find that cabin today?” She didn’t say “Stewie” or “Stewie’s cabin,” Joe noted. She spoke low enough not to be overhead by Sheridan in the other room.
“I’m going to leave as soon as I finish getting ready,” he said.
She met him at the base of the stairs and stopped on the last step. “I don’t like the idea of you going up there alone.”
He reached for her and put his hands on her hips. “Are you afraid I’m going to punch him in the nose? I just might, you know.”
“Joe, I’m not kidding. He’s expecting me and if you show up. well, who knows?”
Joe sized up Marybeth. “You look good today,” he said. “What time do you need to leave for the library?”
“We don’t have time for that.” A look of exasperation came over Marybeth’s face. “I’m not kidding you, Joe. It’s not a good idea for you to go up there without any backup. You know that.”
Joe
thought about it for a moment.
“You’re letting your feelings cloud your judgment.” Marybeth said. “That’s not like you.”
Joe had to agree. “I’ll call Sheriff Barnum.”
She nodded. “Good.”
“And I’ll run it by Trey in Cody.”
“Better still.”
He stepped aside so Marybeth could get her purse and sack lunch for her day at the library.
Before she left, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. It was much more than a morning good-bye kiss.
“I’ve never seen you jealous before, Joe, and don’t get me wrong. it’s flattering,” she said, holding his face inches from hers. “But you have nothing to worry about. You’re my man.” Then she smiled.
Slightly flustered, Joe smiled back.
“I should be back by dark,” he said. “I’ll call as soon as I’m back in cell phone range.”
She fluttered her eyes coquettishly. “I’ll be waiting.”
Sheridan overheard her mother and moaned from the living room.
Marybeth’s car was pulling out onto the Bighorn Road when Trey Crump called Joe on his office telephone. Crump was a game warden with twenty-one years of experience and was known as one of the real good ones. He was tough, fair, independent, and knowledgeable and as area supervisor he had the reputation of standing by the wardens he oversaw. It was rare for him to call, and even rarer for Crump to read Joe’s monthly report the day Joe sent it.
“Before we get to this part about trying to find Stewie Woods,” Crump said gruffly, “what in the hell did you do to piss off this Jim Finotta guy so bad?”
Joe said there was nothing more than what was in the report; he suspected Finotta of poaching and was trying to pursue the case.
“I hear he’s an asshole,” Crump said.
“What you hear is correct.”
“There’s all kinds of heat and light going on at headquarters over this,” Crump sighed. “The director has called me twice in the last week to ask you to cool it. He kind of wanted me to agree that you’re being overzealous and need to be reined in.”
Joe smiled to himself. “But you didn’t call.”
“Hell no, I didn’t call. I don’t raise hell with game wardens for doing their jobs. If a guy shoots an elk out of season, I don’t give a shit how much a guy has contributed to the governor’s campaign or who he knows in Washington.”
“So why are you calling now?”
He could hear Crump shuffling papers. “How much credibility do you give this Stewie Woods thing?”
“I’m not sure,” Joe answered. “Marybeth isn’t sure, either, and she actually knew the guy. I mentioned those phone calls she’s been getting in my report. So I’m going to check it out.”
“It would be a hell of a note if this guy was still alive,” Crump grumbled. “Most everybody I know would look at that as bad news.”
Joe laughed. “That’s how most of the folks think around here, too. But it sure is curious, isn’t it?”
Crump had to agree with that. He asked Joe to call and let him know what he found out.
Sheriff Barnum wasn’t in and neither was Deputy McLanahan. Joe left a message with the dispatcher for either man to call him and left his cell phone number. He was secretly pleased they were both unavailable. The last thing he wanted to do was turn this over to them or to get their assistance.
Joe hooked up the two-horse slant-load trailer, saddled Lizzie, and loaded her in. After starting the engine of his pickup, Joe paused to take inventory. The radio, GPS unit, cell phone, and light-control switchbox mounted to the dashboard were all operational. His Redfield spotting scope was on the console next to his file of maps, as well as his Steiner binoculars. Under his seat was the department-issued M14 carbine, and the short 12 gauge shotgun was mounted upright in back of the passenger seat. A.22 revolver loaded with blanks, for the purpose of scaring game animals out of private pastures or other places they didn’t belong, was in a holster on the floor. The evidence kit, camera and lenses, first-aid kit, rain gear, and flares were packed into the center console. He checked the batteries on the small tape recorder he used for interviews. On his belt were handcuffs, a thin canister of pepper spray, a Leatherman, and his holster with the.357 Magnum Smith and Wesson revolver. Joe’s personal weapon of choice, his Remington Wingmaster 12 gauge shotgun, was behind the seat, secured by Velcro straps. His water bottle and Thermos of coffee were full, and he had packed a lunch of salami, cheddar cheese, and an apple.
From inside the house, Maxine howled a pathetic, mournful wail. She did not like to be left behind. Joe looked up to see Maxine being pulled away from the front window by Sheridan, who waved at him.
“Bye, babe,” Joe waved back at Sheridan.
He unfolded the paper with the directions to the cabin that Marybeth had been given over the telephone.
Then he pulled his hat brim down low, backed the pickup down the driveway to the Bighorn Road, and pointed it toward the mountains.
22
Northwest of Saddlestring, Wyoming
July 6
Driving four miles over the speed limit with the Mercedes SUV set on cruise control, the Old Man noticed a small tape recorder pressed upright between the seats and pulled it out. Lawyers liked to talk in these things, he thought, and later give their valuable musings to their secretaries to decipher. Then he remembered the microcassette tape they had taken from Hayden Powell’s telephone answering machine. With his left hand on the wheel he dug through his daypack on the passenger seat until he found the cassette, then inserted it into the player. It fit.
He rewound the tape and glanced again at the rearview mirror. He had been driving all night. The Old Man continuously watched for the black Ford pickup to come roaring up behind him. Every time a dark-colored vehicle approached, he reached for his handgun on the console. He had absolutely no doubt that Charlie Tibbs was somewhere behind him, and the two-lane highway he was on was the only southbound route. It could be later today, or tomorrow, but Charlie would come. The Old Man hoped like hell he would be in and out of town by then. If he wasn’t, the Old Man would be dead. It was as simple as that.
He listened to the tape from the beginning, getting insight into Hayden Powell’s life for the week prior to the night when Charlie Tibbs and the Old Man showed up to end it.
There were several messages from Powell’s New York editor asking for selections from Screwing Up the West so he could send them out in the hope of getting good quotes from other authors and environmentalists for the book jacket and publicity kit. The editor told Powell not to worry about having the entire manuscript complete and to send chapters that could stand alone and garner praise.
There was a message from Powell’s attorney warning Powell that the SEC had called and requested an interview because of the failing dot-com company. The attorney said he recommended delaying the interview as long as possible, but that the two of them would need to get together soon to decide on a strategy for dealing with the allegations.
There were several curt “Call me” messages left by a woman the Old Man guessed was Powell’s ex-wife.
It was near the end of the tape that Charlie Tibbs called. There was silence except for traffic sounds. The Old Man had been seated next to Tibbs when he made the call as they entered Bremerton.
Assuming that this was the last of the messages, the Old Man reached to stop the tape. But now he heard one more.
The last message was a bad connection, with static in the line. The voice was thick and slurred.
“You know who this is. You need to get out of here as fast as you can. First they tried to get me, now Peter Sollito is dead. These things work in threes, and who knows who might be next. Hayden, it might be you. We need to get together and think this thing out, come up with a strategy before it’s too late.”
The Old Man was stunned. That message could have been left only by Stewie Woods.
The Mercedes topped a hill on the
highway. The Bighorn Mountains loomed ahead; they were light blue, peaked, and crisp in the morning sun. The small town of Saddlestring, from this distance, looked like a case’s worth of glinting, broken bottles strewn across the hardpan at the base of the foothills.
23
Sheridan Pickett, still in her pajamas, was nestled in a pile of couch cushions in front of the television when Maxine began barking at the front door. This ruined Sheridan’s perfect Saturday morning. She tossed candy wrappers and a half-eaten bag of chips aside and scrambled out of the cushions, wrapping herself in her terrycloth bathrobe as someone knocked heavily and then rang the doorbell.
Sheridan had been instructed never to open the door for strangers and she was rarely tempted. Ever since the man had broken into their house and hurt her mother she had been especially cautious.
People often came to the door looking for her dad, because his office was in the house. Sometimes they were ranchers who wanted to file damage claims or complain about hunters or fishermen, and sometimes they were hunters or fishermen who wanted to complain about ranchers. Her dad always asked people to call first and set an appointment, but sometimes they just showed up. Since it was her dad’s job to serve the public, her parents had told her that if she was home alone and someone stopped by, she should be polite and get a telephone number where her dad could call them.
She cinched her robe tightly and approached the window. Pulling aside the front window curtains, Sheridan peeked outside.
An older, portly, pear-shaped man stood on the front porch. He had a round, full, red face and was not shaved. He wore a low-crown gray cowboy hat, and a weathered canvas ranch jacket and blue jeans. Scuffed lace-up outfitter boots with riding heels poked out from the bottom of his Wranglers. Sheridan always noted the boots men wore because she thought that boots, more than anything, defined who a man was.
