Out of Range jp-5

by C. J. Box

  "Thank you for coming, Joe," she said. Her eyes were blank, but her mouth twitched. Joe guessed she was cried out. "It's good of you to come."

  He didn't want to admit he was there to take over Will's district. He wanted her to think he was in Jackson on his own accord.

  "Are other game wardens here?" she asked, looking quickly around the empty chapel.

  "The assistant director will be coming," Joe said, wishing it was the director, or someone other than Randy Pope.

  "Okay," she said vacantly. He could tell she was disappointed, but resigned to it. There was a lot going on in her mind, he thought. If Will had been killed as the result of an accident or at the hands of another while on duty, the chapel would have been filled with red shirts. But that was not the case.

  "Are you coming to the reception later?" she asked.

  He hadn't thought about it. "Yes," he answered.

  "Good." Then: "Is your wife here? Marybeth?"

  "She couldn't make it," he said. "School, too many things going on."

  "I know how that goes," Susan said, her eyes already wandering from Joe. "The single-parent household."

  Joe tried not to cringe.

  "Maybe I'll see you at the reception," she said, extending her hand. He took it. It was icy cold.

  Joe had just sat back down, still reeling from the look of distaste that had passed over Susan Jensen's face, when the back door banged open and a rough man's voice said, "Damnit."

  Joe turned to see a man closing the door with exaggerated gentleness. Then the man wheeled and entered the chapel, blinking at its darkness.

  The man was big, barrel-chested, thick-legged, a wedge shape from his broad shoulders in a sheepskin coat to the points of his lace-up high-heeled cowboy boots. He wore a stained and battered gray felt hat, which he immediately removed to reveal a steel-gray shock of uncombed hair. His bronze eyes burned under wild toothbrush eyebrows, and he squinted into the room like a man who squints a lot, looking for distant movement on mountainsides and saddle slopes. He was a man of the outdoors, judging by his leathery face and hands and thick clothing.

  "Didn't mean to throw the door open like that," he mumbled to no one in particular.

  And Joe stood to say hello to Smoke Van Horn.

  Smoke pumped Joe's hand once, hard, and let go.

  "You're the new guy, huh?" Smoke said, too loudly for the occasion, Joe thought. He could sense Susan Jensen and her boys turning to see what the commotion was about.

  "Yes, sir," Joe replied softly, attempting to provide an example to Smoke to lower his voice.

  "Hope we get along," Smoke said, just as loudly as before. "Me and Will had some issues. But he learned to get along with me. For a while, at least." Smoke barked a laugh at that.

  In the notebooks he had read that morning, Smoke Van Horn's name had come up several times. Smoke had been accused of salting by another outfitter as well as by a National Park ranger. Salting involved hiding salt blocks to draw elk to where his paying clients could kill them. Will had written that he'd asked Smoke about salting, and although Smoke hadn't really denied it, he hadn't admitted it either.

  "Dared me to locate the salt station," Will had written in his notebook. "Couldn't find it. Suspect it's somewhere on Clear Creek."

  "I'll be seeing you around, I'm sure," Joe said softly.

  "No shit." Smoke laughed again. "You'll be sick of me, I'd guess. I have strong opinions."

  But let's not hear them now, Joe thought.

  Smoke looked to the front of the chapel, saw the urn and the photos.

  "For Christ's sake," Smoke said, "they put him in a jar."

  "It's an urn," Joe said, glancing toward Will's boys, who were now watching Smoke and no doubt hearing him. "And Smoke, please keep your voice down."

  Smoke eyed Joe intently, narrowing his eyes. "Already telling me what to do?" Smoke said menacingly, but at least his voice was lower.

  "Will's family is up front."

  Smoke began to speak. Then, in an action Joe guessed was unusual, the outfitter didn't say anything for a moment. He leaned forward, and Joe could smell horses on his coat.

  "Will was too damned tough and determined to kill himself like that," Smoke said to Joe, his voice low. "I spent many an hour with him in the backcountry. We rarely agreed on anything, but I suspect he thought I was right more than he would let on. But he wasn't, you know, troubled. Except for the last few months, when the son of a bitch wanted to ruin me."

  Joe leaned closer to the outfitter. He asked quietly, "You don't think he killed himself?"

  "No fucking way," Smoke said, his voice loud again. "Sorry, boys," he said toward the front of the chapel.

  "I'd like to talk with you later," Joe said. More people were starting to arrive, and Smoke was oblivious to them. He was blocking the aisle.

  "That's why I come," Smoke told Joe. "When a man sets out to ruin me, I take a real personal interest in him. So I had to make sure he really was dead. I didn't expect to see him in a jar. Or an urn, or whatever the hell it is."

  "Later," Joe said firmly, finding his seat.

  Smoke Van Horn ambled down the aisle, somehow exuding a presence that was bigger than his huge physical self. Joe guessed that when Smoke picked an aisle, the rest of it would remain empty as the mourners arrived to find seats.

  He guessed correctly.

  Joe knew very few of the mourners, and most looked like locals. The majority sought out Susan and her boys, and either hugged her, waved sadly to her, or, in some cases, simply stood and shook their heads, commiserating.

  Randy Pope chose Joe's aisle, but sat three seats away. That was fine with Joe.

  Pi Stevenson came in with Birdy. She had combed her hair and looked almost businesslike in a casual suit. When she saw Joe she smiled at him, and he nodded back.

  He looked over his shoulder to see the Teton County sheriff and two deputies, who sat in the last row, behind Joe. They wore their uniforms, hats on their laps. Even though the service had started, Joe twisted in his seat and shook their hands, introducing himself. Joe assumed they had been the investigating officers at the Jensen home, since the sheriff, not the town police, had placed the notice on the door there. The sheriff, named Tassell, according to his badge, did not greet Joe warmly. Tassell was handsome, in a distant, preppy kind of way, Joe thought. He had longish hair and a gunfighter's mustache that drooped over both corners of his mouth. He was young and fit, his shirt and trousers crisp. He probably looked very good in campaign posters. He was the antithesis of Sheriff Barnum in Twelve Sleep County the way Jackson was the antithesis of Saddlestring.

  "Can I talk with you after the service?" Joe whispered.

  Tassell stared at Joe for several beats, then said, "Sure, if you have to."

  Joe turned back around. Because he seemed to be the opposite of either Barnum or the brand-new Sheriff McLanahan, Joe had assumed Tassell would be more approachable. A phrase he'd overheard Sheridan tell Lucy floated through his mind-"When you assume you make an ass out of 'u' and me." He smiled wryly.

  The reverend took his place behind the altar and said, "We will sorely miss Will Jensen…."

  Joe hadn't seen Stella Ennis come into the chapel, but when he glanced over during the service she was there. She had slipped in alone and now sat two rows ahead of Joe on the opposite side of the aisle. When he leaned forward, he could see her more clearly.

  She was younger than he had thought the night before. She was also more beautiful, and he studied her profile- a strong jaw, pert nose, thick lips painted a darker color than the night before, smooth, firm cheeks, slightly almond-shaped eyes under thick auburn bangs. She looked straight ahead, at the altar. As Joe watched, her shoulders began to tremble. She bowed her head forward so that her hair obscured her face. She stayed like that for several moments, and when she looked over at him, her eyes were glistening with tears.

  Their eyes locked for a moment Joe could only describe as electric. In her eyes he thought he saw s
adness, confusion, and, strangely, pity. Then, as if she realized she was transmitting her feelings, she looked away from him quickly, breaking it off.

  Why, Joe wondered, was Stella Ennis at the funeral? And why was she crying?

  TWELVE

  "Do you notice the same thing I notice about the food here?" Pi Stevenson asked Joe at the reception, which was held in a small meeting room at a chain hotel near the funeral home.

  He hadn't realized she was behind him in line. "What?" Joe said.

  "No meat," she said, raising her eyebrows with a sense of triumph.

  Joe looked at the table and then at his small paper plate. Crackers, cheese cubes, celery, carrots, dip.

  "I hadn't noticed."

  "These are the things I pick up on," she said. "There's cheese, though. So this isn't a vegan spread."

  Joe hmmmm'd, and took a small paper cup filled with red punch. He sipped it, disliked it, and looked for a place to put it aside.

  "I heard a rumor that before Will killed himself, he gorged on meat," Pi whispered to Joe. "That's probably why they don't have it here. Did you hear that rumor?"

  "No."

  "That's what I heard," she said again.

  "I heard it too," Birdy said, eavesdropping.

  Joe had no idea how to respond, or if he even wanted to. Pi and Birdy seemed to be drawing some kind of connection between what Will ate and what he later did.

  At the far end of the room, Susan Jensen was surrounded by well-wishers. Joe waited for the crowd to part in order to have a word with her. Her boys were with their grandparents, trying to stand in one place and behave properly. But they were boys, and they were fidgeting.

  Joe noted that Smoke hadn't come to the reception, and neither had Stella Ennis. Sheriff Tassell was there, however, with his deputies, who were loading up their plates for the third time.

  When he looked back, Birdy was offering him a business card: WILDWATER PHOTOGRAPHY. His full name was Trenton "Birdy" Richards.

  "I help him out at the shop," Pi said, pointing at the card.

  "I appreciate how you treated us yesterday," Birdy said. "It was, like, civil. So if you're ever on the river, like, if your family is with you or something, and you want a nice shot of you in the whitewater, just let me know. I'll give you, like, a deal."

  Joe pocketed the card. "You stand on the bank and take pictures of rafters?"

  Birdy snorted. "I used to do that, like, when I first got started. Not anymore. I've got a full-auto setup now. Photocells on the rafts signal the camera, and I just download the digital images every afternoon. The pictures are ready when the rafters get off the water."

  "Interesting," Joe said, making conversation.

  "Pretty slick, is what it is," Birdy said, pleased with himself.

  "Excuse me," Joe said, seeing the sheriff and taking leave of Pi and Birdy.

  Sheriff Tassell looked up as Joe approached, but continued to eat a cracker with a cheese cube. His animus was palpable. Joe assumed that Tassell was being territorial, like every county sheriff Joe had ever met, but he forged ahead anyway.

  "I'd like to be able to get into the Game and Fish house later today if I could," Joe said. He pointedly did not say Will Jensen's house. "I couldn't find any keys at the office. I assume you're done inside."

  Tassell didn't look directly at Joe, but continued to chew. "I don't know what you might hope to find in there that we haven't already looked at."

  "I'm not sure you understand," Joe said, his voice patient. "That's where I'm expected to stay while I'm here. The department doesn't have the budget to put me up in a hotel while their house sits empty."

  Hotel rooms in Jackson were by far the most expensive in the state, Joe knew. He was keenly aware that he had already overspent his per diem and the overage would need to come out of the family budget, stretched as it was.

  Tassell met Joe's eyes for a moment, then looked away again. "I figured you were checking up on us."

  Well, Joe thought, that too.

  "I'll visit with my team and make sure they're through," Tassell said with no enthusiasm. "I need to run it by the ME also. I think he got the place all cleaned up, but I'm not sure about that. A.44 Magnum going through soft tissue makes a hell of mess on the ceiling and walls."

  Joe said quietly, "I'll bet it does."

  "I think his personal effects have been pretty much cleaned out and given to the wife." Tassell looked toward Susan Jensen. "Just a bunch of boxes. Clothes and stuff like that."

  Joe wondered if he should ask to see them at some point.

  "Do you know if there were any spiral notebooks in there?" Joe asked.

  Tassell shrugged. "I don't remember any, but I didn't personally pack up everything or really look it over myself."

  Yes, Joe would need to look inside the boxes. "Do you have his truck keys at your office? His truck's locked up."

  "I believe we do," Tassell said woodenly.

  "Can I-"

  Tassell cut Joe off with a hard glare. "Look, I'm busy this afternoon. I can't just drop everything and cater to you. I've got a diversity training workshop scheduled for my officers that I've got to be at, and we need to meet with the Secret Service to set up the security for the vice president, who's coming in two weeks. I'll get to this stuff when I get to it."

  Joe stepped close to Tassell, looked right at him. "Sheriff, we seem to have started off on the wrong foot, and I'm not sure why. But I'd rather work with you than against you. All I'm asking for is keys to the statehouse and truck."

  Tassell didn't step back. "Bud Barnum was a legend among sheriffs in this state. He was old school, and I can't really call him a friend, but sheriffs tend to stick together."

  Now Joe understood. "What happened with Barnum was his own doing," Joe said. "He can blame everyone else, but Barnum did himself in."

  "That's not his version."

  "I'm not surprised," Joe said.

  "In his version, he doesn't blame everyone else. He blames you."

  Barnum had cut a wide swath across northern Wyoming, Joe thought.

  "I can't help that," Joe said.

  "He says you get into the middle of things you should leave alone. That you press too damned hard into areas where things are best left to the professionals."

  "Do you think that's why I'm here?" Joe asked.

  "Aren't you?" Tassell asked back.

  "I'm here to fill in during hunting season, and then I'm sure I'll be sent back home. I'm curious about Will, I admit that. It doesn't make sense to me that things were so bad that he took his own life."

  That seemed to mollify Tassell slightly. He said, "Will may not have been all you seem to think he was, Joe."

  Joe cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

  "Will started losing it over the past six months or so. Even before the wife took the kids and moved out on him. He was becoming a public embarrassment, and we don't like embarrassments here in Jackson."

  "What do you mean?" Joe felt a coldness growing inside.

  "He was arrested twice for driving drunk. That was after a half dozen warnings. He spent a night in my jail when he was so blitzed he couldn't even get out of his own truck. He was arrested again just a couple of weeks ago for threatening one of our local business leaders."

  "Will?" Joe asked, incredulous.

  "Will. I arrested him myself out at the ski resort, where he was having the argument. Bet you didn't know that?"

  "No," Joe said, "I didn't know that." He doubted that Trey did either, or he would have told Joe.

  "Will just kept getting worse. I could see it coming." Tassell gestured toward the room. "And so could anybody who knew him. He was in a death spiral and it was only a matter of time.

  "The ME concluded that Will's death was suicide," Tassell said. "There's no doubt about it at all, if that's what you were thinking. He got drunk, ate dinner, and shot himself at his table. Simple as that. There was a photo of his family on the table, which was probably the last thing he looke
d at. His fingerprints were the only prints on the gun."

  "Is it true that all he ate was meat that night?"

  Tassell looked at Joe quizzically. "Where did you hear that?"

  "Just a rumor."

  "Yeah, it's true. He cooked himself up quite a bunch of meat that night. All of the frying pans were dirty, and there was meat still on his plate when he died. It smelled pretty good in there, actually. But so what?"

  "I'm not sure," Joe said.

  "It's not that unusual, is it?" Tassell asked. "Hell, I do it myself. I ask the wife about once a month for what we call 'the Meat Bucket' dinner. Steak, pork, elk sausages. Maybe a piece of bread. She doesn't like it-she's a health-freak type-but she cooks it up."

  "There wasn't an autopsy?"

  Tassell shook his head. "No need. The cause of death was clear-cut. We don't do autopsies in Teton County when the cause of death is obvious. We have to watch our budget too."

  Of course-so you can afford diversity training workshops, Joe thought but didn't say. He wondered how many murders there had been on Sheriff Tassell's watch. Joe couldn't recall hearing of any recently in Teton County.

  As if reading Joe's mind, Tassell went on, "We lose a couple of people a year here, but not because of crime. A tourist or two may drown in the whitewater, or a skier might crash into a tree, or a ski bum will overdose on a slick new designer drug. But just because we don't have major crime doesn't mean we're not trained to handle it. This is a tight little community, and there are important people here with lots of money and influence. They don't like things happening that take place in bad country and western songs, you know? Those things should be left to the rest of the state. And they don't like bad news, either, because this is their special playground."

  Joe watched Tassell carefully. What exactly was he getting at?

  "This place is special," Tassell said. "We've got the highest per capita income than any county in the U.S., because of all the millionaires and billionaires. There are people here who don't think they need to play by the rules.

  And you know what," the sheriff said, arching his eyebrows, "they don't. They don't like a sloppy suicide happening in their town. Neither do I"