Blood Trail jp-8

by C. J. Box

  “Hey!” the desk guard yelled, standing. “Do I need to call my boys in?”

  Joe, still enraged, stood up quickly and walked away. He knew if he looked for another second at Vern’s self-satisfied face or heard his arrogant words that he wouldn’t be able to stop swinging.

  “I need to get out of here,” Joe said through clenched teeth.

  “Yes, you do,” the guard said, picking up his handset to call the driver.

  “See you on the outside,” Vern called from the table, one hand at his face to stanch the flow of blood, the other waving and flittering his fingers in a toodle-do.

  Joe turned, squared his feet, and stared Vern down. “If I do,” Joe said, meaning it, “you’re going to wish you were back in here.”

  28

  NATE WASN’T outside in the parking lot and neither was Joe’s pickup. Joe stood seething in the space where he’d parked, but his fury was not directed at Nate—yet. Vern’s words, I was never like you, Joe. I wasn’t in it to save Bambi, echoed in his ears, but what enraged him was Vern’s attitude, his casual disregard for what he’d casually set in motion so many years before. Vern’s action—or inaction, in this situation—had resulted in ruined lives and the deaths, so far, of seven men. And in the end, instead of accountability, Vern was able to use his malfeasance as a bargaining chip to walk away free from prison.

  “This isn’t over,” Joe said aloud.

  A thick bank of storm clouds pushed their way across the sun, halving it, then snuffing it out. In the distance he could hear the muted roar of semitrucks on I-80. The air smelled of dust, sage, and diesel fumes. In his ears he could hear a similar roar that stemmed from anger and betrayal. Joe called Marybeth, said, “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Did you meet with Vern Dunnegan?”

  “I did.” Joe said tightly. “And everything has just gone nuclear.”

  “Oh, no. What did he say?”

  “It all goes back to Vern,” Joe said.

  “What did he say?”

  “Honey, you can’t say a word about what I’m going to tell you to anybody.”

  “Joe, I won’t. I never do.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”

  As Joe explained, he looked up and saw his truck a mile away, descending toward the valley floor and the prison complex. In a couple of minutes it would be here. He hurried, rushing his words until all he could say was, “Nate’s here. I’ve got to go.”

  “Joe!” she said. “You can’t do what I think you’re going to do.”

  “I’ll call later,” he said, and snapped the phone shut as Nate pulled up in front of him and stopped the pickup.

  Nate said, “I hope you don’t mind I borrowed your vehicle.” He got out and left the driver’s-side door open and walked around the front of the truck to get back in as a passenger. “I had to go downtown and check out a couple of pawnshops.”

  Joe grunted and climbed in. The scoped five-shot .454 Casull revolver Nate had found at a pawnshop lay formidably on the seat cushion between them, along with a heavy box of ammunition. It was a massive weapon, the second most powerful handgun in the world, manufactured by Freedom Arms in Freedom, Wyoming. Joe knew that a .454 bullet was capable of punching a clean hole through a half inch of steel, penetrating the engine block of a car and stopping it cold, or knocking down a moose at a mile away. It was Nate’s weapon of choice, and he was an expert with it.

  “I somehow figured I’d be needing that later,” Nate said by way of explanation. “The FBI still has mine. This baby’s a little beat up, but it’s got a nice scope and I got it for a song—eighteen hundred.”

  Joe slipped the truck into gear and began to climb out of the valley.

  “So,” Joe asked, “how does a man under federal indictment walk into a pawnshop and buy a hand cannon without raising any red flags in a background check?”

  Nate smiled, handed back the wallet Joe had left in the pickup. “I didn’t,” Nate said. “You did. And tell Marybeth not to worry—I used your state credit card, not a personal one.”

  Joe moaned.

  “Did you find out anything?” Nate asked, gesturing toward the prison.

  “You were right,” Joe said. “We were thinking Wolverine was targeting hunters in general. It turns out, the killer was after five specific men who happened to be hunters.”

  Nate nodded slowly, waiting for more.

  JOE SAID, “Vern was at coffee in the Burg-O-Pardner like he was every morning, even during hunting season, when Shenandoah Yellowcalf walked in the place. This was ten years ago. I wasn’t in the picture then. The breakfast crowd consisted of the city fathers, or who thought they were. Vern, Judge Pennock, and Sheriff Bud Barnum.”

  When he said the name Bud Barnum, Joe glanced at Nate and paused. Nate looked untroubled.

  “What?” Nate asked. “Do you expect remorse?”

  “I don’t know what I expected,” Joe said.

  “Go on,” Nate said impatiently. It was clear to Joe that what bothered Nate was not Barnum’s involvement but Shenandoah’s.

  Joe said, “This was when Shenandoah was operating her camp-cook-slash-guide service. She claimed she’d been hired by a party of five elk hunters who held her against her will and raped her. Vern said she said it in front of the whole table, and she demanded that Barnum and Vern go arrest the hunters. Vern thought the whole situation was uncomfortable because—according to him—it was pretty well known at the time that Shenandoah did a lot more for hunters than cook and guide.”

  “That asshole,” Nate whispered.

  “I don’t know if there’s anything to that charge,” Joe said. “I tend to believe there might be some truth in it, from what I’ve heard over the years and from what Alisha said last night. She said Shenandoah was wild back then, so it’s possible what Vern said is credible. That’s what I’ve got in my old notebook, that an Indian girl was prostituting herself under the cover of serving as a camp cook. No names, though. So there’s some corroboration. But if it is, there’s no evidence she made a claim of rape either before or after that incident. So in this particular case, she might have been forced and she wanted the hunters arrested.

  “Vern said he went up to the elk camp with Barnum to talk to the hunters. There were five, like she said. The hunters were Wyoming men of some prominence. Vern said he recognized a couple of their names at the time. They said Shenandoah had been willing, even enthusiastic about taking them all on. They told Vern they’d been playing poker in their tent the night before and she invited them to her tent one by one. All of them were embarrassed, and begged Vern and Barnum not to tell their wives or girlfriends. They said Shenandoah must be shaking them down for money or something, because otherwise it made no sense to them that she’d come into town and make an accusation like that. The hunters said that if Shenandoah went public, it would ruin them for no good reason.”

  Nate sat back in the seat, said, “I can see where this is headed.”

  Joe nodded. “It’s even worse. What they ended up doing, Nate, was arresting her for public intoxication and putting her in the county jail until she realized her charge was going nowhere. That must have made her a very bitter woman.”

  “And I don’t blame her,” Nate said.

  Joe said, “She went from being seen as a star athlete to an alcoholic loser in the space of just a few years. There was plenty of gossip—probably some of it true—about her camp cook activities. So when she makes an accusation in public against five resident hunters, she gets charged. Whatever dignity she had left at that point must have been flushed away.”

  Nate said, “I’m surprised she didn’t take it any further than that, like the Feds or the media.”

  Joe agreed. “I asked Vern about that, and he said she didn’t take it any further because she realized she had nothing but her word against theirs. You see, Barnum and Vern ‘lost’ her original complaint. They didn’t order a rape kit done, or send her to
the clinic for photos or an examination. By the time she realized all of that—when she was released on bail—any bruises she had were healed and there were at least three well-known city fathers lined up and ready to testify that she had shown up drunk and raving at breakfast. She had no case and an entire valley—whites who resented her for being Indian and Indians who resented her for doing too well—lined up against her.”

  They drove in silence for the fifty miles from Lamont to Devils Gate under an unforgiving leaden sky. Joe could tell from the skitterish behavior of the antelope herds that low pressure and moisture were on the way. His stomach roiled and his hands felt cold and damp on the steering wheel. He’d told Nate the story Vern had relayed to him but he hadn’t told Nate everything.

  “What were the names of our poker-playing hunters?” Nate asked, finally.

  “I think you know,” Joe said. “Except for the fifth one.”

  “But I can guess. Randy Pope.”

  Joe said, “Yup.”

  “Which is the reason he was all over this whole thing from the beginning,” Nate said. “It explains why he unleashed you and me. He thought we’d find and kill the Wolverine before the story got out and ruined his career and reputation. Or if you arrested the Wolverine, Pope would be on-site to shut him up. That’s why Pope is in Saddlestring right now, waiting for us.”

  “Yup.”

  “It also explains the poker chips. Only the men involved would know the significance of the poker chips.”

  Joe nodded. “But that detail wasn’t released to the public. Only Randy Pope knew he was being sent a message.”

  “But he wasn’t positive,” Nate said. “He was suspicious, but he wasn’t positive. So he invited his old friend Wally Conway up to the Bighorns with him, to see what would happen. And Wally got whacked.”

  “Yup. Unfortunately, Robey was collateral damage.”

  Nate shook his head. “Was Wally Conway dense? Didn’t he realize what had happened to his old hunting buddies?”

  Joe shrugged. “He might have known. We don’t know what he discussed with Robey that night.”

  Joe saw Nate’s hand drop and rest on the .454. “I don’t know who I hate worse,” Nate said, “Vern Dunnegan or Randy Pope.”

  “You’re forgetting someone,” Joe said.

  “Who?”

  “The Wolverine. The killer.”

  Nate shrugged. “Him, I can live with.”

  “I can’t,” Joe said. His stomach churned. He remembered something Nate had said to him the first time they ever met, and he knew it was the core belief of Nate Romanowski. Nate had said he no longer believed in the legal system but he believed in justice.

  It was a leap Joe couldn’t make, although there had been several times he’d stood at the precipice and measured the jump.

  “SHENANDOAH FINALLY got herself straightened out,” Nate said, looking out the window, speaking as much to himself as to Joe. “Like always, she did it on her own, without anyone’s help. Eventually, she told her husband about what had happened. She named names. He hated hunters anyway, and now he knew the names of the hunters who had violated his very own wife, the way he’d been violated by his uncle but never told anyone but Shenandoah, who told Alisha, who told me. And Klamath made a plan.”

  Joe said nothing, letting Nate go with it, mildly shocked at what Nate had revealed about Moore’s uncle. Finally, the burning flame behind Klamath’s obsession was clear.

  “So it’s Klamath Moore after all,” Nate said.

  AS THEY shot past Kaycee, Nate said, “To Chris,” and they drank another imaginary good-bye toast.

  SOUTH OF BUFFALO, Joe speed-dialed the governor’s office. Again, Stella Ennis answered.

  “Am I okay?” Joe asked.

  “You’re okay as long as you get the killer,” she answered.

  “I will, but the state may lose a game and fish director in the process. I’m going to use him as bait. Can the governor live with that?”

  In his peripheral vision, Joe saw Nate turn his head and smile at him.

  Rulon, who had been on the line all along, said, “Officially, you never made this call and I never got it. Unofficially, the answer is hell yes.”

  Joe said, “What, is she on your lap?”

  Rulon said, “Hell yes.”

  Joe snapped the phone shut.

  Nate said, “I like this plan so far, whatever it is.”

  Joe thought, You won’t later.

  “WHO ARE you calling now?” Nate asked, as Joe scrolled though the list of numbers on his cell phone while driving.

  “The FBI in Cheyenne. I’m going to brief them on what’s going on.”

  “Are you crazy? Klamath’s got an informer in that office.”

  Joe said, “Exactly.”

  “Ooooh,” Nate said.

  JOE SLOWED and swerved the pickup into a designated scenic pull-out that overlooked a sweep of ranchland meadows rising up the foothills of the Bighorns.

  Joe jumped out of the truck and took several deep breaths with his hands on his hips, trying to fight off nausea. When the turmoil in his stomach and soul were under control, he wiped moisture from his eyes and looked up. White shafts of afternoon sunlight poked through the cloud cover in a dozen places, making the vista look as if it were behind jail bars.

  “Are you okay?” Nate asked from the pickup.

  “Fine,” Joe said. “Something I ate.” Thinking, Something I’m about to do.

  29

  RANDY POPE’S state Escalade was parked in the driveway of Joe’s house and Joe pulled in behind it.

  “Rude bastard,” Nate said, “using your driveway like that.”

  Joe grunted, angry that Pope had the temerity to come to his home to wait. Joe hated to involve his family any more than they were already involved, and hoped Sheridan and Lucy had after-school activities that had kept them away.

  “Back in a minute,” Joe said, swinging out.

  Randy Pope was sitting on the couch with a half-drunk cup of coffee and a plate of cookies in front of him. Marybeth was in the overstuffed chair in her work clothes, her knees tightly pressed together and her fingers interlaced on her lap. She was uncomfortable, and she turned to Joe as he entered with an expression on her face that seemed to say, “Help me!”

  “I stopped home to grab some files and guess who was here waiting?” she said to Joe.

  Pope stood up, brushing crumbs off his jeans. He looked pale, distressed, angry. But even Pope wouldn’t start yelling at Joe in front of his wife.

  “Gee, Joe,” Pope said, “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever show up.”

  “Here I am.”

  “I’ve been very concerned. Mary said you called from the road, but my understanding was that you had to stay in town until they got that assault charge straightened out.” He spoke evenly, without intonation.

  “It’s Marybeth,” Joe said, “and I needed to follow a lead. I spent the morning talking with Vern Dunnegan.” He paused. “Remember him?”

  Pope’s face froze into a wax mask.

  “Can we step outside?” Joe said calmly. To Marybeth, “I hope you don’t mind.”

  She shook her head, but her eyes stayed on him, cautioning Joe to stay cool.

  “Are the girls here?” Joe asked.

  “Sheridan’s at practice, Lucy’s at the Andersons’ practicing a play.”

  Joe nodded. “Good.”

  Pope hadn’t moved. The only thing that had changed about him were his pupils, which had dilated and looked like bullet holes.

  “Randy?” Joe said, stepping aside.

  Woodenly, Pope shuffled toward the front door with Joe following.

  Over his shoulder, Joe said to Marybeth, “I’ll call. Don’t worry.”

  “Joe . . .”

  The moment Pope opened the front door he broke to the left and slammed the door in Joe’s face behind him. Joe threw the door open and fumbled for his weapon, shouted, “Randy!”

  But Pope didn’t get
far. He stood in the middle of the neighbor’s lawn, backing up with the .454 muzzle pressed against his forehead. Nate cocked the revolver and the cylinder turned.

  “Can I shoot him now?” Nate asked.

  “Not yet,” Joe said.

  “I’d really like to.”

  “Later, maybe.”

  Over Nate’s shoulder, Joe saw his neighbor Ed wander out onto his lawn from his open garage. Ed was smoking his pipe, inspecting the lawn for stray leaves. When Ed looked over and saw what was happening—on his very own property—his pipe dropped out of his mouth.

  “Evening, Ed,” Joe said, as Nate backed Pope into Joe’s pickup. Joe climbed in the driver’s side and Nate shoved Pope inside between them. Ed was still standing there, openmouthed, as Joe roared away, headed for the mountains.

  “THIS IS kidnapping, assault, reckless endangerment . . .” Pope said, his voice trailing off.

  “Insubordination,” Nate said, “that too.”

  “Call the governor now,” Pope said to Joe. “Let’s get this thing straightened out.”

  “I’ve already talked to him,” Joe said.

  Pope mouthed something but no words came out.

  “That’s right,” Joe said. “He’s willing to trade you for Wolverine, if necessary.”

  “But we can work together,” Pope said, pleading. “You don’t have to do it this way. We can work something out now, and for the future.”

  Joe seemed to think it over, to Nate’s consternation. Finally, Joe said, “Nope. I saw how you treat your friends.”

  THEY WERE past Joe’s old house on Bighorn Road when Pope said, “It wasn’t like what you think.”

  “What is it I think?” Joe said.

  “That we gang-raped her. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “How was it, then?”

  “She was more than willing. I didn’t even want her, but, you know, peer pressure and all. She was drinking and sitting in on the poker game, and she started rubbing herself all over Frank. We were all a little lit up by then, and Frank threw down his cards and took her to her tent. After a while, they came back and she started rubbing on Wally.”