Trophy Hunt

by C. J. Box

  21

  MARYBETH DROVE LUCY, Jessica, Hailey Bond, and Sheridan to the Logues’ home after school, but something felt wrong about it. The three younger girls shared the middle seat in the van, and she could see through the rearview mirror that they were conspiring; they were animated, sneaky, whispering directly into each other’s ears, barely containing excitement. Something was going on, Marybeth thought. She could tell by their body language and sparkling eyes, and the way they shot glances at her while they whispered.

  She said, “Jessica, are you sure it’s okay with your parents that they drive Lucy home?”

  Marybeth tried to read Jessica in the mirror. The little girl was good, Marybeth thought. She could lie well.

  “Yes, Mrs. Pickett, it’s okay,” Jessica said, while Lucy and Hailey stopped talking and looked innocently—too innocently—at Marybeth.

  “And Sheridan’s coming too,” Lucy said.

  “What?”

  Sheridan chimed in, bored, from the backseat, “It’s okay, Mom. Really. I’ll make sure we’re home for dinner.”

  Now Marybeth knew that something was up. Why would Sheridan want to join Lucy at the Logues? A conspiracy was afoot, no doubt. Sheridan was in on it, which was unusual in itself. Marybeth tried to read Sheridan’s face in the mirror while she drove. Sheridan, anticipating the scrutiny, looked casually out the side windows of the van, feigning a sudden interest in the homes along the street.

  Marybeth felt a pang; her girls were growing up. They no longer wanted to share all of their secrets with her. It hurt to think that. Maybe if she didn’t work so much, Marybeth thought, it would be different. Maybe if she was home when school was out, like she used to be, her girls would confide in her again. Sheridan, especially. Sheridan used to tell Marybeth everything, lay bare her feelings and concerns, bounce things off of her while Marybeth prepared dinner. She didn’t do that anymore, because of Marybeth’s schedule, her work, her burgeoning new enterprise. Dinner was rushed, something she thawed in the microwave and gave Joe to grill, or takeout. While Marybeth still insisted on a family dinner together, it wasn’t the same anymore. Everything was rushed. Dinner was for eating, not catching up and visiting, talking about everyone’s day. Dinner now was a fuel stop that preceded homework, showers, and bed. God, she felt guilty.

  But when Cam Logue had come into her office earlier in the day, looking surprisingly interesting—she chose that word, rather than others—in a black turtleneck and blazer and blue jeans and cowboy boots, and perched on the corner of her desk with his hair askew in his eyes and an open, hangdog expression on his face, and asked her if she would consider becoming a full partner in the real estate firm, she had had a brief, giddy vision of what it would be like if she succeeded as she knew she was capable of succeeding. She pictured them moving to a home in Saddlestring with bedrooms for everyone and a stove where all four burners actually worked.

  “I’ve been thinking about this,” Cam had said, “and I believe it could be profitable for all of us.” He looked at her in a way he had never looked at her before, she thought, as if he were sizing her up for the first time.

  “I think it could work, too,” she had said. “I could make you a lot of money.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” he said, leaning toward her, inches away so she could smell his subtle scent—Joe never used aftershave lotion or cologne—“I think you would be a great asset to the company,” he said.

  “I know one thing,” she told him, as he leaned closer. “I would bust my butt for you.”

  He had smiled, almost painfully. “Don’t bust it, because it’s perfect as it is.”

  Then she knew.

  A line had been crossed. Cam was hitting on her, and she felt momentarily flattered. Then it passed. She wanted to be taken seriously as a professional, but now she wondered. Was this whole “get-your-real-estate-license” thing a ruse by Cam to get her into bed?

  “Cam,” she said, “you are way too close to me, physically, right now. Lean back. And if the reason why you want me to get my license is so something will happen with us, you’re so wrong about that it makes my head hurt. Marie is my friend, and don’t get me wrong—I think you’re an admirable businessman—but if the reason you want me to become involved is what you’re hinting at right now, well . . .”

  Cam had shrunk back while she was talking, and was literally about to fall off of the desk.

  “. . . Joe is my guy. That’s it. That’s all there is. He may screw up on occasion, and he doesn’t make much money, but he’s my guy.”

  She was angry at herself at that moment, because she felt tears well in her eyes, which was the last thing she wanted to have happen. But she continued, narrowing her eyes, “And if you ever, and I mean EVER, even suggest again that there is anything more than a business relationship at all, I’ll tell Joe. And then I’ll tell Nate Romanowski . . .”

  When she said the name “Nate Romanowski,” Cam visibly flinched.

  “. . . And that will be that,” Marybeth concluded.

  All of this was coursing through Marybeth’s thoughts as she wheeled into the Logue home, stopped fast, once again, by the pickup with South Dakota plates in the driveway. It had been moved to the opposite side of the driveway, but the rear of it still jutted out into the path.

  “So Jessica, your grandparents are still here?” Marybeth asked, looking into the mirror.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is your mom feeling better? She hasn’t been in the office in a couple of days.”

  “I think so,” Jessica said. But it was obvious she was bristling to get out of the car. So was Lucy. And Sheridan was glaring at her.

  “Well,” Marybeth said, “tell your mom hello from me and tell her I wish her to get well.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Pickett.”

  Marybeth turned in her seat, stern. “You girls be home in time for dinner. Stay away from those buildings in the back. And if Marie isn’t feeling well enough to bring you home, you call me and I’ll come get you, okay?”

  Lucy nodded. Sheridan mumbled something, averting her eyes.

  “What was that, Sherry?”

  “Nothing.”

  But Marybeth had heard what Sheridan said. Like you’re going to cook dinner, was what she mumbled.

  Stung and hurt, Marybeth watched her girls skip toward the old house. They were leaning into each other, conspiring again. For the second time that day, she felt tears well in her eyes.

  22

  SO HOW MUCH FARTHER IS IT?” Hailey Bond asked boldly, but there was a tremor of false courage in her voice.

  “Right up here,” Jessica said. “And don’t talk so loud. Maybe we’ll catch him in the shack.”

  Sheridan reluctantly followed the three younger girls. She couldn’t believe she had let Lucy talk her into this. But Lucy had begged her older sister to accompany them, and Sheridan felt an obligation, and also responsibility for Lucy’s well-being. If there was something to this crazy story, Sheridan thought, she wanted to be there for Lucy. It made her uncomfortable to be with the younger girls, with their chattering, and she wondered if she had ever been like that. Probably not.

  “It’s right up here,” Jessica said, stopping and turning, holding her finger to her lips to shush everyone. “From now on, just whisper.”

  “You’re trying to scare me,” Hailey said aloud.

  “Whisper!” Jessica admonished.

  Hailey shrugged, trying to act brave.

  This is silly, Sheridan thought. Lucy would get it for this later.

  But Sheridan noticed Lucy looking at her with a false, frightened smile. Even if it was silly, Lucy was taking it seriously. Sheridan nodded to her, go on.

  The shack seemed to morph out of the thick timber, as if it were a part of it. The shape of it seemed partly blurred, because it fit in so well with the trees. It was older, smaller, and more decrepit than Sheridan had imagined.

  Jessica took a step ahead of the girls and turned, wide-eyed
. She gestured toward the open window near the front door of the shack. This was as far as she and Lucy had been before. There was something in the air, maybe just the silence, but it got to Hailey Bond. Hailey shook her head, no.

  “I’m not going closer,” Hailey said in an urgent whisper. “You guys are just trying to scare me.”

  Sheridan noticed the smirk of satisfaction on Jessica’s face. Sheridan hoped that the whole thing wasn’t a setup, and that she had been asked along to legitimize it. If that turned out to be the case, Lucy would really get it later. But it didn’t seem like something she would do. In fact, she had stepped back and was standing next to Sheridan, clutching at her hand.

  “Let me look,” Sheridan said, shaking off Lucy’s hand.

  The three younger girls stared at her, their eyes wide.

  “Step aside,” Sheridan whispered.

  The girls parted, and Sheridan strode past them. She tried to walk with confidence, with courage. But she felt her knees weaken as she approached the window. She remembered Lucy saying that she and Jessica had trouble seeing in. For Sheridan, that should be no problem. Her chin was about the same height as the bottom of the windowsill.

  She slowed as she neared the window. It was dark inside. She never even considered opening the door and walking in.

  She approached the windowsill, stopping a few inches from it. She leaned forward, holding her breath.

  There was a sleeping bag on the floor, all right. With nobody in it. There were magazines, papers, empty cans. A small gas stove. Books—hardbacks, thick ones. And, on a square of dark material, what looked like silverware. A lot of silverware.

  She didn’t exactly lose her nerve, but when she turned around toward the younger girls she saw them running. Hailey was gone, Jessica was disappearing into the timber. Lucy held back, fear on her face, waiting for her older sister.

  Sheridan was about to tell her sister there was nothing to worry about when she noticed that Lucy’s eyes had shifted from her to the side of the shack. Sheridan followed Lucy’s eyes, and felt her own heart whump against her chest.

  He was a tall man, thick and dirty. Sheridan saw him in profile as he came from around the shack. He was looking at Lucy. He had long, greasy hair and a wispy beard. His nose was hooked, his mouth pursed, his eyes black and narrow. He wore a heavy, dirty coat. His trousers were baggy.

  “Get the HELL out of here!” he snarled at Lucy. “Go away!”

  Lucy turned on her heels and ran a few feet, then stopped again. Sheridan knew why. Lucy wouldn’t run without her sister.

  The man hadn’t yet seen Sheridan, who was now hugging the side of the building.

  Sheridan hoped he wouldn’t turn his head and see her.

  But he did.

  For a second, she looked into his eyes, which were dark and enraged. Maybe a little frightened, she thought later.

  “G-g-get OUT OF HERE, YOU l-l-little b-b-bitch!” he screamed. Her eyes slid down the front of him, at his coat. The name “Bob” was stenciled above a breast pocket.

  He took a step toward her, and Sheridan ran. She had never run faster, and she overtook Lucy in seconds. She reached back, found the hand of her younger sister, and didn’t let go as they weaved in and out of trees, around untrimmed brush, until they collapsed within sight of the Logue home.

  23

  AN HOUR AND A HALF AWAY, after calling Marybeth to tell her that he’d be getting home later than usual, Joe drove up the two-track on the Longbrake Ranch toward the treeline where Tuff Montegue was killed. He wanted to retrace the route of Tuff Montegue, to be there in the same place and at the same time of night that the coroner suggested Tuff was killed.

  There was a crisp fall chill in the air. The beginning of dusk had dropped the temperature a quick twenty degrees. The chill, along with the last of the fall colors in the aspen pockets that veined through the dark timber, seemed to heighten his senses. Sounds seemed sharper; his vision extended; even the dry, sharp smell of the sage seemed to have more of a bite. Maybe it was because just prior to darkness the wind usually stopped, and it was the stillness that brought everything out.

  He was placing himself right square in the middle of it, using himself as bait. Marybeth wouldn’t approve.

  The grass around the murder scene was still flattened by all of the vehicles that had been up there, so it was easy to find. He stopped and killed the engine. Maxine eyed him desperately, her excitement barely contained.

  “Yup, we’re going to get out,” he told her, “but you’re sticking close to me.”

  With that, she began to tremble. Dogs were so easy to please, Joe thought.

  Pulling on his jacket, he swung out of his pickup and drew his twelve-gauge Wingmaster pump shotgun from its scabbard behind the seat, loaded it with double-ought buckshot, and filled a jacket pocket with more shells. He pulled on a pair of thin buckskin gloves, clamped his Stetson on tight, and walked the perimeter of the crime scene. It had been cleaned up, he was glad to note. No cigarette butts or Coke cans in the grass. Maxine worked the area as well, nose to the ground, drinking in the literal cornucopia of smells—wildlife scat, blood, maybe the bear, a dozen Sheriff’s Department people, the ME, the coroner, anything else that clung to the grass.

  He turned and faced east, studying the shadowed tree-line above him, wondering what it was that Tuff and his horse had seen that caused the problem. Walking very slowly and stopping often, as if he were hunting elk, he moved up the slope. He had learned that moving too quickly dulled too many senses in the wilderness. If his breathing became labored, all he could hear was himself. By walking a hundred yards and then stopping, he could see more, hear more. As the light filtered out, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The sky was brilliant and close with swirls of stars. A quarter moon turned the grass and sagebrush dark blue. Maxine stayed on his heels.

  For an hour, he moved slowly up the mountain until the first few of the trees were behind him and the forest loomed in front.

  It wasn’t so much that Joe could see something in the trees as sense it. It was a hint, a barely perceptible hint, of the pressure he had felt at much greater volume when he found the moose.

  Maxine moved up in front of him and set up on point. The hair on her back was raised, and she was sniffing the air.

  He reached down and ran his fingers down her neck to calm her, but she was rigid. Her eyes were wild, her ears up and alert. “Stay,” he whispered to her. “Stay, girl.” She was staring into the dark trees the way she would if they were bird hunting and she had found pheasants in the cover. But he could see nothing.

  Suddenly, the dog exploded with purpose. She launched herself into the trees ahead—Joe missed when he grabbed for her collar—and she barked with a manic, deep-throated, houndlike howl that sounded so loud in the stillness that it even scared him. He had never seen his mild-mannered Labrador act so crazy.

  “Maxine!” he yelled. No point in proceeding quietly now. “MAXINE! Get back here! MAXINE!”

  He glimpsed her in the shadows, her tail and hind legs illuminated by a dull shaft of moonlight. And then she was gone.

  He chased her through the trees listening for her barking. It sounded like she had veered left, then right. She sounded so mean, he thought. And he thought he heard something else. Footfalls? Somebody running? He couldn’t be sure.

  He whistled for her, and kept shouting as her barking grew more and more distant. He unholstered his Mag-Lite and bathed the area in front of him with its beam, then sharpened it into focus and shot it up into the trees in the general direction of where she had run. He couldn’t pick up her track.

  “Oh, no,” he moaned aloud. In the seven years he had had his dog, she had never run away from him.

  He wondered whether she was stupid enough to have taken off after the grizzly bear.

  Her barking was now so faint, he could barely hear it. It came from farther to the right in the forest, much deeper into the timber.

  While she was still in earshot, he ho
ped, he fired two blasts from the shotgun into the sky. The flame from the muzzle strobed orange on the tree trunks near him.

  Then he waited. Yelled. Whistled. Fired two more blasts and reloaded the shotgun with shells from his pocket. Nothing. It was now completely silent again.

  “Shit, Maxine.”

  There was no way he could track her in the dark and find her. He couldn’t even be sure she was to the right, the way sounds bounced around in the mountains. Very reluctantly, he began to work his way back the way he had come, stopping periodically hoping to hear her bark. Joe knew that if she managed to emerge from whatever forces had turned her into the hellhound she had become, she would know to return to the pickup. In normal circumstances, he would have given her a day or so before getting worried. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He pictured her mutilated body and it made him shudder.

  Joe sat in his pickup with his windows rolled down and his headlights on. Every few minutes, he honked the horn. Maxine would know the sound, recognize it as him. He scanned the slope and timber, hoping desperately to see her.

  It pained him to think that Maxine had possibly charged at something in an effort to save him. Why else would she have become so ferocious, so single-minded? It wasn’t for her own sake, he thought. She wasn’t the kind of dog to embrace a confrontation or want to fight.

  “Damn it all,” he said and fought the urge to pound the steering wheel.

  He kept looking over at the passenger seat, thinking that’s where she should be. He thought that he’d probably spent more hours with Maxine than with Marybeth or the girls. Maxine was a part of him.

  He tried not to get maudlin. Leaning on the horn, he let the sound of it express what he felt.

  He sat up with a start when something light colored and low to the ground moved just beyond his headlights. Grabbing for the spotlight, he thumbed the switch, the beam bathing the acreage in front of him with white light, seeing something doglike . . . only to discover that it was a damned coyote. The coyote stopped for a moment, eyes reflecting red, then moved down the mountain.