Trophy Hunt

by C. J. Box

  Carrying the bag with the soup and the chocolates, she rang the doorbell. She didn’t hear it chime hollowly inside the house.

  After a minute with no response, she rang it again. It was strange, she thought. She didn’t hear rustling inside, or footfalls in response to the bell.

  She knocked and waited, then knocked again hard.

  Nothing.

  Putting the bag down on the front step, she walked around the front of the house to the side. The garage door was closed, so she couldn’t see if Marie’s car was there. Maybe, Marybeth thought, Marie had taken her father- and mother-in-law somewhere for lunch. But Marie was supposed to be sick.

  Maybe Marie was at the doctor’s office, Marybeth reasoned, and for a moment her mood lightened. But if Marie went to the doctor, would she have taken her in-laws with her?

  Puzzled, Marybeth found an envelope in the glove compartment of her van and scribbled a note to Marie, saying she was sorry she missed her and hoped she was feeling better. She wrote, “Please call me when you can.” Marybeth left the note with the soup and chocolates on the front porch.

  As she returned to the van, Marybeth took a last look at the house. Upstairs, in the second window to the right, she thought she saw a curtain move.

  Marybeth stood stock-still, not breathing, and stared at the window. She felt a chill, despite the warm fall afternoon. But the curtain didn’t move again, and she wondered if she had imagined it in the first place.

  Then she had another thought: maybe Cam had already talked to Marie, told her what Joe had accused him of. Maybe, she thought with unexpected shame, Marie didn’t want any part of Marybeth Pickett anymore.

  32

  THE WYOMING GAME AND FISH DEPARTMENT had a successful program where the department leased land from ranchers in exchange for allowing public access for hunters. Joe had negotiated most of the deals in his district the spring before, and it was his responsibility to keep the “walk-in areas” clearly marked. Unfortunately, the brutal winter before had damaged and knocked down a number of the signs, and as he patrolled he was constantly finding the upturned signs. When he found them, he rewired them to posts from a roll of baling wire in the back of his truck.

  He was twisting the wire tight on a walk-in sign when he heard his cell phone ring in his pickup. He leaned inside the cab and plucked the phone from its holder.

  It wasn’t Hersig, Ike, or Sheriff Harvey. It was Agent Tony Portenson.

  “I tried your office but you weren’t there,” Portenson said as a greeting. He sounded weary, reluctant. “I’d rather this conversation was on a land-line so it was more secure.”

  “You FBI guys are a little paranoid, aren’t you?” Joe asked.

  “Listen,” Portenson said. “We might have something.”

  “Go ahead. Thanks for getting involved.”

  “Fuck that,” he said. “I just want to get this thing over with so I can go home. Get transferred, maybe. I hope.”

  “Anyway . . .” Joe prompted.

  “Anyway, the Park County Sheriff’s Office asked me to help them track down this Fort Bragg cell phone guy, as you know. It wasn’t easy, and it should have been. This is what we’re good at, you know.”

  Joe listened and watched the shadow of a single cumulous cloud move slowly across the sagebrush saddle in front of him.

  “I had to call in the big guns in Washington to put pressure on the army down there to break through the wall at Fort Bragg. They just didn’t want to talk. But we found out some interesting things. Just a second here . . .”

  Joe heard papers being shuffled in the background.

  “L. Robert Eckhardt was an army nurse. A real good one, according to his early evaluations. He was a combat guy. He was deployed in Bosnia, Afghanistan, and the Philippines. But he didn’t go to Iraq. You want to know why?”

  “Yes,” Joe answered impatiently.

  “This is why the army didn’t want to talk to us,” Portenson continued. “Eckhardt was suspected of being involved in the ‘surgical mutilation’ of enemy combatants. That’s what it says here, ‘surgical mutilation.’ Some doctor was accused of it, and Eckhardt was his assistant. The whole incident was kept way under the radar, I guess, like a lot of things are in the war. It was an internal army investigation, and there’s no press on it at all. These guys, the doctor and Eckhardt, were pulled out of the Philippines and sent home to Fort Bragg a year and a half ago to face court-martial.”

  Joe stared the cloud as he considered the information. “Does the report say what the mutilation consisted of?”

  “No. Just ‘surgical mutilation.’ But that’s where we might have a connection. Eckhardt and the doctor went AWOL before trial. They’ve been missing for six months. The army is pissed off about it, and they’re still looking for these guys. They don’t want to go public with it, and neither do we. But when we told them about Eckhardt’s cell phone call reporting the body in the woods they went ape-shit. They’re sending a couple of military cops to Wyoming as soon as they can get ’em here.

  “Of course, it’s possible that somebody has Eckhardt’s cell phone, but that seems real unlikely. The army guys asked if the caller had a speech impediment, because Eckhardt has one, but I didn’t know what to tell them. Anyway, we’re running down other calls made from that number now, and we’ll see if we can make any sense of them.”

  Joe watched the cloud move up the hillside, felt it envelop him as it passed over, sensed the five-degree temperature drop. “The Park County dispatcher had trouble making out what the 911 caller said.”

  “That’s interesting,” Portenson said.

  Joe’s mind was racing ahead.

  “Joe, you still there?” Portenson asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “We need to have an emergency task-force meeting. I already told Hersig and he’s clearing the decks for seven o’clock tonight.”

  Joe didn’t respond.

  “Joe, can you hear me?”

  “Yup, I’m thinking.” He paused for a moment, then: “Do we have a name on the doctor Eckhardt’s involved with?”

  “Hold on . . .” Portenson said. Joe could hear him thumbing through the pages again. “ . . . Okay, here it is. His name is Eric Logue, Dr. Eric Logue.”

  “Logue? Ah, Jesus . . .” Joe pushed off the sign he had been leaning against, Eric Logue’s name ricocheting through his head. In his subconscious a series of formerly random bits of information stopped flying around and began to pause, align, and connect. It was as if the tumblers on a lock were falling into place, finally releasing the hasp.

  A doctor.

  Surgical mutilations.

  Cam said his brother was a surgeon.

  L. Robert Eckhardt. Bob. The name on the army jacket Sheridan said she saw on the transient who had yelled at her.

  Bob. Nurse Bob. A speech impediment. The dispatcher telling Harvey that she had trouble understanding the caller.

  Nurse Bob: Nuss Bomb.

  “Joe, you still there? What’s going on?” Portenson said.

  “Agent Portenson, let me ask you something,” Joe said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “If your parents came to visit you at an inconvenient time and you were telling somebody about it, would you say, ‘it’s not exactly the best time in the world to have my whole family here for a visit’?”

  Portenson sighed. “What in the hell does that have . . .”

  “The whole family,” Joe said. “Would that be the phrase you would use if your parents were visiting? Wouldn’t it make more sense to say my folks, or my parents?”

  “I guess so,” Portenson said, sounding perplexed and annoyed.

  “Me too,” Joe said. “But when Cam Logue was at dinner and the subject came up, he said the whole family. Maybe it was just a mistake, but it doesn’t sound right. But maybe he really did mean his whole family—including his brother.”

  “You’ve fucking lost me,” Portenson said. “Who’s Cam Logue and why should I care what h
e said at your little dinner party?”

  “Just stay by the telephone for the next few minutes,” Joe said. “I’ve got to make another call.”

  “What are you . . .”

  Joe hung up, then hit 1 on his speed dial. While he waited for Marybeth to pick up, he paced back and forth in front of his pickup.

  When she answered, he immediately knew something was wrong by her tone.

  “Are you okay?”

  She paused. “I’ve been better.”

  “Did I do it?” he asked.

  “No, Joe. Why do you always think it’s you?”

  “Because it usually is. Anyway, do you have a second for something urgent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cam’s brother is a doctor, right?”

  Marybeth was clearly puzzled by the question. “Yes.”

  “Where?” Joe asked.

  “Do you mean what state? I’m not sure. Marie mentioned a couple of times that he was overseas . . .”

  “Was he an army doctor?”

  She paused again. “Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what she said.”

  Joe smacked the hood of his pickup with his free hand. “What’s his name?”

  “Eric. Dr. Eric Logue,” Marybeth said. “Why are you asking? What’s happening?”

  Joe stopped pacing. “I don’t have time to explain right now—and I’m not even sure how this all connects yet. But whatever you do, Marybeth, stay away from Cam. I think either he or his brother are somehow mixed up with the mutilations. If you’re at the office, pack up and leave now.”

  She laughed sadly. “You don’t need to worry about that, Joe. I’m at home. But I just got back from the Logues’ house and no one answered the door.”

  “Thank God you’re all right,” Joe said, feeling a little of the pressure that was building vent out.

  “I’m worried about Marie, though,” Marybeth said. “I don’t know where she is . . .”

  Joe called Portenson back: “Does the report give any background information on Eric Logue? Does it say where he grew up?”

  “Why does that matter?” Portenson asked, irritated. “I can’t find anything here. It may be in the report somewhere but I’ll have to look.”

  “Find out where he grew up,” Joe said urgently. “And if they won’t give it to you or you can’t find it, try to confirm that Dr. Eric Logue was stationed in the same places Eckhardt was.”

  “I’m not doing jack-shit until you tell me what’s going on here,” Portenson barked. “You’ve already screwed my career once, Joe—now, what is so important about where Eric Logue grew up?”

  “Cam Logue’s a realtor in Saddlestring,” Joe said. “He grew up here and just moved back to open up a business. I think our Dr. Eric Logue is Cam Logue’s brother. I’m not sure how it all connects but there’s something here. Look, I’m out in the field now but we’ve got to talk to Hersig about this immediately—definitely before tonight’s task-force meeting. Then I can explain things better to both of you.”

  “I’ll call Robey right now,” Portenson said. “Stop whatever game-warden crap you’re doing and head back to town so we can go see Robey. And keep your phone on—I’ll call you as soon as I talk to him.”

  Joe was rolling toward town when his cell phone rang.

  “Robey’s stuck on the phone with the governor,” Portenson said without preamble. “The governor called for an update on the task force’s progress.”

  “Do we know how long this is going to take?” Joe said.

  “Robey’s secretary said she didn’t think he’d be off any time soon but she’d ‘pencil us in’ for five,” Portenson said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  Joe looked at his watch—it was almost three-thirty. “We need to nail down Eric Logue,” he said. “The more information we can bring Robey, the better.”

  “I already talked to the FBI. We should have something any minute.”

  “Try to get photos of Eckhardt and Eric Logue, and let me know as soon as you’ve got something. See if you can find out where Cam Logue is right now as well. If Eric is his brother then we’ll need to pick Cam up for questioning immediately.”

  “Who died and appointed you an FBI agent?” Portenson spat. “I know how to do my job. Just make sure you’re at Robey’s by five—I’ll take care of everything else.”

  Joe tossed the phone on to the seat next to him as he drove toward Saddlestring, his anxiety building. He wasn’t quite sure what to do to fill the time before the meeting with Hersig. He considered going to Portenson’s office to wait for the FBI’s information on Eric Logue but Portenson was clearly not in the mood to have Joe hanging over his shoulder. Joe thought about going over to Cam’s office but quickly dismissed that idea. After that morning fiasco, he wouldn’t be surprised if Cam never spoke to him again.

  Joe was almost across the bridge that would take him into Saddlestring, debating whether he had enough time to go home and change out of his work clothes, filthy from fixing the signs, when he remembered Ike’s request to pick up Not Ike. He slowed his truck and scanned the river but he could see only one fisherman and he didn’t look like Not Ike.

  Joe pulled off the bridge and parked his truck. As he jogged down the riverbank, he recognized the fisherman as Jack, the retired schoolteacher and the only man in town who rivaled Not Ike for fishing hours.

  “Hey, Jack, have you seen Not Ike?”

  Jack was tying on a streamer fly. The glare of the sun on the water behind him made Joe squint.

  “He was down under the bridge until about an hour ago,” Jack said. “He yelled down to me and said he caught three fish.”

  Joe smiled.

  “He caught a ride somewhere, though,” Jack said. “He hasn’t come back.”

  “Do you know who picked him up?”

  Jack shook his head. “Didn’t recognize him. But he was driving a big-ass truck and pulling a trailer behind it. Big silver trailer, with some kind of writing on it.”

  Joe froze. “Did it say ‘Dr. Cleve Garrett, Iconoclast Society, Reno, Nevada?’ ”

  Looking up from his fly, Jack shrugged. “Could have, I’m not sure. But I’ve never seen it around here before. I saw the guy driving though, and I swear I’ve seen him before.”

  Joe took an involuntary step backward. It made no sense—why was Garrett back in Saddlestring? And why would he stop to give Not Ike a ride somewhere? Then something clicked in his head, a sick pit of worry growing in his stomach.

  “You okay, Joe?”

  But Joe had turned and was running up the riverbank toward his pickup. As he threw open the pickup door, he called down to Jack, “Which direction were they going?”

  Jack pointed to the west, toward the mountains.

  Joe jumped into the cab, cranked the wheel, and did a screeching U-turn back onto the bridge, nearly taking out the railing with his bumper.

  33

  JOE ACCELERATED ON BIGHORN ROAD, grabbing his radio as he drove. “Cleve Garrett has kidnapped a man named George Easter, aka Not Ike Easter,” Joe shouted into his radio microphone after switching to the mutual aid channel. “Everyone out there watch for a Suburban towing an Airstream trailer . . .” he described the vehicle, the trailer, and Not Ike as best he could.

  It took a few beats before the radio traffic became fevered, with comments, questions, and location reports coming in through the central dispatcher from Saddlestring police, sheriff’s deputies, and the highway patrol. Everyone wanted to know what was going on, everyone wanted more details. Deputy McLanahan complained that he was just done with his shift and headed for dinner at the Burg-O-Pardner. He asked how to spell “iconoclast.”

  Joe’s cell phone rang immediately, as he expected it would.

  It was Hersig, and he was distraught. “What in the hell is going on, Joe? What are you doing? Everyone’s in a damned uproar because of something you just broadcast.”

  “A man matching the description of Cleve Garrett lured Not Ike out of the river and took him s
omeplace,” Joe said. “He was last seen headed toward the mountains.”

  “Cleve Garrett?” Hersig shouted. “CLEVE GARRETT? What about Eric Logue? I got a message from Portenson about him.”

  “I don’t know!” Joe yelled back angrily. “Maybe it was Garrett all along!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Hersig said. “How do we know Not Ike wasn’t just getting a lift to another fishing spot upriver?”

  “Because,” Joe said, “things are starting to fall into place, and not in a good way. None of us—especially me—took Garrett seriously, because of all his goofy theories. But the fact is that he was in Montana when the first cattle mutilations were reported. When the cattle were mutilated in Saddlestring, he was here too. No one else we know of was around when and where both sets of crimes were committed—except Cleve Garrett. And Garrett pulled up stakes and vanished, so he was obviously trying to get away fast. I couldn’t figure out why, before, and assumed it had to do with Deena. Now I’m thinking he must have thought we were closing in on him, that I was closing in on him.”

  “But if that’s all true, why would Garrett come back to Saddlestring and risk getting caught?” Robey said. “Why grab Not Ike, of all people?”

  “Not Ike told us how he’d seen somebody, a couple of men, in an alley behind Logue Realty. He called them ‘creepylike.’ Remember from the report?”

  “Now I do. I didn’t put any stock in it.”

  “Me either, damn it,” Joe said. “But I’m thinking that Not Ike was the only living person who may have actually seen the bad guys. Maybe he could identify them.”

  Hersig paused. “Who would know about what he said besides us?”

  “Cam Logue would know,” Joe said.

  “How in the hell would he know?”

  “Because I told him about it in his office.”

  “Oh no . . .”

  “That’s right,” Joe said. “There must be a connection between Cam and Garrett. I don’t know what it is yet but it’s the only explanation I can think of.

  “Not Ike said he saw two people in the alley by Logue Realty—Garrett was one of them and Cam Logue was probably the other. Cam must have called Garrett after I left his office and told him.” Joe mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. If something happened to Not Ike because of him, he’d never forgive himself.