After the task-force meeting, Joe Pickett drove his pickup through the breaklands into the foothills of the mountains. He pulled off the road, on a steep overlook to eat his lunch-a salami sandwich, and an apple-while surveying the vast valley below. The day was cloudless and cool, the eastern horizon limitless. Below him, several miles away, was a small camp of three vehicles and a pop-up camper near the brushy crux of small streams. He glassed the camp through his spotting scope recognizing a group of antelope hunters he had checked a few days before. They had asked him if he thought they were in danger from the sky. He didn't know how to answer the question then, and he still didn't.
Despite the new task force, Joe still had a job to do. Pronghorn antelope season was open, as was archery season for elk in the high country. Deer season would open in two weeks, and for a short, furiously busy time, all of the big game seasons would be open simultaneously. Joe hoped that the task force would have reached some conclusions by then, or his absence in the field would be noted. Most hunters were dutiful, but the criminal element-the lowlifes who would try to take too many animals or leave the wounded in search of a bigger trophy-would keep close track of his comings and goings. Portenson's presence, and threat that he was going to look deeper into Joe and Nate's roles in the federal-land manager's death last winter wormed through his thoughts. When he saw his reflection in the rearview mirror, he saw a man with a tense, worried scowl. Joe got out of his pickup and sat down on the tailgate, flipping open his notebook to his notes from the meeting. • CULTS • DISTURBED INDIVIDUALS • GOVERNMENT AGENTS • GRIZZLY BEAR • ARABS (stupid) • UNKNOWN VIRUS • ALIENS • BIRDS (FBI theory) 1. Tuff Montegue / Twelve Sleep County / Contusions mutilation / Grizzly breakfast / Oxindole? 2. Stuart Tanner / Park County (50 miles away) / No predation / 911 call / Oxindole? 3. Cleve Garrett / Paranormal guy / Riverside RV Park 4. Portenson / Happened before in the 1970s / BIRDS??? He reviewed the theories and shook his head. If there were cults of any kind in the area, they operated in complete and total anonymity, because he hadn't heard anything about them. Obviously, from the lack of reaction at the table, no one else had either. In his mind, he classified "Government Agents," "Unknown Virus," "Aliens," and "Birds" into the "most improbable" category. It was conceivable that the government might conduct secret experiments on animals with new weapons, but only in a weird X-Files kind of way. How did the deaths of Tuff Montegue and Stuart Tanner fit in? He didn't believe the government was murdering and skinning old cowboys to test new weapons.
He conceded that it was remotely possible that a virus of some kind killed the animals and humans, although it made no sense to him that the virus could operate externally as well and cause the kinds of mutilation he had seen.
"Aliens" were a possibility he refused to seriously acknowledge. The word itself produced an instinctive inner scoff. Was he being closed-minded, he wondered, or was he scared to examine the possibilities? He didn't know the answer to that question, but thought that it was likely a combination of both. And, he reasoned, if the cause of the murders and mutilations were alien beings, then there wasn't going to be much the task force, or anybody else, could do about it.
Birds?
"Birds?" He said aloud. "How idiotic is that?"
Joe wanted to toss aside the "Grizzly Bear" theory as well but couldn't. The fact was that a bear had been present at both the bull moose and Tuff Montegue locations. Joe had seen the tracks in the meadow, and determined that the bear dragged the moose into the trees. The savage wounds on Montegue's torso, aside from the mutilations, were undoubtedly caused by a bear. But had it appeared the bear had shown up only after they were dead. The grizzly had happened by and checked out two bodies already on the ground, Joe thought, choosing not to sample the moose but having no objections to feeding on the old cowboy.
Joe also couldn't discount the bear theory because bears were his responsibility. Because once the grizzly had left its federally protected enclave in Yellowstone, it was now the responsibility of the Game and Fish Department. With responsibility came liability, and if it turned out that the bear was the cause of the crimes, Joe's agency would be blamed. If so, blame would cascade downhill, pooling around Joe Pickett's boots.
If the radio collar on the bear hadn't malfunctioned, the bear biologists tracking it could either clear-or implicate-the bear. As it was, they had no better idea of the bear's location than Joe did.
"Disturbed Individuals" merited more consideration, he thought. He drew a star next to it. The likelihood of a nut-or nuts-with cutting tools was the most likely prospect of all, he thought. Perhaps the bad guy had been practicing on animals for months or years without suspicion. He had started, maybe, with small animals or pets, and perfected his technique. Then he moved up the food chain; an antelope or deer for starters, then a single cow or horse. Without the atmosphere of suspicion that now existed, the lone deaths of single animals would not have aroused any notice. A mutilated carcass that wasn't found immediately-predation or not-wouldn't appear all that different from a natural death if the discovery was a month or so afterward. Maybe, Joe thought, this had been going on for years in the area. How many animal bodies had he seen himself over the years on the sides of highways, in ditches, in the landfill? Hundreds, he thought.
But then, for some reason, the animals weren't enough, so the killer moved on to human beings. Not just one, either. He went after two people in one night in a bloody explosion of… something.
Both men were killed in isolated locations accessible by either private dirt roads, in Montegue's case, or remote county roads, in Stuart Tanner's case. Joe wondered how long it would take to drive from one crime location to the other, and guessed an hour and a half without stopping. Which meant, if this theory played out, that the killer was local and knew his way around.
What kind of person is capable of this? Joe wondered, trying to picture a face or eyes. Neither came.
Joe's mind spun with questions.
Was this the same person who had mutilated cattle in the 1970s? If so, why had the killer stopped for over thirty years before beginning again? Had the killer, in the meanwhile, contented himself with the death and mutilation of wildlife, like the bull moose Joe found, or perhaps the cattle mutilations in Montana?
And whoever it was, why had the killer chosen to escalate the horrors to a new level? Since Joe and the task force had virtually no leads of any kind-despite what Barnum might tell the public-what was to stop this person?
Joe looked up and stared out at the breaklands. The dull headache that had started behind his left ear an hour ago had become a full-fledged skull-pounder. The more he thought about the killings, the worse it got. This is a job for somebody a hell of a lot smarter than I am, he thought. The sun was still two hours from dropping behind the mountains, but the sagebrush flats and red arroyos were beginning to light up. Pockets of cottonwoods and aspen pulsed with fall color. He loved this time of the evening on the high plains, when it seemed like the dying sun infused the landscape with every last pulse of color and drama before withdrawing the favor.
He shoved his notebook into his pocket, climbed into the cab of his truck, and drove farther up the mountain into the trees, peering out from behind his headache.
Joe cruised slowly, with his windows open. As it darkened, he had switched on the sneak lights under his front bumper, illuminating only the road surface directly in front of him. With his headlights off, he was almost invisible to a hunter or another vehicle until he was practically on top of them.
A half mile from the turnoff to Hazelton Road, in the low light of timber dusk, two camouflaged hunters stepped out of the trees onto the road.
When the hunters saw him, he could tell from their body language that he had surprised them. They consulted with each other, heads bent together, as he approached them. He waved, eased the pickup to a stop, clamped his Stetson on, and swung out of the truck. Before he closed his door, he reached in and turned his headlights on full, bathing the hunters in white light. It was a tactic he had learned over countless similar stops; approaching armed men on foot with his headlights behind him.
Joe quickly sized up the men as elk hunters out for the archery season. Their faces were painted in green and black, as were the backs of their hands. Each carried high-tech compound bows with extra arrows attached by side quivers. Their eyes, in the headlights, blinked out from their face paint.
"Are you doing any good?" Joe asked pleasantly, although he'd noted that neither was spotted with blood from a kill.
"It's too damned warm up here," the taller hunter said. "It's too dry for any stealthy movement."
His voice sounded familiar to Joe, although Joe couldn't place it.
"See anything?"
"Cow and a calf this morning," the shorter hunter said. "I missed her, damn it."
The shorter hunter's quiver was missing an arrow, Joe noticed.
"Couldn't find your arrow, I see."
The shorter hunter shook his head. "Nope."
"I hope you didn't wound her," Joe said. Although archery hunting was certainly more sporting to the prey than rifle season, too many inexperienced or overexcited hunters often wounded game animals and then lost track of them. He had seen too many crippled elk, deer, and antelope in the field with errant arrows stuck in them.
The shorter hunter started to speak.
"I don't think…"
"… He missed her clean," the taller one interrupted, annoyance in his voice. "He just fucking missed her, all right?"
Joe was now close enough to see their faces and to recognize the taller hunter through his face paint.
"You again," Joe said to Jeff O'Bannon, the belligerent fisherman he had met before on Crazy Woman Creek with his daughters. "I hope you've learned how to release a fish since then."
O'Bannon's eyes flashed. Joe thought they looked bigger behind the face paint.
"What's this about?" the shorter hunter asked O'Bannon.
"Never mind, Pete," O'Bannon said through clenched teeth.
"Can I please see your licenses and conservation stamps?" Joe asked, still polite. "You've already seen my stamp," O'Bannon said. "Yup, but not the elk tag." O'Bannon rolled his eyes and sighed, clearly annoyed. While the hunters set their bows aside and dug for their wallets, Joe waited with his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his Wranglers. "Have you heard anything lately about those murders?" the short hunter asked, giving Joe his license. "Like what?" Joe asked, checking it over. Pete was a state resident from Gillette. His license and stamp were okay, so Joe handed it back. "Have there been any more sightings around here? Any more, you know, incidents?" O'Bannon chuckled when he heard the question. "Not since last week," Joe said. "I'm sure you heard about that." "No little green men?" O'Bannon asked, smiling so that his teeth glinted in the headlights. "Nope, just hunters." Joe said, looking over the license. "You need to sign this," he told O'Bannon, pointing toward the signature line. "Jesus," O'Bannon sighed, shaking his head "I knew you'd find something to hassle me over." I told you I would, Joe thought. "I'm glad things are quiet," Pete said. "I almost didn't come over here to go hunting when I read about them murders. Jeff had to work hard to convince me to come hunting with him." Joe nodded, wondering how many hunters were thinking twice about traveling to his district. "Jeff said he'd take care of those little green bastards if they showed up." Joe had started to turn toward his pickup when he stopped. "Really, how?" He could see the blood drain from O'Bannon's face, even through the face paint. "Pete…" O'Bannon whispered. "Show him, Jeff," Pete said enthusiastically. "Show me, Jeff," Joe said, raising his eyebrows.
O'Bannon didn't move. Pete looked at Jeff, and slowly realized what he had done.
"Show me, Jeff," Joe repeated.
"Shit, it's for self-protection only. Self-protection!" O'Bannon said, raising his voice. "When people are getting cut up in the woods by something, it only makes sense!"
"Show me, Jeff."
Sighing, O'Bannon pulled back his camouflage coat to reveal a heavy, stainless-steel revolver in a holster on his hip.
"What's that, a.357 Magnum?" Joe asked.
O'Bannon nodded.
"I used to carry one of those myself," Joe said. "I couldn't hit anything with it. Well, once…" he let his voice trail off.
"Jeff's won some trophies in open-range pistol shoots," Pete volunteered, trying to ease the situation.
"That's good," Joe said, reaching for the ticket book that he kept in his back pocket, "but it's archery season, fellows. Archery. Bows and arrows. When you carry a handgun, you're violating regulations as well as the whole spirit of the season."
"I told you it was for self-protection only," O'Bannon said. "I didn't even shoot it!"
"I understand," Joe said, flipping the ticket book open. "And in other circumstances-like if you were somebody else-I would likely issue you a strong verbal warning. But, Jeff, you're special."
Thumbing through his well-worn booklet of regulations, Joe found the page he was looking for and read out loud from the light of the headlights: "Statute 23-2-104(d). No person holding an archery license shall take big game or trophy game animals during a special hunting season while in possession of any type of firearm."
Joe wrote the ticket while O'Bannon glared at his former friend.
"You're also in violation of the concealed-weapons statutes unless you have a valid permit signed by Sheriff Barnum," Joe said. "If I remember correctly, you could be looking at six months or so in jail. Do you have a permit?"
"I'm contesting this," O'Bannon said, snatching the violation sheet from Joe and wadding it into his front pocket. "I'll see you in fucking court!"
"Yes, you will," Joe said. "In the meantime, I'd advise you to stay home for a while. It'll play better with Judge Pennock if you show some remorse, even if you're just faking it."
O'Bannon looked like he was about to have a stroke. His eyes bulged and his jaw was thrust forward. His hands had clenched into meaty fists.
Joe tensed and laid a hand on his gun as a warning. He felt slightly ashamed for taking the frustration of the day out on Jeff O'Bannon. But only slightly.
Pete looked from O'Bannon to Joe, and back to O'Bannon.
"Can I get a ride to town with you?" he asked Joe.
Joe smiled. "Jump in."
After dinner-takeout again that Marybeth grabbed from the Burg-O- Pardner on her way home from work-Joe checked his messages. Nothing from the lab on the samples he had sent, nothing from Trey Crump on the bear, nothing from Hersig on any progress in the investigation.
Marybeth came into the office and shut the door behind her.
"Did you notice anything odd at dinner tonight?" she asked.
Joe grimaced. He studied her quickly. No new haircut, her clothes looked familiar. Something else, then.
"When Cam brought Lucy home earlier, she was pretty upset. Cam had asked the girls not to explore the outbuildings at their place, so guess where they went after school?"
"Is she all right?"
Marybeth nodded. "She's fine. She's upset that she got in trouble, though. She said Cam was pretty angry with them and told Jessica she couldn't play with Lucy for a while."
"Nobody hurt, though?"
"No. I told Lucy it was her job to listen to Cam and Marie when she was at their house, and to follow their rules."
Joe nodded.
"You didn't notice that Lucy never said a word during dinner?"
"Sorry, my mind was elsewhere."
"So how did your task-force meeting go?"
Joe leaned against his desk and filled her in. She made faces as he described the meeting, and laughed when he told her about McLanahan's theory about Arabs.
"I bet you wish they would have forgotten about you when it came to naming the members of that group," Marybeth said.
"I've got Trey and Hersig to thank for that."
She stood in silence, studying Joe. "Do you think Portenson will be trouble for us?"
Joe nodded. "I'm sure he'll be watching me closely. He also mentioned Nate."
"I'm sorry, Joe."
He shrugged, as if to say we knew this was possible.
Anxious to change the subject, he asked about her day.
"Cam's listing more homes and ranches every day. Ranchers are talking to each other and singing his praises. But those mutilations are big news… no one wants to buy right now. Cam's trying to get them to lower their prices. It's a little tense around the office right now. But if things go well, he asked me if I'd be interested in going full-time, Joe. As a realtor." She beamed.
Inwardly, Joe moaned and guilt washed over him.
"That's great, honey."
"That's not really what you think, is it?" she asked, smiling slightly.
"Of course it is. We need the money."
"Joe, I like the Logues. I admire them. And you know I'd be a hell of a good realtor."
"Yes, you would. You are good at everything you do."
"Damn straight," she said.
He smiled and reached out for her. If only he could provide enough for the family. He silently vowed that as soon as the task force investigation wrapped up, he would start exploring his options in earnest.
"Don't forget that we're having dinner with Mom and Bud Longbrake tomorrow night," Marybeth said, dashing his mood further.
An overnight envelope lay in the in-box on his desk. When he saw that it was from the forensics laboratory in Laramie, he anxiously ripped it open and pulled out the documents. It was the toxicology report on his moose. He fanned through the pages listing the details of the analysis and found the conclusion in a memo at the end.
The lab had found no unusual substances, and no abnormal levels of natural substances. He scanned the pages for the word "oxindole," but it simply wasn't there.
"Damn," he said, and threw the report on his desk.
S heridan was snoring, but Lucy was still awake when Joe came into their bedroom to kiss them good night. The room was small and there wasn't much space between the two single beds. He sidled between them and sat down on Lucy's bed, smoothing her blond hair.
"I heard what happened," Joe said softly.
Lucy nodded, "Did Mom tell you about that shack we found?"
"No," Joe said, "she didn't."
"Somebody was living out there. We saw where he slept and we thought we heard something. We were so scared, Dad."
Joe wondered why Marybeth hadn't told him about this, but figured that probably it wasn't the issue. He assumed that a transient was using the shack, which alarmed him. Who knew how long ago somebody had been there? The house had been unoccupied for years before the Logues bought it and began restoration. Had Cam called the sheriff? He would need to ask Marybeth.
"You need to stay out of those buildings, Lucy," he said firmly. "There are strange people in town because of what's going on. You need to listen to Mr. Logue and to us."
Lucy nodded, her eyes wide.
As he climbed the stairs, he thought: My wife the realtor, imagining a photo of her face at the bottom of an advertisement in the Roundup real estate section.