The Disappeared Page 14

  Joe snorted. “None of that, Nate. This needs to be a clean investigation. We can’t have broken bones and ears ripped off.”

  “I’ll keep my head down and I’ll behave,” Nate said. “I don’t want to get crosswise with the new governor or the feds again.”

  “The governor’s chief of staff doesn’t want you involved in this,” Joe said.

  “He’s an ass.” Nate grinned. And Joe realized he’d all but accepted his assistance.

  He was grateful for the help.

  “This is your cue to leave,” Nate said to Wasson. “Eat your breakfast and then go back to Riverton. I’ll let you know how things work out.”

  Wasson looked from Nate to Joe and back again. Joe didn’t encourage him to stay either.

  “I guess I gave it my best shot,” Wasson said. To Joe: “Thanks for listening to me.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” Joe reminded him.

  . . .

  WHEN WASSON WAS GONE, Joe looked long and hard at his friend across the table.

  “What?” Nate asked.

  “I know you. There’s something going on besides getting Wasson and his friends eagle licenses.”

  Nate didn’t react. “Wasson is a master falconer. There aren’t many of us and we’re brothers.”

  There was no tell on his face, but Joe still suspected there was more than eagles on Nate’s mind. His mentions of “other business” as well as information he was holding close about the governor seemed to indicate he had a private agenda, Joe thought.

  “Look, I know how much you enjoy conspiracy theories,” Nate said.

  “I don’t.”

  “So I’m not going to burden you with another one right now. Not until I know more.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But you have to admit I’ve been more right than wrong over the years.”

  Joe started to object, but caught himself. Nate took to conspiracy theories in a natural way, like he’d taken to falconry. Nate had a unique, unvarnished way of looking at the world without preconceptions or faith in institutions—especially government institutions. Most times, Joe didn’t automatically ascribe evil intentions to men and women with power and authority. Nate was just the opposite. He’d told Joe more than once that Joe was the only person in law enforcement that he trusted.

  “But you’ll let me know if you come up with something legitimate?” Joe asked.

  “I will.”

  *

  JOE BRIEFED NATE on the Kate Shelford-Longden disappearance and tried to recall as many of the names and details as he could without the case file. As he talked, Joe scribbled down bullet points and specific suspect names on the back of a Saratoga Hot Springs Resort napkin.

  Next to each name he assigned which of them would be responsible for making contact.

  “I’ll take Steve Pollock,” Joe said. “There’s something really hinky about him leaving the agency with no notice. I’m just waiting for a set of keys right now so I can get into his house.”

  “Who needs keys?” Nate asked.

  “I do,” Joe said with a sigh. “I’ll also take Mark Gordon. He’s the GM of the Silver Creek Ranch. I don’t consider him a suspect and neither did the DCI agent, but he’s a good place to start. I’ll quiz Sheridan and head wrangler Lance Ramsey about what they recall about Kate and who she hung out with during her stay.”

  Nate raised his eyebrows. “Sheridan is here?”

  Joe explained the situation. Sheridan had once been Nate’s apprentice in falconry and the two of them had a special relationship. The apprenticeship had been postponed for years while Sheridan attended college and Nate was on the payroll of Wolfgang Templeton as well as in and out of federal custody.

  “I want to catch up with her,” Nate said.

  “I’m sure you’ll have that opportunity.”

  “And she’s got a thing going with this Lance guy?”

  “How did you know?” Joe asked suspiciously.

  “By the way you said his name. Head wrangler Lance Ramsey. Like he’s in your head a little.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  Nate smirked. “Is he a suspect?”

  “I’ve got no reason to put him on that list.”

  “Maybe to get him to stop seeing Sheridan?” Nate suggested.

  He shook his head. “He seems like a good guy.”

  Joe said he’d follow up with farriers Ben and Brady Youngberg since they’d tangled the night before, and he gave the names of the fish hatchery owners Jack and Joshua Teubner to Nate to check out. He explained DCI agent Michael Williams’s theory that it was more likely a ranch contractor who took Kate than an employee.

  He wrote down the name Richard on the napkin, and next to it the initials MBP.

  “Richard Cheetham is Kate’s ex-husband,” Joe said. “She kept her maiden name. We always have to look at the ex. And because he’s in England, I’ll ask Marybeth to get online and check him out.”

  “Smart,” Nate said.

  “I’ll take Jeb Pryor, the Encampment lumber mill owner,” Joe said. “I might be wrong, but I got a vibe off him last night that he knows something he wants to tell me.”

  Then Joe described what he knew about Sophie and Billy Bloodworth.

  “My guess is you’ll run into them without even trying,” Joe said. “They stand out. Like I said, I’ve talked with them and Sophie flashed a blurry photo on her phone that indicated they think they’ve determined a suspect. No names, though, and Bloodworth is protective of the information. I couldn’t get any more out of them and they wouldn’t let me look closely at the photo.”

  “Bloodworth is the fop, right?”

  Joe grinned. “Yup, he’s the fop. I was thinking that if you had a chance to have a conversation with them and they didn’t know you were connected to me or the investigation...”

  “They might tell me something,” Nate said, finishing Joe’s sentence. “Maybe I can get ahold of that photo.”

  “Sophie might find you interesting,” Joe said. “If you could get her away from Bloodworth, that is. She’s single and a little playful.”

  Nate arched his eyebrows again. Joe didn’t say more because he didn’t need to. Nate’s effect on some women was well-known to them both. Marybeth had said as much and Joe tried not to think too much about that.

  “I’m serious about not busting any heads,” Joe said.

  “I agreed.”

  “So you have to promise me that if the situation gets dangerous, you’ll back off and call me. I know how you are. Can you do that?”

  Nate grinned in a way that made Joe uncomfortable.

  “Nate?”

  “Okay, okay. But I might have to use my judgment at some point.”

  As he said it, Nate opened the left side of his jacket so once again Joe could see the butt of his .454 Casull revolver in a shoulder holster. The five-shot weapon made by Freedom Arms was one of the most powerful handguns in the world and Nate was deadly with it. Wyoming had few restrictions when it came to the open or concealed carrying of firearms in public, so Nate wasn’t breaking any laws.

  “Keep it in the holster,” Joe said.

  “It never comes out unless I need to use it.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve got your phone, right?” Joe asked.

  Nate patted his breast pocket with annoyance. He’d once eschewed the use of cell phones, but with Yarak, Inc., and Liv in Louisiana, he was now married to it.

  “Does it still read ‘Dudley Do-Right’ on the screen when I call you?” Joe asked. Not only that, but a cartoon image of the big-chinned Canadian Mountie also appeared.

  “It does.”

  “You wouldn’t want to change that, would you?”

  “No. It fits.”

  Joe sighed and turned back to his napkin. For the first time since he’d spoken to Governor Allen about Kate’s disappearance, he felt that he had a solid plan of action, with or without the case
file.

  Nate had helped give him that confidence.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Nate shrugged. “It’s good to be doing something. Maybe we’ll even find out what happened.”

  Joe laughed.

  “One thing, though,” Nate said as they got up from the booth. “Why you? Why would Allen send you down here when he has hundreds of government lackeys working for him?”

  Joe shoved his hands in his front pockets as he walked toward the lobby. “Trying to figure that out myself,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Nate. He said it in a way that indicated Joe had just confirmed something Nate had been thinking.

  13

  ACROSS TOWN AND ACROSS THE RIVER, TED PANOS CLIMBED OUT OF his four-wheel drive in the parking lot of the JW Hugus & Co. restaurant. He’d parked next to a late-model pickup with a camper shell.

  Steam rolled from the open ovals on the otherwise frozen river, which made the ducks and geese on the open water look like carnival booth silhouettes. The openings were created by thermal springs within the river, he’d been told.

  His boot soles squeaked on the icy surface and he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and cursed. It was so cold it took you by surprise, he thought. The sky was cloudless and the morning sun lit the buildings and dormant river trees with such vibrant light that it made his brain think it was warm out—but it wasn’t. The cold pinched your skin between icy fingers and gave it a sharp twist. He’d never get used to it and he was starting to wonder if spring would ever come.

  The thick file was clamped under his right arm so he pushed through the door with his left hand. The door was made of steel and it bit his bare hand.

  Inside, he stood still on the mat for a moment because his eyeglasses had fogged up. When they cleared, he saw Gaylan Kessel sitting by himself in the corner booth he always took. Kessel was looking up at him coolly, a pair of readers pushed halfway down his nose. An empty breakfast plate was pushed to the side, with a crumpled napkin on top of it.

  A waitress came out of the kitchen to greet Panos, but when she recognized him right away, she gestured toward Kessel’s booth. She knew the routine.

  “Cold one out there, isn’t it?”

  “No shit.”

  “My car’s got vinyl seats,” the waitress said. “When I climbed in this morning to come to work, they cracked. And when I got it started up, two geese flew out from underneath it.”

  “That’s cold,” he said.

  “It’s got to warm up soon, don’t you think?”

  “I have no idea,” he said ruefully. “This is my first winter here. I hope it’s my last.”

  “Oh, I like it,” she said. “It keeps the riffraff out.”

  Panos cursed under his breath. Kessel shifted in the booth with impatience.

  “I’ll have my usual,” Panos said. He liked the chicken-fried steak and eggs with a side of biscuits and gravy in this place, and ordered it nearly every morning.

  “Coming up,” the waitress said, and retreated into the kitchen to tell the cook.

  There were no other customers in the restaurant. Panos knew Kessel liked it that way.

  *

  “YOU GOT IT,” Kessel said, as Panos slid into the booth next to him. He meant the file.

  Panos nodded and slid it across the Formica top to him.

  “Anybody see you?” Kessel asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. The keys were right there where you said they’d be. And I tossed the room to make it look like a robbery just like you asked. The game warden was in the bar talking to those foreigners the whole time.”

  Kessel nodded, but offered no praise. He never did. Panos had learned that Kessel simply expected excellence at all times, and as long as he did exactly as he was told and offered no excuses for failing, they got along all right. Panos dreaded the consequences when he screwed up, as he had a few weeks ago when he’d been instructed to keep watch on a subject and had lost him. It hadn’t been Panos’s fault. Kessel told him to watch the house and see where the guy went in his company truck. The company truck remained parked in the driveway. He hadn’t told him about a back door or that the subject had a second car back there.

  When he explained that to his boss, Kessel had tensed up and balled his fists, and for a moment Panos thought he was going to beat him.

  Panos knew he wouldn’t be able to defend himself. Kessel seemed to be constructed of cinder blocks. His arms were the size of Panos’s thighs and his fists were like two hams. When he’d seen Kessel shed his shirt that afternoon at the Saratoga hot pool, it confirmed that he’d be no match for the man. Plus, the scars from one or more knife fights looked like pale zippers across Kessel’s broad chest. His snow-white hair was deceiving, because Kessel was younger and more fit than he looked at first glance.

  For the rest of that day, Kessel didn’t say a word to him. Finally, as they parted in the evening, Kessel said, “Ted?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t ever fuck up again. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I do.”

  Kessel had driven away. And Panos hadn’t screwed up again.

  Since that day, Panos had tucked a two-barreled Bond Arms .45 derringer into his boot top. He’d bought it at Koyote Sports in town. It was a tiny weapon, but it packed a wallop. He never revealed the presence of the weapon to Kessel. If the man did attack him, he hoped he could get to it in time. He’d aim for center mass with the first shot. A point-blank .45 round would stop even a bear like Kessel. Then he’d finish the man off with a shot to the head. He’d have to finish him off.

  A wounded Gaylan Kessel was more terrifying than a living Gaylan Kessel.

  *

  PANOS KEPT SILENT AS KESSEL read through the file page by page in front of him. The waitress delivered his breakfast and he ate quietly.

  Panos knew very little about Kessel except for a few side comments he’d heard him make. He knew he’d been in the army during Desert Storm and he’d liked it so much he hired on after his deployment with a mercenary outfit. As Kessel put it, he “got to see the world and kill men of every hue.” He had a low grating voice that made everything he said seem menacing. Kessel was from Minnesota, which he once referred to as “Minne-so-cold.” The cold didn’t seem to bother him at all, Panos noted. Kessel often went outside without a coat and Panos had to beg the man to turn up the heat when they rode together in the pickup with the camper shell. Kessel always drove.

  Panos was from Las Vegas, New Mexico, originally. It had been cold down there, especially in the mountains, but nothing like this.

  After a stint in the air force, Panos had taken a job as a correctional officer at the New Mexico state penitentiary in Santa Fe. It was dangerous work and the general population was filled with gang-bangers both domestic and illegal, Aryan supremacists, and various reprobates of every stripe. The authorities who ran the place were so spooked not to repeat the infamous New Mexico prison riot of 1980—where thirty-three men had been murdered, some by having lengths of steel rebar shoved through their heads—that they’d urged the COs to ruthlessly clamp down on violators. Panos had been an enthusiastic practitioner of the edict, and he’d never had a problem with cracking heads.

  There was one inmate in particular, a lifer who’d participated in the riot and considered it a badge of honor, who caused trouble as a matter of course. His attitude was, What more could they do to him?

  Panos and a few other COs decided to teach the prisoner a lesson. They’d held the miscreant down so they could pry his closed eyes open for a point-blank blast of pepper spray. When the scumbag went blind and later sued the Department of Corrections and won, Panos as well as four other experienced COs had lost their jobs. Panos was still bitter about it.

  He’d bounced around after that, taking any security officer job that paid a few dollars more per hour than the one he currently had. He couldn’t even imagine not being in law enforcement of some kind,
even if the jobs barely rated over mall cop. It was a miserable existence without the state insurance, perks, and pension he’d had for two decades. His wife, Gabriella, had left him and taken their three kids.

  So when Gaylan Kessel interviewed Panos a few months before and said that blinding a perverted loser might be a recommendation instead of a detriment, Panos leapt at the opportunity. He’d encountered men like Kessel in the military and on the inside and he admired them. Men who lived their own lives, stood up for themselves, and administered justice to those who deserved it. When Panos learned how much he’d be paid and that the position came with benefits that surpassed even what the state of New Mexico had offered, it was like icing on the cake.

  Of course, that had occurred in the early fall, when the temperatures during the day were in the sixties and seventies and trees were just starting to turn color near the river. He had welcomed the still cool and crisp nights, which was when he and Kessel did most of their work, and he had had no idea what it would be like in January during a historic cold snap.

  *

  KESSEL CLOSED THE FILE and sighed. He said, “Nothing to worry about here.”

  “Really?” Panos asked as he sopped up the last of the sausage gravy with the last of the biscuit.

  “Naw.”

  “Good.”

  “We have to keep an eye on him, though. We can’t let him get too close. But right now he’s on the wrong track.”

  Kessel, Panos had learned, had a lot of duties in addition to overall security. One of them was combing the Upper North Platte River Valley for additional wind tower locations as well as ranch property for company executives who might want to visit or live there eventually. They’d even found themselves on the back roads of a high-end dude ranch known as the Silver Creek Ranch. Unfortunately, a female employee had made them at the time.

  Panos didn’t ask which particular track the game warden was following because he knew Kessel wouldn’t elaborate. Kessel leaned forward to make sure the waitress was back in the kitchen gossiping with the cook and couldn’t overhear them.

  “You know that old lady who called the cops? The busybody?”