Blood Trail jp-8 Read online

  I know, dreams are just dreams. But I’m a gambler. I like the odds that turning hunters into prey will make a difference and change some minds.

  It was a good dream.

  by Wolverine on Mon Sept 05 08:37:26 AM PST.

  Wolverine Dreams.

  I think it was a good dream, too. Sometimes it takes a shock to the system to make folks sit up and say, “There’s something wrong going on here.”

  I’m just talking out loud, but this might be the thing that would actually make a difference if one were brave, committed, and a warrior.

  by Klamath on Tues Sept 06 08:53:22 AM PST.

  Re: I Had A Dream.

  Especially if it happened slowly, over time. First an incident that made them scratch their heads while recoiling in horror at the same time, followed by another incident worse than the first. And another. And another. Until there was no doubt the hunters were being hunted and that none of them were safe. Until they began to realize the terror they feel is what they put animals through every time they go out to get their jollies.

  There are warriors among us.

  by Wolverine on Wed Sept 07 01:37:26 AM PST.

  Re: Wolverine Dreams.

  In your dream, where would the campaign begin? That’s important to know, because it would be important for the enlightened to be there and offer support and encouragement. There is no news unless the trees falling in the forest are pointed out in loud voices to a sympathetic press. And believe me, they looooove me.

  by Klamath on Wed Sept 07 02:02:12 AM PST.

  Re: Re: I Had A Dream.

  In my dream, it would definitely take place in the reddest of the Red States, both in terms of politics and the color of blood. Hit ’em where they live, is what I think.

  by Wolverine on Wed Sept 07 03:37:26 AM PST.

  Re: Re: Wolverine Dreams.

  Although IT’S ONLY A DREAM, I am absolutely charged up by the pure boldness of the vision. While none of us advocate violence or criminal acts in any way, WE CAN DREAM, TOO.

  Please contact me off-line, Wolverine. MAYBE I CAN TALK YOU DOWN.

  by Klamath on Wed Sept 07 03:55:12 AM PST.

  BREWER SAID, “This exchange took place two weeks prior to John Garrett’s death near Lander. Obviously, Klamath came to his senses at the end there and tried to cover his enthusiasm for the concept. And by the next day, the entire thread had been pulled from the Forum page. Luckily, my tech guys had somehow automatically archived it during the night so we have it. Did you note the reference to gambling? Gamblers use poker chips.”

  Joe was suddenly wide awake, his mind spinning.

  “Obviously,” Brewer said, “we don’t have enough to make any charges or even a serious accusation at this point. But when we saw this we wanted to trace the IP address of Wolverine and see if we could find him. That was beyond our expertise, so we turned to our brothers in law enforcement who are proficient in this kind of thing,” he said, gesturing to Portenson, who was now smoldering.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Rulon said, “since it is now three-twenty-five and my friends in the press are clamoring to take a chunk out of me just outside the door.”

  The governor pushed his face across the desk as if it were a balled fist, aiming it at Portenson. As he spoke, his voice didn’t rise so much as get harder-edged, until he was biting off his words and spitting them out, flecking the top of his desk and Brewer’s file with moisture.

  “So my DCI takes the information to the FBI just down the street, where we get absolutely stonewalled. In the meantime, another innocent man, Frank Urman, gets butchered, which leads to three more deaths last night in a clusterfuck and a severed head mounted on a wall. Finally, we get our entire congressional delegation on the same line this morning and pressure is applied by them on Homeland Security to such a degree that Mr. Portenson and his pals have to talk to us. And when they do, we find out they’ve been monitoring Mr. Klamath Moore and his followers for months because they’re considered to be potential domestic terrorists, and they even have a man on the inside! And while we won’t accuse the FBI of being an accessory to murder since they didn’t know all we knew—”

  “Oh, come on!” Portenson shouted. “We were doing our jobs! We couldn’t blow our undercover investigation for an office that leaks like a sieve!”

  “We can say to the press out there,” Rulon continued, “without equivocation, that if the FBI had cooperated with us when we first asked for cooperation we might not be here today.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Portenson seethed. “We had no idea this Wolverine person was going to start killing people—and we still don’t know it was him. We have no idea who Wolverine is. We don’t even know if he’s in this country. The IP address he used was from one of those Internet kiosks in the Atlanta airport, so we can’t trace him. You’re speculating and trying to point the finger at us.”

  Rulon nodded his agreement.

  “Who do you have on the inside?” Joe asked Portenson.

  “Oh,” the agent replied, deflated, “some guy. I can’t give you his name. But we asked him a couple of weeks ago to see if he could figure out who Wolverine is. He’s working on it, but he doesn’t know yet.”

  “We need his name,” Joe said. “I need to talk with him.”

  “Not a chance,” Portenson said. “We’re in the middle of breaking this thing. This is what we do now—domestic counterterrorism. We can’t blow his cover and put him in danger.”

  “A name,” Joe said, thinking of the promise he’d made to Nancy Hersig.

  “Stella,” Rulon said calmly, “please go tell the press I’ll be out in a moment with a very big announcement.”

  Stella nodded dutifully and stood up.

  Rulon said, “Let them know we’ve learned that Special Agent Tony Portenson of the FBI withheld information that resulted in the deaths of six people and the shutdown of state and federal lands across Wyoming.”

  “You can’t do that!” Portenson shouted. “You’re out of your mind!”

  Rulon arched his eyebrows. “This isn’t the first time someone has said that.”

  “I’m this far,” Portenson said, pinching his index finger and thumb together, “from breaking this Klamath Moore thing and getting my transfer out of this hellhole. I should have been moved up a year ago, but it didn’t happen. This will absolutely kill me! This might get me sent to Butte, Montana!”

  “What’s wrong with Butte?” Joe said. “I like Butte.”

  “It’s where bad FBI agents are sent to die,” Portenson whined.

  “That’s your choice,” Rulon said, nodding to Stella to go.

  “No!” Portenson said.

  She hesitated at the door.

  “What do you want?” Portenson pleaded with Rulon.

  “Access to all your files on the Wolverine investigation and the name of your snitch so Joe can question him,” Rulon said.

  “Okay,” Portenson said as if in physical pain. “You’ve got it.”

  “What’s my role?” asked Randy Pope, the forgotten man.

  “You stay here,” Rulon said. “I want you in your office leading your agency and deflecting the outrage we’re already getting from constituents about the state lands closure. Plus, I don’t want you in a dicey situation where you might run like a rabbit again. That kind of behavior makes me want to puke.”

  “You don’t understand,” Pope said, pleading. “The head was in my room . . . this is personal. I have to be involved.”

  “No,” Rulon said bluntly.

  Pope dropped his head into his hands. Joe was put off and embarrassed by the reaction.

  “Okay, then,” Rulon said, gesturing to Stella to open the door.

  Joe sat up. “That’s not all.”

  Portenson and the governor both looked at him. Stella hesitated, with her manicured hand poised above the door handle.

  “No,” Portenson said, his face flushing red. “I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is: absolute
ly not. Don’t even ask.”

  Joe turned to the governor. “Nate Romanowski knows the area and he has contacts with extremist groups all across the West. I don’t condone it, but he does. He’s got special insight into somebody like Wolverine because, frankly, Wolverine reminds me more than a little bit of Nate. If you want me to continue this investigation, I need his help.”

  Portenson continued to shake his head.

  “If he was released into your custody,” Rulon said, “do you give me your word you’ll bring him back for his trial when and if this investigation is over?”

  Joe swallowed hard. “I’ll do what’s right.”

  Portenson hissed, “We can’t release a federal prisoner on Joe Pickett’s word! We can’t release him, period!”

  Pope surprised Joe by saying, “I concur. We need all the help we can get.”

  Joe said to Portenson, “You charged him with flimsy evidence that hasn’t gotten any better. You’re just hoping something falls into your lap between now and the trial or you know you’re going to lose.”

  “We’re building our case!”

  “Just like you were building the case against Klamath Moore and Wolverine?” Joe asked.

  Rulon stood up. “Stella, tell them I’m coming out with explosive news.”

  “No!” Portenson shouted again, his voice cracking. Then: “Okay, okay!” He pointed his finger at Joe. “But if he doesn’t live up to this agreement, I’m going to throw both of them in jail.”

  “Agreed,” Rulon said breezily.

  Joe wanted to tell the governor he’d perhaps spoken too soon. Although he had some influence over Nate and Nate had promised years before to assist Joe and protect his family, he didn’t own the outlaw falconer. Nate had always gone his own way, used his own methods, lived under his own code.

  “Governor . . .” Joe said, as Rulon turned and Stella preceded him out the door. His words were drowned out by Rulon booming, “Men and women of the press, we’ve got a break in the case! Due to an unprecedented partnership between the state of Wyoming and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I can tell you today that we’re closing in on the vicious killer who . . .”

  As he went on, Joe slumped back in his chair, as did Portenson.

  Joe listened to Rulon assure the media that the end of the investigation was now in sight, that leads were being vigorously pursued, that the forests and high-country plains of Wyoming would once again be reopened for hunting, fishing, and recreation.

  “I can’t believe I just agreed to release Nate Romanowski,” Portenson said sourly to Joe.

  I can’t believe it either, Joe thought.

  “That governor of yours,” Portenson said, jabbing a finger toward the conference room. “He fucked us both.”

  “And that’s why we love him,” Stella said, overhearing Portenson and leaning in the door, flashing her biggest smile at Joe.

  17

  STELLA DROVE the Escalade with Joe in the passenger seat to meet Tony Portenson at the Federal Building before it closed at five. Joe knew the layout of Cheyenne well enough to know she was taking an unnecessarily circuitous route via Lincolnway and Depot Square downtown. When she stopped at a red light under the galloping plywood horse and rider of a massive western wear store, she said, “I’m really sorry for the families of the dead hunters, but I can’t help but think that maybe some good can come of this in the long run. I never knew that’s what hunters did to animals. I guess I never thought about it before. It repulses me. I told the governor that.”

  “And what did he say?” Joe asked.

  “He just shook his head. He’s a hunter.”

  Joe said nothing. She had the radio on a news station, and the reporter was excerpting portions of Rulon’s press conference, saying the authorities were following every lead and closing in on the killer.

  “Well spun,” she said, nodding at the radio with professional admiration.

  “I wish I agreed with it,” Joe said.

  She laughed. “If the governor says we’re closing in on the killer, we’re closing in on the killer. Come on, get with the program.”

  “I’ll never get used to this,” Joe grumbled.

  “Back to where we were,” she said, turning the radio off. “So you’re a game warden. How can you stand to be around the kind of killing and mutilation that happens out there? You have daughters—how can you stand to see Bambi murdered?”

  He eyed her closely to see if she was baiting him. She was, but there was a grain of sincere incredulity as well.

  “I’ve yet to see Bambi murdered,” he said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “In a shallow and very superficial way, I do,” he said. “But that isn’t what this is about. It’s about the murder of innocent men. This has nothing to do with hunting. That’s just what the shooter and Klamath Moore want you to think.”

  “Struck a nerve, eh?” she said, a slight smile on her lips.

  Joe sighed. “In order to process a game animal properly, the carcass needs to be field-dressed and the head and hide removed. Otherwise, the meat can be ruined. It’s not a pretty thing, but it’s necessary. And it’s not the purpose of the hunt.”

  “What is?” she said. “To drink whiskey and grunt and run around in the hills with a rifle?”

  “I don’t think we have the time for this,” Joe said wearily, thinking he was sitting at the longest red light in the state of Wyoming. “I just hope you ask the same questions the next time you sit down to eat dinner. What events occurred behind the scenes and out of your view to deliver that food to you? Some eggs get broken to make your breakfast omelet, you know. Do you ever think of that?”

  “That’s different,” she huffed. “The food producers didn’t do it for pleasure. It is just a job to them.”

  “Most hunters don’t kill for pleasure either,” Joe said, “and at least they’re honest enough to get down and dirty and take part in the harvesting of the food they eat. They’re honest enough not to use proxies to do their killing for them.”

  “Honest enough?” she said with some heat.

  “Struck a nerve, eh?” Joe said, and smiled. “Hey, the light’s green.”

  “SO ARE you surprised I’m here?” Stella asked as she swung into the parking garage of the Federal Building.

  “Very,” he said.

  “Have you ever told anyone about what happened in Jackson?”

  “I told Marybeth there was an attraction but nothing happened,” Joe said. “She doesn’t like you very much.”

  “Not that,” she said, whacking him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I mean about my relationship with Will Jensen. Does anyone know but you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “I helped him do what he was incapable of doing at the time.”

  “So you say,” Joe said.

  She pulled the big SUV into a dark parking space and turned off the motor and handed him the keys. “The governor is assigning this to you until you get your truck back,” she said. “Despite your reputation for destroying government property.”

  “What about the state plane?” Joe asked. “I thought it was flying me back.”

  “He said he wouldn’t send his worst enemy on that death trap.”

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t even ask, Joe. That’s what I’ve learned.”

  He took the keys from her.

  “I really like my new life here,” she said. “I like working for the governor. I’m damned good at my job. This is my second chance in life, and I’d like to leave my past behind me. You’re one of the few who know anything about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “What I’m asking you is if you’ll let it all go, what happened.”

  “I already have,” Joe said.

  She let a beat go by. “Do you ever think of me?”

  “Only in the past tense,” Joe said.

  Her eyes misted, and she wiped at them angrily. “I hate it when I do that. I don’t even mean
to,” she said. “There is nothing about you to make me react this way. You are no Will Jensen, that’s for sure.”

  Joe nodded. “Agreed. And you’re no Marybeth. Now let’s go see Portenson and get Nate before they close the building on us.”

  As they walked to the elevator, she briefly locked his arm in hers, said, “I can be your best friend or your worst enemy, you know.”

  As the elevator doors opened, Joe turned to her. “Likewise.”

  THE FBI’S MAN on the inside of Klamath Moore’s movement was named Bill Gordon, according to the file handed over to Joe by a reluctant special agent. Gordon was from Lexington, Kentucky. There were three photos of him in the file. The informant was tall and lean with a ponytail, a long nose, and soulful eyes. Joe thought he recognized him from the gathering in front of the county building that morning.

  Joe skimmed the documents behind the photo, learning that Gordon had encountered Klamath Moore and a few of his followers on a tract of heavily wooded and undeveloped land outside Lexington two years before when Moore was searching for a good place to set up a camp and hold a rally. Gordon was a solitary, bookish outdoorsman who knew of Moore and his beliefs but didn’t tell Klamath he vehemently disagreed with him. Instead, he shared tales of the Kentucky woods and helped Moore set up a campsite on the shore of a lake. Keeping his inclinations to himself, he stayed around for a small firelight rally where Moore spoke. Once Gordon felt he’d gained Moore’s trust, he visited the FBI office in Lexington and offered to become their informant in exchange for travel expenses and enough compensation to buy a small cabin he had his eye on next to a fine trout stream. The FBI, flush with Homeland Security cash and a new emphasis on domestic counterterrorism, thought it was a good deal all around.