Cold Wind jp-11 Read online

  Nate hated ravens, Joe knew.

  So in homage to his friend, he blew one out of a tree with his shotgun. Black feathers filtered down through the branches to settle on the pine needle floor. The surviving ravens scattered with rude caws and heavy wing-beats.

  He knew they’d come back after he left to finish the job. But he knew he’d never come back, and he doubted Nate would.

  If his friend was somehow still alive.

  And if Nate had somehow survived an attack that killed his lover and wiped out his sanctuary. there would be hell to pay.

  When Marybeth heard the story on Saturday night, she sat back on the couch and closed her eyes. She said, “Poor, poor Alisha. She always knew if she stayed with Nate, something could happen. But she didn’t deserve this. Her poor family. Her students and everyone who knew her. ” Marybeth’s voice trailed off.

  After a minute, she opened her eyes and looked up at Joe. “We’ll never know for sure what happened, will we?”

  “Maybe not,” Joe said. “Unless Nate comes back and tells us. Or whoever did it brags.”

  “This is the price for living outside of society,” she said. “When horrible things happen, no one knows. This is the price for living the way Nate lives.”

  “Either that,” Joe said, “or marking time in prison. Nate made his choice.”

  “And you helped him,” Marybeth said, not without sympathy.

  “I did,” Joe said.

  “Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you think he’s alive?”

  Joe nodded. “Someone built that scaffold. I’m sure it wasn’t the guy who attacked him. There’s Large Merle, but he seems to be missing also.”

  She hugged herself, thinking that over. She said, “Poor Nate. He fell hard for Alisha. What do you think he’ll do?”

  Joe didn’t hesitate. He said, “My guess is things are going to get real Western.”

  He was surprised when she didn’t ask him to try to stop it.

  Early the next morning, Joe drove out of town into the heart of the Wind River Indian Reservation. His green Ford game warden truck always got plenty of looks from those outside, and he could guess most of them were speculating who had done something wrong on the outside this time, since Joe had no jurisdiction within the sovereign borders of the reservation. He tipped his hat to a pair of large short women padding along the roadside, and at a group of boys playing pickup basketball at the school playground. He noted the pronghorn antelope carcasses hanging from tree branches and especially from basketball hoops hung over most garages. Three men in the process of skinning a pronghorn squinted at him as he drove by, wondering if he was going to stop.

  Alice Thunder’s home was a neat ranch-style pre-fab plopped down in the center of a postage-stamp lot. Her car was parked outside on the driveway to the garage. Joe wondered why American Indians never used their garages for parking their cars, but let it remain a mystery.

  On the res, Joe had learned, bloodlines ran deep and far and everyone was connected in some way. Alice Thunder was the receptionist at Wyoming Indian High School. She and Alisha had been close friends and possible relations of some kind. Alice was oval-faced and kindly-looking, a Native whose eyes showed she’d seen a lot over the years in that school. She was an anchor within the community whom everyone confessed to and relied upon, the Woman Who Knew All and Was Not a Gossip.

  Joe parked pulled behind Alice Thunder’s car and took a deep breath before opening his door. He told Tube to stay inside. He removed his hat as he walked across the dew-sparkled lawn to her front door.

  She opened it as he raised his hand to knock.

  “Mrs. Thunder,” he said.

  She didn’t smile or grin with greeting or recognition. Her face was still, stoic. He followed her gaze from his pickup to his hat in his hands to his expression, and she said, “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

  Joe said, “I’m sorry.”

  There was the slightest flicker of her eyes, but her mouth didn’t pucker and there were no tears.

  “I knew the second I saw you drive up,” she said. “I’ve had a feeling about Alisha for several days that she was gone.”

  He looked at his boots.

  She asked, “How?”

  He said, “I’m not exactly sure how it happened. She was with Nate when someone went after him. I don’t know who it was or how they got to them. I’m sure she wasn’t targeted.”

  Alice Thunder nodded slightly, as if she wasn’t surprised. “Is Nate alive?”

  Joe said, “I hope so, but I don’t know that, either. I haven’t heard from him. By the way,” he said, looking up, “law enforcement in Johnson County doesn’t know about this. I didn’t report it. You and my wife are the only people who know. I can give you the location of her body if you want to bring her back or pay your respects.”

  Alice said, “I’ll have to think about that. Was her body treated with respect?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Then it isn’t necessary right now.”

  “Thank you for coming and telling me,” she said. “I appreciate that, Joe.”

  “Yup.”

  “You’ll find out who did it and punish them?”

  Joe said, “I think Nate’s on the hunt right now. If I can catch up with him, I’ll do what I can.”

  She nodded approvingly. “I hope you don’t mind if I close this door on you right now. I need some time for myself.” And she closed the door.

  Joe stood on the porch for a moment, then turned and walked back to his pickup.

  For a woman like Alice Thunder, who had seen so much tragedy over the years due to the crime rate on the reservation and so many young people taken away, Joe thought, death was a part of life.

  For the next two days while Joe patrolled, the scene in the cave-and especially Alisha’s body on the scaffold-stayed burned into his mind and was there when he closed his eyes at night. His theory, based on the layout of the canyon and Nate’s security system, leaned toward an explosive fired from a distance. Maybe so far away Nate never knew someone had found him.

  Which led Joe to wonder who, besides Large Merle and Joe himself, knew where his friend could be found. Sheridan knew because she’d once been there. Marybeth was vaguely aware of Nate’s hideout, but had never been there and couldn’t find it on a map. Joe, of course, had no idea who Nate was in contact with who might have be aware of his location. There was so much about Nate that Joe didn’t know and didn’t want to know that he now wished he did.

  While Joe was out on patrol, Marybeth used the long holiday weekend at the library to do research. As she learned specifics about the wind energy industry, she called Joe on his cell. The more she learned, the more agitated she became.

  She said, “I always thought all these windmills were going up because the energy they produced was clean and cost-effective. But that’s not the case at all. The reason they’re going up is political, and the demand for the power they generate is because of mandates by states and cities that a certain percentage of their electricity come from renewables like wind or solar.”

  “Down, girl,” Joe said. “One thing this state has is wind.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m all worked up. Too much coffee and too much information I never knew before. And, yes, there are places where the wind blows hard enough where some of those turbines actually do make enough electricity to be profitable. Nearly all of the older turbines were put in places where they could actually do some good. But there isn’t anywhere in the state or the country where the wind blows all the time. According to what I found, a good wind project produces at forty-five percent of capacity. That’s all. And there’s nowhere to store the energy if the power grid doesn’t need it when the wind is blowing. There aren’t big batteries anywhere, I mean. A lot of that energy is just wasted.”

  “Okay,” Joe said, “but what does this have to do with Earl Alden’s project?”

  “I’m not exactly
sure yet,” she said, “but this whole thing might fall right into what Marcus Hand said about him, that he’s a skimmer and not a ‘maker-of-things.’ ”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” Joe said. “How much does a wind turbine cost to put up?”

  She said she’d found the figures, and read them off. The installed cost of a turbine was roughly three million to six million dollars per including the equipment, roadwork, and overhead. The disparity in cost depended on whether the turbine was a 1.5-megawatt machine or one of the newer, bigger 3-megawatt generators.

  “Wow,” Joe said. “So a hundred turbines at Earl’s farm. ”

  “I figured it out,” she said, reading, “and came up with an investment of four hundred million dollars.”

  Joe whistled.

  “For a farm the size of Earl’s,” she said, “Bob Lee would have received at minimum one point five million dollars per year. With all the considerations, he could have generated forty-five million dollars over the first thirty-year lease.”

  “Oh, man,” Joe said.

  “Lots of people would kill for that,” she said. “Or kill if they were swindled out of it.”

  “He doesn’t seem like the killing type,” Joe said. “So tell me about Rope the Wind,” Joe said.

  “I’m still researching,” she said. “What I’ve found is pretty interesting. Give me a little more time to dig.”

  As if he’d somehow been pulled there, Joe wound up on the two-track public easement that led to the windy ridge and the wind farm on the Thunderhead Ranch. He retraced his route from two weeks before when he’d seen the antelope hunters and later found The Earl’s body. The blades of the turbines cut through the cloudless sky like scythes, whistling, and he drove to the edge of the Lee Ranch and pulled off the road onto a promontory.

  He was surprised to find another vehicle on top, a red Subaru wagon. County Attorney Dulcie Schalk’s car.

  She apparently didn’t hear him coming, because she didn’t turn around as he drove up behind her. She was out of her car, leaning back against the hood, looking out at the wind farm with her arms crossed below her breasts. She wore a red tank top, snug white shorts, and a ponytail cascaded from the back opening of a King Ropes ball cap.

  Joe had never seen her on her day off before. Her long tan legs were crossed one over the other. She looked young, athletic, and undeniably attractive.

  So that he wouldn’t scare her by suddenly appearing by her side, he tapped his horn as he pulled his truck in behind her car. The sound startled her and she wheeled around, fear and anger in her eyes until she recognized him. She acted as if she’d been caught doing something she was ashamed of, and he wondered what it was.

  Joe told Tube to stay inside and climbed out.

  “I didn’t expect to find you out here,” he said, fitting his Stetson on his head and ambling up to her. “I’m sorry I surprised you.”

  “I was focused on the windmills,” she said, “and that high-pitched sound they make. It’s like you can’t hear anything else except that sound.”

  “You should hear ’em when the wind is really blowing,” Joe said. “You’ll think there’s a truck coming at you.”

  “There’s always a downside, I guess,” she said, turning around and assuming the pose she’d had when he arrived.

  Joe leaned back against the grille of the Subaru next to her and looked out, trying to see what she was focused on. “Downside to what?”

  “Every kind of energy development, I guess,” she said.

  He thought about what he’d learned from Marybeth, but decided it wasn’t the time to go there.

  “I’m just getting it all straight in my mind,” she said by way of explanation, “since things were pretty crazy that day you found the body. I want to make sure it’s clear in my mind where Earl Alden was shot, how far the body was transported, and which turbine he was hoisted up.”

  “The one not turning,” Joe said. “They disabled it so the forensics boys could do their thing.”

  She looked over, slightly miffed. “I know that,” she said. “I just wonder why Missy chose that particular windmill. It isn’t the closest one from where he was shot. There are eight towers in between.”

  Joe rubbed his chin. “I never thought of that. Maybe because the one he was hung from was the most visible from out here. So the body would be sure to be seen.”

  “But why?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you,” he said.

  After a moment, she said, “We really shouldn’t be talking like this. What if someone sees us?”

  Joe shrugged. He was wondering that himself.

  “I mean, you’ve got a built-in conflict in regard to this case. I’ve told you I can’t confide in you.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “And I honor that.”

  “I knew you would,” she said. “But I’d rather you were on our side.”

  “I’m not on a side,” Joe said. “I’m trying to figure out what happened. What’s true. That doesn’t put me on a side.”

  She shook her head and frowned. “I disagree, Joe. I’m the county attorney and I’m presenting a case based on the evidence. You’re trying to prove me wrong.”

  He started to argue, but folded his arms across his chest and looked out. He realized they were both standing in the exact same posture now.

  He said, “This reminds of a question Bob Lee asked me. What do you see when you look out at that wind farm?”

  She started to answer flippantly, but decided it was a serious question. “I see the future of America,” she said. “For better or worse. I know that sounds corny.”

  Joe pursed his lips, looked out, considered what she said.

  “Do you think they’re beautiful?” he asked.

  “The wind turbines?”

  “Yup.”

  “I guess so. They’re graceful-looking. They gleam in the sun, even if they make that annoying sound.”

  He nodded. “If those same machines out there were pumping out oil or gas or if they were nuclear generators, would they still be as beautiful in your eyes?”

  “Joe, what’s your point?” she asked, slightly exasperated.

  “Like you,” he said, “I’m trying to get things straight in my mind. I wonder if things are beautiful because of where a person sits.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t want to get distracted right now, Joe. I’ve got a murder case to win and I don’t want to have this discussion.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m just suggesting that it’s easy to look at something and see what you want to see when somebody else, say, could look at the same thing and see something else.”

  “What’s your point?” she asked again.

  He shrugged.

  “Are you talking about windmills, or are you saying I might have blinders on concerning your mother-in-law’s guilt? That maybe we should be looking elsewhere for Earl Alden’s killer?”

  Joe didn’t answer directly but nodded toward the wind farm. “A little of both, I guess.”

  “No,” she said heatedly. “This is why you shouldn’t have come up here. This is why we shouldn’t have talked. You’re trying to steer me somewhere I don’t want to go.”

  He said, “Dulcie, I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

  “You’re making me a little uncomfortable,” she said. “We should go.”

  He said, “Yup.”

  In the early evening, as Joe worked his way back home via back roads and two-tracks, he cruised up Main Street in Saddlestring toward the river bridge. The air was still and sultry, and a few revelers poured out of the Stockman’s as he passed by, beer bottles in their hands. He glanced over to see who they were but didn’t identify them as locals. They were thirty-somethings, three men and two women. The men had facial hair and baggy pants, and the women wore cargo shorts with river sandals.

  One of the men, in a black oversized polo shirt with a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes, looked up as Joe drove by, and for a moment
their eyes locked.

  A bolt of recognition shot through Joe, and he tapped on his brakes.

  The man broke off and quickly looked down. His companions called after him as he turned abruptly and walked stiff-legged back in the bar.

  “Shamazz, what the fuck?” one of the women said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  24

  Johnny Cook and Drennen O’Melia were outside of Farson and Eden in west central Wyoming doing meth and getting their ashes hauled. They’d been there most of the week. Their plan, for a while, was to go west to California or at least as far as Las Vegas. But they hadn’t even made it to the Utah border.

  It was that green sign saying they’d entered the tiny town of Eden that held them up. Who, Johnny had asked, wouldn’t want to stop and have a beer in a place called Eden?

  Johnny was taking a break. He slumped in a director’s chair someone had set up outside between clumps of sagebrush about fifty yards from the trailers and smoked a cigarette and drank a can of beer. Although the sun was moving in on the top of the Wind River Mountains in the distance, it was still warm out and Johnny didn’t know where his shirt or pants were, which trailer, so he sat there in his straw cowboy hat, boxers, and boots with a pistol across his bare knees. He knew he looked awesome without a shirt, so he didn’t mind.

  Occasionally, he would raise and fire a Ruger Mark III.22 pistol at gophers that raised their heads up out of a hole. He’d hit a couple. When he did he’d shout “Red mist!” to the sky. He’d watch as other gophers rushed over to feed on the remains, and when they did, Johnny shot them for being such lousy friends. At one point he’d had a revelation about the nature of friendship in the cruel, cruel world, but he couldn’t remember now what it had been.

  Johnny shivered, despite the heat. The tremor ran through his entire body and raised goose bumps on his forearms. Immediately afterwards, he was flush and felt sweat prickle beneath his scalp. Damn meth, he thought, trying to remember the last time he’d eaten something. Two days ago, maybe. He had a vague recollection of eating an entire package of cold hot dogs dipped one-by-one into a warm jar of mayonnaise. But he might have dreamed that, he conceded.