In Plain Sight jp-6 Page 20

  Joe looked up the slope at Monroe.

  “What’s wrong with your truck?” Monroe shouted down.

  “You’re under arrest,” Joe shouted back.

  “For what?”

  “For killing that buck. I saw the whole thing.”

  Monroe shook his head. “I didn’t kill no buck.”

  “I saw you.”

  “I don’t even own a rifle.”

  “I saw you.”

  “Your word against mine, I guess.”

  “Yup.”

  “I understand you’re pretty convincing when it comes to Judge Pennock,” Monroe said.

  Joe felt a pang in his chest. So Monroe was well aware of the rejected search warrant.

  The rain hammered the brim of Joe’s hat and an icy stream of it poured into his collar and snaked down along his backbone.

  “Good thing your truck blew up,” Monroe said. “You would have been trespassing on private property.”

  The fence line was just in front of Monroe, Joe saw.

  Then Joe realized Monroe wanted him to come over there onto the Thunderhead, where access had been previously refused by Hank. What would Monroe have done when Joe crossed the line? What had been his plan?

  IT WAS AN odd thing, how sometimes there could be a moment of absolute clarity in the midst of rampant chaos. With the rain falling hard, his vehicle disabled, the dispatcher calling for him, and Bill Monroe grinning at him from behind the fence, at least part of the picture cleared up. Portenson’s call had reminded him of something.

  The truck Monroe was driving was light yellow, ten years old, with rust spots on the door. Where had that description come from? Then it hit him.

  Joe looked up at Bill Monroe, who wasn’t really Bill Monroe.

  “You know who I am now, don’t you?”

  Oh, God. Joe felt a chill.

  “You’re John W. Kelly,” he shouted, dredging up the name Special Agent Gary Child had told him.

  Monroe snorted. “Close,” he said.

  “You shot a cowboy in the Shirley Basin,” Joe said, suddenly thinking of the .40 Glock on his hip and the shotgun in his pickup. Up there on the ridge, Monroe had the drop on him.

  Monroe laughed. “I didn’t shoot no cowboy, just like I didn’t shoot no antelope buck.”

  “I saw you.”

  “It’s just too damned bad your truck blew up,” Monroe said. “Another two hundred fifty feet and you woulda’ been on private property. Who knows what would have happened.”

  Joe started to answer when Monroe backed away from the top of the ridge. In a moment, Joe heard an engine flare and the grinding of gears before the truck drove off, leaving him there.

  JOE STOOD IN the rain, thinking, running scenarios through his mind. They kept getting worse.

  He got back inside the cab with Maxine. Even though the motor wasn’t running the battery still worked, as did his radio. He even had a cell-phone signal, although it was weak.

  BEFORE CALLING RANDY Pope, Joe reached Bud Longbrake on the ranch. Bud had a one-ton flatbed with a winch and he was much closer to where Joe was stranded than any of the tow-truck drivers in town. Bud agreed to come rescue Joe, bring his truck back, and even lend Joe a ranch vehicle in the meantime. Bud was positively giddy when Joe talked with him.

  “This rain just makes me happy,” he said. Joe could tell Bud was smiling by his voice. “It hasn’t rained this hard in three years.”

  ROBEY WASN’T IN his office when Joe called. His secretary said he was trapped in his house because a flash flood had taken out the bridge that crossed over to the highway from Robey’s property. She told Joe that Robey’s phone was down now as well, as were most of the telephones in the valley, because lightning had struck a transformer and knocked the service out.

  “What about his cell?” Joe asked.

  “You can call it, I guess,” she said. “But I can see his cell phone sitting on his desk in his office. He must have forgotten to take it home with him last night.”

  Joe rolled his eyes with frustration. “Please have him call me the minute he makes contact,” Joe said. “It’s important.”

  “Will do,” she said. “Isn’t this great, this rain? We really needed it.”

  “Yes,” Joe said.

  THE NEXT CALL was to the FBI office in Cheyenne. Joe asked for Tony Portenson and was told Portenson was away from his desk.

  “Tony, this is Joe Pickett,” he said on Portenson’s voice mail. “Can you please fax or e-mail me the file on John Kelly? I may have a lead for you.”

  FURTHER DELAYING THE inevitable, Joe speed-dialed the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department and asked for McLanahan.

  “McLanahan.” He sounded harried, high-pitched, and out of breath.

  “Joe Pickett, Sheriff. I’m broken down on the border of the Thunderhead Ranch where I just had an encounter with Bill Monroe, although I don’t think that’s really his name.”

  “I’m lost,” McLanahan said.

  You sure are, Joe thought. He outlined his theory and told McLanahan about the yellow pickup and the investigation by the FBI.

  McLanahan was silent for a moment after Joe finished, then said, “Are you sure you aren’t just obsessed by the guy?”

  “What?”

  “He’s the one who pounded you, right?”

  “What difference does that make? You’ve got a warrant out for his arrest, even if I’m wrong about the rest of it. Why don’t you drive out there and take the guy down?”

  McLanahan sighed. “Have you looked outside recently?”

  “I am outside.”

  “It looks like a cow pissing on a flat rock, this rain. We’re in a state of emergency right now. You can’t dump three inches of rain on a county that’s dry as concrete and expect it to soak in. We’ve got flash floods everywhere. Bridges are out. In town the river has jumped the banks in at least three places. We’ve got a mess here, Joe. I’ve got truckloads of sandbags on the way from Gillette. I can’t do anything until we get it under control.”

  Joe thought, Man, oh man.

  “I’ve gotta go,” McLanahan said. “Somebody just saw a Volkswagen Beetle float down First Street.”

  JOE BREATHED IN and out, in and out, then direct-dialed Randy Pope’s office. He got the evil receptionist. The gleeful tone in her voice when he introduced himself told Joe all he needed to know.

  “I told you I needed a new truck,” Joe said when Pope came on the line. “Because of this lousy equipment you gave me, a poacher and murder suspect has gotten away.”

  Pope’s voice was dry, barely controlled. “Joe, when I ask that you call in immediately, I mean immediately. Not when you get around to it.”

  “I was in pursuit of a murder suspect,” Joe said. “I couldn’t stop and call in at the time.”

  “That was an hour ago.”

  “Yes, and I called as soon as I could. I need to get this broken-down truck towed out of the middle of nowhere.”

  Pope sighed, then said, “I got a call from Arlen Scarlett, Joe.”

  Joe sat back. “I figured you would.”

  “We’ve now got official protests lodged against you from both Arlen and Hank Scarlett. Think about it. The only thing those two seem to agree on is that you are completely out of control, and that reflects on me. You’re wasting time on a case totally out of our purview while game violations are going on in the middle of town.”

  “And you’re only too happy to side with them,” Joe said.

  “You’re fired, Joe,” Pope snapped.

  He heard the words he had been expecting to hear. Nevertheless, Joe still had trouble believing it was actually happening.

  Pope’s voice rose as he continued. “As of today, Joe, you’re history. And don’t try to fight me on this. You’ll lose! I’ve got documentation stretching back six years. Threatening a legislator and Game and Fish commissioner with property destruction and bodily harm? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”

  “Do you really want to know
or is that a rhetorical question?” Joe asked, his mouth dry.

  “I won’t miss your cowboy antics,” Pope said. “This is a new era.”

  “I’ve heard,” Joe said. He was tired of arguing with Pope. He felt defeated. The rain lashed at the windshield.

  Pope transferred Joe to someone in personnel who outlined, in a monotone, what procedural steps were available for him to take if he wanted to contest the decision. Joe half listened, then punched off.

  IT WAS THREE hours before Bud Longbrake showed up in his one-ton. The rain had increased in intensity, and it channeled into arroyos and draws, filling dry beds that had been parched for years, even rushing down the game trail in what looked like a river of angry chocolate milk.

  Joe watched the one-ton start down the hill, then brake and begin to slide, the wheels not holding. Bud was driving, and he managed to reverse the vehicle and grind back up the hill before he slid to the bottom and got stuck. Bud flashed his headlights on and off.

  Joe understood the signal. Bud couldn’t bring the one-ton all the way across the basin to pull the truck out.

  “Fine,” Joe said, feeling like the embodiment of the subject of a blues song as he slid out of the truck into the mud carrying his shotgun, briefcase, and lunch and walked through the pouring rain to the one-ton with Maxine slogging along, head down, beside him.

  “Fine!”

  24

  WHEN BUD PULLED INTO THE RANCH YARD, HE splashed through a small lake that had not been there that morning and parked the one-ton in his massive barn.

  Joe saw Marybeth’s van in there also. She was home early. As he entered the house through the back door they used to access their new living quarters, Marybeth looked up, saw his face, and sat down quickly as if her legs had given out on her.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Let’s go into the bedroom and shut the door,” she said.

  HE TOLD MARYBETH he’d been fired, and her reaction was worse than he anticipated: stunned silence. He would have preferred that she yelled at him, or cried, or locked herself in their room. Instead, she simply stared at him and whispered, “What are we going to do now, Joe?”

  “We’ll figure something out,” he said, lamely.

  “I guess we knew this would happen.”

  “Yes.”

  “When do we tell the girls?” Marybeth asked. “What do we tell them.”

  “The truth,” he said. That would be the hardest part. No, it wouldn’t. The hardest part would be that Sheridan and Lucy would expect him to say not to worry, that he would take care of them as he always had. But he couldn’t tell them that and look them in the eye.

  DINNER THAT EVENING was one of the worst Joe could remember. They sat at the big dining room table with Missy and Bud. Missy’s cook, a Latina named Maria, had made fried chicken and the pieces steamed in a big bowl in the middle of the table. Bud ate as if he were starved. Missy picked at a breast that had been skinned and was made specially for her. Joe had no appetite, even though it was his favorite meal. When he had been employed, that is. Marybeth was silent. Sheridan spent dinnertime looking from her mom to her dad and back again, trying to figure out what was happening. Lucy was oblivious.

  The rain roared against the roof and sang down the downspouts. Bud said a half-dozen times how happy he was that it was raining.

  AFTER THE DISHES were cleared, Joe asked Bud if he could borrow a ranch pickup.

  “Where are you going?” Missy said. Now that they were under her roof, Missy felt entitled to ask questions like that.

  “I’ve got birds to feed,” Joe said.

  “Have you looked outside?” Missy said with an expression clearly meant to convey that he was an idiot.

  “Why? Is something happening?” Joe said. He really didn’t have the patience to deal with his mother-in-law tonight.

  Marybeth shot him a cautionary look. Sheridan stifled a smile.

  “I hope Bud doesn’t have to come out and rescue you again if you get stuck,” Missy said, and turned away.

  “I don’t mind,” Bud said. “I kind of like driving around in the rain. It makes me feel good.”

  “I’ll try not to get stuck again,” Joe said as he headed to the mudroom for his still-damp boots and coat. Marybeth followed him there.

  “Sheridan knows something is up.”

  “I know,” Joe said, wincing as he pulled on a wet boot.

  “Maybe when you get home we can talk to the girls.”

  Joe sighed. “I guess.” He’d been putting it off all night.

  “Joe, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  He looked up. “Yes, honey, it is.”

  “My business is doing well.”

  “Thank God for that,” Joe said, standing, jamming his foot into a boot to seat it. “Thank God for your business, or we’d be out on the street.”

  “Joe . . .”

  He looked up at her and his eyes flashed. “I brought it on myself, I know that. I could have played things differently. I could have compromised a little more.”

  She shook her head slowly. “No you couldn’t, Joe.”

  He clammed up. Anything he said now would make things worse, he knew. His insides ached. How could she possibly know how it felt for a man to lose his job, lose the means of taking care of his family? He kept pushing the crushing reality of it aside so that he was only contemplating the little things: that he would no longer wear the red shirt, that he would no longer carry a badge and a gun, that he would no longer perch on hillsides watching deer and antelope and elk. That he would no longer bring home a monthly paycheck.

  “Be careful,” she said, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. “I worry about you when you’re like this.”

  He tried to smile but he knew it looked like a pained snarl.

  “I’ve got to get out for a while” was all he managed to say. God, he was grateful she was his wife.

  Missy swept in behind Marybeth and stood there with her eyes sparkling above a pursed mouth. “This is interesting, isn’t it?”

  “What are you referring to?”

  She opened her arms toward the window of the mudroom, a gesture designed to take in the whole ranch. “Three years ago, I was camped out on your couch in that horrible little hovel you made my daughter and my grandchildren live in. And you wanted me out.”

  Joe didn’t deny it.

  “Now look where we are. You’re a guest in my home and your family is comfortable and safe for the first time in their lives.”

  He felt his rage build, but was able to stanch it. He didn’t want this argument now, when he felt quite capable of wringing her neck.

  “It’s interesting, is all,” she said, raising her eyebrows mockingly, “how situations can change and things that were thought and said can come back to haunt a person?”

  SHERIFF MCLANAHAN WASN’T kidding. The rain had transformed everything. It wasn’t like other parts of the country, where rain could fall and soak into the soil and be smoothly channeled away. This was hardpan that received only eleven inches of rain a year, and today had already brought four. The water stood on top of the ground, forming lakes and ponds that hadn’t existed for years. Tiny draws and sloughs had turned into funnels for raging brown water.

  Joe drove slowly on the highway, water spraying out from under his tires in rooster tails. The sky was mottled greenish black and the rain fell so hard he couldn’t hear the radio inside the cab of the ranch truck. He had no business going out, and especially going to Nate’s old place to feed the falcons, but he needed something to do. If he stayed at the ranch contemplating his complete failure while Missy prattled on about fat grams and social clubs, he didn’t know what he might do. Plus, he wanted to put off the talk with Sheridan and Lucy. Would Marybeth warn them? he wondered. Tell them to reassure their father, not to get angry or upset? He hoped she didn’t. The only thing he could think of that was worse than being a failure was to have his girls pity him for it.

  THE ROAD
TO Nate Romanowski’s old place was elevated enough that he was able to get there in four-wheel-drive high. On either side of the road, though, long lakes had formed. Ducks were actually sitting on ponds that hadn’t existed eight hours ago. And he could hear frogs. Frogs that had been hibernating deep below the surface for years were coming out, croaking.

  It was amazing what renewal came with water in the mountain west. Joe just wished that somehow the rain could renew him.

  JOE CRESTED THE last rise near Nate’s home to see that the river had not just jumped the bank, but had taken Nate’s falcon mews and was lapping at the side of his house. He had never seen the river so big, so violent. It was whitewater, and big rollers thundered through the canyon. Full-grown cottonwood trees, cattle, parts of washed-out bridges were being carried downstream. The rickety suspension footbridge across the river downstream from Nate’s home was either gone or underwater.

  Joe parked above Nate’s house on a rise. There was less than an hour of light left, and he wanted to feed the birds and get out before nightfall. He climbed out and pulled on his yellow slicker. Fat raindrops popped against the rubberized canvas of his slicker as he unwrapped road-killed rabbits from a burlap bag in the bed of the truck. This was a foolish thing he was doing, he conceded. The birds could probably wait. But he had made a promise, and he would keep it.

  The sound of the river was awesome in its power. He could feel the spray from it well before he got to its new edge.

  He laid the rabbits out on a sandy rise so they could be seen clearly from the air. In the past, it took less than ten minutes for either the peregrine or the red-tailed hawk to see the meat. Joe never had any idea where the falcons were, or how they always knew he was there. But they did, and they came to eat.