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  “What?”

  Reed pointed at his own head to show Joe. “One in his temple; that was the wound you could see. But there was another one a couple of inches up from that covered by hair.”

  “Who shoots himself twice in the side of the head?” Joe asked.

  “Someone who wants to be dead,” Reed said. “Hey—that was the first thing I thought too. But Doc Speer says it isn’t inconceivable that a suicide victim shoots himself deliberately and that his death reflex makes him pull the trigger again before he’s even dead. There’s only a four-point-five-pound trigger pull on that gun. I could see it happening. The second shot would be fired as the first one kicked the gun up, so you’ve got that second hole higher up in his skull.”

  Joe shook his head. “But it makes no sense. Why agree to meet me at that park and take every precaution in the world and then kill yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Guilt? Maybe there was something else going on in his life. Maybe he saw you drive up with a bleeding cop in your car and thought the jig was up.”

  “I didn’t hear a shot, much less two shots,” Joe said. “It was quiet in Winchester. I would have heard a shot. He was sitting on that bench like that when I got there. He got shot before I ever showed up.”

  “Or shot himself. We bagged his hands. They’re checking for residue on his hands to confirm he fired the gun himself.”

  Joe shook his head, not believing it. “Or Klamath Moore shot Gordon in the head at close range, then put the gun in Gordon’s hand and shot again so there would be plenty of residue on the dead man’s skin. Klamath left the weapon in Gordon’s hand so it would look like a suicide. Then Klamath went home and burned his clothes and took a shower and waited for you guys to find him. Reed, you’ve got to question his wife again, see if you can catch her in an inconsistency.”

  “We can try.”

  “Maybe if you sweated her,” Joe said.

  Reed shook his head. “No chance without more to go on.”

  Joe looked up at the light fixture again, trying to think of a way to snare Klamath Moore, trying to come up with a way to show the man was involved. Nothing.

  “There’s another theory,” Reed said.

  “What?”

  “That maybe our governor’s got such a hard-on for Klamath Moore and wants him out of the state so bad that you’re seeing him everywhere, even in the dark on a two-lane with no highway lights.”

  Joe was surprised by the theory and hadn’t seen it coming. It was then he felt the presence of someone outside in the hall, watching him through the one-way mirror, assessing his reaction. He looked hard at Reed, who broke off his gaze. Reed had been sent in to see if Joe would admit something.

  Joe took a step back, his chin in his hand, as if mulling things over. Suddenly, he lashed backward and hit the mirror with the flat of his hand.

  “Christ!” McLanahan yelled from the hallway, his voice muffled by the glass.

  “Reed . . .” Joe said. “I thought you were better than that.”

  Reed looked down, mumbling so low it couldn’t be picked up outside. “He sent me in here to see how you’d react. No offense, Joe.”

  “None taken,” Joe whispered back. Then, loud enough so the sheriff could hear him again: “I’m not accusing Klamath Moore of pulling the trigger, although it could have been him. Or one of his sympathizers. And I’m damned sorry Bill Gordon is dead, because I think he was one of the good guys. But I want it known that while I do work for the governor, I’m not a hack. I’m doing this job for Robey, and Nancy Hersig. Not for the governor.”

  Joe turned to the mirror, addressing McLanahan. “You might as well come in, Sheriff.” Reed looked up from the table. “Just so you can be prepared, Randy Pope is on his way here. McLanahan called him at home tonight and told him what happened. He’s not happy, from what the sheriff said.”

  “Great,” Joe said. McLanahan opened the door and came into the witness room and sat on a corner of the table. “You like to scared me to death with that stunt,” he drawled, nodding toward the mirror.

  Joe shrugged.

  “Do you know what night it is? What night it was?” he said, looking at his wristwatch.

  Joe was confused.

  “It’s American Idol night. My daughter and my wife and I pop some popcorn every week and sit down and watch it. But not tonight, because I get a call right after the first singer saying we’ve got a body in Winchester Park and a busted-up town cop. Now here it is, one in the morning, and I haven’t been home and didn’t get a chance to vote. You may have ruined the whole season for me.”

  “Sorry,” Joe said, feeling for perhaps the first time in his life some sympathy for McLanahan. Not because he’d prevented the sheriff from voting, but because McLanahan was denied a night with his family.

  “He’s likely to press charges,” McLanahan said, meaning Byron. “You may be facing some time.”

  “It was a speed trap but it was personal on his part,” Joe said, not even convincing himself.

  “You busted his nose and kidnapped a cop. Think about it.”

  “I have.”

  “I don’t know who is going to get you out of this one. I don’t think even the governor’s gonna try.”

  Joe sighed. McLanahan was right.

  “Plus, I went against my better judgment and listened to my deputy here,” he said, putting a hand on Reed’s shoulder. “He said if you saw Klamath Moore leaving the scene, you saw Klamath Moore leaving the scene. So we rousted an innocent man who turns out to have an alibi, and we look like idiots and could face a civil suit. Klamath Moore’s claiming he’s a political prisoner, that the only reason we rousted him is because of his anti-hunting agenda. He says he’s got a shitload of high-powered attorneys working probono and he’ll unleash ’em on us. And I don’t doubt that he does.”

  Reed looked away from both Joe and the sheriff. He looked like he could shoot himself, Joe thought.

  “I saw what I saw,” Joe said.

  “I’ve got a question,” McLanahan said. “Randy Pope asked me and I couldn’t answer.”

  “Yes?”

  “He claimed you’re working with Nate Romanowski, that he’s in your custody. He asked me if Romanowski was with you tonight. I had to tell him that not only was that son of a bitch not with you, he is nowhere to be found. So I learn from a state bureaucrat that the suspect in the murder of Sheriff Barnum was in my county but nobody bothered to let me know. So tell me where he is.”

  Joe swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. I don’t know where he is.”

  “And do you see a problem with that?” McLanahan asked, his face flushing. He was really angry.

  “Yes I do.”

  “You are in so much trouble.”

  “I think I already heard that tonight,” Joe said gloomily.

  “I’ve got to go release Klamath Moore now,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got nothing to hold him on and an eyewitness saying he never went to Winchester tonight. Then I’ve got to go see that little pissant Byron at the clinic and see if he wants to press charges against you. Then I’ve got to see Doc Speer to see where in the hell we’re going to put another body, since the morgue is full.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t release Moore,” Joe said. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  McLanahan laughed angrily. “Not a chance. We already know what happens when you want to talk to people.” The sheriff made a pistol of his hand and pressed his index finger to his temple and worked his thumb twice.

  Joe winced.

  “I should hold you tonight,” McLanahan said. “But I’m just too damned tired to file the paperwork. So get out of my building and stay the hell at home where I can find you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it. And make that son of a bitch Romanowski turn himself in.”

  “That I can’t promise.”

  The sheriff glared, on the verge of going into a rage but to
o tired to do so.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said, and stomped out of the room.

  Reed turned before following McLanahan, and showed a “what can I do?” palms-up gesture, and left the door open behind him.

  JOE WAITED miserably at the front desk for the duty officer to find the keys to his van so he could go home. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt so dirty, so gritty, so incompetent.

  Finally, after ten minutes, the old deputy returned to the desk and handed Joe the keys.

  “I’ve also got a shotgun and a service weapon, a .40 Glock,” Joe said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” the old man said. “Come back tomorrow and get an okay from the sheriff.”

  JOE WENT out into the night to find that a fine snow had started. It sifted through the cold dead air like powdered sugar, coating windshields with a film. He breathed in the cold air, tried to clear his head. He found the van at the side of the building where one of the deputies had left it.

  As he reached for the door handle, a voice behind him, in the dark, said, “Out a little late for a family man, aren’t you?”

  Joe froze, turned slowly to see Klamath Moore leaning against a light-colored SUV, arms crossed. Inside, in the dark, was the profile of Shannon Moore, looking straight ahead through the windshield as if she didn’t want to see what was happening outside.

  Joe said, “Is that Shenandoah Yellowcalf in there? Isn’t she getting cold? You don’t even have your motor running.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “She’s a legend around here,” Joe said. “I just found out about her today. She’s the greatest athlete the reservation high school ever produced. They love her. How can you make her sit in there like that in the cold?”

  “I don’t see where that’s any business of yours,” Moore said, ice in his voice.

  “I just think you should appreciate her a little more, is all.”

  “I appreciate her plenty.”

  Joe said, “She enhances your image, for sure. It looks good for you to be married to an Indian. Makes you seem authentic. But you need to remember to introduce her to people. That way folks will think you like her.”

  Moore worked his mouth, as if trying to suck something out from between his teeth. Joe saw it as a way not to say whatever it was he wanted to say in anger.

  “That was you on the Winchester highway,” Joe said.

  “I was home all night. I’ve got a witness.”

  “Did you pull the trigger or did you talk Bill Gordon into doing it himself? That’s what I don’t know yet.”

  Moore raised his chin, laughed at the sky. Unconvincing, Joe thought. As much an admission of guilt as if he’d signed a confession. But nothing Joe could use.

  “You’re nuts,” Moore said. “You’re an embarrassment. Hell, you broke more laws than anyone in this county tonight, from what I understand. Assaulting a cop?”

  “What do you want, Harold?”

  “Why’d you call me that?”

  “Isn’t that your real name? And another question: didn’t you do the same thing to Bill Gordon that you did to your uncle Everett? Make it look like an accident?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice rising, clearly getting agitated.

  “Where is Wolverine?”

  Moore got suddenly quiet.

  “Where is he?”

  “Wolverine? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Who is Wolverine?” Joe asked. “Or are you one and the same?”

  “You’re unhinged.”

  “It won’t be long before I get you,” Joe said. “I owe Nancy Hersig this one.”

  Klamath Moore shifted on the balls of his feet and clenched his hands into fists. Joe wouldn’t have been surprised if Klamath had attacked. In fact, he would have welcomed it. Moore had several inches and thirty pounds on him, but Joe thought he could do some damage before being overwhelmed. Plus, it would give Joe a reason to arrest Moore and haul him back inside the county building where he could keep him for the night. But as he watched, Moore seemed to cool down, seemed to channel his anger into calculation. The transformation sent a chill through Joe, made him realize what kind of man he was up against.

  “I bet you think I despise all kinds of hunting, don’t you?” said Moore.

  “That’s what I understand.”

  “Not all kinds.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Some animals deserve to die,” Moore said, letting his face go dead. “Like rats. I don’t like rats.”

  25

  IN THE SHED in back of my house I set up a stepladder against the far wall, where the shelves with old garden hoses, automotive parts, and sporting equipment have been for years. I don’t turn on the light because I don’t want to alert my neighbors I’m in here. Instead, I bite on a small Maglite flashlight and use the tiny beam to see. The shed smells of dust and long-dead grass.

  As I climb, the beam of my flashlight illuminates the contents of the shelves—canning jars, paint cans, baskets, bags of fertilizer and grass seed, potting soil, containers of chemicals. A heavy coat of dust covers it all, and I take pains not to disturb anything.

  On the top shelf, behind a barrier of ancient cans of deck stain, I grope for the handle of my duffel bag. I lift it over the cans and take it down to the shed floor. I unzip the long bag and inventory what’s inside: dark clothes, boots that alter my footprints, cap, rifle, cartridges. And one last red poker chip.

  Randy Pope is coming back.

  Soon, it will be over.

  26

  JOE WAS surprised to see lights on in the kitchen and living room of his house when he pulled into the driveway at 2 A.M. and killed the motor. He was exhausted and his stomach roiled. For a moment he sat in the dark and looked at the front door and thought, I don’t like this house very much. He knew it wouldn’t be many more hours before Ed next door would be outside getting his morning paper, smoking his pipe, commenting on the dusting of snow and finding it wanting, surveying the Pickett house to see if the fence was fixed yet, calculating how much the value of his property had dropped during the night due to his negligent neighbors.

  But it wasn’t just his house that was bothering Joe. Klamath Moore had all but confessed to murder back in the parking lot and there was little he could do to nail the man on it. Joe didn’t have his digital recorder with him at the time, and it would be his word against Klamath Moore’s. With Joe’s apparent obsession with Moore—at least according to the sheriff’s office—this latest revelation would be greeted with the suspicion it probably deserved. Plus, Moore’s words about hunting rats could be taken different ways, although Joe knew what was meant.

  While he ran it through his mind, the front door opened and Marybeth came outside in a sweatshirt and jeans. He was surprised she was dressed, and felt guilty for keeping her up so late waiting for him.

  He hauled himself out of the van and trudged toward her.

  “Sorry to keep you up,” he said.

  “No bother,” she said. Her voice was light, airy, not what he’d expected given the circumstances. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “It’s about time,” Joe said, suddenly awake.

  NATE ROMANOWSKI and Alisha Whiteplume sat at the kitchen table. They’d obviously been there for some time judging by the empty plates, glasses, and coffee mugs that were pushed to the side.

  “Nate,” said Joe, “where in the hell have you been?”

  “Joe . . .” Marybeth cautioned.

  “Around,” Nate said.

  “Around,” Joe repeated. “Do you realize what kind of heat I’ve been getting from Randy Pope and everybody else? They all thought I’d lost you. You’re supposed to be in my custody, remember?”

  Nate shrugged. “I said I’d keep in touch.”

  “I can account for his whereabouts,” Alisha said coolly.

  “And those whereabouts are... where?” Joe asked.

  “Mai
nly in bed with me,” Alisha said evenly.

  Nate had a smug look on his face, Joe thought.

  “Would anyone like more coffee?” Marybeth asked in a mock-cheerful tone.

  WHILE A pot of decaf dripped into the carafe, Joe filled the three of them in on what had happened over the past days. He noticed how Alisha stared at him with barely disguised hostility while he described his visit to the high school, and how Marybeth covered her face with her hands and moaned while he detailed his assault on Officer Byron. Nate looked on skeptically when he heard about Bill Gordon’s wounds. Both Alisha and Marybeth gasped when Joe recounted what Klamath Moore had said about rats.

  “So he did it,” Marybeth said. “My God.”

  Joe talked mainly to Nate, but shot side glances at Marybeth and Alisha while he did so. He knew he’d have to explain himself further to his wife later on, and that she’d have questions. What he couldn’t understand was the antagonism from Alisha. Was it simply because he was the reason Nate had to resurface? Or something else?

  “So that’s where we are,” Joe said. “Bodies everywhere, and the same suspect we’ve had all along but no proof to nail him with.”

  “Meanwhile,” Marybeth said sourly, “Randy Pope is on his way up here to take charge or fire you again. But can he do that? Aren’t you working solely for the governor?”

  Joe shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”

  Nate and Alisha exchanged a long look. Joe stared. He felt Marybeth’s hand on his arm.

  “Joe, do you have a minute? There’s something I want to show you.”

  He looked at her, puzzled at what could be of such importance. She looked back wide-eyed, nodding, urging him on.

  “Excuse me,” he said, getting up, following her from the kitchen and up the stairs to their bedroom.