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  “Urman probably dropped it,” Pope said dismissively. “Poker games and elk camps go together like shoes and socks.”

  McLanahan snorted.

  The governor asked the sheriff, “Do you have something to say about this, Mr. McLanahan?”

  The sheriff sat back in his chair and slowly stroked his new mustache. “Well, you know Joe,” McLanahan said. “I don’t mean to beat the devil around the stump or nothin’, but ole Joe kinda likes to play to the gallery in situations like this. A poker chip is just a damned poker chip, is what I think.”

  The governor paused a few beats, as did Pope.

  “Get out,” Rulon said, waving his hand at the camera as if shooing away a fly. “Get out of the room, Sheriff McLanahan. And take your minions with you. I don’t have the time or patience to learn a foreign language.”

  McLanahan was taken aback, stammered, “This is my building. This is my case!”

  “This is my state,” Rulon countered. “If you expect any more favors from me, you’ll gather up and leave the room. I need to have a talk with my men.”

  McLanahan unwisely looked to Joe for help, then Pope.

  “This ain’t wise,” the sheriff grumbled, pulling himself to his feet. His deputies followed suit, with Deputy Mike Reed struggling to keep from laughing. “This ain’t wise at all.”

  Robey asked Rulon, “Do you mind if I stay?”

  “Joe, what do you think?” Rulon asked. Joe could feel Pope’s eyes on him. The director was miffed he hadn’t been asked that question.

  “Robey’s integral to this case,” Joe said.

  “He stays then,” Rulon commanded.

  “And I ain’t?” McLanahan said.

  “I’ll stay and report back,” Robey said under his breath to Deputy Reed, who winked.

  The governor sat back and waited until he heard the door slam shut.

  “Are they gone?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Pope said.

  “What the hell is wrong with him? What’s this ‘beat the devil around the stump’ crap?”

  Joe said, “He thinks he’s a western character.”

  “I have no patience with those types,” Rulon said, “none at all. There’s room for only one character in this state, and that’s me.”

  Joe grinned, despite himself. And he thought he heard Stella giggle off-camera. Okay, then, he thought.

  “Since they’re gone, let’s get to it,” Rulon said into the camera. “We received word about an hour ago that Klamath Moore is in the state. He plans to come up to Saddlestring with his entourage in tow. Apparently, he already knows about our victim and how he died.”

  Randy Pope went white.

  Joe had seen footage of Klamath Moore being arrested at anti-hunting and animal-rights rallies and being interviewed on cable-television news programs for several years. He was a bear of a man, Joe thought, who came across as passionate and charismatic as he thundered against barbarians and savages who slaughtered animals for fun. There was a documentary film on his exploits that had won prizes in England.

  Randy Pope said, “That guy is a nutcase. He’s my worst nightmare. How’d he find out about Frank Urman so fast?”

  “We’d all like to know that,” the governor said. “My guess is one of his followers has a police scanner and heard the whole thing today and tipped off the big man. But we can’t spend much time and energy finding out who tipped him off, because in the end it doesn’t matter. What does matter is how fast we can find the shooter and put him away so Klamath has to go home. The longer that guy stays here, the more trouble he’ll cause.”

  “Hold it,” Robey said, realization forming. “Klamath Moore is the guy who—”

  “He’s the guy who thinks hunters should be treated the same way he thinks animals are treated by hunters,” Rulon said. “He’s the main force behind most of the protests you hear about where hunters get harassed in the field or game animals get herded away from lawful hunting types. He sends his people into the hills in Pennsylvania on the opening day of deer season tooting kazoos and playing boom boxes. The media loves him because he’s so fucking colorful and politically correct, I guess.”

  “Why is he coming here?” Robey asked.

  Rulon said, “Think about it for a second. The only reason he’d come to Wyoming is to give aid and comfort to whoever shot Frank Urman and the two other hunters we know about.”

  With that, Joe sat up. Now he knew what was in the two other files Pope had brought with him.

  Pope sighed.

  “Two we know about,” Rulon said. “There may be more for all we know. I’ve got DCI going over every ‘hunting accident’ that’s occurred in the last ten years. One to four people a year are killed during hunting season, and sometimes none at all.”

  That was true, Joe knew. Most of the fatalities were the result of carelessness within a group of hunters, and often involved family members—hunters who mistook other hunters for game, hunters who didn’t unload their guns, or, the biggest killer of all, hunters climbing fences or crawling through timber when their gun went off and killed a companion or themselves. Rarely were there hunting accidents where the shooter wasn’t quickly identified, and most of the time the assailant confessed in tears.

  “How long have you suspected this?” Joe asked Pope.

  Pope shrugged. “We couldn’t be sure. We still aren’t, but today . . .”

  “Whoever did that to Frank Urman wants us to know it,” Rulon said. “In fact, he wants the whole country to know it.”

  Kiner said, “Jesus,” and sat back in his chair. Robey moaned and put his head in his hands.

  “And it’s not only that,” Pope said. “This could kill us as an agency. It could just kill us. Hunting and fishing brings in over four hundred million dollars to the state. Licenses pay our salaries, gentlemen. If word gets out that hunters are being hunted in the state of Wyoming, we’ll all be looking for work. We’ll be ruined.

  “Think about it,” Pope continued, as Joe and Robey exchanged looks of disgust. “Using our economic multiplier, we know that every elk is worth six thousand dollars to us. Every bear, five thousand. Bighorn sheep are twenty-five thousand, every deer is worth four thousand, and every antelope is three thousand. The list goes on. If hunters aren’t hunting, our cash flow dries up.”

  “Try not to use that argument with any reporters, Randy,” Rulon said with undisguised contempt.

  “So that’s what this is about,” Joe said. “That’s why you’re up here personally.”

  “Of course,” Pope said. “Why else?”

  “Well, an innocent man got killed and butchered, to start,” Joe said.

  “Save me your sanctimony,” Pope spat, “unless . . .” Pope stopped himself. Joe had been braced and ready for Pope to light into him, to accuse him of insubordination, destruction of government property, playing cowboy—all the reasons he’d used to fire him in the first place two years ago. Joe wouldn’t have been surprised if Pope brought up the disappearance of J. W. Keeley, the Mississippi ex-con and hunting guide who’d come to Twelve Sleep County to get revenge and had never been heard from again—the darkest period of Joe’s life. But for reasons Joe couldn’t fathom given their acrimonious history, Pope bit his tongue.

  “Unless what?” Joe asked.

  “Nothing,” Pope said, his face red, his nose flared from internalizing his emotions. “This case is too serious to expose those old wounds. We need to work together on this. We need to put our past aside and find the shooter.”

  Robey, who had been ready for an explosion and had placed his hands on the edge of the table so he could push away quickly and restrain Joe, looked as perplexed to Joe as Joe felt.

  Pope took a deep breath and extended his hand. “I need you on this one. I don’t know what it is, but you seem to have a knack for getting in the middle of trouble like this. Plus, you know the area and the people because this is your old district. We need you here on the ground.”

  Joe shook P
ope’s hand, which was clammy and stiff, his long, thin fingers like a package of refrigerated wieners.

  The governor said, “That’s what I love to see. A little love and cooperation among my employees.”

  “HOW TRAMPLED is the crime scene?” Rulon asked.

  “Trampled,” Pope said. “We’ve all been all over it, not to mention Urman’s nephew and his friends.”

  “What about the immediate area? Did you determine where the shot was fired?”

  “Not yet,” Pope said. “We ordered the forensics team to stay at the immediate crime scene. I was thinking we’d go up there tomorrow when it’s light and see what we can find.”

  Rulon made a face. “Do you think it’s possible the shooter is still up there somewhere?”

  “Possible,” Pope said, “but unlikely. Why would he hang around?”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for you to all go home,” Rulon said. “Look, I have an idea. Before I was governor, I prosecuted a case on the reservation where this poor old woman was raped and murdered in her mountain cabin. There was no known motive and no obvious suspects, but my assistant hired this guy named Buck Lothar to go to the crime scene. You ever heard of him? Buck Lothar is a master tracker; it says it right on his card. He’s some kind of mercenary who contracts with law enforcement and the military all over the world to hunt people down. He can look at the ground and tell you how many people walked across it, what they look like, and how big they are. Scary guy, but damned good. Anyway, we hired Lothar to go to the res, and within three days he’d tracked down the loser who did the crime and got away on foot. Lothar produced enough evidence—plaster footprints, fiber from the bad guy’s clothes he found caught in a thornbush, a cigarette butt tossed aside we could pull DNA from. We put the bad guy away. I’m thinking we should hire Buck Lothar. I think he lives somewhere in Utah when he’s not in Bosnia or the jungles of the Philippines or the Iraqi desert tracking down insurgents. If he’s home, I’ll send him up there as soon as we can. I’ll fly him up on the state plane.”

  Pope nodded his head the whole time the governor was speaking, warming to the idea.

  “Form a ready-response team,” Rulon said. “I want you all on it except for Kiner. Work with Lothar, give him whatever he needs and wants. Maybe he can find our shooter.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Pope said. “We can use some help.”

  “And if he can’t find anything,” Rulon said, “we’ll keep him on retainer and you keep your team together until the next hunter goes down.”

  “The next hunter?” Robey said.

  “I’m sure there will be another,” Rulon said sourly, “that is, if there are any hunters left in Wyoming after Klamath Moore’s press conference tomorrow.”

  This time, Pope moaned.

  “Lothar’s expensive,” Rulon said, “but you can afford his fee.”

  “This is coming out of my budget?” Pope said, his voice rising.

  “Yes, it is. The legislature is auditing my discretionary fund and I don’t want this on it. Think of it as an investment in the future health and welfare of your agency.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Now, I’ve got to be going, gentlemen. My chief of staff is signaling me. We’ve got some Chinese delegation in the next room wanting to buy wheat or oil or something. I’ve got to go. So get this done and send Klamath Moore back home as soon as you can.”

  Rulon started to push away from his desk.

  “Governor?” Joe said.

  “Yes, Joe.”

  “Sir, I have no doubt that what you say about Buck Lothar is true. I’ve heard about him. But there’s someone else who is as good or better, and who knows this country.”

  Rulon quickly said, “Joe, we can’t go there.”

  “Nate Romanowski is in federal custody,” Joe said. “You could work a deal to get him out. We could use him.”

  Pope blanched, and Robey said, “Joe . . .”

  “Not an option,” Rulon said. “Forget it.”

  “We might need him,” Joe said.

  “If Lothar can’t get it done,” Rulon said, “we’ll talk. But for now the other option is off the table. Good night, gentlemen.”

  With that, the screen went black. Before it did, Joe saw Stella’s hand with dark-red-painted nails gesture to the governor to follow her. Follow her where? Joe thought.

  IN THE HALLWAY, Joe asked Pope if he could take the files home with him to read that night.

  “I’d like a copy too,” Robey said.

  Reluctantly, Pope handed them over. “I’ll wait here while you make copies,” he said. “But I don’t need to tell you how important it is we don’t say anything about the fact that we may have a serial killer going after hunters. We aren’t sure yet it’s the case, and that kind of speculation would kill us as an agency.”

  “Got it,” Joe said, “although with Klamath Moore’s press conference tomorrow, it won’t be a secret anymore.”

  Pope winced as if he had a painful tooth.

  JOE LEANED against the wall while Robey ran the pages through the machine and the light from the copier strobed the walls.

  Kiner had left the meeting with his head down and refused to acknowledge Joe’s good-bye.

  “What did Kiner do to piss off the governor?” Robey asked.

  “He supported the governor’s opponent in the last election,” Joe said.

  “Rulon holds a grudge,” Robey said, nodding. “Did you come out for Rulon at the time?”

  “No. But I didn’t make a point of it, like Phil did.”

  “Interesting,” Robey said. “And what in the hell is going on with Pope? He’s had a complete change of heart when it comes to you. I know for a fact for the last two years he’s had it in for you, even calling my office to see if he could get any dirt on you.”

  Joe shrugged.

  “Maybe he really does need you this time.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “There’s always something going on with that guy. He’s the best and meanest bureaucrat I’ve ever been around. He should give seminars.”

  Robey smiled.

  Joe fingered the poker chip in the plastic bag. “I don’t remember anyone saying they were playing poker. Besides, Frank Urman’s clothes were up on the hill in a pile. They were cut off him before he was hung and skinned. I don’t see how the poker chip could have just been there, do you?”

  Robey shrugged. “Pope shut you down pretty fast.”

  “I wonder why,” Joe said.

  “Are you thinking the killer left it as a calling card?”

  “Maybe,” Joe said.

  Robey handed Joe his set of files. “Call me when you’ve read these and let’s see if we can figure anything out.”

  “I might be up late,” Joe said. “I’m having trouble getting the image of Frank Urman’s body out of my head.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be up,” Robey said.

  OUT OF HABIT, Joe started home in the direction of Bighorn Road before turning around, remembering he now lived in town.

  6

  SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD SHERIDAN PICKETT was at her desk in her upstairs room under the pretense of doing homework, which she’d actually completed an hour before. The door was shut, meaning she didn’t want to be disturbed. Which, of course, meant nothing to her younger sister, Lucy, who opened it and stuck her head in. “I need to use the computer.”

  Sheridan quickly hid what she was doing. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Unfortunately, Lucy could see the computer screen from the doorway and the three IM conversations Sheridan had going.

  “I’ve got homework too,” Lucy said. “You’ve been in here for two hours and I need the computer. Do you want me to tell Mom you won’t let me use it? What are you doing, anyway?”

  “I said I was busy. Do I need to start locking my door?”

  “You do that and Mom and Dad will move the computer to the living room.”

  Sherid
an mumbled a curse under her breath because her sister was right.

  “Give me ten minutes,” Sheridan said.

  “Five.”

  “Ten!”

  “I’ll be back.”

  Sheridan sighed and uncovered her project. She was writing a letter. A letter! Until recently, she’d never written one and rarely received them. With text messaging, IM, and e-mail, letters, she thought, actual letters that were folded and placed in envelopes with a stamp on them were a thing of the past, like phones with dials. She didn’t even know where to buy stamps until a few months ago. The little booklet of stamps she purchased was hidden in her purse, and the envelopes and stationery were folded into her dictionary, a gift from Grandmother Missy that she never used because she had SpellCheck. But she’d found out the only way to communicate with her mentor was by sending a letter.

  THE LAST few months had been tumultuous. In addition to starting her sophomore year at Saddlestring High, her family had moved from her grandmother’s ranch into town. Since Sheridan had grown up isolated from neighbors and traffic, she found the new situation both liberating—her friends were a bike ride away and after all these years she no longer needed to ride the bus to and from school—and stifling. Everyone was so close to everybody else. She no longer saw the mule deer as they floated in the half-dark to the river to drink, or the elk that fed in the shorn hay meadows. It took a month to get used to the sounds outside the house at night—cars racing up the street, dogs barking, sirens. She wasn’t sure she liked it.

  Her mother’s company, MBP Management, continued to do well, even though her mom rarely talked about it like she used to. Since her mom had decided to trim back her hours and turn over more of the workload to her employees, she was able to be home more. Which was good, since her dad was gone so much on special assignments around the state. He called every night, though, except when he was in remote areas without telephones or cell service. Several of her mom’s new client businesses were start-ups on the reservation that bordered Twelve Sleep County and was occupied by Northern Arapaho and Eastern Shoshone. The proximity of the new businesses made it easier for her mom to stay close to home. In fact, Sheridan thought, after so many years out on Bighorn Road or on the ranch, their lives were achingly, numbingly dull. When she mentioned this to her mother, Marybeth smiled and said, “Dull is good, sweetie. Dull is good.”