Open Season jp-6 Read online

  "Why'd you bring this up?" Joe asked. "Do you know something?"

  "No reason," Jack said.

  "Just bullshitting you," added Hans.

  "If you know something, you need to report it," Joe said looking from one to the other. He couldn't tell whether he was being fooled with or not.

  "And that's what we would do," Jack assured Joe. "Indeed we would."

  "Indeed," Hans echoed.

  ***

  It had been a strange interlude, Joe thought.

  When they were done and the Scout was hosed down and cleaned, Jack and Hans offered Joe a cold beer from the cooler. He thanked them but declined, and he wished them luck for the rest of the day. He knew that if Hans and Jack didn't get their second antelope today, they eventually would, so he would see the Scout out in the break land every day until that happened. Hans and Jack had the patience of the retired, and they were both known as good hunters and good cooks.

  Joe had no problem with hunters hunting for meat. He felt, compared with buying it at the supermarket in cellophane wrapped parcels, that hunting was basically more honest. He had never understood the arguments of people who opposed hunting on principal while eating a cheeseburger. He thought it was important for people to know that animals died in order for them to eat meat. The process of stalking, killing, dressing, and eating an animal was much simpler and easier to understand to Joe than having a cow killed by a sledgehammer-swinging meat-processing plant employee and having the eventual results appear as a small packet in a shopping cart. He appreciated people like Hans and Jack.

  For Hans and Jack, hunting for meat was still a way of life and not really a sport. The greeting of "Got your elk yet?" was as common as hello in the small mountain towns, and the health and size of game herds was a matter of much public concern and debate.

  Joe figured this was why the murders in the elk camp were the talk of the town. The killing of three outfitters realized every hunter's nightmare: that out in the field someone may be hunting for them. No one had ever heard of such a thing happening before. Sure, there were accidental shootings and incidents of fistfights and threats--the kind of things that would inevitably happen when men (there were very few women in the elk camps) left their jobs for a week or two and got together in the mountains to hunt. But considering the number of guns and the gallons of alcohol available, deliberate killings during hunting season were incomprehensible to the people of Saddlestring.

  And the more Joe thought about it, the more he realized that the killings were incomprehensible to him.

  ***

  Feeling good about the day and the job he had done, Joe worked his way through the break land toward the road that would take him back into town. Vern Dunnegan had called him early that morning, before the funeral, and asked Joe to meet him at five in the Stockman's Bar. If it was like the old days, Vern would be in the last booth on the right, past the pool table. That was Vern's booth.

  The Stockman'S Bar was a dark place where they served shots and beer under the dusty heads of local game animals and where the walls were covered with black-and-white photos of local rodeo contestants from the 1940s and '50s. No matter what day or hour it was, there seemed to always be the same number of patrons. Joe walked past a dozen men on stools, toward the pool table in the back. A hanging Coors beer lamp illuminated the green felt of the pool table and highlighted the side of Vern's face. Vern was in his booth, and he had company.

  "You're early." Vern said as a greeting, extending his hand toward Joe.

  "Joe Pickett, this is Aimee Kensinger." She was in shadow. Joe's eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark bar.

  Joe took off his hat. "We've met."

  "See, I told you that," Aimee said to Vern.

  Vern chuckled and gestured for Joe to sit across from him in the booth.

  "Will you drink a beer with me?" Vern stated more than asked. "Aimee's got to get going."

  "Oh, yes, I had forgotten about that," Aimee said sarcastically. Joe liked her voice. As his eyes adjusted, he could see she was wearing some kind of fuzzy, black sweater and a thin gold necklace. She was smiling at him.

  "I'll see you around, Joe Pickett."

  Vern stood and let her out of the booth. She tousled Joe's hair as she left, which embarrassed him. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. Vern followed her as far as the bar and returned with four shots of bourbon and four mugs of beer on a tray.

  "Happy hour," Vern said. "Two for one." He downed a shot and chased it with beer.

  "You're looking good, Joe. How's the pellet wound?"

  Joe told him it was fine and took a long drink from a mug. The cold beer tasted good. The afterimage of Aimee Kensinger hovered next to Vern.

  "She still likes me," Vern said, smiling. "Even though I don't wear the uniform anymore." Vern threw another shot down his throat. "She likes you, too." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Joe didn't respond. He didn't want to go there. Joe tried to gauge how much Vern had been drinking. This certainly didn't seem to be his first shot of the afternoon, judging by how flushed his face was. Vern had always been a hard drinker, and there had rarely been a night after work when Vern didn't suggest they stop for one or two. But since Vern had returned, Joe had yet to see him without bourbon within his grasp.

  "Have you given what we talked about any thought?" Vern asked.

  Joe nodded.

  "Well?"

  "I need to discuss it with Marybeth," Joe said. "We really haven't had a chance to talk it over yet."

  Vern's eyes never left Joe's. "She's a smart woman," Vern said. "She'll steer you in the right direction. D'you want me to talk to her?"

  "That won't be necessary." Joe felt a twinge of resentment toward his former boss. Vern obviously thought he could talk Marybeth into making Joe take the job. Vern thought he could talk anybody into anything. Usually, he could. Vern was a highly intelligent man and very persuasive. But for a reason Joe couldn't quite articulate, he found himself resisting the job offer.

  "I know one thing," Joe said, drinking at the beer.

  "I know I won't be ready to make any big moves until these outfitter

  murders are finally solved."

  Vern sat perfectly still. He looked at Joe with disbelief.

  "What in the hell is there to solve, Joe?" Vern asked, his voice low and tight. "Clyde Lidgard shot three local white trash outfitters, and you guys shot him. Case closed."

  "There are too many unanswered questions," Joe said quickly. "Why did he do it? Why was he up there? Why did he stay there if he did it? Why did Ote Keeley come to my house? What was in that cooler? In my mind, there are a lot of things that have to be answered."

  Vern sat perfectly still with a look of outright contempt on his face, his eyes boring a hole in Joe. Although he felt his resolve weakening, Joe looked back and did not flinch. He steeled himself against Vern, determined to not let him talk him out of continuing the investigation.

  "Joe," Vern said, his voice barely over a whisper. "Let's you and me take a couple of minutes and talk about the real fucking world." Vern bit off the last three words with a vehemence that caught Joe completely off guard and unnerved him. "I don't know the answers to those questions, and I frankly don't give a shit," Vern hissed.

  "Murders are messy. When the killer is shot before he can talk, there are all kinds of loose ends. This is not an exact science--you should know that by now. These things aren't always wrapped up neatly. Sometimes when it's too neat, an innocent man goes to prison, but usually the guy is scum and should be in there anyway. Don't beat yourself up trying to put every piece together. Forget about it and move on with your life, Joe."

  Joe thought about what Vern said. And he thought about Vern. There was an urgency there Joe couldn't understand and hadn't expected.

  "What about the cooler Ote brought to my house?" Joe asked. "What was in it?"

  Vern brought his hand down on the table with a wet slap. "Again, who the fuck cares?" Vern
asked, reaching over and taking one of Joe's shots.

  "Let it go."

  "I talked to a couple of hunters today who asked me if I knew anything about an endangered species being found in the mountains," Joe said. "They wouldn't elaborate, and I don't know if they were kidding or not."

  "Who were they?" Vern asked. He knew everybody.

  "Hans and Jack."

  "Fuck 'em," Vern said, dismissing them. "Coupla gossipy old hens."

  "I don't know about that," Joe said. "I always thought they were all right."

  "Joe..." Vern sighed. "I've got an obligation to find out and report on it," Joe said. "You know that."

  Vern sneered back. "An obligation to whom?" he asked. "The Wyoming Game and Fish Department? The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service? The Sierra Fucking Club? The president of the United States?"

  "Vern," Joe reasoned. "You know what we're supposed to do if we find something like this. Or even suspect it. And what if it's tied to the outfitter murders in some way?"

  Vern rolled his eyes. He used to do the same thing when he thought Joe had said something incredibly naive. "You know, Joe, what I'm about to say will shock you," Vern said. "But I know good men who have found an endangered species on their land and shot it and buried it without a second thought rather than announce it to the world. I know a rancher over by Cody who cornered some kind of wolverine-type creature that he knew was supposed to be extinct. He blew that little sucker away and fed the pieces to his dogs. That rancher knew that if he had reported it, he would have been kicked off of his own land so that a bunch of bark-beetle elitists could claim they were saving the world."

  One of the men from the stools at the bar weaved near their booth as he made his way toward the bathroom. Vern leaned across the table to Joe and kept his voice down.

  "Do you realize what would happen to this valley if it got out that there might be something in the mountains? Even if it was nothing more than a silly rumor started by a couple of gossipy old hens? Even if there was no more to it than a couple of future Alzheimer's candidates blabbering into the wind? Or even if you, as the game warden, announced that you thought there was something up there?

  "Think of the people who work in the lumber mill," Vern said. "Think of the logging truck drivers, the cowboys, the outfitters, the fishing guides. They'd be unemployed while the Feds roped off the entire valley for the future. Environmentalists from all over the country would move in with their little round glasses and sandals and start giving press conferences on how they're here to protect the innocent little creatures from the ignorant locals. Whether or not anything was ever found up there, the environmentalists would keep things tied up in the courts for decades just so that they can tell their members they're actually doing something with their dues.

  "Third-generation ranchers would lose their ranches. Support people--teachers, retailers, restaurant owners--would lose their jobs or move on eventually. All because Joe Pickett, master game warden extraordinaire, suspects that there might be some rare thing in the mountains.

  "Half the people in this town would hate your guts," Vern said. "Some would lose their jobs. Your cute little girlies would catch all kinds of horrible crap in school. They would bear the brunt of it, Joe, and it would all be your fault."

  Joe found himself breaking his gaze with Vern and looking down at the table, but thinking, Inter West Resources and their pipeline wouldn't do too well either.

  Vern continued, "It might be different if the endangered species laws either made any sense biologically or if they weren't just political mind games. But neither is true. Listen."

  Vern went on to recount how there were more than 950 plants and animals listed as either "endangered" or "threatened" and an additional 4,000 species that were candidates for future listings. And how 20 years and billions of dollars later, fewer than 30 species have come off the "endangered" list. He said the laws were hypocritical, that species considered "cute," like wolves and grizzly bears, fared better than species that were ugly to human eyes, and no rational scientific basis was used. He said he had looked at the numbers and figured out that more than $190 million had been spent on bald eagles, northern spotted owls, red cockaded woodpeckers, grizzly bears, West Indian manatees, Florida scrub jays, and whooping cranes. Then he spoke in broad, global terms and stated that at least 99 percent of all species that had ever lived on earth had become extinct naturally, without man's "interference." Mass extinctions had happened since the dawn of time. Snail darters, Colorado squawfish, spotted owls, and Mount Graham red squirrels wouldn't be missed by anyone or anything.

  "Animals die, Joe," Vern said. "Species go belly up. It happened before the first fish crawled on land and figured out lungs, and it will continue to happen. What gives us the right to be so arrogant that we think we can control what lives and what dies? We aren't as almighty as we like to think when it comes to affecting the real world, the natural world. All of the nuclear bombs on earth have about one ten-thousandth the power of the asteroid that slammed into the planet and killed all of the dinosaurs. What humans can do to change the planet is puny. We're deluding ourselves if we think we're so fucking smart that we can either save or create a species. How do we know that by saving some little dickey bird that we aren't preventing a new and improved dickey bird from evolving? Who do we think we are?" Vern asked.

  "Who the hell are we to take on God?"

  Joe sat back. He felt as though he had been pummeled.

  Vern noted the reaction and, obviously thinking he had persuaded Joe, drank the last shot of bourbon and smiled. "Speaking of God," Vern said. "Have you ever heard of the God Squad?"

  Joe shook his head no. "It's a real thing. I didn't make this up. It's composed of the secretary of interior, the secretary of the army, the secretary of agriculture, and a couple of other guys. It is their job, when it comes down to the nut cutting, to decide which species live or die in the national interest. Can you believe the incredible arrogance of that?"

  Joe and Vern finished their beers in silence. As Joe got up to leave, Vern reached out and held his arm. Their eyes locked. "There is an offer on the table, Joe. The window of opportunity for that job offer is starting to close. If you choose not to take advantage of it, you will be making a mistake."

  Joe was unsure whether he was being advised or threatened.

  "I'll let you know, Vern," Joe said. "Seems like there are a lot of things I need to decide."

  "You'll do the right thing," Vern said, patting Joe on the hand. "You're a good man, Joe, and you'll do the right thing."

  ***

  Sheridan and Lucy named the largest creature the first one they had seen Lucky, the smaller, brown creature Hippity-Hop, and the long, thin creature Elway. They decided the animals were a family, and a happy one. Lucky was the dad, Hippity-Hop was the mom, and Elway was the son. The names, they thought, matched their personalities. And boy, could they eat.

  They ate everything. Not only would they emerge from the woodpile for Cheerios, but they would stuff bits of hot dog, luncheon meat, and vegetables into their cheeks. The only thing they didn't seem to like were jelly beans, and that upset Lucy because she had a whole plastic purse full of them.

  During dinner, Sheridan had learned to hide bits of food in her napkin to take out to the backyard later. Lucy ate all of her dinner, but she would gladly sacrifice her snack because she wasn't much on sweets. Together, while Mom was clearing dishes or talking on the telephone or visiting with Grandmother Missy, Sheridan and Lucy would ask to play in the backyard (the wish was always granted) and then go feed the secret pets.

  Lucky, Hippity-Hop, and Elway weren't silent after all. They could chirp and chatter and make a trilling sound like a muted baby's rattle when they were annoyed or playful. Sheridan sometimes thought the animals were so loud that there was no way Mom or Grandmother Missy wouldn't hear them, but they never seemed to.

  Lucy would eventually give the secret away, Sheridan thought. She was just too little to keep her
mouth shut. Just that evening after dinner Lucy said she wanted to go outside and "feed Lucky." Sheridan explained that Lucky, along with Elway and Hippity Hop, were their imaginary pets. Mom complimented Sheridan for playing so nicely with her little sister. Grandmother Missy beamed at them both.

  When the creatures were done eating or didn't emerge from the logs, Lucy wanted to "play animals" with Sheridan. Sheridan went along, which meant Lucy pretended she was one of the creatures and Sheridan was feeding her. Sheridan would throw imaginary food on the grass and Lucy, a good mimic, would replicate the creatures as they picked up the food in their claws and stuffed it into their cheeks.

  Sheridan knew it wouldn't last. Something would eventually happen. It always did. But while the creatures were alive and playful, and while they just belonged to Sheridan (and Lucy), she would enjoy it. Having the secret and seeing those little faces pop out of the woodpile was a wonderful treat--and something she looked forward to every afternoon on the bus ride home.

  While it lasted, it was magic.

  ***

  Joe Went back to the break lands before sunrise. He drove there in a heavy, wet mist and had to use the four-wheel drive to get to the top of his lookout hill.

  The day broke wet and dark, and the rain increased. The clouds were low and filled the sky, and the water pooled on the slick bentonke clay of the plateaus or created chocolate brown ponds or streams that foamed through draws. The valley was socked in, and from what he could see through his spotting scope, the antelope hunters had stayed in their camps. The roads had already deteriorated and were either marble-slick or mushy, depending on the terrain. He decided to get out of the area while the option was still available. On the way back he winched out a crew of hunters stuck in a ditch and followed them down to the main road.

  Once he reached home, Joe left his boots and yellow slicker in the mudroom, put his hat crown down on his desk, and called Game and Fish Headquarters in Cheyenne and asked for the Wildlife Biology Section. He told a technician about the package he had sent them and asked whether the contents had been examined yet. He was asked to hold.