Joe wished Pope would stop crying. It made Joe feel cruel and awful, and he tried to shut Pope's suffering out. But his effort was in vain. Despite the things Pope had done and not done to exacerbate the crimes committed, Joe couldn't help but have sympathy for the man he'd handcuffed and offered up to the killer. Even Pope was a human being, although a diabolical and deeply flawed example of one. He didn't know how long he could let this go on before he rose and dug in his pocket for the key to the cuffs.
But the feeling of the presence shoved his feelings aside. He raised his binoculars to his eyes and focused on the ridge across the meadow.
As he did, Nate clicked on the handheld.
Joe momentarily ignored the chirp and focused his binoculars on the top of the ridge and saw a slight movement. It was quick: the dull glint of a gun barrel behind a knuckle of rock.
Nate said, "I've got a visual."
Joe pulled up the handheld from where it hung around his neck on a lanyard, said softly, "Me too."
Nate said, "He just came out of the timber and he's walking across the side of a meadow headed in your direction. Looks like he's got a rifle. ETA is ten minutes."
Joe was confused, and leaned into the binoculars. He could see no further movement, and certainly no one walking toward him.
"Nate, where do you see him?"
"To the east, about a mile from you. It's Klamath Moore coming your way."
Joe felt his chest clutch. Then who was up there on the ridge? SHERIFF MCLANAHAN was exhausted. He stopped every ten to fifteen minutes to rest, falling farther behind his team of volunteers who were on foot, spread through the timber up ahead of him, sweeping the mountainside. He decided that as of tomorrow he would either suspend the investigation or at least not participate in the physical part of it. He was getting too damned old and out of shape for this, he thought. Besides, despite the enthusiasm from his boys for camping out, hiking in the woods with guns, and the horseplay in the camp at night, they hadn't found a damned thing and the shooter was still at large. McLanahan doubted the shooter was even in the state anymore.
So when his radio crackled, he was in no hurry to reach for it.
"I just cut a fresh track," someone said. McLanahan recognized the voice of Chris Urman.
"Where are you at?" It was Deputy Reed.
"Right here. See me? I'm waving my arm."
"Oh, okay. On my way."
"Oh shit," Urman said. "I see somebody up ahead. On the game trail."
A pause. McLanahan felt a trill and reached down for his radio as Reed came on, his voice excited: "I see him! I see him!"
The sheriff said, "Stay calm, boys, I'm on my way. Don't lose sight of him."
McLanahan holstered the radio, took a deep breath, and began to jog up the hill, his gear slapping him as it bounced. NATE ROMANOWSKI peered through the scope of the.454, surprised that Klamath Moore was in the open. Moore skirted a small meadow, a break in the timber, the wall of dark pine on his left. Nate could see him clearly. Yes, Klamath had a rifle slung over his back. He appeared to be tracking someone because his head was down, not up. As Nate watched, Klamath unslung his rifle and held it in front of him at parade rest as he walked.
In Nate's peripheral vision there was a dull flash of clothing through the timber to the side of where Klamath was in the meadow. Nate quickly swung the.454 away from Klamath into the trees. Through branches and breaks in the timber, Nate saw the heads and shoulders of several men moving toward Klamath. Nate frowned and brought his radio up to his mouth when he recognized McLanahan's heavy-bodied gait and familiar battered cowboy hat.
Klamath Moore suddenly froze and turned toward the rushing group of men, and a beat later Nate heard a shout-the reason Klamath had wheeled.
Nate almost cried out as Klamath raised his weapon, pointing it at the men in the trees, when a crackling volley of shots punched through the air and Klamath collapsed in the grass.
Nate keyed the mike. "Jesus-they shot him. Klamath Moore is down! It's McLanahan and his guys."
Four men, led by Chris Urman, appeared in the meadow, cautiously circling Klamath Moore's body.
"Joe," Nate said, "they got him. He's down and he looks deader than hell from here."
Nate lowered his weapon. He could see McLanahan clearly now, wheezing his way across the meadow toward the body of Klamath Moore, who was surrounded by Chris Urman and other volunteers. Somebody whooped.
Nate said, "Joe? Did you hear me?"
He heard Joe's voice, tight and forced. "I heard you."
"Are you okay?"
"No."
"What's happening?"
"The shooter is coming down the hill toward Pope."
Nate looked at his radio for a second, then shook it. "Come again?"
"Oh my God," Joe Pickett said. "No." THE SHOTS in the woods behind me sent a bolt of fear up my spine. So many shots, so quickly. I drop to a knee and thumb the safety off my rifle, anticipating more fire that doesn't come. Who was it-hunters? The number of shots reminds me of when a group of hunters come upon a herd of elk-that furious fire as the herd breaks and runs. Is it possible there are hunters up here despite the moratorium? And if so, why didn't I see their camp or cross their tracks?
I wonder if it had to do with my earlier sense of being followed. The sheriff has men up here, I know. But they're incompetent. Maybe they circled in on themselves. Maybe I just heard friendly fire.
Or maybe Klamath followed me and got caught. I briefly close my eyes. It makes sense. He's always been suspicious of me, and the way he looked at me today when I excused myself-yes, it's possible. But there is no way to know for sure until later.
No matter. This was never about Klamath, despite what he thinks. Because in his world, everything is about Klamath Moore. Not this, though. This is about bestowing dignity and righting wrongs. Klamath just happens to be breathing the same air.
I look up. Randy Pope is within a hundred feet but somehow he has not seen me yet. His head is down, chin on his chest, arms behind his back. What is he doing?
The shots and Randy Pope's demeanor and appearance unnerve me. I abandon my plans to cape him. Simply killing him-killing the last one and stopping this-will have to be enough. It will be enough.
I rise and walk toward him, striding quickly. I could easily take him from here but I want him to see me. I want to be the last person he ever sees and the last thought he ever has in his mind. "OH MY God," Joe said. "No."
He watched Shenandoah Yellowcalf Moore approach Randy Pope down the length of his shotgun barrel. She wore cargo pants, gloves, a fleece sweater, and a daypack. Her expression was tight and willful, the same face he had seen in the yearbook photos as she drove to the basket past taller players. The breeze licked at her long black hair flowing out beneath a headband. As he looked at her his heart thumped, making his shotgun twitch; his hands were cold and wet and his stomach roiled.
And suddenly, things clicked into place:
She'd been at the airport to greet her husband, Klamath, meaning she'd been in the area prior to his arrival, when Frank Urman was killed.
While Klamath's movements throughout the hunting season had been accounted for-mostly-by Bill Gordon, there had been no mention of Shenandoah's travels.
She knew the state, the back roads and hunting areas from traveling with her team and later as a hunting guide.
She knew how to track, how to hunt, how to kill and process game.
She had a motive.
It fit, but he wanted no part of this. He'd been convinced the Wolverine was Klamath himself or one of his followers working under Klamath's direction.
"Nate," Joe said, speaking softly into the radio, "I need your help down here."
"It'll take me at least five minutes."