“That’ll be enough,” Underwood said wearily, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to locate the offending agent.
Joe kept his senses turned on high and tried to fight back mental threads that kept intruding from within, so he could concentrate on the situation before him. Although Underwood had no doubt been given coordinates for his handheld GPS of where the call from Butch had originated-and they certainly knew where the drone had gone down-Joe couldn’t simply relax and ride. Butch Roberson had sounded angry and desperate, and he’d shot Dave Farkus in cold blood, leaving a body count of three over three days in August. Butch was also on much more intimate terms with the terrain and secrets of the mountain they were on than he was.
Joe guessed that Butch had likely figured out that the first thing they’d do was ask Joe to lead them to where he last saw him. It was logical. Therefore, Butch probably guessed that Joe was with a contingent of law enforcement and not sitting around with Julio Batista. Joe thought Butch might traverse the summit and set up an ambush Joe would lead them right into.
After being told by Underwood that the agreement to provide a helicopter was a ruse and Joe wouldn’t be on it like Butch had demanded, Joe considered simply turning back. He would gladly leave the team of agents to their own devices, riding unfamiliar horses over unfamiliar terrain in an unfamiliar state. There would be consequences for Joe with Lisa Greene-Dempsey, of course. It could give her the excuse to withdraw the job offer and cut him loose. It would set an example to all the other game wardens in the field.
And if he lost his job at the same time they were recovering from the lost opportunity of the Saddlestring Hotel. .
There was the very life of Butch Roberson to consider. Joe thought Butch deserved the right to make his case before a court, even if the result was as inevitable. Butch should be allowed to shine some light on what drove him into such desperation, and when he was sent to prison or destined for the needle, he could perhaps attract enough attention and outrage that it couldn’t happen to anyone else again. If nothing else, Joe thought, Butch deserved that. And the only way he might get it, given the single-minded determination of Batista, was if Joe could be along to somehow circumvent Butch’s death on the mountain.
So he stayed. And with every mile, he felt more and more trapped by a career and a set of values and a mission he wasn’t sure he could believe in anymore.
As they rode through clearings, he checked his phone for a signal, but he didn’t get one. Joe wanted to let Marybeth know where he was and why, and see how she was doing. He hoped Sheriff Reed thought to call her. He hated not being in contact. Bad things often happened when they weren’t in contact.
When the trees thinned and Joe could sense the end of the tree line beneath the summit, he sidestepped Toby so Underwood would catch up and they could ride parallel. Underwood looked over at him with obvious suspicion.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Joe said.
“Depends.”
“We can ride up ahead if you want, so we’re out of earshot of your guys.”
Underwood’s eyes narrowed into a squint as he considered it, then he shrugged and turned in his saddle and said to his team, “Wait here for a few minutes. We’re going to scout a path over the top.”
The agents pulled up and were soon forty yards behind them. Not far enough, though, that Joe couldn’t hear them complain.
“I can’t say I blame them,” Underwood said to Joe. “This isn’t the kind of thing they’re trained for. Those guys are trained to storm into buildings and secure evidence of pollution and noncompliance and crap like that. They don’t get any instruction on riding horses or doing this cowboy Wild West bullshit in the middle of nowhere.”
Joe nodded. He was surprised at Underwood’s tone. It was soft and coconspiratorial, if not exactly friendly. As if they were all on the same stupid exercise together.
“Okay, what?” Underwood asked Joe. “I’ll listen to your questions, but don’t expect me to answer ’em. No offense, but you’re nothing to me. You’re just another redneck local from the sticks.”
“Gotcha,” Joe said. “I guess you missed those sensitivity meetings the Feds are always holding.”
“I didn’t miss ’em,” Underwood said. “I just don’t give a shit.”
Joe took a deep breath, trying to keep on track. He said, “I work for a state bureaucracy, and you work for the Feds. I’ve got a pretty good idea how slow things go for the most part. Getting government employees to take action isn’t usually the fastest thing in the world. It’s like trying to make an aircraft carrier make a sharp turn around.”
Underwood shrugged, as if the statement was so obvious it didn’t require any more response.
“So how is it,” Joe asked, “that two agents of the EPA out of Denver would jump in their car and drive four hundred miles north to jump a landowner the day he starts to move dirt? Nothing happens that fast.”
Underwood snorted but didn’t look over. He said, “It is a little. . unusual.”
Joe waited for more.
“I already told you I’m not going to answer every question.”
“That tells me something right there,” Joe said. Then: “How long have you worked for Julio Batista?”
“I don’t work for Julio Batista,” Underwood said. “I just go to work. He just happens to be the director of the regional division right now. There have been assholes before him, and there’ll be other assholes who come after.”
Underwood sighed. “When I transferred out of the Defense Department a few years ago I looked around for a soft landing-some place where I could take it easy until retirement. So I thought-the EPA. Denver. They’re harmless, I thought. I could just ride out my days. That’s before we got this new director.”
When Joe looked over, puzzled, Underwood said, “You want to know who I work for?”
“Sure.”
There was a slight smile on Underwood’s face when he said, “I work for my pension, and my insurance, and my accrued vacation and sick time. I work for me. I show up and do whatever I have to do to get through another day. I don’t give a shit what I have to do as long as those things are protected.”
Joe shook his head.
“What?” Underwood said, mocking Joe’s disbelief. “You expected me to say what? That I work for the American people? That I’m saving the goddamned environment? Is that what you expected? Look, I live in a great condo in LoDo with a view of Coors Field, where I’ve got season tickets for the Rockies. I have a time share in Boca. I’ve got a hot babe up the road in Evergreen and another babe in Florida who doesn’t know anything about the one in Evergreen. That’s what I work for. I could give a shit about everything else, including you or Julio Batista.
“Look,” Underwood said, “I grew up in a little podunk town in Colorado near Glenwood Springs. My parents had a florist shop-Underwood Flowers. I watched them get up every morning at six, go to work, and not get home until eight or later. Seven days a fucking week, because people need flowers for all kinds of things. They worked their asses off and never took vacations. They thought they were building the business for me-thinking I’d take it over when I graduated from college. But that was never in my plans, you know? Why would I want to bust my ass for the rest of my life like they did? I could see the writing on the wall, and I wanted to live my life for me. I didn’t want to be chained to some mom-and-pop store in the middle of nowhere.”
Underwood looked over his shoulder toward the distant team of special agents.
“I don’t know those guys very well,” he said, “but if you asked them the same question, I’d guess you’d get pretty much the same answer.”