He was surprised to find another vehicle on top, a red Subaru wagon. County Attorney Dulcie Schalk’s car.
She apparently didn’t hear him coming, because she didn’t turn around as he drove up behind her. She was out of her car, leaning back against the hood, looking out at the wind farm with her arms crossed below her breasts. She wore a red tank top, snug white shorts, and a ponytail cascaded from the back opening of a King Ropes ball cap.
Joe had never seen her on her day off before. Her long tan legs were crossed one over the other. She looked young, athletic, and undeniably attractive.
So that he wouldn’t scare her by suddenly appearing by her side, he tapped his horn as he pulled his truck in behind her car. The sound startled her and she wheeled around, fear and anger in her eyes until she recognized him. She acted as if she’d been caught doing something she was ashamed of, and he wondered what it was.
Joe told Tube to stay inside and climbed out.
“I didn’t expect to find you out here,” he said, fitting his Stetson on his head and ambling up to her. “I’m sorry I surprised you.”
“I was focused on the windmills,” she said, “and that high-pitched sound they make. It’s like you can’t hear anything else except that sound.”
“You should hear ’em when the wind is really blowing,” Joe said. “You’ll think there’s a truck coming at you.”
“There’s always a downside, I guess,” she said, turning around and assuming the pose she’d had when he arrived.
Joe leaned back against the grille of the Subaru next to her and looked out, trying to see what she was focused on. “Downside to what?”
“Every kind of energy development, I guess,” she said.
He thought about what he’d learned from Marybeth, but decided it wasn’t the time to go there.
“I’m just getting it all straight in my mind,” she said by way of explanation, “since things were pretty crazy that day you found the body. I want to make sure it’s clear in my mind where Earl Alden was shot, how far the body was transported, and which turbine he was hoisted up.”
“The one not turning,” Joe said. “They disabled it so the forensics boys could do their thing.”
She looked over, slightly miffed. “I know that,” she said. “I just wonder why Missy chose that particular windmill. It isn’t the closest one from where he was shot. There are eight towers in between.”
Joe rubbed his chin. “I never thought of that. Maybe because the one he was hung from was the most visible from out here. So the body would be sure to be seen.”
“But why?”
“That I couldn’t tell you,” he said.
After a moment, she said, “We really shouldn’t be talking like this. What if someone sees us?”
Joe shrugged. He was wondering that himself.
“I mean, you’ve got a built-in conflict in regard to this case. I’ve told you I can’t confide in you.”
“I know,” Joe said. “And I honor that.”
“I knew you would,” she said. “But I’d rather you were on our side.”
“I’m not on a side,” Joe said. “I’m trying to figure out what happened. What’s true. That doesn’t put me on a side.”
She shook her head and frowned. “I disagree, Joe. I’m the county attorney and I’m presenting a case based on the evidence. You’re trying to prove me wrong.”
He started to argue, but folded his arms across his chest and looked out. He realized they were both standing in the exact same posture now.
He said, “This reminds of a question Bob Lee asked me. What do you see when you look out at that wind farm?”
She started to answer flippantly, but decided it was a serious question. “I see the future of America,” she said. “For better or worse. I know that sounds corny.”
Joe pursed his lips, looked out, considered what she said.
“Do you think they’re beautiful?” he asked.
“The wind turbines?”
“Yup.”
“I guess so. They’re graceful-looking. They gleam in the sun, even if they make that annoying sound.”
He nodded. “If those same machines out there were pumping out oil or gas or if they were nuclear generators, would they still be as beautiful in your eyes?”
“Joe, what’s your point?” she asked, slightly exasperated.
“Like you,” he said, “I’m trying to get things straight in my mind. I wonder if things are beautiful because of where a person sits.”
She glared at him. “I don’t want to get distracted right now, Joe. I’ve got a murder case to win and I don’t want to have this discussion.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m just suggesting that it’s easy to look at something and see what you want to see when somebody else, say, could look at the same thing and see something else.”
“What’s your point?” she asked again.
He shrugged.
“Are you talking about windmills, or are you saying I might have blinders on concerning your mother-in-law’s guilt? That maybe we should be looking elsewhere for Earl Alden’s killer?”
Joe didn’t answer directly but nodded toward the wind farm. “A little of both, I guess.”
“No,” she said heatedly. “This is why you shouldn’t have come up here. This is why we shouldn’t have talked. You’re trying to steer me somewhere I don’t want to go.”
He said, “Dulcie, I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”
“You’re making me a little uncomfortable,” she said. “We should go.”
He said, “Yup.”
In the early evening, as Joe worked his way back home via back roads and two-tracks, he cruised up Main Street in Saddlestring toward the river bridge. The air was still and sultry, and a few revelers poured out of the Stockman’s as he passed by, beer bottles in their hands. He glanced over to see who they were but didn’t identify them as locals. They were thirty-somethings, three men and two women. The men had facial hair and baggy pants, and the women wore cargo shorts with river sandals.
One of the men, in a black oversized polo shirt with a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes, looked up as Joe drove by, and for a moment their eyes locked.
A bolt of recognition shot through Joe, and he tapped on his brakes.
The man broke off and quickly looked down. His companions called after him as he turned abruptly and walked stiff-legged back in the bar.
“Shamazz, what the fuck?” one of the women said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
24
Johnny Cook and Drennen O’Melia were outside of Farson and Eden in west central Wyoming doing meth and getting their ashes hauled. They’d been there most of the week. Their plan, for a while, was to go west to California or at least as far as Las Vegas. But they hadn’t even made it to the Utah border.
It was that green sign saying they’d entered the tiny town of Eden that held them up. Who, Johnny had asked, wouldn’t want to stop and have a beer in a place called Eden?
Johnny was taking a break. He slumped in a director’s chair someone had set up outside between clumps of sagebrush about fifty yards from the trailers and smoked a cigarette and drank a can of beer. Although the sun was moving in on the top of the Wind River Mountains in the distance, it was still warm out and Johnny didn’t know where his shirt or pants were, which trailer, so he sat there in his straw cowboy hat, boxers, and boots with a pistol across his bare knees. He knew he looked awesome without a shirt, so he didn’t mind.