They heard Nyland’s sharp warning to the men to stay back, saw his light sweep through the brush below the bait pile, heard a sharp crack of a rifle shot. The moaning stopped. The voices of Sweeney and his friend, their excitement, the adrenaline release, carried up the slope as they reached the bait pile. Alvarez lifted the camcorder and recorded Sweeney’s putting another bullet in the bear lying there.
“You ready?” Marquez asked, and as Alvarez nodded, Marquez radioed Shauf to bring the other wardens up, to get ready.
“Bobby’s coming your way with an ice chest,” she said.
“Okay, we see him.”
Bobby Broussard went past them, half sliding on the dry grass, carrying a cooler. Below, Nyland skinned the bear at the bait pile. They heard Sweeney giving Nyland advice and watched as the gallbladder was removed, dropped in the cooler, the hide cut off and folded. Bobby was given the bloody task of humping it back up while Nyland went to skin the other bear.
“Bring everyone in,” Marquez told Shauf.
Bobby brought the first skin to the road and went back for the other as Nyland started up with the cooler. Marquez and Alvarez climbed back up the slope, waiting near the lip of the road as Nyland crested it.
Sweeney and his friend wouldn’t be a problem. Nyland was the one to watch. Sweeney and friend stood catching their breath at the road’s edge, moonlight on their faces, looking down at where they’d hunted, savoring the moment, while Nyland and Bobby loaded the vehicles, bloody hides going in Bobby’s rig, Nyland in a hurry to leave. Sweeney play-punched his friend on the shoulder, talking loudly to him, made brave by the excitement of the kill.
“Did you see that bear drop?”
“Aw, come on, you had to put another one in him.”
“Big damn bruin, isn’t he?”
“He’s big all right.”
“He’s the biggest goddamned bruin I’ve ever seen in this state.”
“I’ve seen bigger in the backyard at my cabin.”
“The hell you have.”
They both laughed, and Nyland walked over. His parka was bloody and nothing the other men wanted to be too near.
“Guess I need to wash up,” Nyland said, and Marquez gave the signal. A powerful halogen light shone on Nyland’s face, and voices rose, calling out, “Fish and Game! Fish and Game! No one move!” The uniform wardens closed in, Marquez and Alvarez coming over the road lip with their masks on. Cairo stepped out from behind Bobby’s pickup, gun drawn, and the uniform wardens already had Nyland and Bobby lying down, faces turned toward the darkness, getting Mirandized. Nyland got cuffed and loaded into one of the warden trucks.
Then from the other end of Weber Mill, a mile or more away, a horn honked a warning and Shauf chuckled, said, “A little late,” assuming it was one of the guys standing guard trying to warn Nyland. Then, just as he got his rights read to him, Sweeney, who’d said nothing and been docile, jerked free of the warden holding him and vaulted over the road lip, tumbling as he landed on the steep grassy slope. Flashlight beams tracked him and he looked comic, except that as he arrested the slide he ignored the called warnings to stop and soon disappeared downhill into darkness.
“He must have a phone on him,” Marquez said. “Heading for the highway. Let’s get everyone except his friend out of here.”
They watched the wardens back out with Nyland and Bobby Broussard, and when they were gone Marquez walked across and questioned Sweeney’s companion.
“What’s your friend’s name?” Marquez asked.
“I’m not going to give any information, officer. I’m sorry.”
“At least give me a first name so we can talk to him. He’s making a dangerous mistake.”
“Are you threatening him with violence?”
“No, sir, we’re going to try to talk him off the slope with a bullhorn unless you think you can do that. If he’s still there at daylight, we’ll get a helicopter and dogs. That’ll bring the media, so you’re not doing him any favors by holding his name and you might be putting him in danger. Is he armed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do me one better than that.”
“There’s no way he’d shoot at you.”
Marquez looked away from him now. He looked past the man down the dirt road and saw Shauf walking toward them. She carried the cooler that Bobby had brought up. Her hands were bloody, and she showed Sweeney’s friend two bloody gallbladders in plastic bags laid out on ice. Marquez fished one of the bags out and held it up close to the man’s face.
“Your friend has run from a felony arrest.”
“What are you talking about?” Now he put it together. “That’s the goddamned guide who cut those out. As a matter of fact, we didn’t shoot anything. The guide shot the damned bear. He’s the one with the tag.”
“There’s no tag.”
From behind him, Alvarez added, “We videotaped you.”
“Maybe I took a shot but I didn’t hit anything, and my friend didn’t have time to shoot.”
“We have videotape and audio of him bragging about your kill.”
“You people are too heavy-handed.” He stared at Marquez, showing a little steel now. “You could ruin your career. You’re making a mistake you don’t understand.”
“You’re not helping your friend.” Marquez turned his back on the man and said quietly to Shauf, “I’ll go get him. He’s not armed.”
He checked his watch. There were still four hours before dawn, but Sweeney might not have gone any farther than the bait pile or where they’d skinned the second bear. If Sweeney was there, Marquez figured he could talk him up. He touched Shauf on the shoulder.
“Get the documentation done, then pull out.” He turned to Sweeney’s friend again, asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a lawyer and I promise you if anything illegal was done here, it’s the guide who’s the problem.”
“Your friend ran from an arrest. You’re a lawyer, you know what that means and you probably understand he’s not going to escape. It makes a lot of sense to give me his name before I go looking for him.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Are you his personal lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Then when I find him I’ll tell him he needs a new one.”
31
The bait area reeked with the smells of rotting fish and chicken. Marquez shone the light on the skinned carcass, then knelt near bear tracks, making his presence known by moving the light around. It was important that Sweeney saw him coming. Not that he expected a problem but still didn’t want to frighten him. He turned and spoke toward the dark trees and brush below.
“If you’re here and you’re listening, you want to give yourself up. Come on up and we’ll forget you ran. You can ride in with me.”
After waiting a couple of minutes Marquez moved down the slope and tried it again. He found the second bear, saw Nyland had done a rushed job skinning it.
“If you hear me, give me a yell and we’ll talk.”
His flashlight beam skimmed broken grass, followed it across the slope, and he radioed Shauf before starting across the slope.
“I think I see the direction he ran. How are you doing up there?”
“The lawyer is still threatening us, but he’s about to take the ride to the county jail.” Marquez had the feeling the lawyer could hear her talking. “I’m about to drop down to the bait pile. Any luck yet?”
“No.”
She said the county had set up a perimeter to catch Sweeney and Marquez saw the police flashers below. Sweeney must see them too, but Marquez also knew they wouldn’t be able to hold the county along the shoulder of Highway 50 indefinitely, at least not this kind of presence. He read the long strides Sweeney had made without light, running as though afraid for his life. He followed the tracks across to a stand of oaks, listening for movement, knowing Sweeney saw flashlight. Under the trees it was easy to track him. Sweeney had gone steeply downhill, heels gashing the soil, then cutting sideways. He must have rested here in the trees. Several of the county cruisers parked on the highway shoulder below pulled away, sirens sounding as they accelerated. Marquez’s phone rang. It was Roberts below with the county officers.