Joe took his flashlight from his belt and shined it through the window into Hans' face. Hans twitched and absently rubbed his mouth, not yet aware of what was annoying him. When he finally looked up, he jumped and nearly stumbled back into the bestsellers. Joe turned the flashlight on himself so Hans could see him, and he held his badge to the window. Hans stood thinking it over, his chin in his hand, then motioned Joe around to the backdoor.
"I probably shouldn't let you in," Hans said as he unlocked the door in the alley.
"Bill Barrett told me never under any circumstances to let anyone in the store after hours, even him. There's all kinds of narcotics and stuff in the pharmacy."
Joe thanked him and brushed by.
"It's official state Game and Fish Department business," Joe answered. "It's lucky you were here."
Hans grunted and locked the door after them. "I gotta tell Bill Barrett about this."
"That's fine," Joe said, walking through the store to the photo counter.
"Hope you don't mind if I vacuum," Hans said. "I went hunting with Jack this afternoon, and I'm running late. Got a buck, though. Finally. Missed a nicer one. You can ask Jack about it."
"Hans, I've got to ask you something." Hans stopped and stared at Joe. His hands shook. Joe could tell that Hans was trying to recall anything he might have done recently that could be a violation of the Game and Fish regulations.
"Don't worry," Joe assured him. "You haven't done anything wrong that I'm aware of."
Hans continued to shake.
"Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when I drove up on you and Jack after you got that pronghorn buck?"
Hans nodded his head yes.
"You asked me about whether or not I had heard of an endangered species in the mountains. Do you remember that?"
Hans nodded again.
"What do you know about it?" Joe asked. His voice was firm.
"Nothing," Hans said. "Honestly. We just heard rumors. You know, bar talk. Somebody said somebody else had found something up there."
"Who found it?"
"Somebody said it was Clyde Lidgard," Hans said.
"Vacuum away," Joe said, waving his hand. He slipped behind the counter and slid out the oversize drawer that held envelopes of developed pictures. The envelopes where alphabetized by name. Joe quickly leafed through them, finding the packets filed under "I ." He found Lawton, Livingston, Layborn, Lane, and Lomiller. But he didn't find what he was looking for. Across the store, Hans fired up the vacuum cleaner. Joe slammed the drawer shut and said, "Shit!" But Hans was oblivious.
There was a stupidly simple reason, Joe thought, why Clyde Lidgard had no photos in his trailer from the two months leading up to the outfitter murders: he had not picked them up yet from the pharmacy after they'd been developed. But somebody apparently had. Maybe, Joe thought with a grimace, he was about ten steps behind everybody else just as he had been since this whole thing had started.
But maybe not.
He pulled open The drawer again and went to the back. Beyond "XYZ" he found a tab file that said "Unclaimed." In the file there were ten envelopes. Three of those were slated for pickup by Clyde Lidgard.
Joe ripped the first envelope open and slid the photos out onto the counter.
They looked familiar: blurred, off-kilter snapshots of trees, clouds, Clyde's penis, a manhole cover. Then he saw what he was looking for. There were dozens of them.
***
The Stockman's Bar had been closed since two, but Joe drove by it just in case before he proceeded to the Holiday Inn at the edge of town. He parked under the motel's registration sign, clamped on his hat, and went in.
Like all night clerks and auditors, the man behind the desk was jumpy. He wore a greasy ponytail and thick horn-rimmed glasses. His eyes, magnified through the lenses, were enormous. He slammed a Penthouse magazine shut in a night auditing folder but not quickly enough that Joe didn't see it as he approached.
Joe introduced himself and showed his badge. He said a package was supposed to be sent to him at the hotel in care of Vern Dunnegan. He said he had tried to call to check on it but couldn't get through.
"Phones are out all over town," the night clerk said. "We can't get in or out."
Joe watched carefully as the clerk used his finger to go down the registry. His finger stopped on room 238.
"I can't see a note for any package," he said.
"Can you check please?" he asked.
"It should have come in today. Maybe it's still in the back."
The night clerk clucked to himself and excused himself for a minute. The door behind the desk swung closed after him. Quickly, Joe jumped up and sat on the counter. He reached across the night clerk's desk and slid out the drawer. There were two extra keys for room 238.
Joe took one of them.
Joe scanned the small office as he waited impatiently for the night clerk to return without a package. He noted the small plastic sign stuck to the wall under the clock, informing all guests that for their convenience, their room key would open the back door of the motel as well as the door to their rooms. The man finally reappeared, apologized, and Joe said good night. Once outside, Joe jumped into the pickup, wheeled around to the side wing of the motel and parked near the exit door. Using the key, he entered and took the staircase steps two at a time.
Two-thirty-four, two-thirty-six, two-thirty-eight. No one in the hallway. Joe pulled the Velcro safety strap from around the hammer of his .357 magnum and turned the key in the lock. He stepped inside and shut the door after him. No lights were on.
Joe stood still for a moment, waiting until the objects in the room gradually took shape around him. It was a suite with a wet bar and some stools. A dark couch with clothes piled on it. Buckaroo prints mounted on the walls. A large-screen television. Two interior doors that he guessed led either to the bathroom or to the bedroom. Someone coughed, and he turned toward the room on the left. He walked across the carpet and eased the door open.
It smelled of stale bourbon and cigarette smoke inside. He couldn't see anyone, but he could sense there was more than one person in the bed. Pointing the revolver toward the bed with his right hand, he searched the wall in back of him with his left for the light switch.
Table lamps on either side of the bed came on, and Joe swung the revolver around until the front sight was squarely on Vern Dunnegan's sweaty forehead. Vern had thrashed in the sheets when the lights came on but was now sitting up in bed staring dumbly at the big black hole of the muzzle. An older, skinny woman with streaked blond hair clutched the blanket to her mouth. Her eyes were smudged with liner on the outside and road-mapped with red inside. She muffled a squeal.
"Joe, for Christ's sake," Vern said, his voice choked with sleep and anger. "What in the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for you," Joe said. "And I found you."
The woman was beside herself. She was trembling and looking from Joe to Vern.
"What's your name, ma'am?"Joe asked. He recognized her as a barmaid at the Stockman's Bar.
"Evelyn Wolters."
"Evelyn," Joe said. "If you don't get out of that bed right now, you're going to have Vern Dunnegan's brain splattered all over you."
Evelyn Wolters shrieked and dove out from the covers. She had long pendulous breasts that swung from side to side as she scooped up her clothing from the floor.
"Evelyn, do you know Sheriff Barnum?" Joe asked.
She nodded her head yes very quickly.
"Good. Then get your clothes on and get in your car and drive over to his house as soon as you can. Tell him to get out to Joe Pickett's house right away with every deputy he can find. Can you do that?"