‘I’ll be here.’
Marquez didn’t have Anderson’s recent photo of Stoval, but Katherine said an image of a man faxed through last night late. It woke her up. By now, he figured, Kath had faxed it to the Fish and Game office in town. He and Muller stopped there before driving out to Thompson’s house.
Turned out Thompson lived out in the desert near Benton. The asbestos-shingled house couldn’t offer much protection from the cold winds sweeping this gap in the winter. A couple of vehicles, a Chevy pickup with a high wheel base and an old Volkswagen Jetta, sat in the front yard. The Jetta’s tires had rotted and the car had settled on to the rims. Inside the house was a new flat screen TV, an ancient couch, and a dining table someone had carved their initials in. A big Mackinaw trout and two deer heads were mounted on the wall. Marquez looked through the window and across the highway where the long alluvial plain rose toward the White Mountains. When he looked back, Thompson stood as he had in the sketch, a bandy-legged man with a barrel chest. He folded his arms now as Marquez dropped it on him.
‘Someone ID’ed you dumping a bighorn head out in the sage a couple of miles from Independence.’
‘You’ve got the wrong guy. I haven’t been to Independence in months.’
‘You thought you were alone when you dumped the bighorn head, but a local recognized you. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Who saw me?’
‘I’m not going to give you a name yet, but we are going to give you a choice. You’ve got the choice of talking to us about your client and the hunt, or trying to bluff us. If you help us, it’ll probably go a lot better for you, because we’ve got everything, the black Range Rover, the carcasses of the bighorn, everything. You made a very real mistake and now the question is whether you want it to get worse.’
Thompson rubbed the back of his neck and frowned at Marquez.
‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m telling you the truth, warden.’
‘Then we’ll take your word.’
Marquez shook his hand and glanced at Muller. Muller didn’t get it. His eyes showed his confusion, but he rolled with it, hid his feelings and they walked out.
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘ He’s scared,’ Marquez said as soon as they were outside. ‘Give me binoculars and drop me as soon as we’re out of sight of his house.’
‘What do you think is going to happen?’
‘If he’s got something to hide he’ll do it as soon as we’re gone.’
Marquez took binoculars with him. Thompson should be patient, watch the road and give them time to get back to Bishop, but no way he was buying the handshake and sorry we bothered you. At least that’s what Marquez was betting as he got out of Muller’s truck.
Near Thompson’s house there was little cover, sage, desert grasses, a scattering of other houses and buildings, a shack behind the next door neighbor’s house that Marquez hid behind now. He settled in. He called Muller and let him know where he was. Half an hour later Thompson came out of the house and walked to the Volkswagen Jetta settling into the side yard. He looked around before unlocking the trunk. A hinge squeaked as the trunk lid went up and Marquez saw Thompson cradling something reasonably heavy and wrapped in a blue blanket. He carried it over to his truck and put it on the floor behind the driver’s seat as Marquez called Muller.
‘OK, he’s moved something wrapped in a blanket from the trunk of the Jetta over to his truck. Close in, let’s do this. It looks like he’s getting ready to leave.’
If Thompson left he could be in Nevada in minutes and Marquez doubted he’d get okayed to follow. Not without knowing what Thompson had in the truck. And even if they did get it, they’d be in Muller’s Fish and Game rig, so that was a bust.
‘On my way,’ Muller said.
‘Come in slow and park so he can’t back out. Get out with your camcorder in your hand and we’ll try to bluff him. I’m walking down now.’
Marquez threaded through the sage. He walked up as Thompson’s back was to him and Thompson lifted a small suitcase over on to the passenger seat.
‘Planning a trip?’ Marquez asked, and Thompson jumped then quickly recovered and said matter-of-factly, ‘This is private property, warden.’
‘Yeah, and that’s a zoological preserve up on Mount Williamson.’
Muller pulled up now and eased up behind Thompson’s bumper. He got out with one hand holding his camcorder and the other resting on his gun holster.
‘Game over, Nate,’ Marquez said. ‘We videotaped you getting the horns out of the trunk.’
Thompson looked from Marquez to Muller. His face said Marquez was right. His plea was to Muller.
‘Warden, you know that my sister died of cancer last winter. It’s her boy I’ve got to raise. Everyone knows that.’
‘Then, if you care at all about the boy,’ Marquez said, ‘get the horns out right now.’
If not for his nephew, Marquez doubted Thompson would have done it. He unfolded the blanket on his truck hood.
‘I was going to sell them and put the money in a college account for the boy.’
They were white-yellow with the half-moon curve and striations of bighorn. Marquez ran his finger along the horn. ‘What did you cut them off with?’
‘A battery-powered surgical saw he had. It’s for amputating in wars.’
‘Who is he, your client?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marquez turned one of the horns in his hands. He felt the weight of it. Thompson confessed that his plan was to take the horns to Los Angeles where he knew a broker who could sell them. But neither the horns nor his confession got them any closer to identifying Thompson’s client, and it soon became obvious that Thompson wasn’t just trying to protect the man.
‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ Thompson said. ‘I was just a mule to him.’
‘When he left here where did he go?’
Thompson pointed toward Nevada. ‘Drove off that way.’
‘I’m going to show you an old photo,’ Marquez said, and then borrowed Muller’s keys and retrieved the charcoal sketch the Round Valley artist made and the faxed photo Anderson had sent. He studied the photo again and felt heat rise to his face and saw Billy Takado in the late afternoon in the bull ring. If Thompson recognized the photo his decision to join Desault’s task force would be made.
‘Where did you get that?’ Thompson asked after picking it up and squinting at it.
‘Is that him?’
Thompson nodded. He stared at Marquez.
‘Oh, yeah, that’s Maitland.’
When they left Thompson they drove back to Alice Durrell’s house. They found her in the studio. She didn’t look at the photo for more than a second before saying, ‘That’s him, and you’re better off not looking for him.’
‘Don’t worry, Alice, we can handle him,’ Muller said.
‘Of course, you can.’
She studied Marquez’s eyes, smiled a sad smile, touched his arm, and then turned back to her studio.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Marquez pulled off on to the road shoulder near Mammoth Lakes Airport. He called Desault.
‘Stoval was here and he may be in Vegas now. It’s worth checking.’
‘Why Vegas?’
Marquez recounted Terri Delgado’s story of being invited along on the hunt that would end with a long weekend in Las Vegas. He went slowly through the chain of events with Desault.
‘Where are you?’ Desault asked.
‘North of Bishop at Mammoth Lakes. I’m on my way home. Stoval is traveling under an alias. Patrick Maitland. M-A-I-T-L-A-N-D.’
‘OK, I got it.’
‘He hired a local guide down here named Nate Thompson and shot two bighorn sheep on the Mount Williamson Zoological Preserve. He used the name Patrick Maitland with both the guide and the woman that tipped us. Anderson faxed me a photo I showed them and both ID’ed him.’
‘If he’s traveling under an alias I can hold him. If I can prove it, I can keep him out of the country. How do I reach the woman with the Vegas story?’