“That’s great,” Joe said. “Who is the individual?”
“Mr. Templeton. He owns half this county.”
Joe felt a thump in his chest as he nodded. “I’ve heard of him. Good guy?”
“A goddamned saint. If it wasn’t for him—” Latta began, but then cut himself off. “Enough about Emily,” he said roughly.
“I was asking about Mr. Templeton.”
Latta’s deadeye cop stare returned, and he trained it on Joe long enough for Joe to feel uncomfortable again.
Latta said, “I hope he’s not why you’re up here, Joe.”
Joe could tell by Latta’s tone that he was done talking for the night — that maybe he’d said more than he intended to. Since they’d be together over the next few days, Joe didn’t want to push Latta out of his comfort zone. Yet.
“Well,” Latta said, sitting back and helping himself to a fifth beer while Joe still nursed his first, “I better get going. I’ve got paperwork to fill out for the new damned director, and Emily ought to be home.”
Joe nodded.
“Let’s meet tomorrow for breakfast in Sundance at the Longabaugh at seven-thirty,” Latta said.
He slid clumsily out of the booth and stood up. He wobbled slightly but steadied himself in a well-practiced way. Jim Latta wouldn’t be the first game warden he’d met who had a problem with alcohol. And given the circumstances of his life, Joe thought he could forgive the man.
“Yeah,” Latta said. “I’d like you to come see the house and meet Emily before you have to go back to the Bighorns in a few days.”
“I’ll cover the beers,” Joe said.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Happy to.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Latta said, clamping on his hat.
“You okay to drive?”
Latta barked a laugh. “Shit,” he said. “I didn’t even get started tonight.”
Joe watched the game warden lumber toward the door. Shawna watched him as well, but turned her eyes away when he got close. The door opened just as Latta reached for the handle, and the game warden stepped back to let two men wearing camo come in.
By the way they were dressed and the way they grinned with contempt at Latta, Joe guessed there was history between Latta and them as well, but no words were exchanged. Latta seemed to give them a wide berth. They stood, smirking, while Latta left the bar, then approached Shawna and asked for two six-packs of Budweiser to go.
Before leaving as well, Joe checked his cell phone. No texts or messages from Sheridan, but one from Marybeth: Are you at your hotel yet?
Joe replied, Not yet, will call soon, and returned his phone to his breast pocket as he got to his feet.
The two men were still standing at the bar when Joe approached Shawna to pay the tab. He could feel their eyes on him. Shawna thunked their six-packs on the bar, and the taller one said, “Put that on my tab.”
Shawna rolled her eyes as she turned to Joe and took his twenty-dollar bill. Before she could count out four dollars change, Joe said, “The rest is for you.”
She grinned, although it looked like work. “Thank you, mister. You’re fine-looking and generous.”
Joe didn’t know what to say.
“Damn,” one of the men in camo said, “the last thing we need around here is another damned game warden.”
Joe turned his head toward them. They were rough-looking men in their late thirties. The one who had spoken was dark, with weathered skin, a three-day growth of beard, and black curly hair sticking out from under his cowboy hat. The brim on his hat was folded straight up on the sides like he was some kind of 1950s Hollywood cowboy. He had light blue eyes. On the bar ahead of him were a pair of huge scarred hands. Joe pegged him for a logger or miner. Former logger or miner, based on what Latta had told him. The other man was taller, maybe six-foot-four. He was pale but also had outdoor skin. He had reddish hair peppered with gray that licked at his collar. He could be considered handsome, Joe thought, in a redneck-surfer-dude-gone-to-seed kind of way.
“Just visiting,” Joe said.
“Well, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out,” the dark man grinned. The taller man stifled a laugh and looked down at his hands.
Joe stuck out his hand toward the dark man. “Joe Pickett.”
The dark man paused for a second, not sure whether to reach out. Joe watched his eyes. He was confused by Joe’s gesture.
Joe thought: Bill Critchfield and Gene Smith. The taller one, Critchfield, confirmed it by introducing himself and his hunting partner.
Joe said evenly, “It looks like you’re going hunting tonight, although it’s already dark outside. What are you boys after?”
“Snipes,” Critchfield said. It was meant as a joke.
Smith still wouldn’t look up, but his shoulders were trembling with laughter.
“Yeah, I remember going ‘snipe hunting’ when I was twelve. A bunch of older guys took me up in the woods with my .22 and told me to sit there by a tree while they drove the snipes to me. Instead, they left me up there and went on a beer run. Good times,” Joe said. “I’m sure you have your licenses and wildlife stamps, so I probably don’t even need to ask.”
Critchfield and Smith exchanged looks. They weren’t intimidated by the question, Joe thought — they were trying to figure out how to deal with it.
Finally, Critchfield said, “Left mine at home.”
“Me too,” Smith said quickly.
Joe said, “So I guess you better run by your homes before you go out after those snipe.”
Critchfield squared his stance. He was bigger than Joe. He said, “You know what? I think maybe you ought to talk to Jim Latta before you start throwing your weight around here. He knows us, and he knows the deal.”
“There’s a deal about hunting without licenses?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, there’s a deal,” Smith said, from behind Critchfield.
Joe noticed that two of the three drinkers who had been in the bar all evening were standing and tossing bills down on the bar to cover their beers. Apparently, Joe thought, they didn’t have running tabs.
Shawna had watched the exchange like a tennis fan watching a volley. She said, “Just keep me out of this and take it outside.”
“Nothing to take outside,” Joe said, pulling on his vest. He looked up at the two men. “Right, Bill and Gene?”
“Call Jim,” Critchfield said. “Then scoot back to where you came from.”
He heard Gene Smith whisper, “You asshole.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Joe said. “I’ll see you around.”
“Better hope not,” Critchfield said.
To Shawna, Joe said, “And nice to meet you.”
Shawna looked back at him with dead eyes, but there was a slight tug of a smile on her face.
Outside, Daisy whined with recognition as he came through the door. The air was misty and cold, and there was a blue halo over the only streetlight in Wedell. Next to Joe’s pickup was a muddy Ford F-250 with a four-wheel ATV in the bed and another mounted on a trailer behind it. He glanced inside the cab as he approached his truck. Shotguns, boxes of shells, handheld spotlights.
After he climbed into his pickup, he glanced through the wet windshield at the Bronco Bar. Critchfield and Smith watched him through a window from opposite sides of the Fat Tire Ale sign. Critchfield was mouthing something, and Smith was nodding.
As Joe backed out, the lyrics of Hank Williams Jr. ran like a ghost soundtrack in his mind.
10
The town of Medicine Wheel was seventeen miles north on a potholed county road, and it looked to Joe as if a strong wind might blow it away. There was a dilapidated gas station and convenience store — closed — on the entrance into town, and the only other business that seemed to be in operation was the Whispering Pines Motel, which was tucked away in a copse of trees on the top of a wooded rise a half-mile away from the town itself. It was easy to find because there were three brightly lit small signs on the sides of the road saying WHISPERING PINES MOTEL: YOUR ROADSIDE OASIS, WHISPERING PINES MOTEL: HOME AWAY FROM HOME, and WHISPERING PINES MOTEL: LIKE STAYING AT GRANDMA’S.