Open Season (20 page)

Joe agreed. Then he said it: “Marybeth, the department has suspended me without pay as of Tuesday because Ote Keeley took my gun. They also suspect me of somehow being involved in the outfitter murders.”

She gasped. “Oh my God, Joe.”

He said nothing and neither did Marybeth. Finally, he asked if she was still there.

“Joe, what does this mean?”

“Two things, I think,” Joe said, with as much confidence as he could muster. “The first is that there are some pretty powerful people who want me out of the field. The second is that it looks like you're talking to the newest employee of InterWest Resources.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Joe, is this something you really want to do?” Her concern was genuine, and he loved her for it.

“I don't see a lot of options,” he said. “I've got a family to support.”

“What about the house?” Marybeth asked.

“We can stay in it through an appeal, if we decide to appeal.”

“Joe . . .”

“I've got three days before I'm officially relieved,” Joe interrupted. “I want to spend those three days following up on a few things I was thinking about on the ride down here. Then I'll let Vern know what the decision is. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course.”

“I'll be home tonight,” Joe said. “But don't wait up for me.”

“I love you, Joe Pickett,” Marybeth said.

“I love you, too.”

 

Joe went downstairs
into an area marked WILDLIFE BIOLOGY SECTION. He walked past a desk already vacated by a secretary, then into a maze of small cubicles and tables littered with lab equipment. It smelled of wet fur and feathers and strong disinfectant, and without any windows, it was dark down there. His boot steps seemed amplified in the empty room as he walked though the middle corridor looking for anyone who might still be working.

When he saw the woman emerge from her cubicle with a jacket folded over her arm and a handbag, he knew immediately who she was. She had that harried look about her that said she had children at day care and she was on her way to pick them up.

“Working late on Friday?” Joe asked, smiling.

“Later than I wanted to be,” she said, looking him over and clearly wondering why he was down there. “Can I help you find something? I'm kind of in a hurry.”

He recognized her voice.

“I'm Joe Pickett,” he said. “I believe we spoke on the telephone last week.”

The look on her face confirmed it. Her expression was pained.

“I'm sorry to bother you when you're in a hurry and all, so I'll get right to it,” Joe said. “I appreciate what you did. It took guts and I know you could get in trouble for it. As far as I'm concerned, we're not even talking right now. I don't know your name, and I'm not going to ask.”

She continued to watch him suspiciously. He could tell that she was trying to decide whether or not to simply walk away.

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Would you please show me where I can look up some information on an endangered species? Actually, it's an animal that is thought to be extinct.”

Her face was a mask. “Is the species indigenous to Wyoming and the Rocky Mountains?”

“Yup.”

She made up her mind and shrugged. “Oh, come on,” she said. “It'll only take a minute, and then you're on your own.”

She walked quickly down the length of the room into a library cluttered with reference books and journals. Joe followed. There was a computer and fax machine on one stand and a microfiche reader on another. She put her coat and handbag on a shelf while she booted up the computer, double-clicked through a series of menu screens, and pulled up a document database.

“Do you know how to operate this?” she asked.

“I do,” Joe said. He thought he did, anyway.

“Key in what you're looking for. If the search turns up something, you'll get an index number and a title for the publication. The reference books are on the shelves behind you and next door in the resource room.” She stood up and quickly gathered her belongings. “I'm out of here.”

He called after her. “One more thing ...”

She wheeled, obviously out of patience.

“Did anyone locate the package I sent here?”

She sighed. “Try the incinerator.”

“Thank you again.”

“Forget it.” She sang over her shoulder as she walked away. “I really mean that. Make sure you shut off the computer and the lights when you leave, and if anyone comes down here, just leave and don't say anything.”

“It's a deal,” Joe said, chuckling. He liked her.

He sat and turned to the computer monitor. After taking a few moments to figure out how to move around within the document, he pulled up the find command and typed in the words “Miller's weasel.”

 

When Joe was
through reading, he drove into downtown Cheyenne and bought a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver at a pawn shop for $275. Farther down on the same block, he bought a box of cartridges for it.

“Hey, little school
girl,” the man called out as his vehicle slowed to a stop and his power window whirred down. “Do you need a ride?”

Sheridan squinted against the roll of dust that followed from the road. It was the same man who had been hiding in the horse stall. He had been traveling on the other side of the road but had crossed over the middle of the county road and stopped in front of her. Because the passenger seat was empty and the vehicle was high, Sheridan could only see his face and his hand that rested on the steering wheel. He wore sunglasses, and she couldn't see his eyes. He was smiling.

“I'm not supposed to get in a stranger's car,” Sheridan said.

The man chuckled. He could seem so friendly. “I'm not a stranger, though, darlin'. I know your dad, remember? And you, too!”

Sheridan nodded yes. She was wearing a blue jumper and lace-up shoes. Her homework and reading were in her backpack. Because she was staying at the Eagle Mountain Club, she had to take a different bus from a different place than she was used to and the bus was always late. She was the only child who got on in Saddlestring for the long ride.

“Mom is waiting for me to get off the bus,” Sheridan said.

“Okay, okay. But at least come closer,” the man said, still smiling. “So I don't have to yell.”

Sheridan stepped up to the road but kept well back of the window. She was cautious, and her legs felt ready to run. Because the man would have to leap across the passenger seat and through the window, she thought she could easily get away if she needed to. Now that she was up on the road with him, she could see him a little better, and she could see clearly into his car. Her insides were knotted. Sheridan felt as if she might get sick and throw up. She had not been able to stop thinking about this man ever since he had pulled her into the stall, and now he was here again, right in front of her. He seemed so nice, but he had said such horrible things. And he looked at her like she was something special to him, as if by sharing the secret, they were somehow close to each other. She had never thought about any grown man in these terms before. It frightened her and made her feel guilty.

Without being obvious, she tried to steal a look down the road in both directions.

“There's nobody coming,” the man said, an edge creeping into his voice. “What's the matter, don't you trust me to stay put? You think I'm going to grab you or something?”

She didn't reply. In her imagination, her dad's pickup had appeared on the top of the hill and was getting closer.

“If you were a couple years older, I probably couldn't stay put,” the man laughed. “But you're safe for now.” His voice dropped. “Unless of course you don't want to be so safe.”

Sheridan turned her head, so he wouldn't see how scared she was.

“Let's make this quick so we can get on our way,” the man said, his voice serious now. “How did you get those little weasels to come out of the wood pile?”

Sheridan said she tossed handfuls of food on the top of the pile. Like rain.

“What kind of food?”

Dry cereal, she said. Raisins, nuts, bread, sometimes bits of hamburger.

“And you just sort of sprinkled it on top, huh?” He asked. “Did they come out every time?”

No, they didn't, she said. Not every time.

The man seemed to be thinking about something. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could tell they were glaring at her behind the glasses.

“Sheridan, are there any secrets you're keeping from me?”

Sheridan went cold. “No,” she lied. She hoped to God he wouldn't ask her if she knew where the weasels were now, because she wasn't sure she could answer him without showing she was lying. But he didn't ask, and like most grownups, he thought he knew everything.

“We've still got a deal, don't we, darlin'?”

Sheridan nodded, relieved they were off the subject. “A deal is a deal.”

“You bet it is,” he said slowly as he reached and pushed the silver button that held the glove box closed. The cover dropped open. There was something in the glove box. “Look,” he commanded, in a voice that made her obey.

She couldn't see it very well. The glove box was dark, but there was something round and white in the corner of it. It was something about the size of his fist, but wrapped in red-stained white paper that looked wet.

He snapped the cover shut before she could see any better.

His voice was almost a whisper: “Have you ever seen a kitty's head after it's been twisted off, Sheridan? When you twist it, the neck breaks and it sounds like when you crack your knuckles.”

Sheridan stepped back, nearly falling. She covered her mouth with her hands, horrified.

“That,” he pointed toward the glove box, “could happen to someone you know real well unless you keep our secret just between us.”

Sheridan found herself backing away from the truck, wanting to be as far away from what lay in the glove box as possible.

“If I can't get those weasels out, you might have to help me,” the man said. “Maybe you can talk weasel language to them or something. I don't know.”

He started up the motor. His voice rose as the engine raced. “Take it easy, darlin'. Wish me luck with those weasels!”

 

The man pulled
away and drove down the road. He watched in his rearview mirror as the yellow school bus cleared the hill behind them and began to slow down for the girl. She was moving toward it. The bus door swung open, and the little girl in the blue dress disappeared from his sight. She was a cutie, that Sheridan.

He leaned over and opened the glove box and reached inside. The package was still warm, and the paper greasy. He peeled away the wrapper with his teeth. He took a big bite out of it, and dollops of ketchup spattered in his lap.

It was a triple chili cheeseburger from the Burg-O-Pardner on Main.
Damn,
it was good. That place could sure cook a burger.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at himself good and hard in the mirror. Despite everything, he liked what he saw.

The first written
description of a Miller's weasel was made by Captain Meriwether Lewis in the
Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition,
published in 1805. The passage was not extensive. Lewis wrote, with his particular brand of spelling, that the party had encountered small colonies of the “plesant creatures” shortly after they had reached the Three Forks of the Missouri River and had followed the Jefferson River toward the Rocky Mountains. The animals, like prairie dogs, burrowed into the earth along what proved to be traditional buffalo migration routes. Their name came from Rodney “Mandan” Miller, a surveyor's assistant in the expedition, who injured his ankle by stumbling into one of the burrows. Lewis wrote that the creatures sometimes stood in tight groups on their hind legs and chattered a warning as the party approached. The Miller's weasels were, he noted, “happey little companions of the trail” and that their primary food supply was buffalo carrion. The day after a buffalo bull or cow was shot by the party for food, the weasels would gather and wait patiently until the large predators—the wolves, coyotes, eagles, vultures—were through with the carcass themselves and then would move in to finish what was left. He wrote that the weasels ate the meat, fur, and viscera of dead buffalo. As was his custom, Lewis first made a sketch, then shot several of the weasels, skinned the hides, and salted the bodies for later study by scientists back home.

It was dusk and Joe drove north, bathed in the brilliant copper light of the mid-September sun. He kept the window open so he could breathe in the sweet, dry smell of the sagebrush—covered flats that stretched like an endless rumpled quilt in every direction as he approached Waltman north of Casper. There were few other vehicles on the two-lane highway. It was just before dusk, the time of day when silent herds of deer were moving out from the secret draws and the tall sagebrush—a brief, magical time when the light was of perfect force and angle so it lit up the brown-and-white coloring of hundreds of pronghorn antelope, revealing them like beacons in the gray brush. In a few minutes, the light would change and the pronghorns, their particular illumination extinguished, would meld back into the mottled texture of the country as if they had never really been there at all.

Joe rolled down the window and turned the radio off. There weren't many places left in North America where humans could still be virtually alone and inaccessible but this was one of them. He had driven out of range of the only available radio signal several minutes before, and the “search” feature had been unsuccessfully spinning through all of the frequencies like a slot machine that wouldn't stop. He had now entered what Wacey referred to as “Radio Free Wyoming,” and he would remain in it for at least the next half hour. He planned to drive straight through without stopping except for gasoline. He wanted to get home to Marybeth by midnight.