Three-Inch Teeth, page 10
Marybeth smiled woodenly at that, and Joe stifled a smirk. Political correctness was not something Judge Hewitt subscribed to.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Sometimes attorneys don’t know when to shut up. Have you ordered?”
“Not yet,” Joe answered.
“Colleen,” Hewitt called to the waitress he’d brushed by.
“Coming,” she responded.
Marybeth ordered a Cobb salad and Joe a cheeseburger and fries.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Hewitt said, placing his hands palms down on the table and fixing both of them with his intense stare. “Joe, did you find the grizzly bear?”
“Nope,” Joe said. He caught the judge up on what had, and hadn’t, happened in the past week.
“I take bear spray and my weapon with me every morning on my walk now,” the judge said, shaking his head. “If that bear shows up, I’m going to blast him with the spray and finish him off with my .44.”
Joe believed him. Judge Hewitt was a world-class big-game trophy hunter who started every morning with a vigorous three-mile walk around the golf course at the exclusive Eagle Mountain Club located on the outskirts of town. He’d once shot and killed a coyote fifty yards away who was sharing his path.
Inside the judge’s palatial home was a seven-foot full-mount brown bear that he’d killed in Alaska, among other big-game trophies.
“Okay,” Hewitt said. “Our time together is short, so I’ll get down to brass tacks. As you know, the election is two weeks away.”
Joe and Marybeth nodded. Both local and statewide elections would soon take place and the political atmosphere was charged. On the statewide level, Governor Colter Allen had announced months before that he wasn’t going to run for reelection. The reason he gave publicly was to “spend more time with his family,” but the actual impetus for his decision was to avoid being exposed for corruption and malfeasance while in office. His denouement had occurred in front of Joe in the state jet as it was parked at the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport months before. The real reason for Allen stepping aside wasn’t public knowledge. Regardless, most of the voters of the state were pleased to see him go.
Governor Spencer Rulon, who had served two terms prior to Allen, had been drafted to run again and had no serious opposition. Joe welcomed the return of Rulon, with whom he’d had a special, if sometimes baffling, relationship.
“Governor Rulon has asked me to be his AG,” Hewitt said. “He wants me to take on the feds in a blizzard of lawsuits. He wants me to bury them in litigation.”
“Attorney general?” Marybeth said. “Congratulations.”
“Are you going to do it?” Joe asked.
“Yes, but it’ll be hell,” Hewitt said morosely. “Living in Cheyenne and dealing with the D.C. Blob every day. It should shorten my life span by a decade or so.”
“But you’ll be good at it,” Joe said.
“Yeah, I will,” Hewitt agreed. “Because I hate those federal agencies and bureaucrats with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns. Maybe the first thing I’ll do is sue to get the number of grizzly bears down to a manageable population so they aren’t running around like maniacs killing our innocent people.”
“Good luck with that,” Joe said.
“Another thing,” Judge Hewitt said as his rare steak sandwich arrived, “I’d like you both to support Jackson Bishop for our new sheriff.”
“Your son-in-law?” Joe said.
“That’s him. What about it?” Hewitt said while sawing at the steak. “Isn’t it a good thing to know personally about the good character of a candidate for sheriff?”
“Sure,” Joe said.
“Look, I know you’ve had a bad run with our local sheriffs. We’ve had too many chuckleheads around here. Jackson is different. He’s competent and experienced.”
“Good to hear,” Joe said. “A competent sheriff would be a welcome change around here. We haven’t had a good one since Mike Reed.”
Currently, Bishop was an undersheriff in Park County and married to Hewitt’s only daughter. His opponent was Ruthanne Hubbard, who had been the county dispatcher for over twenty years. Hubbard had conducted a not-very-secret affair with the previous sheriff, Scott Tibbs, which had led to Mrs. Tibbs relocating to California and the sudden retirement of Tibbs himself.
Joe had briefly met Bishop at the Burg-O-Pardner as the man was campaigning door-to-door. Bishop was tall and fit with dark hair, a full mustache, and pale gray eyes that darted over Joe’s shoulder to see who else had entered the diner. Joe’s instant impression of Bishop was that of a good politician, glib and smooth.
He’d introduced himself by complimenting Joe and saying, “I hear you’ve had a mixed working relationship with the sheriff’s department.”
“You could say that,” Joe replied.
“Well, I want you to know that I value the job and responsibilities of game wardens. I think you’re an important part of the law enforcement community and I would consider you a fellow LEO. I pledge to cooperate with you if you’ll make the same pledge to cooperate with me.”
“It sounds like you’ve already got the job,” Joe said.
Bishop winked and said, “I have friends in high places.”
*
“JUDGE,” MARYBETH SAID to Jackson Bishop’s friend in high places while her Cobb salad was placed in front of her, “why are you asking for our support? Joe is the game warden and I’m the library’s director. We aren’t political.”
“No, but you’re both honest and straightforward people,” Hewitt said. “Folks around here know you can be trusted. And if you come out in support of Jackson, that will mean something in this county.”
“I need to stay out of this,” Joe said. “It’s not Game and Fish business to get involved in local elections. Especially when I need to work closely with whoever wins.”
Hewitt waved Joe’s statement away with the back of his hand. “This state has barely over a half million people. Everybody knows everybody, and there aren’t any of us without conflicts of interest. Hell, Ruthanne was diddling Sheriff Tibbs, and now she’s running for his job. You don’t think that isn’t a conflict? I know you like to operate under the radar, Joe, but sometimes you have to step up.”
Joe didn’t respond.
“I work for the county,” Marybeth said to Hewitt. “The sheriff’s department is a part of county government. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to weigh in on the election one way or the other.”
Judge Hewitt sat back in a huff and glared at them both.
“Just don’t oppose him, then,” he said. “I’m sure you can do that, at least.”
“I have no reason to oppose him,” Joe said. “That’s easy.”
“Same here,” Marybeth said. “I neither support nor oppose him.”
“So it’s a small victory, then,” Hewitt declared, as if tacking on an amendment to a criminal sentence in his courtroom.
With that, he pushed his empty plate away and stood up.
“I’ve got to get back to court,” he said. “I need to put a fentanyl dealer away. And you know why I need to throw the book at him and send him to Rawlins for the rest of his natural life?”
“No,” Joe said.
“Because I can’t publicly execute him where he sits,” Hewitt said. As he spoke, he patted the bulge under his left arm, where, no doubt, his handgun was holstered.
*
AFTER JUDGE HEWITT had blown out of the restaurant, Marybeth turned to Joe. “Well, that was weird.”
“The AG part or the sheriff part?” Joe asked.
“Both, I guess.”
“I agree,” Joe said. “I don’t know why he thought we had that much influence around here. But I am curious to learn more about Jackson Bishop. I might call the Park County game warden and see what he thinks of him.”
“I’ll do a little digging myself,” Marybeth said. “I know some people in county government in Cody.”
*
AS JOE STOOD up from the table and clamped on his hat, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his breast pocket. He took it out.
“It’s Jennie,” he said to Marybeth. Then: “Hello, Jennie.”
The pause was unnaturally long, which to Joe signaled bad news.
“Oh no,” Joe said. “Was there another attack?”
“Yes. And like the previous one, this one doesn’t make any sense, either.”
“Where?” Joe asked.
“Yesterday. North of Rawlins.”
“Rawlins?” Joe said. “That’s two hundred and fifty miles south of here.”
“I know.”
“That’s not bear country,” Joe said. As he spoke, he noticed that Marybeth had paused to listen in. There was concern on her face as well.
“Don’t I know it,” Jennie said. “As far as I know, we’ve never had an incident this far south.”
“Is it our bear?”
“I don’t know that, either,” she said. “But the MO sounds similar and the photos they’ve sent me look very familiar. A man walks out of his rural house to go to work in the morning and the bear hits him before he can get into his truck. Tears the guy to shreds and kills him. His head was crushed and it appears to be an incidence of overkill.”
“Were there other wounds? Defensive wounds?”
“Yes,” she said. “There were deep claw marks on his forearms where it looks like he tried to fight off the attack. His belly was slashed as well.”
“That’s horrible,” Joe said. “Who is the victim?”
He could hear her flipping through her notes, then she said, “Ryan Winner. Sergeant Ryan Winner. Big guy in his late forties. He was a CO at the men’s prison down there.”
OCTOBER 25
The Puritan hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators.
—Thomas Babington, Lord Macauley,
The History of England
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Walden, Colorado
THREE HUNDRED AND forty miles south of Saddlestring, Sheridan Pickett learned quickly from the woman behind the counter at the gas station as well as the motel owner that residents of Walden and Jackson County referred to themselves as “North Parkers” and that they were not to be confused with the woke elites (many of them new residents) from Denver, Boulder, Aspen, or even nearby Steamboat Springs.
This was tough country—high, wild, and lonesome—and just barely over the Wyoming border. The town of Walden itself had barely six hundred people, and it was the only incorporated municipality in the county. North Parkers lived at over eight thousand feet in elevation and were rimmed to the west by the Park and Sierra Madre ranges, south by the Rabbit Ears Range and the Never Summer Mountains, and east by the Medicine Bow Mountains. The tops of those mountains were already white with snow.
In late October, the location reminded Sheridan strongly of where she’d come from, with its single main street consisting of saloons, shops, eclectic restaurants, and muddy four-wheel-drive pickups parked diagonally against the curb. The busiest enterprise in town seemed to be the wild-game processing facility, with elk hunters lined up along the street with dead animals, antlers bristling from the beds of their trucks. The lone grocery store was located so far out of town that it didn’t seem connected to it. A tall and magnificent granite courthouse stood just off the main drag, indicating that at one time somebody had very high hopes for the future of Walden.
She could clearly see that old courthouse when she opened the curtains of her window at the Alpine Motel and fed pieces of road-killed jackrabbit to the five hooded falcons she’d transported to Colorado in her SUV. Two prairie falcons, two red-tailed hawks, and a sleek female peregrine made up her flight of birds.
The raptors were all hooded with leather masks and they stood up straight while grasping the backs of motel chairs with their talons. She’d spread newspaper on the linoleum beneath them for their white squirts of excrement.
*
THE OWNER OF the Alpine Motel, who had introduced himself as DeWayne Kolb, had white muttonchops and reading glasses poised on the end of his bulbous nose. He wore baggy jeans and a faded red union suit top. He’d been obviously fascinated by both Sheridan and her cargo when she entered the tiny lobby to check in.
“Hello,” she’d said. “Your sign says you allow pets.”
“Well, it depends on the pets,” he answered. “You’ve got to be careful these days. A friend of mine told me he had to fly across the country sitting next to a lady with her emotional support ferret.”
A talker, Sheridan thought.
“I have five birds of prey,” she said.
“Birds of prey? Like eagles or something?”
Sheridan detailed the species of the raptors and introduced herself as a master falconer from Wyoming. She said the birds were well-behaved and wouldn’t do any damage to the motel room.
“You don’t look old enough to be a master anything,” Kolb said with a smile.
“That’s where you’d be mistaken,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “Truly. I’ve never met a master falconer before.”
“Well, now you have,” Sheridan said. “So can I rent a room here?”
“How many nights will you need it?” he asked. “I’ve got a group of hunters coming in next week that will take all of my rooms.”
“Maybe four nights,” she said, handing over her new Yarak, Inc. credit card. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”
He ran it through his machine. “I’ll charge you for four nights, then. If it turns out to be fewer, I’ll back the charges out.
“It would be a pleasure hosting a master falconer in my humble motel,” Kolb said, sliding a registration card across the counter. “It’s pretty much just elk hunters here this time of year. I’m afraid they come in at all hours and leave early in the morning. They can get kind of rowdy, so I hope they won’t disturb you.”
“I’m used to being around elk hunters,” she said as she filled out the form and handed it back to him. Sheridan felt no need to explain that she had spent her formative years surrounded by hunters, fishermen, and landowners of all stripes. They’d shown up at her house at any time of day.
“Wyoming,” he said while reading the card. “Lots of folks around here wish we could become a county in Wyoming instead of Colorado. There’s a serious movement to convince Wyoming to annex us and get the libtards in Denver to set us free.”
“I see,” she said. She’d learned from her father to steer clear of local political movements.
“About the only thing we North Parkers have in common with those people are our green license plates and the income tax we have to pay,” he said. “Colorado isn’t the place I grew up in anymore. We’ve been flooded with people from other states, and it’s disgusting. I went to a Broncos game last year against the Steelers, and half of the stadium was wearing black and gold and waving those stupid Terrible Towels. And the worst part was they were new residents.
“That’s probably more information than you wanted on day one among the North Parkers,” he said.
She smiled to herself. He was correct.
“Can I ask what you’re doing here? With all those falcons?”
“I’m in the bird abatement business,” Sheridan said. “We get hired to help get rid of problem species.”
“Interesting,” Kolb said. “Your falcons chase away bad birds?”
“Something like that.”
“Who are you working for around here, if I may ask?”
“A man named Leon Bottom.”
Kolb’s eyes got wide upon hearing the name. He asked slyly, “Have you ever met him?”
“No. Why?” In fact, it was Liv who had set up the job.
Kolb shook his head. “I’m not one to gossip, but I think you’ll find him kind of … unusual.”
Sheridan tried to discern what he meant by that, but Kolb deliberately looked away. She’d already pegged the motel owner to be a local gossip, despite his disavowal. If Walden was anything like Saddlestring, half of the town would know about the twenty-something female master falconer staying there by sundown.
“A place like this tends to attract all kinds of different characters,” he said.
“That,” she said, “isn’t unusual to me.”
As she opened the door from the lobby to go get her falcons and gear, Kolb said, “If you need anything while you’re here, I want you to know that even if the lobby is closed up, I’m here twenty-four seven. All you have to do is pick up the room phone and dial zero.”
She turned. “Is there something I should be worried about?”
“Nothing like that,” Kolb said quickly. “It’s just that the town is a little rambunctious this time of year. Lots of out-of-state hunters drinking whiskey and carrying guns and whooping it up. They might get a little frisky seeing a young woman on her own who looks like you, if you catch my drift. Plus, my brother is the chief of police.”
After a long pause and wondering if she should be grateful or offended, Sheridan thanked him for the room.
*
SHERIDAN TOOK A moment on the way to her Acadia to send a text to her mother and Liv saying that she’d made it and found a room and she would touch base with the client as soon as she could.
Moments later, her phone vibrated with an incoming call. Sheridan guessed that it would be her mother, but it was Liv Romanowski.
“So you made it,” Liv said.
“I did.”
Sheridan could hear Kestrel jabbering in the background and visualized the toddler being cradled on Liv’s hip while she made the call.
“I’ll let our clients know you’re on-site,” Liv said.
“Thank you.”
There was a beat before Liv said, “Sheridan, I know this is a really tough time for you. I hope you’re doing okay.”
Sheridan smiled. The sentiment affected her more than she would have anticipated. “I’m doing okay,” she said.
“I know what it’s like to be a young woman alone in a strange place. It’s important to keep your guard up and that you be alert. This job isn’t all-important, and I know how smart you are. So if you feel uncomfortable at any time, for any reason, I want you to come straight back here.”
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Sometimes attorneys don’t know when to shut up. Have you ordered?”
“Not yet,” Joe answered.
“Colleen,” Hewitt called to the waitress he’d brushed by.
“Coming,” she responded.
Marybeth ordered a Cobb salad and Joe a cheeseburger and fries.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Hewitt said, placing his hands palms down on the table and fixing both of them with his intense stare. “Joe, did you find the grizzly bear?”
“Nope,” Joe said. He caught the judge up on what had, and hadn’t, happened in the past week.
“I take bear spray and my weapon with me every morning on my walk now,” the judge said, shaking his head. “If that bear shows up, I’m going to blast him with the spray and finish him off with my .44.”
Joe believed him. Judge Hewitt was a world-class big-game trophy hunter who started every morning with a vigorous three-mile walk around the golf course at the exclusive Eagle Mountain Club located on the outskirts of town. He’d once shot and killed a coyote fifty yards away who was sharing his path.
Inside the judge’s palatial home was a seven-foot full-mount brown bear that he’d killed in Alaska, among other big-game trophies.
“Okay,” Hewitt said. “Our time together is short, so I’ll get down to brass tacks. As you know, the election is two weeks away.”
Joe and Marybeth nodded. Both local and statewide elections would soon take place and the political atmosphere was charged. On the statewide level, Governor Colter Allen had announced months before that he wasn’t going to run for reelection. The reason he gave publicly was to “spend more time with his family,” but the actual impetus for his decision was to avoid being exposed for corruption and malfeasance while in office. His denouement had occurred in front of Joe in the state jet as it was parked at the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport months before. The real reason for Allen stepping aside wasn’t public knowledge. Regardless, most of the voters of the state were pleased to see him go.
Governor Spencer Rulon, who had served two terms prior to Allen, had been drafted to run again and had no serious opposition. Joe welcomed the return of Rulon, with whom he’d had a special, if sometimes baffling, relationship.
“Governor Rulon has asked me to be his AG,” Hewitt said. “He wants me to take on the feds in a blizzard of lawsuits. He wants me to bury them in litigation.”
“Attorney general?” Marybeth said. “Congratulations.”
“Are you going to do it?” Joe asked.
“Yes, but it’ll be hell,” Hewitt said morosely. “Living in Cheyenne and dealing with the D.C. Blob every day. It should shorten my life span by a decade or so.”
“But you’ll be good at it,” Joe said.
“Yeah, I will,” Hewitt agreed. “Because I hate those federal agencies and bureaucrats with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns. Maybe the first thing I’ll do is sue to get the number of grizzly bears down to a manageable population so they aren’t running around like maniacs killing our innocent people.”
“Good luck with that,” Joe said.
“Another thing,” Judge Hewitt said as his rare steak sandwich arrived, “I’d like you both to support Jackson Bishop for our new sheriff.”
“Your son-in-law?” Joe said.
“That’s him. What about it?” Hewitt said while sawing at the steak. “Isn’t it a good thing to know personally about the good character of a candidate for sheriff?”
“Sure,” Joe said.
“Look, I know you’ve had a bad run with our local sheriffs. We’ve had too many chuckleheads around here. Jackson is different. He’s competent and experienced.”
“Good to hear,” Joe said. “A competent sheriff would be a welcome change around here. We haven’t had a good one since Mike Reed.”
Currently, Bishop was an undersheriff in Park County and married to Hewitt’s only daughter. His opponent was Ruthanne Hubbard, who had been the county dispatcher for over twenty years. Hubbard had conducted a not-very-secret affair with the previous sheriff, Scott Tibbs, which had led to Mrs. Tibbs relocating to California and the sudden retirement of Tibbs himself.
Joe had briefly met Bishop at the Burg-O-Pardner as the man was campaigning door-to-door. Bishop was tall and fit with dark hair, a full mustache, and pale gray eyes that darted over Joe’s shoulder to see who else had entered the diner. Joe’s instant impression of Bishop was that of a good politician, glib and smooth.
He’d introduced himself by complimenting Joe and saying, “I hear you’ve had a mixed working relationship with the sheriff’s department.”
“You could say that,” Joe replied.
“Well, I want you to know that I value the job and responsibilities of game wardens. I think you’re an important part of the law enforcement community and I would consider you a fellow LEO. I pledge to cooperate with you if you’ll make the same pledge to cooperate with me.”
“It sounds like you’ve already got the job,” Joe said.
Bishop winked and said, “I have friends in high places.”
*
“JUDGE,” MARYBETH SAID to Jackson Bishop’s friend in high places while her Cobb salad was placed in front of her, “why are you asking for our support? Joe is the game warden and I’m the library’s director. We aren’t political.”
“No, but you’re both honest and straightforward people,” Hewitt said. “Folks around here know you can be trusted. And if you come out in support of Jackson, that will mean something in this county.”
“I need to stay out of this,” Joe said. “It’s not Game and Fish business to get involved in local elections. Especially when I need to work closely with whoever wins.”
Hewitt waved Joe’s statement away with the back of his hand. “This state has barely over a half million people. Everybody knows everybody, and there aren’t any of us without conflicts of interest. Hell, Ruthanne was diddling Sheriff Tibbs, and now she’s running for his job. You don’t think that isn’t a conflict? I know you like to operate under the radar, Joe, but sometimes you have to step up.”
Joe didn’t respond.
“I work for the county,” Marybeth said to Hewitt. “The sheriff’s department is a part of county government. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to weigh in on the election one way or the other.”
Judge Hewitt sat back in a huff and glared at them both.
“Just don’t oppose him, then,” he said. “I’m sure you can do that, at least.”
“I have no reason to oppose him,” Joe said. “That’s easy.”
“Same here,” Marybeth said. “I neither support nor oppose him.”
“So it’s a small victory, then,” Hewitt declared, as if tacking on an amendment to a criminal sentence in his courtroom.
With that, he pushed his empty plate away and stood up.
“I’ve got to get back to court,” he said. “I need to put a fentanyl dealer away. And you know why I need to throw the book at him and send him to Rawlins for the rest of his natural life?”
“No,” Joe said.
“Because I can’t publicly execute him where he sits,” Hewitt said. As he spoke, he patted the bulge under his left arm, where, no doubt, his handgun was holstered.
*
AFTER JUDGE HEWITT had blown out of the restaurant, Marybeth turned to Joe. “Well, that was weird.”
“The AG part or the sheriff part?” Joe asked.
“Both, I guess.”
“I agree,” Joe said. “I don’t know why he thought we had that much influence around here. But I am curious to learn more about Jackson Bishop. I might call the Park County game warden and see what he thinks of him.”
“I’ll do a little digging myself,” Marybeth said. “I know some people in county government in Cody.”
*
AS JOE STOOD up from the table and clamped on his hat, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his breast pocket. He took it out.
“It’s Jennie,” he said to Marybeth. Then: “Hello, Jennie.”
The pause was unnaturally long, which to Joe signaled bad news.
“Oh no,” Joe said. “Was there another attack?”
“Yes. And like the previous one, this one doesn’t make any sense, either.”
“Where?” Joe asked.
“Yesterday. North of Rawlins.”
“Rawlins?” Joe said. “That’s two hundred and fifty miles south of here.”
“I know.”
“That’s not bear country,” Joe said. As he spoke, he noticed that Marybeth had paused to listen in. There was concern on her face as well.
“Don’t I know it,” Jennie said. “As far as I know, we’ve never had an incident this far south.”
“Is it our bear?”
“I don’t know that, either,” she said. “But the MO sounds similar and the photos they’ve sent me look very familiar. A man walks out of his rural house to go to work in the morning and the bear hits him before he can get into his truck. Tears the guy to shreds and kills him. His head was crushed and it appears to be an incidence of overkill.”
“Were there other wounds? Defensive wounds?”
“Yes,” she said. “There were deep claw marks on his forearms where it looks like he tried to fight off the attack. His belly was slashed as well.”
“That’s horrible,” Joe said. “Who is the victim?”
He could hear her flipping through her notes, then she said, “Ryan Winner. Sergeant Ryan Winner. Big guy in his late forties. He was a CO at the men’s prison down there.”
OCTOBER 25
The Puritan hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators.
—Thomas Babington, Lord Macauley,
The History of England
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Walden, Colorado
THREE HUNDRED AND forty miles south of Saddlestring, Sheridan Pickett learned quickly from the woman behind the counter at the gas station as well as the motel owner that residents of Walden and Jackson County referred to themselves as “North Parkers” and that they were not to be confused with the woke elites (many of them new residents) from Denver, Boulder, Aspen, or even nearby Steamboat Springs.
This was tough country—high, wild, and lonesome—and just barely over the Wyoming border. The town of Walden itself had barely six hundred people, and it was the only incorporated municipality in the county. North Parkers lived at over eight thousand feet in elevation and were rimmed to the west by the Park and Sierra Madre ranges, south by the Rabbit Ears Range and the Never Summer Mountains, and east by the Medicine Bow Mountains. The tops of those mountains were already white with snow.
In late October, the location reminded Sheridan strongly of where she’d come from, with its single main street consisting of saloons, shops, eclectic restaurants, and muddy four-wheel-drive pickups parked diagonally against the curb. The busiest enterprise in town seemed to be the wild-game processing facility, with elk hunters lined up along the street with dead animals, antlers bristling from the beds of their trucks. The lone grocery store was located so far out of town that it didn’t seem connected to it. A tall and magnificent granite courthouse stood just off the main drag, indicating that at one time somebody had very high hopes for the future of Walden.
She could clearly see that old courthouse when she opened the curtains of her window at the Alpine Motel and fed pieces of road-killed jackrabbit to the five hooded falcons she’d transported to Colorado in her SUV. Two prairie falcons, two red-tailed hawks, and a sleek female peregrine made up her flight of birds.
The raptors were all hooded with leather masks and they stood up straight while grasping the backs of motel chairs with their talons. She’d spread newspaper on the linoleum beneath them for their white squirts of excrement.
*
THE OWNER OF the Alpine Motel, who had introduced himself as DeWayne Kolb, had white muttonchops and reading glasses poised on the end of his bulbous nose. He wore baggy jeans and a faded red union suit top. He’d been obviously fascinated by both Sheridan and her cargo when she entered the tiny lobby to check in.
“Hello,” she’d said. “Your sign says you allow pets.”
“Well, it depends on the pets,” he answered. “You’ve got to be careful these days. A friend of mine told me he had to fly across the country sitting next to a lady with her emotional support ferret.”
A talker, Sheridan thought.
“I have five birds of prey,” she said.
“Birds of prey? Like eagles or something?”
Sheridan detailed the species of the raptors and introduced herself as a master falconer from Wyoming. She said the birds were well-behaved and wouldn’t do any damage to the motel room.
“You don’t look old enough to be a master anything,” Kolb said with a smile.
“That’s where you’d be mistaken,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “Truly. I’ve never met a master falconer before.”
“Well, now you have,” Sheridan said. “So can I rent a room here?”
“How many nights will you need it?” he asked. “I’ve got a group of hunters coming in next week that will take all of my rooms.”
“Maybe four nights,” she said, handing over her new Yarak, Inc. credit card. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”
He ran it through his machine. “I’ll charge you for four nights, then. If it turns out to be fewer, I’ll back the charges out.
“It would be a pleasure hosting a master falconer in my humble motel,” Kolb said, sliding a registration card across the counter. “It’s pretty much just elk hunters here this time of year. I’m afraid they come in at all hours and leave early in the morning. They can get kind of rowdy, so I hope they won’t disturb you.”
“I’m used to being around elk hunters,” she said as she filled out the form and handed it back to him. Sheridan felt no need to explain that she had spent her formative years surrounded by hunters, fishermen, and landowners of all stripes. They’d shown up at her house at any time of day.
“Wyoming,” he said while reading the card. “Lots of folks around here wish we could become a county in Wyoming instead of Colorado. There’s a serious movement to convince Wyoming to annex us and get the libtards in Denver to set us free.”
“I see,” she said. She’d learned from her father to steer clear of local political movements.
“About the only thing we North Parkers have in common with those people are our green license plates and the income tax we have to pay,” he said. “Colorado isn’t the place I grew up in anymore. We’ve been flooded with people from other states, and it’s disgusting. I went to a Broncos game last year against the Steelers, and half of the stadium was wearing black and gold and waving those stupid Terrible Towels. And the worst part was they were new residents.
“That’s probably more information than you wanted on day one among the North Parkers,” he said.
She smiled to herself. He was correct.
“Can I ask what you’re doing here? With all those falcons?”
“I’m in the bird abatement business,” Sheridan said. “We get hired to help get rid of problem species.”
“Interesting,” Kolb said. “Your falcons chase away bad birds?”
“Something like that.”
“Who are you working for around here, if I may ask?”
“A man named Leon Bottom.”
Kolb’s eyes got wide upon hearing the name. He asked slyly, “Have you ever met him?”
“No. Why?” In fact, it was Liv who had set up the job.
Kolb shook his head. “I’m not one to gossip, but I think you’ll find him kind of … unusual.”
Sheridan tried to discern what he meant by that, but Kolb deliberately looked away. She’d already pegged the motel owner to be a local gossip, despite his disavowal. If Walden was anything like Saddlestring, half of the town would know about the twenty-something female master falconer staying there by sundown.
“A place like this tends to attract all kinds of different characters,” he said.
“That,” she said, “isn’t unusual to me.”
As she opened the door from the lobby to go get her falcons and gear, Kolb said, “If you need anything while you’re here, I want you to know that even if the lobby is closed up, I’m here twenty-four seven. All you have to do is pick up the room phone and dial zero.”
She turned. “Is there something I should be worried about?”
“Nothing like that,” Kolb said quickly. “It’s just that the town is a little rambunctious this time of year. Lots of out-of-state hunters drinking whiskey and carrying guns and whooping it up. They might get a little frisky seeing a young woman on her own who looks like you, if you catch my drift. Plus, my brother is the chief of police.”
After a long pause and wondering if she should be grateful or offended, Sheridan thanked him for the room.
*
SHERIDAN TOOK A moment on the way to her Acadia to send a text to her mother and Liv saying that she’d made it and found a room and she would touch base with the client as soon as she could.
Moments later, her phone vibrated with an incoming call. Sheridan guessed that it would be her mother, but it was Liv Romanowski.
“So you made it,” Liv said.
“I did.”
Sheridan could hear Kestrel jabbering in the background and visualized the toddler being cradled on Liv’s hip while she made the call.
“I’ll let our clients know you’re on-site,” Liv said.
“Thank you.”
There was a beat before Liv said, “Sheridan, I know this is a really tough time for you. I hope you’re doing okay.”
Sheridan smiled. The sentiment affected her more than she would have anticipated. “I’m doing okay,” she said.
“I know what it’s like to be a young woman alone in a strange place. It’s important to keep your guard up and that you be alert. This job isn’t all-important, and I know how smart you are. So if you feel uncomfortable at any time, for any reason, I want you to come straight back here.”
