Dark Sky, page 3
part #21 of Joe Pickett Series
Ewig put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I hope you can minimize the risks. I hope you can get this done and get everybody down safely out of the mountains with an elk and nobody hurt.”
“I hope so, too,” Joe said. “I don’t like being away from my district for a week during hunting season. It makes me nervous.”
“I’ll assign somebody to cover it,” Ewig said. “Maybe I’ll even do it myself.”
“It’s five thousand square miles,” Joe said with skepticism.
“I’m aware,” Ewig said.
“What about licenses and conservation stamps for Price and his crew? What about him passing a hunter’s safety course?”
All hunters in Wyoming had to have a valid hunting license for the correct area as well as an annual conservation stamp. In addition, hunters applying for the elk license drawing were required to have completed a hunter’s safety course.
“We got a license from the governor’s allotment,” Ewig said. “I bought the guy a conservation stamp myself—all he has to do is sign it.”
“Hunter’s safety?” Joe asked.
“Price took an online course in California. We have reciprocity with them. Everything is legal, Joe. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Ewig reached back and pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Joe. “Price’s contact details are all on here. His point man is named Tim Joannides. You’ll need to work through him to coordinate the trip.”
“Not Price himself?”
“That’s not how it works out in Silicon Valley, I guess,” Ewig said.
“What happens if Price decides to locate his server project somewhere else?” Joe asked. “Despite what happens on this trip?”
Ewig ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. I can speculate that it wouldn’t be good for you or the agency.”
“Gotcha,” Joe said. His face was burning again.
“Keep me in the loop,” Ewig said. “I want to know how it’s going. Don’t be afraid to ask if you need anything.”
Joe shook his director’s hand.
“Don’t let us down, Joe,” he said.
“I think I got that point real clearly,” Joe replied.
THREE
After removing the rear seat of a rental Suburban to make enough room for all of the gear they’d brought with them, after waiting for Zsolt Rumy to pat down Brock Boedecker and the SUV driver to make sure they posed no threat to Steve Price, and after Price had insisted that Tim Joannides take a photo of him standing in front of the horse trailer with Joe on one side and Boedecker on the other, Joe ambled toward his green Ford F-150 pickup. He would lead the caravan to the trailhead at the base of Battle Mountain, followed by Boedecker and his eight-horse trailer and the rental SUV with the hunting party.
As he opened the door, Joannides appeared. He was out of breath from running across the parking lot from the Suburban.
“Do you mind if I ride along with you?”
“Nope.”
“I want to make sure we’re both on the same page in regard to everything we discussed,” Joannides said. He displayed a miniature iPad. “I’ve got it all on here. I thought if you forgot something, we could stop in town and buy whatever we need to.”
Joe looked at him. “Steve-2 just told me he wanted this hunting trip to be as authentic as possible. He said he wanted a real no-frills deal.”
“What Steve-2 says he wants and what he expects are often different things,” Joannides said. “It’s not his fault. He operates on a different level from the rest of us. But that’s why I’m here: to make sure we’re well-prepared for anything that might come up. You received my grocery list, correct?”
Joe said, “I got everything on your list except quinoa and pili nuts. Those things were nowhere to be found.”
“You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“This is Wyoming,” Joe said.
Joannides pursed his lips. “Well, let’s just hope it doesn’t come up.”
“Fine by me.”
Joe climbed in and started the engine while Joannides settled himself in the passenger seat with the iPad on his lap. The man started to speak, then stopped short. Joe looked over to find Joannides staring at the .357 Colt Python revolver and other gear on the seat between them.
“What?” Joe asked.
“Do we really need a gun around?”
“We’re going hunting.”
“Yes, I know. But Steve-2 brought his compound bow. I know I told you that.”
“You did,” Joe said. “And I’ll do my best to help him get his elk with it. But elk aren’t the only animals up there, Tim. We’ve had some serious problems with grizzly bears. Half a dozen hunters have been mauled or killed in the last year. I’m bringing my big pistol, and my shotgun loaded with three-inch magnum slugs.”
Joannides stated, “Steve-2 doesn’t believe people should have weapons of war.”
“Maybe he should tell that to the grizzly bears. And Zsolt.”
“That’s different.”
“What’s with the name? Steve-2?”
“It’s his nickname from college and it stuck,” Joannides said. “You know, after Steve Jobs. Jobs was Steve-1, and our Steve wanted to be Steve-2. Now he nearly is.”
“Interesting,” Joe said. “Did you bring bear spray for everyone?”
“It’s illegal in California.”
“Well, it’s necessary here. I don’t want to see any of you without it at any time.”
Joannides looked suddenly distressed.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “I brought canisters for everybody.”
“Thank you.”
“What about PLBs?” Joe asked.
Personal locator beacons weren’t a legal requirement, but they were a good idea, Joe thought, especially since the Aloft team wasn’t experienced in the wilderness.
“Those we found,” Joannides said. “Skiers and snowboarders use them, I guess.”
* * *
—
As they took the exit to the state highway from the airport, Joe’s cell phone chimed with three messages, one after the other. He dug the device out of his breast pocket and checked the alerts on the screen. He was alarmed to have received such a sudden onslaught. Was it some kind of emergency?
The texts were from two of his daughters and his wife.
Lucy, his youngest at twenty years old and a sophomore at the University of Wyoming in Laramie, wrote:
You’re with Steve-2? OMG. I nearly fainted.
The text was studded with emojis of rolled eyes, emojis laughing hysterically accompanied by tears, and Lucy’s own face emoji looking seriously shocked.
April, his twenty-two-year-old who had recently graduated from Northwest Community College in Powell and was purportedly taking a couple of months off to figure out her future, wrote:
How can the most uncool man in the world be hanging out with Steve-2? The world is upside down.
Joe knew April wasn’t referring to Boedecker as the most uncool man in the world.
Marybeth, who must have sent her text from her desk at the Twelve Sleep County Library, where she was the director, wrote:
This is a photo I never expected to see! Good luck and I hope you get your elk. Call when you can.
Xoxoxoxoxoxo,
MB
Joe turned to Joannides. “How can my daughters know what we’re doing all of a sudden?”
Joannides said, “We posted it. Steve-2 will be thrilled to know your kids use the platform.”
“I thought this hunting trip was supposed to be below the radar?”
Joannides grinned. “Nothing Steve-2 does is below the radar. When he posts to ConFab, all of our users get the image. He’s a very high-profile individual. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t.”
“Maybe you should talk to your daughters some more.”
Joe sighed. At least Sheridan, his oldest, hadn’t texted him. He wasn’t surprised. Since taking a job with Yarak, Inc. as an apprentice falconer the year before, she was often traveling or in remote locations with bad cell service.
“Is this whole hunting trip going to be posted to social media for all the world to see?” Joe asked.
“What do you think?” Joannides replied.
“Is that wise?”
Joannides paused to consider the question. Finally, he said, “Steve-2 made the call. He thinks it’s important to expose our users to aspects of real life they probably don’t know, like the hunting culture. His life is an open book. Sometimes it’s hard to restrain him when he gets enthused about a new topic. He knows there’ll be some serious pushback from users who hate the idea of hunting, but there has been serious pushback before and our users keep growing. ConFab has grown two hundred and fifty percent this year alone. We’re taking on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and all of the ‘dinosaur platforms,’ as Steve-2 likes to put it.”
Joe nodded. Joannides had answered the wrong question.
“Aren’t there people out there who don’t like him?” Joe asked.
“Sure there are. There are always negative people and haters, especially on social media. But we like to think of them as users who just haven’t been persuaded yet.”
Joe nodded again and drove on. In the past, he’d been accused of appearing naive at times. But it was nothing compared to Steve-2’s crew, he thought.
But then again, as Governor Allen had said, Steve-2 was a billionaire tech mogul. Joe was a Wyoming game warden.
* * *
—
The pavement gave way to gravel, then eventually narrowed into a two-track road. The pine trees closed in on it and branches swept by and sometimes scratched the exterior of Joe’s pickup. Each time it happened, Joannides flinched as if he expected a branch to break through the windshield and impale him.
Joe drove slowly and cautiously as the trail switchbacked up the mountain. At clearings he slowed to look ahead for oncoming vehicles—there were too many places where trucks meeting on the road would have no place to pull over or back up.
As they made a sharp turn to the right on the side of the slope, the Twelve Sleep Valley opened up to the east. The vista was almost overwhelming, even for Joe, who had experienced the view many times before. Depending on the weather, the time of day, and the cloud cover, the look of the valley changed every time. The tree-clogged river zippered through the bottom and the small town of Saddlestring shimmered in the sun in a distant cluster of sun-glints. Thirty miles away, another mountain range emerged from low-hanging clouds.
The magnificence and vastness of the scene was lost on Joannides.
“I brought the green smoothies for tonight since you said we might be getting to camp late,” Joannides said, not even looking up. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Good. I packed a sandwich.”
“Monday, tomorrow, is green/red day. Veggies and red meat.”
“Got it.”
“Tuesday is chicken paprikash and spaetzle,” Joannides said with a roll of his eyes. “Zsolt insisted on it and he claims he makes the best dish you can find outside of Budapest.”
“I bought all the ingredients,” Joe said.
“And Wednesday we fast.”
“You can fast all you want,” Joe said.
“Thursday I’ve written down ‘fresh elk.’ Will we have fresh elk meat by then?”
Joe shrugged. “It depends on our good fortune and Steve-2’s aim.”
“If not, you bought free-range chicken?”
“Either that or roasted pine grouse,” Joe said. “There’s a bunch of them up there where we’re going.”
Joannides made a pained expression at the deviation in his menu.
Joe said, “Look up and you’ll see a little bear.”
In fact, a small black bear, likely a yearling, was running up the middle of the road ahead of them. Its coat shone in the morning sun and the pads of its feet looked like pink slipper soles.
“A what?” Joannides said.
“A little bear.”
The assistant glanced up from his iPad just as the bear ducked into the timber to the left. “It didn’t look very scary,” he said.
“It isn’t a grizzly.”
Joannides shrugged and continued. “Friday is oily fish night.”
“There are a dozen cans of sardines in the panniers,” Joe said.
“Sardines? I asked for wild-caught oily fish.”
“I didn’t have a lot of options at the grocery store. We’re a long way from the ocean.”
Joe didn’t want to bring up the fact that all of the food he’d purchased for the ConFab group had been paid for out of his own pocket. Eventually, perhaps, the state would reimburse him. Marybeth had been concerned about it since it was the middle of the month and their budget was already stretched—they had a car repair bill due on her van and Lucy’s tuition payment. It was an issue that probably hadn’t even occurred to Joannides or Steve-2.
“Maybe we can have more fresh elk meat on Friday,” Joannides clucked while he updated the dinner schedule on his iPad. “Then we get to Saturday. We should be done and back on the jet by then, right?”
“If it all goes well,” Joe said. “No guarantees.”
“If it doesn’t, this whole trip will be a disaster,” Joannides warned.
“I’ll do my best,” Joe said.
“You’ll need to,” the assistant said. “Do you realize how much it costs Aloft to keep our CEO away for an entire week? We’re paying for pilots to sit around in your little town while we do this. The jet alone uses four hundred and fifty gallons of fuel per hour. Plus, every decision he isn’t there to make can mean millions of dollars to our shareholders.”
Joe took a deep breath and held it. Then he said, “I sent you a list as well. Did you get all the gear and equipment I wrote down?”
“We did our best,” Joannides said. “I’m sure you can imagine that some of the items aren’t easily found in downtown San Francisco.”
“Got it,” Joe said. “So let me know what you brought and what you didn’t. I’m sure I can fill in where you’re short.”
Joannides scrolled to another page on his device. He said, “We’ve got tents, sleeping bags and pads, headlamps, rain gear, camo clothing, optics, and personal items. Steve-2 has a knife.”
Joe mulled over the items for what was missing. “I’ll throw in a couple more knives, a meat saw, and some game bags.”
“Yes, we weren’t able to locate those. And we wondered about ‘alligators’?”
“Not alligators,” Joe said, stifling a smile. “Gaiters. You buckle them on over your boots and ankles for wet conditions or snow.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry—I’ve got a couple of extra pair.”
“Just make sure Steve-2 gets some.”
“Of course.”
“Anything else?”
“Where we’re going, mountain money is important.”
After a beat, Joannides said with mild panic, “Mountain money? What’s that?”
“Toilet paper,” Joe said. “It’s more valuable than cash. It wasn’t on either of our lists, but I brought plenty.”
* * *
—
The rough two-track began to level out a mile and a half away from the trailhead. The terrain on the top of the plateau was embedded with football-sized rocks and Joe slowed his truck as he drove over them. Battle Mountain loomed in the foreground and its timbered slopes rose and dissipated into the low-hanging clouds. Tendrils of fog and vapor reached down into the trees like bony fingers.
Joannides scrolled through his iPad with a hint of desperation, as if trying to recall things he’d missed.
Joe recalled tips and techniques he’d been studying—again—for loading the packhorses and panniers. He’d practiced tying diamond hitches for days with rope, and he’d reread both Horses, Hitches, and Rocky Trails by Joe Back and Packin’ in on Mules and Horses by Smoke Elser and Bill Brown to refresh his knowledge. He felt as comfortable as he could be before they set out and he was grateful Brock was accompanying them because of his familiarity with the horses.
“I feel like we’re on top of the world,” Joannides said. He’d finally looked up from his screen.
“We’re not,” Joe said. “But you can see it from here.”
FOUR
Over two miles away, deep in the cover of a thick stand of spruce trees and several hundred feet higher than the trailhead parking and staging area, Earl Thomas pushed the lens of a spotting scope through a thick growth of mountain juniper. He was prone so there’d be no profile if any member of the hunting party decided to look up in his direction.
With stubby fingers the size of sausages, Earl delicately manipulated the focus knob until he could see sharply.
“It’s them,” he said in a low baritone. “I recognize the game warden’s horse. He rides a paint.”
His adult sons, Brad and Kirby, were huddled together near his feet. He’d told them not to stand up, too. They were on the back side of the small rise Earl had shinnied up to place the spotting scope.
Earl said, “One, two, three, four, five of ’em. Eight horses that I can see so far.”
“Only five?” Brad said. “That don’t seem like a fair fight.”
“Shut up, Brad,” Kirby said in a whisper. Then to Earl: “Do you see Steve-2?”
