Dark Sky, page 6
part #21 of Joe Pickett Series
The commissioners had also asked former Niobrara County sheriff Scott Tibbs to come out of retirement and fill the role in Twelve Sleep County on a temporary basis. Tibbs was older, folksy, slow-moving, and, most of all, clean when it came to scandal. He had a huge white mustache and jowls, and enjoyed the Christmas season because he looked forward to playing Santa whenever he was asked. Thus far, Tibbs had been blessed with a quiet year, with no major crimes or controversies. His easygoing manner was at odds with that kind of thing, and he’d apparently been rewarded for it. His deputies and clerical staff seemed to like him, and he made a point of telling the Saddlestring Roundup that he was “button-poppin’ proud” of his team.
Marybeth reserved judgment on both new officials. AnnaBelle seemed competent if hard-charging, and Tibbs seemed anything but. It had been Marybeth’s experience that political entities always hired the exact opposite of whoever was being replaced, and it seemed to be the case here. Joe had proceeded cautiously with them both as well, saying, “Every time I get to know and like these folks, something bad seems to happen to them.”
* * *
—
Do you have any ties to our valley?” Marybeth asked Griffith.
“Not really anymore,” Griffith said. “I used to come up here in the summer and stay at my grandparents’ cabin in the Bighorns. I always liked it. But no, I don’t know many people here yet.”
“I’ll help with that,” Marybeth said. “In fact, there’s a Chamber of Commerce social tomorrow night at Rex’s Taxidermy on Main Street. You should come. I’ll introduce you around to the business community.”
Griffith nodded, but didn’t commit. She seemed suspicious of Marybeth and not quite comfortable with her. Marybeth empathized. After all, she was about to ask something very sensitive of the new county prosecutor.
“Do you plan to put down roots here?” Marybeth asked.
“I haven’t made that decision yet. I’m operating one day at a time. I know how fortunate I am to get a position like this, given my age and gender. I want to make the most of it and we’ll go from there.”
“Good for you,” Marybeth said. “It won’t be as hard as you think. This place is filled with strong women. The county attorney before Duane Patterson was Dulcie Schalk. She is my best friend.”
“And you’re the director of the library,” Griffith said. “I haven’t been in there yet.”
“I know.”
Griffith looked startled.
“I didn’t mean to sound judgmental,” Marybeth said. “I’m not chastising you. But it’s an old Carnegie building and very small. I usually know who’s there and who’s not.”
Griffith sipped her coffee and winced. “This is quite strong.” Then: “Is there really a purpose to libraries anymore, with the Internet and all?”
Marybeth tried not to react. She said, “Small-town libraries are often community centers as well. Ours is. It’s a place where you can meet a good cross section of locals and learn more about them. I find out more about what’s going on in the valley by talking with locals than any other means.”
“Interesting.”
Marybeth didn’t want to say how much Joe relied on her for inside information and intel when it came to his own job and the cases he worked. Not only did she use library resources to do research and access law enforcement databases, she was also his behind-the-scenes partner and adviser. Her position at the library provided him with background and insight he’d never have by himself.
Marybeth took a sip of coffee as well. It was bitter and she guessed the pot had likely stayed on the warmer since lunchtime.
“You asked me to meet you,” Griffith said.
“I guess there’s no reason to beat around the bush. May I call you AnnaBelle?”
“Sure.”
“AnnaBelle, I know you inherited a caseload of work when you took over here. In particular, there are potential charges against a man named Nate Romanowski.”
“Ah,” Griffith said with a self-satisfied smile. “Now I know why we’re here.”
“Nate is an old family friend,” Marybeth said. “There’s no doubt he’s a different kind of person and he’s very rough around the edges. But he’s a good man.”
“A good man?” Griffith said. “Are we talking about the guy who is accused of assaulting the last sheriff and literally ripping his ear off of his head? That good man?”
“Yes,” Marybeth said. “As I’m sure you’ve seen from the case notes, his wife and baby had been kidnapped, he needed to get out of jail to save them, and the sheriff refused to help or cooperate. And Nate never should have been jailed in the first place. That’s in the notes, too.”
Griffith took in Marybeth and looked her over carefully. Marybeth tried not to crack.
“We probably shouldn’t be having this conversation. You’re asking me to make a determination on an ongoing case.”
“I guess I am,” Marybeth said.
“I can’t do that.”
“I get that. I do. But I thought it important that you know the background. Nate is . . . unique.”
“Are you saying he should be judged by a different set of rules than everyone else?”
Marybeth realized that was exactly what she was asking, although hearing it in so many words unsettled her for a moment.
“Let me put it this way,” Marybeth said. “You’re new here. You’re obviously smart and ambitious.”
“Thank you, I guess.”
“In your job, you’ll likely make enemies.”
Griffith didn’t reply.
Marybeth said, “If somebody decided to hurt you, you’d want someone like Nate around.”
Griffith looked at Marybeth quizzically. “What would he do?”
“Whatever he had to. Nate has been looking after our family for a long time. I don’t always condone his methods, but it’s very reassuring to know he’s out there.”
“Isn’t that why we have law enforcement?” Griffith asked.
“It should be,” Marybeth conceded. “But it doesn’t always work out that way.”
At that moment, Marybeth felt her phone burr in her purse on her lap. She glanced down to check the screen.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I have to take this.”
* * *
—
Joe?” Marybeth said. She stood in the vestibule of the Burg-O-Pardner. “How is it going so far?”
“Let’s just say there’s tension in the air,” he said. “But I’ll tell you more later.”
“I’m surprised you called.”
“Yeah, me too. But there’s only one place on the face of the mountain that I can get an actual cell signal and I didn’t want to waste it. We’re way ahead of schedule, so I have the time. After this, I’ll have to call you on the satellite phone at night.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you took it with you.”
“Oh, we’ve got loads of gear,” Joe said wearily. “Sat phones, GPS units, PLBs, solar chargers, portable satellite broadband transmitters and receivers, and stuff I’ve never even heard of before. It’s quite a wilderness adventure.”
She laughed and could picture Joe grimacing at the sight of all that electronic equipment.
“That’s so Mr. Price can post everything you do on the trip,” Marybeth said. “But let me caution you. Don’t let him take photos of you or mention you by name. I looked on ConFab earlier and there’s already a lot of backlash.”
“Backlash?”
“Anonymous people say all sorts of horrible things on social media. You know that.”
“That’s why I avoid it.”
“I know, and it’s the right way to go.”
“What are they saying?” Joe asked.
“You can imagine, I think. People who are anti-hunters, vegans, people who call themselves humanists. They’re all flaming Steve-2 about going on this trip. They can get really vicious.”
“So there’s some bad stuff, huh?”
“It’s hard to remember sometimes that the people who comment are a really small percentage of the people on ConFab,” she said. “Only the worst ones actually post things, and they’re anonymous, of course. They’d never use their real names or say those things directly to Steve-2. But there are some good posts, too.”
Marybeth chose not to tell Joe about a few of the comments she’d read at lunch. One in particular suggested it would be a good outcome if Steve-2 and all of the people with him were murdered, beheaded, and their heads mounted on the wall as if they were the game animals they were hunting.
“Joe?” Marybeth said.
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could convince Steve-2 just to stay off-line for a while?”
“I really doubt if that’s possible,” Joe said. “These people are glued to their devices at all times. It’s like their phones are part of them.”
“Please try. I don’t want you to be the target of all these people. And I don’t want your daughters to see what people are saying about you.”
She could hear Joe take a long breath. “I’ll try,” he said.
“Take his phone away from him,” Marybeth said. “Tell him it’s for his own good.”
“You haven’t met him,” Joe said. “He thinks he’s doing something noble.”
“He might be, but try to convince him to keep it to himself until he’s done with the hunting trip.”
“It’s not that easy,” Joe said. “He wants people to get a clue where their food comes from through this trip. It’s important to him, or so he says. I have trouble arguing with that.”
Marybeth glanced inside the restaurant and saw Griffith reach out and call for the check. She was ready to leave.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “Call me tonight.”
“I will.”
“And try to convince Steve-2 to go dark. The world doesn’t need to know everything he experiences. There’s value in solitude. Tell him that.”
“I kind of like that one,” Joe said.
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
* * *
—
Marybeth slipped her phone back into her purse and sat down at the table before the proprietor could deliver the bill to AnnaBelle Griffith.
“That was my husband. He’s high in the mountains where there’s no phone signal, so when he gets the chance to call, I need to take it.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” Griffith said with a loopy grin Marybeth hadn’t anticipated. “I saw his photo on my ConFab feed this morning. He’s up there guiding Steve-2 himself.”
Marybeth knew she’d recoiled. “You saw him?”
“Everybody saw him,” Griffith said. “I got texts from friends in Casper and all over asking if I knew Joe or about the hunt with Steve-2.”
“What did you tell them?”
Griffith said, “I told them I’d met him in passing, but I was actually having coffee with his wife just this very afternoon.”
“I don’t think Joe has any idea what he’s gotten himself into,” Marybeth said. “Social media is a cesspool.”
“Maybe he’ll go viral.”
Marybeth briefly closed her eyes and tried to regroup.
“Where were we?” she asked when she opened them.
“You were trying to convince me to look the other way in regard to Nate Romanowski,” Griffith said, putting her game face back on.
“That is what I was trying to do.”
“Do you realize how inappropriate that is?”
“I do.”
Griffith sat back in her chair and looked at Marybeth coolly. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that Judge Hewitt is quite fond of Romanowski, for reasons I don’t yet understand. I’ve also heard that your friend is represented by Spencer Rulon, your former governor. I’m new here, but I can see when a case is stacked against me from the start. We should probably forget that we had this conversation.”
“I’ve already forgotten it,” Marybeth said.
“Me too.”
SEVEN
The hunting party established their elk camp on the edge of a mountain meadow as long thin shadows from lodgepole pine trees turned the grass into jail bars. Joe and Brock Boedecker did all of the work. Four tents had been set up: three dome tents for sleeping and one outfitter wall tent with a small stove inside for cooking meals and providing heat.
The dark bank of storm clouds Joe had noted earlier in the day had scudded across the mountains and they were now hunkered down on the north summit, as if curled up and parked there for the night. He was grateful there had been no snow on the ride up, but snow would be just fine. It was easier to track elk in snow than on the dry pine needle forest they would be going into.
Joe filled two five-gallon plastic water bags in a small stream and carried them back to the campsite with one in each hand. They were heavy. He raised each and looped the upper handle around broken-off tree joints to suspend them, then fitted water filter assemblies to the bottom of the bags and attached plastic tubing to each. He was tired from the ride and his inner thighs were already rubbed raw from the saddle. It was early, but he knew he’d be ready to crawl into his sleeping bag.
When the water supply was secure, he looked around the camp and went through a mental checklist. Tents were up and ready. Joannides and Zsolt would be in one, Steve-2 by himself in another, Brock and him in the third. A camp table and chairs were unfolded and set up in the cook tent as well as lanterns. A small supply of firewood was stacked near the little potbellied outfitter stove. Their bags of food were a hundred yards from the camp itself and hung high in trees to prevent marauding bears from rooting through them. A pop-up latrine was set up a hundred and fifty yards away in the other direction, hole already dug.
Brock Boedecker was at the far end of the meadow, unsaddling, grooming, and picketing the horses. Joe could hear him singing a cowboy song to himself: Marty Robbins, “Streets of Laredo.”
As the sun dropped, so did the temperature. A stillness enveloped the meadow, amplifying every sound. The cooling air smelled of pine, sweaty horses, and woodsmoke. It was the very best time of the day in the high mountains, Joe thought. They’d gone as far as they could go, much farther than he’d thought they’d progress the first day, camp was set up, and dinner was to come. He didn’t think he’d ever grow weary of it.
He placed his hands on his hips and took it all in.
Tim Joannides sat on a stump near the campfire, scrolling through something on his phone. One of the portable satellite broadband units was on another stump next to him. While Joe set up the camp, Joannides had volunteered to keep the fire going. But he’d apparently gotten distracted because it was burned down to ashes and nearly out.
Zsolt Rumy had spent his time circumnavigating the location they’d chosen, checking for high ground, trails, and sight lines, he’d said. The ride up had warmed him and he strode around with his coat open. Joe noted Rumy had two shoulder holsters under his parka with black straps that crisscrossed over his chest.
Neither man, Joe noted, had offered to help set up the camp or shown any interest in the location. Rumy had placed his bear spray somewhere, although Joannides had his canister near his feet.
Steve-2 had shadowed Joe the entire time. He kept a respectful distance, but he was never very far away.
“Here,” Joe said to him. “I’ll show you how to get water.”
Price came over, his expression curious. Joe snatched a tin cup from a bag of cooking utensils and walked over to the water bags. He raised one of the lengths of tubing and released the pinch valve on the end so that a thin stream of water flowed out. Joe filled the cup, handed it to Price, and tightened the valve so no water would be wasted.
“We filter it to prevent giardia,” Joe said. “The creek looks pure, but you never know what might be upstream. Once, I found a decomposing moose fifty yards upstream from where I drank.”
Price made a sour face and the cup hesitated near his mouth.
“It’s okay,” Joe assured him.
Price gulped it down and held out the cup. “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”
“You do it,” Joe said, stepping aside. “And remember to drink twice as much water as you think you’d ever want. The elevation and the dry air will turn you into jerky if you don’t.”
Price nodded and filled the cup two more times.
“I noticed you’ve got quite a limp,” he said to Joe. “Are you sure you can get around?”
“I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“Got shot.”
Price looked up, his eyes wide. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. But that was a year ago. I put away my cane four months ago. If I hadn’t been in that saddle all day stiffening up, you wouldn’t even notice.”
“Who shot you?”
Joe shook his head. Then: “Our doctor.”
“Your doctor shot you?”
“Long story,” Joe said. “I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”
He nodded toward Boedecker on the far side of the pasture. “Right now, I’m going to help Brock take care of our horses before it gets dark. The horses come first.”
“Mind if I come along?” Price seemed eager, almost childlike.
“As long as you don’t bring your phone.”
“My phone is an extension of me,” Price said, chuckling. “That would be like asking me to cut off my arm and leave it here in the grass.”
