C. Box - Out of Range

Then she remembered the Caller ID unit that had just been installed, that she had forgotten to look at before answering. The number had a 720 area code, which was unfamiliar.

"Who is this?"

An intake of breath, as if the caller was gathering his thoughts to speak. But he didn't.

"I'm hanging up," Marybeth said, and she did. "Damnit."

The caller's telephone number vanished from the screen. She retrieved it from the backup and wrote the number down on the first thing she could find, the margin of the front page of the Saddlestring Roundup.

"Who was that?" Sheridan asked.

"Wrong number."

"Then why did you write it down?"

Caught, Marybeth looked up. "In case he calls again."

"I heard you and Dad talking about someone calling us and not saying anything. Was that him?"

"I have no idea," Marybeth said, her voice more shrill than she would have chosen.

Sheridan glared at her mother. It didn't matter if one eye was obscured, the glare was the same. "You don't have to treat me like I'm an idiot, Mom. I'm thirteen. Do you realize how old that is?"

Marybeth braced for another argument. They were occurring with more frequency these days. "Sheridan," Marybeth said, already regretting her words, "do you realize how young that is?"

Sheridan slammed her pen down on her paper. "You treat me like I'm Lucy's age," she said. "I'm not. You forget how much I've gone through in my life."

"Oh, stop it."

"No," Sheridan said, her cheeks blooming red, "I won't stop it. If someone is calling our house and we might be in danger, I want to know about it. Don't keep me in the dark like a baby."

Marybeth took a breath, counted to three. "I don't know that to be a fact," she said. "We have no idea who is calling, or why. We don't know if it means anything at all."

Sheridan continued to glare. Lucy walked into the room, turning her head from her mother to her sister, as if watching a tennis volley.

"Was it so hard to tell me that?" Sheridan asked.

"Tell her what?" Lucy asked. "Was that Dad?"

Sheridan told Lucy, "Never mind."

"No," Marybeth said, "it wasn't your dad."

"When is he going to call?"

"I don't know," Marybeth said, an edge of frustration in her voice.

"He'll call," Sheridan said, picking up her pen and going back to her homework.

Don't be so smug, Marybeth thought, looking at her older daughter, for a moment resenting her and her absolute certainty, and just as quickly forgiving her.

Marybeth picked up the newspaper with the telephone number on it and headed for Joe's office. As she passed by the table, Marybeth mussed Sheridan's hair affectionately. Sheridan turned her head away sharply, as if her mother's touch offended her.

"Sheridan …"

"I'm trying to do my homework here, okay?" Sheridan snapped.

Let it go, Marybeth told herself. Let it go.

She put the newspaper on the stack of unopened mail for Joe. She intended to read him the return addresses on the envelopes when he called, to see if any of the letters were important and should be forwarded to him in Jackson. And she wanted to ask him if the phone number was familiar. That is, if and when he called.

Sheriff Tassell was late arriving at the statehouse. Joe had spent the time having an unsatisfying conversation with Marybeth, his cell signal fading and coming back, hearing snippets of sentences and asking her to repeat them.

"So Sheridan's okay?"

"Seems to be," Marybeth said. "It's her attitude that needs an adjustment…."

There was more, but Joe didn't get it.

"So Sheridan's eye is fine?"

"Joe, I just told you …" Lost it again.

He got out of his truck and walked down the sidewalk, pirouetting occasionally, trying to find a steady, strong signal.

"… another call where the caller didn't say anything …"

"What?"

"It was from area code seven-two-oh. Do you …"

"Seven-two-oh?"

". she asked me about it, wondering if it was anything we needed to be concerned about…"

"Marybeth, stop," Joe said, frustrated. "Wait until I get into the house. I can use the phone inside. I'll call you from there and we can talk, okay?"

"… they miss you, Joe …"

"Did you hear me?"

Suddenly the connection was good. "Hear what? Why are you snapping at me?"

"I'm not snapping," Joe said, looking up at the streetlight. "My signal's going in and out. I'm only hearing parts of what you say."

"… maybe you should call back tomorrow so you can talk with the girls …"

"I will. Now, Marybeth …"

The signal vanished.

Joe sighed, punched off the call as Tassell's Teton County Sheriff's Jeep Cherokee cruised down the street and pulled in behind Joe's truck.

"Sorry I'm late," Tassell said, swinging out of the Cherokee. Before the interior lights shut off when the door closed, Joe saw a woman he assumed was Tassell's wife in the passenger seat, and at least two children in the back seat.

"You wouldn't believe how many social obligations there are here," Tassell said over his shoulder to Joe as he walked up the path to the front door, spinning a set of keys around his index finger. "Seems like we're obligated most nights."

Joe grunted.

Tassell said, "Tonight was the annual fund-raiser at the wildlife art museum. As sheriff, I have to go to these things. It's noticed when I'm not there."

"You could have left me the keys at your office."

Tassell stopped at the front door, fumbling in the dark with the keys and the lock. "I wanted to check this place out first."

"Why?"

Tassell turned, but Joe couldn't see his face in the dark.

"I want to make sure they cleaned up."

Joe hoped so too, but didn't say anything. He heard the zip of the key going in, and Tassell pushed open the door, the tape seals breaking open with a kissing sound. Tassell searched for a light switch, then both the porch light and the interior lights went on. Joe blinked and followed him in.

"It's clean enough, I think," Tassell said, surveying the room.

Joe stepped around Tassell. The home was no bigger than his own in Saddlestring. They stood in the dining room, with the kitchen appliances lining the wall near the door. The only nice thing, Joe noticed, was a fairly modern refrigerator with a water tap and icemaker on one of the doors. The table where Will shot himself was in the center of the room, with two chairs on either end of it. The cheap paneled walls were bare of adornments with the exception of a stopped clock. The ceiling was a dingy off-white and in need of paint. The overhead frosted light threw out mottled light due to at least one burned-out bulb and the shadowed remains of dead miller moths gathered in the frosted glass fixture. The room smelled of strong disinfectant.

Tassell walked to the head of the table, turned, and gestured to the ceiling. "That's where the bullet went," he said, pointing at a nickel-sized hole a few inches from where the paneling started. "I would have thought they'd plug that up, but I guess not."

Joe looked at the ceiling. He could see dried arcing wipe marks reflecting in the light, where the blood had been washed off. The paneling on the east wall also looked freshly scrubbed.

"This room was a mess," Tassell said. "A.44 Magnum does a lot of damage to flesh and bone. The damned gun kicked so hard it drove the front sight of the muzzle up into his palate." He demonstrated by jabbing his finger up into his mouth, pointing behind his front teeth.

He handed Joe the key ring. "His pickup keys are on that too."

"Thanks."

"What can I say? It's a shitty house but I guess it's your new home," Tassell said. "Well, I've got my kids in the car. I need to get them home."