C. Box: Savage Run

There was an unnatural silence in the woods, with the exception of Barnum’s grumbling. The absence of normal woodland sounds-the chattering of squirrels sending a warning up the line, the panicked scrambling of deer, the airy winged drumbeat of flushed Spruce grouse-confirmed that something big had happened here. Something so big it either cleared the wildlife out of the area or frightened them mute. Joe could feel that they were getting closer before he could see anything to confirm it. Whatever it was, it was just ahead.

McLanahan suddenly stopped and Joe heard the sharp intake of his breath.

“Holy shit,” McLanahan whispered in awe. “Holy shit.”

The still-smoking crater was fifteen yards across. It was three feet deep at its center. A half-dozen trees had been blown out of the ground, and their shallow rootpans were exposed like black outstretched hands. Eight or nine black baldy cattle were dead and still, strewn among the trunks of trees. The earth below the thick turf rim of the crater was dark and wet. Several large white roots, the size of leg bones, were pulled up from the ground by the explosion and now pointed at the sky. Cordite from the explosives, pine from broken branches, and upturned mulch had combined in the air to produce a sickeningly sweet and heavy smell.

What little daylight was left was quickly disappearing, and Joe clicked on his flashlight as they slowly circled the crater. Barnum and McLanahan followed suit, and the pools of light illuminated the twisted roots and lacy pale yellow undergrowth in the crater.

The rest of the herd, apparently unhurt, stood as silent shadows just beyond Joe’s flashlight. He could see dark heavy shapes and hear the sound of chewing, and a pair of eyes reflected back blue as a cow raised its head to look at him. He approached the nearest cow and shined the flashlight on its haunch to see the brand. It was the letter V with a U underneath, divided by a single line-the Vee Bar U Ranch. These were Jim Finotta’s cows.

McLanahan suddenly yelped in alarm, and Joe raised his flashlight to see the deputy in a wild, self-slapping panic, dancing away from the rim of the crater and ripping off his jacket as quickly as he could. He threw it violently to the ground in a heap and stood over it, staring.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” Barnum barked, annoyed.

“Something landed on my shoulder. Something heavy and wet,” McLanahan said, his face contorted. “I thought it was somebody’s hand grabbing me. It scared me half to death.”

McLanahan had dropped his flashlight, so from across the crater, Joe lowered his light and focused a tight beam on the deputy’s jacket. McLanahan bent down into the light and gingerly unfolded the jacket, poised to jump back if whatever had fallen on him was still in his clothing. He threw back a fold and cursed. Joe couldn’t see for sure what McLanahan was looking at, but he could make out that the object was dark and moist.

“What is it?” Barum asked.

“It looks like. well. it looks like a piece of meat. ” McLanahan looked up at Joe vacantly. The flashlight reflected in his eyes.

Slowly, Joe raised his flashlight, sweeping upward over McLanahan and then up the trunk of a lodgepole pine and into the branches. What Joe saw, he knew he would never forget.

Part of it was simply the initial shock. Part of it was seeing it in the harsh beam of a flashlight that lit up the texture, colors, and shapes and threw misshapen shadows about in unnatural and unsettling ways. He was not expecting-and could never have imagined-what it would look like to see the whole of a half-ton creature exploded into a thousand shards of different lengths, hanging down from branches like icicles, as high as his flashlight’s beam would reach. Entrails looped across the branches like popcorn strings on a Christmas tree.

He gagged as he swept the flashlight from tree to tree on McLanahan’s side of the crater. McLanahan retrieved his own flashlight and started sweeping the trees with the beam as well.

“I want to go home and take a shower,” McLanahan said. “The trees are covered with this shit.”

“How about you go back to the Blazer and get the crime-scene tape and your camera instead,” Barnum barked. Barnum’s voice startled Joe. The sheriff had been so quiet that Joe had almost forgotten he was there. He looked over to where Barnum stood, several yards away, his flashlight pointed down near his feet. “There’s a pair of big-ass hiking boots sitting right here. The laces are popped open.”

The sheriff paused and looked at Joe. “I think the poor dumb son-of-a-bitch who was wearing these got blown right out of them.”

They weren’t finished taping off the area until well after ten. The clouds that had covered the mountains and kept the sky closed like a lid on a kettle had dissipated, leaving a gauze of brilliant blue-white stars, like a million pinpricks in a dark cloth. The moon was barely more than a thin slash in the sky, providing a scant amount of light to see, so McLanahan and Joe, their flashlights clamped under their arms, fumbled clumsily through and around trees with rolls of the plastic band reading CRIME SCENE CRIME SCENE CRIME SCENE while Barnum tried in vain to maintain radio contact. Joe wondered how much evidence they were crushing or disturbing as they wound the plastic through the timber. He mentioned this to Barnum, but Barnum was busy trying to contact the Sheriff’s Department dispatcher via his radio and just waved him off.

“We started with an explosion called in by the fire lookout and now we’ve got us a full-fledged murder investigation,” Barnum growled into his handheld between ferocious bouts of static. “We need state forensics as fast as they can get here and we’ll need the coroner and a photographer out here at dawn. We can’t see a goddamn thing.”

“Come again?” the dispatcher asked through more static.

“She can’t hear a word I’m saying,” Barnum declared angrily.

“Why don’t you wait and try her again from the radio in the Blazer?” McLanahan asked. Joe was thinking the same thing.

Barnum cursed and holstered his radio. “I need to take a leak and then let’s get out of here.” Barnum turned and limped away into the dark brush.

Joe tied off the tape on a tree trunk sticky with pine sap and took his flashlight from where he had been holding it steady under his arm. He shined it on his boots. They were slick with blood.

“Jesus Christ!” Barnum yelled from the darkness. “We’ve got a body. Or at least half of one. It’s a girl. A woman, I mean.”

“Which half?” McLanahan asked stupidly.

“Shut the fuck up.” Barnum answered bluntly.

Joe didn’t want to look. He had seen enough for one night. The fact that Barnum was coming toward him, limping as quickly as he could around the crime scene tape, didn’t even register with Joe until Barnum stopped two feet in front of him and waved his finger in Joe’s face. Joe couldn’t tell if the sheriff was really angry or he was watching another display of Barnum’s famous bluster. Either way, being this close reminded Joe of how formidable Barnum still was, even after twenty-six years as Twelve Sleep County sheriff.

“Why is it, Game Warden Pickett, that we rarely if ever have any trouble in my county,” the sheriff’s voice rising as he spoke, “but every goddamned time we find dead bodies strewn about you seem to be standing there in the middle of them? ”

Joe was taken aback by Barnum’s sudden outrage. It was now obvious to Joe that Barnum had been harboring resentment for quite some time because Joe had solved the outfitter murders. Joe could not come up with a good response. He felt his cheeks flush red in the dark.

“Sheriff, you called me to the scene, remember?”