C. Box - Breaking Point

“You’ll offer a reward ?” Reed asked, incredulous. He took a deep breath, and seemed to stifle his immediate reaction. Instead, he said softly, “I’d advise against that.”

“Advise all you want,” Batista said. “We will do everything we can to bring this murderer to justice.”

Joe shook his head, confounded by Batista’s vehemence. He looked to Coon, who pointedly refused to make eye contact. Batista seemed determined to antagonize Reed for reasons Joe couldn’t fathom. Both Underwood and Coon seemed to be along for the ride.

Joe was surprised when Batista turned to him. “You’re the one that let him go, right? You’re the game warden who had a nice little chat with the suspect and just let him walk away?”

Joe said, “That would be me.”

“I’ll have your job, along with the sheriff’s,” Batista said.

“There have been many days when I’d just give it to you,” Joe said, shrugging.

He felt Coon’s admonishing glare, urging Joe to keep quiet. Behind Batista and out of his field of vision, Underwood raised his right hand and pointed his index finger at Joe like a pistol. With his thumb, he let the hammer drop.

“I saw that,” Joe said to Underwood. Underwood smiled back with malevolence.

Then, reluctantly, Batista and Underwood moved away from Sheriff Reed and stood just inside the crime scene tape. Coon joined them. Batista smoldered in silence for a moment, then retreated and pulled his cell phone and spoke heatedly to someone.

“Our generator and lights are here,” Woods called out, as two more vehicles rumbled down the mountain road through the trees.

“Good,” Reed said, turning toward his men with his back to Batista, Underwood, and Coon. “Keep digging, boys.”

Kim love of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers arrived and got out of his sedan. There was a horrified look on his face, and he approached Joe and Reed on shaky legs.

“I could have been with them,” Love said.

“Why weren’t you?” Reed asked sharply.

Love looked down at his boots. “I didn’t want any part of what they were doing. And the younger one was just too gung-ho. I’m getting too old for that kind of thing.”

Reed told Love to drive back to town and give his statement to a uniform at the sheriff’s department.

Reed said, “Make sure you leave us your contact details. We may have more questions.”

“So I’m free to go home after?” Love asked, his mood improved.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Love said. “It’s kind of crazy up here.”

A moment later, Joe felt a presence behind him and turned to find Heinz Underwood.

“Yes?”

Underwood did the stare again, his eyes level with Joe’s. “You need to clear your plate, Mr. Pickett. Tomorrow I want to see exactly where you last talked to Butch Roberson so we can establish a forward operating base. He can’t get very far on foot-if he was really on foot.”

“He was when I met him,” Joe said evenly. “I can’t swear he didn’t have a truck or ATV or even a horse stashed somewhere.” Then: “The area I saw him in is National Forest. You’ll need to clear it with them if you’re going to set up some kind of camp.”

“FOB,” Underwood corrected.

“Whatever,” Joe said. Then: “You won’t be able to take vehicles into the forest very far. What few roads there were have been closed by the Forest Service. So if you plan to get into the mountains there, you’ll need to go on horseback.”

Underwood made a sour face. “Why are all the roads closed?”

“Ask them .”

Joe continued, “And in order to get to it, we need to cross the Big Stream Ranch, which is private. You need to talk to the ranch owner. His name is Frank Zeller.”

“We’ll handle it,” Underwood said. “Director Batista has already placed the call to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and they’re on board. They’re deploying a forest ranger SWAT team to meet us here in the morning.”

“A SWAT team?” Joe said, raising his eyebrows. “The EPA has armed agents and the Forest Service has a SWAT team? When did this happen?”

“In the past few years,” Underwood said dismissively, “but it’s no concern of yours. Once we find the area and establish our base, you’ll be cut loose to do whatever it is you do, and I don’t want to see you around.”

Joe felt his neck flush red. “Are you asking me or telling me? There’s a difference.”

“Either way, the result is the same. Besides, we’ve notified your governor and your new director, and they’ve pledged your full cooperation.”

Joe blinked. The governor ? Twice elected as a Democrat in a seventy percent Republican state, Governor Spencer Rulon was mercurial, devious, cantankerous, glib, contradictory, and wildly popular. For several years, Rulon had manipulated the agency structure to use Joe as his personal agent and point man in the field, careful to keep it arm’s length, so if Joe screwed up, nothing would reflect back to the executive office in Cheyenne. When Joe had gotten too “hot”-according to the governor’s chief of staff-he’d been temporarily shipped off into exile in South Central Wyoming and Rulon had cut off all communication. Joe had resumed his duties in the Twelve Sleep District and hadn’t heard from Rulon since.

“I don’t even know who my new director is,” Joe said, knowing how lame it sounded.

Underwood shrugged, then leaned slightly forward so his nose was inches from Joe’s.

“I know about you, Pickett,” Underwood said.

“Have we met?”

“No, but your name is not exactly unknown to some of my friends. You’ve been around the block a few times.”

“I’m just a game warden,” Joe said.

“An irritating one, from what I understand.”

Joe shrugged.

Underwood said, “Tomorrow,” and turned and walked back to Batista.

Joe wasn’t sure what Underwood had been talking about, and he couldn’t connect the dots between him and the EPA chief of special agents. He’d been in the middle of so many situations in his career that involved clashes with other state and federal agencies and bureaus. It was unavoidable in a state half owned and administered by myriad federal agencies-the Bureau of Land Management, the U.S. Forest Service, the U.S. Park Service, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the Bureau of Reclamation, the Interior Department, the Agriculture Department-and now, apparently, the EPA.

Joe was sure he would have remembered Heinz Underwood, though, if he’d ever encountered him before. He was a memorable presence.

The County employees who brought the lights and the tent weren’t alone. Behind their panel van was a battered Jeep Cherokee. Joe recognized the driver and passenger as Sissy Skanlon, the twenty-six-year-old editor of the weekly Saddlestring Roundup , and Jim Parmenter, the northern Wyoming stringer for the daily Billings Gazette . Although the two were technically in competition, they pooled their limited resources so they could cover stories together.

“Here comes the media,” Woods said with derision.

Skanlon and Parmenter gravitated to where Batista, Underwood, and Coon had grouped. Joe could hear murmured conversation. Batista took Underwood aside and spoke fervently for a minute, then stepped back. Joe was surprised Batista chose not to address the reporters himself and had apparently assigned Underwood the job. It was odd, Joe thought.

Underwood approached the two reporters and cleared his throat. Both pulled out notebooks and digital recorders to catch his words. Joe saw Underwood hand them a business card and pause while they read his title. Skanlon looked from the card to Batista and mouthed, “Wow.”