C. Box - Breaking Point

“I know that,” Marybeth said, rolling her eyes. “Is it okay with her mom? She’s stayed over at our house twice already this week.”

“It was her mom’s idea,” Lucy said.

“Oh, really?” That sounded odd to Marybeth. Pam Roberson managed the office for the small construction company she co-owned with Butch, but she took pains to be involved in her daughter’s life and activities, and she kept a fairly tight rein on Hannah, her only child. Like Lucy, Hannah was bright and attractive, although Marybeth had noted a change in her recently. Hannah had expressed an interest in horses, and Marybeth was secretly thrilled. Neither Lucy nor April shared her passion for horses, and Marybeth loved the idea of mentoring Hannah. Marybeth hoped this new development wouldn’t create a rift between Hannah and Lucy because Lucy had no interest at all in riding.

Lucy said, “Yeah, she called a few minutes ago. She talked to Hannah and told her there were a bunch of cops at their house.”

“What? Cops?”

“That’s what she said.”

The sirens, Marybeth thought.

“Lucy, please put Hannah on the phone.”

“I can’t.”

“And why not?”

“Mom, she’s in the bathroom. I think she’s crying.”

Joe drove his boot heels into Toby’s flanks and rode hard and fast back up the mountain through the water guzzlers to where he’d last seen Butch Roberson. Daisy ran behind, her tongue lolling out to the side. Toby had a surprisingly smooth gait when he went all-out, and it was actually easier on Joe’s aching knees and groin than his walk or bone-jarring trot.

Toby’s hooves pounded the soft ground, and Joe felt the wind in his face. He reached up and clamped his hat tighter on his head so it wouldn’t blow off.

He yelled, “Butch!”

The name echoed back from the wall of trees beyond the Forest Service fence-which hadn’t been repaired.

What he’d heard over the radio wasn’t reassuring. An anonymous call had been made to the sheriff’s department reporting two federal EPA officials missing from the night before. Whoever called said the two men had never checked into their rooms at the Holiday Inn and there was no sign of their car. A uniformed sheriff’s department officer was sent to where the caller said the two EPA men had been planning to go, which was a two-acre lot in a development called Aspen Highlands near Dull Knife Reservoir.

A quick check of the lot ownership with the county clerk revealed that it was owned by Butch and Pam Roberson. On arrival, the reporting officer said he could find nothing except some piles of gravel-and freshly dug soil. A quick reconnaissance of the area resulted in the location of a late-model Chevrolet Malibu SA hybrid sedan with U.S. Government plates. The car was found three miles from the Roberson lot. Someone had driven the vehicle off the gravel road and into the canyon choked with heavy brush. No one was inside. The reporting officer said he could have easily driven right by the car if it weren’t for the churned-up tracks on the dirt road. A tow truck, along with forensic techs, had been called to the scene.

Before climbing back into the saddle, Joe had called the dispatcher on his truck radio.

“This is Joe Pickett, GF-forty-eight. I’m located on the Big Stream Ranch. .” He gave her the location coordinates. “I ran into Butch Roberson-the subject of the current inquiry-an hour ago and I’m going back to find him. Please relay this to Sheriff Reed’s office.”

When she asked, he said, “I don’t want or need backup. It would take them too long to get out here, anyway.”

He signed off, “GF-forty-eight, out.”

GF-48 meant he was number forty-eight of the fifty-four game wardens in the state, ranked by seniority. He had once risen to GF-24 before getting into a confrontation with his superiors and losing his job and seniority number. When he’d been reinstated personally by Governor Rulon, a vindictive bureaucrat had refused to give him his old number back.

It rankled him every time he said “GF-forty-eight.”

Joe’s mind raced, and he replayed his encounter with Butch the hour before. He had no doubt Butch knew something, and suddenly everything Butch had said carried a different, more sinister meaning. Still, though, Joe wanted to find him and tell him what had been discovered on his property. He had no authority or probable cause to arrest Roberson, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t question him or ask him to follow him into town.

He rode through the opening in the fence and into the timber.

Two federal agents, he thought. Freshly turned-up ground. A car with no one in it.

Butch would have some hard questions to answer.

The fire pit Butch had built was cold, the rocks from the fire ring kicked away. Joe dismounted and tied Toby to a tree and carefully walked around the camp. He identified his own boot prints, Daisy’s prints, and large waffle-like impressions from Vibram hunting-boot soles, which he attributed to Butch. But he couldn’t discern which direction Roberson had gone after breaking his camp.

“Butch?” he called out.

He stopped and put his hands on his hips and looked west, into the thousands of acres of National Forest. Most of the roads within it had been closed, so it would be tough to drive inside. Butch had grown up in the area and had hunted the mountains all his life. Beyond the summit were succeeding waves of mountains, canyons, and heavy timber wilderness.

Joe smiled bitterly. Twelve Sleep County got its name because the Indians said it took “twelve sleeps” to walk or ride a horse from the west side of the mountains to the eastern slope. That was a lot of rough country.

Joe photographed the camp, the tracks, and what was left of the fire pit. He had a feeling there would be local, county, state, and federal people who would want to look at them. As he did, he questioned himself on the conversation he’d had with Butch Roberson. Had he deliberately missed something? Had his familiarity with Butch made him less than cautious?

He sighed and powered down the digital camera. Then he untied Toby and cantered him down to his pickup so he could drive to Butch’s lot at Aspen Highlands.

Because his house on Bighorn road was midway between Big Stream Ranch and the highway he’d need to take to get to Dull Knife Reservoir, Joe stopped long enough to let Toby out into the corral and dump the horse trailer. Poke, Dulcie’s gelding, greeted Toby by playfully biting him on the butt. Toby kicked back at Poke and missed. Rojo, Marybeth’s other horse, watched the two of them imperiously from the corner of the corral.

Joe’s district was considered a “two-horse” district by the department, meaning he received reimbursement for horses, tack, food, and vet bills. It was a two-horse district because of the vast size of it-more than 1,800 square miles. He was also in charge of a department snowmobile, a boat with an outboard motor as well as a drift boat, and a four-wheel ATV. And, of course, his assigned pickup, which was stuck on top of a mountain and he might never retrieve.

As he put the three horses out to pasture, he heard Marybeth’s van drive up the road and swing into the driveway in the front. He checked his watch-4:38 in the afternoon-and wondered why she was home so early.

As he unhooked the trailer hitch from the ball on his pickup, he heard Marybeth park in front. She was apparently on a break from work. Then the back door opened and slammed shut, and she emerged from the house. He thought she looked lovely: blond, slim, compact, with green eyes and nice cheekbones.

“Hey,” he said, cranking the trailer hitch up and over the ball of his truck.