C. Box - Force of Nature

He arched his eyebrows.

“I told him I didn’t know where you were. And I didn’t, either. I told him if he wanted to try and find you he should ask the local game warden, Joe Pickett.”

Nate felt a chill. “You mentioned Joe?”

“I thought that might make him go away. He seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t really want to talk to a law enforcement officer.”

“Describe him,” Nate said.

She closed her eyes, as if conjuring up an image. “Tall, white, maybe six-foot-two or — three. He was older than you by ten years or so, but in good shape. He had light brown hair and blue eyes. His eyes were set close together, and he had a long thin nose. High cheekbones, but Scandinavian, not Indian. His face was angular and his mouth was small. He had a mouth like a pink rose, I thought. Like he wanted to kiss somebody. But he gave me a bad feeling.”

She opened her eyes.

Nate nodded. “Did he give you a name?”

She said, “Bob White.”

Nate snorted.

“It seemed like a fake name,” she said.

“It is. Did you see what he was driving?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t look out in the visitor’s parking lot. I didn’t think of it until later, and by then he was gone.”

Nate asked, “How much vacation time do you have?”

She cocked her head to the side, puzzled at the question. “I have a lot,” she said. “I never take any days off.”

“Alice,” he said, “I want you to take some of that money and go someplace you always wanted to go. Take a couple weeks. Just please promise me you’ll go away for a while.”

“Do you think he’ll come back? Do you think he’d hurt me?”

Nate shrugged. “I don’t know, but we don’t want to take a chance.”

She thought about it. “I always wanted to go to Austin and see the bats. You know, the bats that come out every night from under that bridge and fly? I like bats.”

“Then go to Austin,” he said. “See the bats. And when you get bored with them, go somewhere else and see some other bats. Just get out of this place for a while.”

She looked at him for a long time. Her face never moved.

“Start packing tonight,” Nate said.

“Who is this man?” she asked.

Nate said, “Someone I used to work with. And believe me, he’s not someone you want to see again.”

He recalled Large Merle’s last words, and it all made sense to him.

They’ve deployed.

After leaving Alice Thunder’s home, Nate saw lights through the roadside trees and turned in to an alleyway that led behind the small lighted building. The sign in front flickered from ancient fluorescent bulbs inside, but it read bad bob’s native american outlet. It was a convenience store at the junction that sold gasoline, food, and inauthentic Indian trinkets to tourists. Three old pickups were parked at odd angles in front. One, an older model blue Dodge, had its back end aimed to the side and Nate could read the bumper sticker. It showed a graphic of four Apaches holding rifles and it read homeland security: fighting terrorism since 1492. Another sticker read my heroes have always killed cowboys.

Bad Bob, the owner of the pickup, also rented DVDs and computer games to boys on the reservation. The back room was where the men gathered to talk and loiter and Bob held court. On the side of the store was one of the few remaining pay telephone booths still in operation on the res. Nate pulled up next to it and dropped two quarters into the slot and punched numbers.

“Dispatch,” answered a woman with a nasally voice.

“Hey,” Nate said. “I need to report a game violation. Is this the hotline I’m supposed to call?”

“It can be,” she said. “This is the general state dispatch center, but we can take your information and forward it to the proper agency. What is your name, where are you calling from, and what is the nature of the call?”

He hesitated for effect, then said, “My name’s not important, but I’m calling from a pay phone in Twelve Sleep County. I just saw a crime, and I want to report it.”

Nate described a scenario where someone in a pickup with a spotlight-he used Bad Bob’s vehicle for inspiration-was firing indiscriminately at a herd of mule deer just off Hazelton Road near Crazy Woman Creek. He said it was awful, and gave her the location.

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“Just a few minutes ago,” he said. “I just got to a phone. You’ve got to send someone up there.”

“Are you sure you can’t give me your name?” she asked. “We might need to follow up and contact you for better directions.”

“The directions are perfect,” he said.

“I’ll contact the game warden in the district and relay your report,” she said. “I can’t promise he’ll be there right away, though. It’s a huge district, and he may be off duty right now.”

“Thank you,” Nate said.

“ Thank you for calling the Stop Poaching Hotline,” she said, obviously reading from a screen.

When Nate hung up the phone, he looked up to see Bad Bob coming around the corner of the store holding a lever-action rifle. Bad Bob was shaped like a barrel and had a wide oval face pocked with acne scars. His hair was black, and it glistened from the gel he used to slick the sides down and spike the top. He was wearing a Denver Broncos jersey, baggy trousers, and unlaced Nike high-tops. When he saw Nate, he said, “Jesus!” and jumped back and raised the rifle.

Nate didn’t reach up for his weapon. He said, “Bob, it’s me. Put the rifle down.”

“You fuckin’ scared me, man,” Bob said. “I heard something and I was going out back to see if them bears were in my Dumpster again. I’ve been asking the tribe for some bear-proof garbage cans for months, and they keep saying they’ll bring some, but here we are and I still got damn bears.” He patted the rifle. “I’m gonna smoke one if I catch him and make me a bearskin rug.”

Bad Bob was Alisha’s brother. Nate hadn’t seen him since her death.

“I’m sorry about your sister, Bob,” Nate said.

Bad Bob lowered the rifle and lowered his voice. “Yeah, she was always too good to be true, you know.”

Nate didn’t respond to that. Bob was Alisha’s older brother, and they’d had a strained relationship and rarely spoke to each other. Alisha had left the reservation after high school, got a degree, married, and moved comfortably in Denver social circles. After her divorce, she’d returned to the res on a mission to try and help the students move up and out. She believed in entrepreneurship and individualism, and fought against a group mentality. Bob, on the other hand, rarely ventured off the res and gave talks encouraging the tribes to secede from the union. But he never mailed back a government check, either. The convenience store had been passed down from an uncle who died of cancer, and it had become Bob’s headquarters. The sign in front lured white tourists into the store so Bob could insult them face-to-face.

Bob said, “I heard that the couple of guys who did it are taking the dirt nap.”

“They are,” Nate said.

Bad Bob nodded with satisfaction. “So what are you doing here, man? I thought you left the country.”

“I’m passing through,” Nate said. “Just using your phone before I leave.”

“Why don’t you come in? I got some coffee on, and there’s some wine getting passed around in there.”

“No, thanks,” Nate said. “I’ve got to go. But I’ve got one question for you.”

Bob leaned the rifle against the brick wall of his store and walked forward and slumped against Nate’s Jeep and looked down at his shoes. “You want to know when you’ll be getting some of that loan back, I know. But times have been really tough around here. When there’s all that unemployment out there outside the res, you can imagine what it’s like inside. Shit, I run credit accounts for all these mooks until government check day and then I just hope they’ll come in and pay off their tabs.”