Kirk Russell: Night Game

But it surprised Marquez how much seeing Troy affected him.

He read the coarse white hair on his forearms, the Jim Beam label on the bottle near the log, watched him cut his steak with a Bowie knife and chew with his eyes closed. Pretty good bet he knew all about the bait pile and poached bears in Coldwater Canyon. Petroni would have to question him; the team couldn’t.

You could drink all winter on one gallbladder sale, pay your mortgage with hide and paws if you were smart about it, and Troy was that. He’d lost his right to ever hunt again in California when he was sentenced, but Marquez doubted that had stopped him. Why else would he be up here? He studied Troy another few minutes before putting the binoculars away. Bobby might be here with him, but Troy seemed to be alone this afternoon. Marquez wondered if Bobby had been up on the rock watching him find the poached bears in Coldwater.

Marquez slid the pack straps on and circled the lake, staying high before dropping down through a finger of trees and working his way toward a meadow and then the jeep trail. The afternoon darkened as he walked, and in the last mile the forest became gloomy. He climbed a rise and had started down the other side when he saw movement up ahead, off the road in the trees. Not long after, he heard a branch snap.

He reached the paved road and walked down past Dark Lake to where he’d parked in the wilderness lot. Then, pulling out of the lot, perhaps feeling a presence there, he took a look in his rearview mirror. Standing just inside the trees was the silhouette of Troy Broussard. He stepped out onto the road as Marquez pulled away. There were many reasons why Troy might follow a man coming down from above Barrett Lake, and they were all disturbing.

Marquez drove the slow winding road out to the highway, trying to decide which fit best.

Petroni didn’t answer his cell phone. Marquez tried him twice more before heading to Georgetown in his pickup. In Georgetown it took a few trips down the wrong streets before he found Petroni’s house. The pine in the front yard had grown much taller, the cedar-shingled house beneath looking like a summer cottage. Neither the Fish and Game truck nor the old Honda Civic were out front, though light glowed from inside. He rang the buzzer, heard shuffling footsteps, watched a lace curtain flutter. Bill’s wife, Stella, looked out at him, eyes narrowing as she recognized him, a wary smile forming as she opened the door, as if perhaps he were here to sell her vacuums or religion.

“You’re a surprise,” she said.

“How are you, Stella?”

“I’m all right, but if you’re looking for Bill, he doesn’t live here anymore. We’re divorcing. Try the Creekview Saloon in Placerville.

Suddenly he can afford to eat out all the time, and he has a girlfriend who works there.”

“I’m sorry,” Marquez said before walking away, heard her quiet, “Well, I’m not.”

Leaving Georgetown, he called Shauf because she knew one of the other wardens who worked regularly with Petroni. Petroni must have a house or an apartment somewhere, and Marquez figured that warden would know the address.

Shauf called back ten minutes later. “Okay, the story is he’s living with his new girlfriend and looking for a house to rent in Placerville. They’re house-sitting somewhere in Pollock Pines. It’s been a big scandal up here.”

“I guessed we missed it. No address on him?”

“No, he said Petroni keeps to himself.”

“What about the other wardens?”

“He asked and all they know is the house is in Pollock Pines.

Petroni doesn’t talk to anyone.”

“Okay, well, Stella said there’s a bar in town where the girlfriend works. I’ll go by, and if he’s not there, I’ll head to Sacramento.”

“Will you need me tonight?”

“Not at all.”

She was quiet, and he knew what was coming and was sorry she felt she had to ask. Her only sister had had a hysterectomy three weeks ago and been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Debbie lived in Folsom, a half-hour’s drive from Placerville, so Shauf was spending as much time as she could with her.

“I’ll be at my sister’s house if you need me.”

“Tell her I hope she’s feeling better.”

When Marquez looked in the door of the Creekview a few guys were at the bar. A pair of women sat at a table in a big empty room. It smelled like stale beer, and he didn’t see Petroni, so let the door fall shut. Before leaving town he stopped at a taqueria he used to frequent. New owners had glassed in the outdoor area and tiled over the concrete with Mexican pavers. A large paddle fan circulated humid air smelling of fry grease and beans. He ordered two chicken tacos, a quesadilla, coffee, everything to go, and then gassed up at the Shell station before getting on the highway.

Driving westbound on the highway, falling out of the foothills, he unwrapped one of the tacos. Food smells filled the cab. He ate slowly, bagged the trash, then sipped coffee occasionally checking his rearview mirror because a pickup had been pacing him since Placerville. Not that big a deal, yet the truck had his attention. He called home and when no one answered, left a message saying where he was and that he’d call back later. Laying the phone down, he checked his rearview mirror again.

The pickup’s headlights had started to close on him, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, he cut his speed and as the highway climbed a grade, fell in behind a slow-moving semi, passed it at the crest, and then slid over in front of it. The big semi’s lights lit up the cab, and he accelerated away, running with a long downgrade, watching to see how the pickup would react. What it did was come around the semi and start closing the gap.

Ten miles later he called Shauf.

“I’m twenty minutes from Sacramento and I’ve got a pickup tailing me. He’s not shy and I’m not sure what he’s up to. He’s either real bad at tailing or doesn’t care that I know.” Marquez heard children in the background and hated pulling Shauf from her sister’s house. “How long would it take you to get out to the freeway?”

“Five minutes.”

“I think you ought to roll. He’s coming up alongside me, and I’m going to play dumb.”

The truck, a modified Toyota SR5, silver-gray, a 2002 model, sat high off the ground, the driver looking down at him, his face unreadable through tinted glass. Marquez took his foot off the accelerator, letting the speed drift down. The Toyota stayed with him, the driver’s head just an outline, the truck running with him, crowding him a little.

The phone rang. “I’m on the highway,” Shauf said. “What’s he doing?”

“Messing with me. I’m driving fifty miles an hour and he’s staying with me. He’s got a stainless-steel platform welded on the back bed.”

“Bear hunter.”

“Or the truck belongs to one.”

Marquez kept the line open with her. The Toyota driver started riding the reflectors, easing closer to him, before braking hard and swinging in tight behind him. Their bumpers clicked hard, and Marquez fishtailed out into the fast lane. He fought for control, his truck going sideways, then a full tires-squealing spin, and he slid onto the center median, racked through oleander bushes, and clicked off the guardrail. He bounced back into the fast lane, and a big semi bore down on him, horn blaring as it swung right, just missing him.

He let a wave of traffic go past, then cut straight across two lanes and backed up along the shoulder until he could climb the off-ramp the Toyota had taken. He was still shaking when he talked to Shauf again.

“I heard your tires,” Shauf said.

“He tapped me, sent me spinning.”

“He could have killed you.”