C Box - In Plain Sight

Robey told Joe that Arlen’s new foreman claimed that someone from Hank’s side had taken a shot at him, the bullet entering his open driver’s-side window, barely missing his nose, and exiting the open passenger’s-side window. Since there was no proof that a shot had been fired other than the foreman’s account and only soiled Wranglers to confirm he’d been scared, McLanahan filed away the complaint.

Then two of Hank’s men charged they’d been run off the highway by a pickup clearly belonging to Arlen Scarlett. But no pickup matching the description could be found.

An editorial in the Saddlestring Roundup ran a long list of bulleted items that had reportedly occurred between the two brothers on the ranch. The editorial ended with the sentence, “Will it be necessary to call in the Wyoming National Guard to prevent a full-fledged bloodletting?”

“SO, WHO YOU gonna choose?” Joe asked.

Marybeth frowned and shook her head. “I wish I didn’t have to choose either.”

“That’s an option, isn’t it?”

“Not really. They’d both see it for what it was-a snub. Arlen and Hank insist on a choice.”

Left unsaid was the fact that whichever choice she made would generate a good deal of revenue for her business, and therefore benefit the family. Marybeth was routing as much as she could into college funds for Sheridan and Lucy, and having either Hank or Arlen on her client list would boost her earnings. Since Joe’s salary was frozen at $32,000 by the state, there was little he could do to contribute to the college funds, which made him feel guilty and ashamed.

“My mother and Arlen both serve on the library board,” Marybeth said. “They’re pretty good friends. I think Arlen expects me to go with him, and I know my mother does.” She sighed. “I’ll probably go with Arlen.”

Joe cringed. Last fall, Marybeth’s mother, the former Missy Vankueren, had married Bud Longbrake, one of the most prominent ranchers in the valley. It was her fourth marriage, and she had traded up each time. Missy had taken to her new role-that of landed matriarch-with an enthusiasm and panache that Joe found both truly impressive and frightening. She seemed to be on every board and volunteer effort, the cochair of every fund-raiser. She was even involved, somehow, in the new addition to the Twelve Sleep County Museum, which was to be called the Scarlett Wing. Missy had never liked Joe much, and the feeling was mutual, although a kind of grudging respect had formed on both sides. She thought her daughter could have done better for herself. Joe tended to agree with that, but didn’t necessarily want to hear it said. Again.

“Arlen is pretty persuasive, and we could certainly use the business. But I really don’t want to get involved with either one of them. It’s a classic no-win situation,” she said, folding her washrag over the edge of the sink.

“Speaking of which,” Joe said, “I got two messages from headquarters today. I meant to tell you about them before dinner.”

She looked at him and arched her eyebrows.

“The first one was from Randy Pope. He wants me to re-submit all of my expense logs for the past four years. Four years! He says I still hold the record for the most wrecked vehicles in the department.” In Joe’s career, he had totaled three pickups and a snowmobile.

“Yes,” she said, prompting him for the second.

“And an anonymous tipster called the 800-POACHER line claiming that he knew of a guy who had dozens of game-animal mounts in his home that were taken illegally in Wyoming and all over the world. The RP-that’s ‘reporting party’ to you civilians-said the violator is prominent, a real criminal. The RP said this guy has done enough bad things to justify confiscating all of his property and equipment and fining him out the wazoo.”

“Yes…”

“The alleged poacher is Hank Scarlett,” Joe said. “The anonymous caller knows enough about game and fish regulations to cite wanton-destruction statutes. He also said many of the animal mounts at Hank’s hunting lodge are clearly illegal.”

“Anonymous caller?” Marybeth said, smiling. “Or Arlen?”

“I’d guess one and the same,” Joe said.

“And there was an e-mail sitting in my in-box from Randy Pope referencing the tip on Hank. It says, Wait for my authorization before proceeding on this.” The message infuriated Joe. Never in his career had a supervisor injected himself so deeply into his day-to-day job, much less the director of the department. In six years of working under Trey Crump, Trey had never once told Joe to hold up on doing his job. And just what in the hell was Randy Pope waiting for before providing authorization? Or was it, as Joe suspected, simply a maneuver to once again remind Joe Pickett who was running the show, like the request for back expense logs?

She stepped up to Joe and put her hands on the tops of his shoulders. “We’re going to be tangled up with these people whether we want to be or not, aren’t we?” She meant the Scarletts.

“Yup,” Joe said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?”

He hesitated for a moment. That one came out of left field, but she knew him so well.

“I do want to find out what happened to Opal,” he said. “There’s something not right about it.”

“There’s something not right about the whole Scarlett clan,” she said. “They’ve got a hold on this valley that scares me. It doesn’t matter if you’re with Arlen or Hank, the fact is everyone feels obligated to be with one or the other. There’s no middle ground, no compromise.”

As she spoke, Sheridan came into the kitchen.

“You guys decide about Friday night?”

Joe and Marybeth looked at each other.

“What we’ve decided,” Marybeth said, “is that this valley is much too small.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sheridan asked, looking from her mother to her father, obviously embarrassed to see them holding one another next to the sink.

The night suddenly split wide open as Maxine awoke from her customary sleeping place in the doorway of Joe’s office and barked furiously at the front door, the fur on her neck and back bristled up like a feral hog’s. Joe, Marybeth, and Sheridan all turned to the door, and Lucy scrambled from the couch to join them.

“Maxine!” Joe commanded. “Maxine, stop it!”

But the dog kept barking, her barks echoing sharply through the house. She clearly thought somebody was outside.

“What is it?” Marybeth asked Lucy. “Was there a knock?”

“I thought I heard something hit the door,” Lucy said, looking away from the television. “It sounded like a little rock hit it.”

Joe slipped away and strode across the living room. It wouldn’t be that unusual to have a night visitor; people often showed up late to report an incident or turn themselves in. But that usually happened in the fall, during hunting season, not in the spring.

He clicked on the porch light and opened the door. No one. He stepped outside on the porch, Maxine on his heels. The only thing he could see, in the distance, was a pair of red taillights growing smaller on Bighorn Road traveling east, toward the mountains, away from town.

“What was it, honey?” Marybeth asked.

Joe shook his head. “Nobody here now, but it looks like someone was.”

“Dad,” Lucy said, coming outside with her sister, “there’s something on the door.”

“Oh My God,” Sheridan gasped, her hands covering her mouth. She recognized it.

So did Joe, and he was taken aback.

A small dead animal had been pinned to the front door by an old steak knife with a weathered grip. The creature was long and slim, ferretlike, with a black stripe down its back. It was a Miller’s weasel, a species once thought extinct. It was the animal that had led to Sheridan being terrorized years before, and Marybeth being shot.