C Box - In Plain Sight

Arlen said, “When Hank and Doris started having trouble, Mother let Doris and Julie move across the ranch to the guest house. Hank doesn’t like it one bit, but at least he can see his daughter from time to time. Mother really doted on that girl.”

Arlen stood there, something obviously on his mind, making it awkward for Joe to turn and go.

Arlen said, “Now I’ve got a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Fire away.”

“I heard someone called and reported my brother Hank had committed some pretty serious game violations. That he had illegal mounts and species displayed at his house. Do you know anything about this?”

Joe thought: Now I know for sure who made the call. But he said, “I got the report. I’m waiting on authorization to proceed.” It embarrassed Joe to say that.

Arlen searched Joe’s face. “Authorization?”

Joe knew he was on thin ice as he proceeded, Arlen being a new Game and Fish commissioner. But why protect Randy Pope?

“You might have heard,” Joe said, as diplomatically as possible, “the agency director has assigned himself the job of being my immediate supervisor. He reserves the authority to okay my actions and duties.”

“And he hasn’t done so,” Arlen said, his voice cold.

“No sir, in this case…”

Arlen turned on his heel and walked back to his house. “Wait here,” he said over his shoulder to Joe. “I’ll be right back.”

Joe leaned back against his pickup, wondering what kind of trouble he’d just gotten himself in now.

SHERIDAN CAME OUT of the house to hug him good-bye. As he pulled her into him, he leaned down and whispered, “I can still take you home.”

She stepped back and raised her eyes to him. “Dad, I’m the only girl who showed up. I can’t leave. Don’t you understand?”

Joe looked at her, wanted to insist she get her things and climb back in, but he saw his growing daughter in an admirable new light.

“Then at least promise to call immediately if you need anything, okay?”

“That would be easier to do if I had a cell phone,” she said, her eyes triumphant.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Joe said, sighing.

Arlen appeared at a window on the second floor of the main house holding a telephone. He leaned out of the window, and gestured a thumbs-up to Joe.

“What’s that about?” Sheridan asked.

“Hank,” Joe said.

JOE SLOWED AS he cruised by Wyatt’s chicken coop. The place looked dark and buttoned down, the window curtains pulled tight.

His cell phone burred and he plucked it from its mount on the dash and said, “Joe Pickett.”

“Hold for Director Pope,” said Pope’s administrative assistant.

Joe smiled. That hadn’t taken long.

“Pickett,” Pope said brusquely, “I want you to proceed with that 800-POACHER tip as soon as possible.”

“Gee,” Joe said, “what’s the hurry?”

Silence. Joe could imagine Pope gritting his teeth, having just concluded his call from Arlen.

“Just get right on it,” Pope said.

“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“What do you mean it will have to wait?”

“I’ve got to get home and write up my daily report,” Joe said. “My supervisor demands it by five P.M.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…”

“And you need to get me a new truck. This thing is ready to fall apart,” Joe said, looking at the temperature gauge, which was in the red. “I don’t think it’ll last the month.”

“ Another truck!” he said, as if Joe were asking Pope to pay for it out of his own pocket instead of simply assigning another from the fleet. “We’ve had this discussion, I believe. You’ve damaged more government property than any other single game warden in the state, as you know. The damage case file we’ve got on you is…”

“I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up,” Joe said, tapping the phone against the side of his head before punching off.

His visit to Hank would need to wait, Joe said to himself, until his daughter was off the Thunderhead Ranch.

THE WORD THAT POPPED INTO SHERIDAN PICKETT’S mind that evening, as the Scarletts sat down to dinner in the old dining room of the main ranch house, was Gothic. Ranch Gothic. Not the kind of Gothic she was used to, like those black-clad Goths in school who painted their nails and lips black and looked amazingly silly in P.E., but the older definition of Gothic, the kind she’d read about in novels. Until now, that definition had always been beyond her grasp, because she’d never encountered it. She never thought there was anyplace in Wyoming ancient enough or sinister enough to be considered Gothic. Until now. An image of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations wearing her wedding dress and riding a horse across the meadow outside popped into Sheridan’s head. She almost giggled at the thought but she was too on edge.

A ROILING BUT invisible cloud seemed to hang in the air of the dining room and throughout the house. She imagined the cloud to be made up of violent past emotions. The whole place, she thought, could use a good airing out.

The décor within the main ranch house had obviously not been changed-simply added onto-since it was built. The walls and wallpaper were dark and the trim ornate, the cornices were hand carved, each doorway a custom lark of intricate woodwork. Ancient wagon-wheel chandeliers hung from high ceilings on rough chains. The kitchen was big enough that when the cast-iron cookstoves were replaced by modern ovens there was no need to throw the old ones out. The dining room and sitting room were close and stuffy, with old paintings on the wall of Wyoming and Scottish landscapes. Sheridan had found herself staring at an entire wall of framed black-and-white photographs in the living room.

“This is the Scarlett Legacy Wall I told you about,” Julie had said, sweeping her hand through the air. “There are pictures here of all of my relatives.”

Sheridan had looked at her friend, expecting to see a smile on Julie’s face when she said “the Scarlett Legacy.” But she was serious, and much more solemn than Sheridan had seen her before. It was as if Julie had been schooled to be solemn in front of that wall the way a good Catholic would cross herself in midsentence as she passed by a cathedral.

Julie pointed out the photos of her great-great-grandparents who had founded the ranch, then her great-grandparents. Prominent within the display was a portrait of Opal Scarlett as a girl, the photo tinted with color to redden her cheeks and bring out her blue eyes. Even then, Sheridan thought, she looked like a tough bird. Her eyes, even through the blue tint, were sharp and hard and gave off a glint, like inset rock chips. In the photo, though, Opal had smiled an enigmatic smile that was disarming. Sheridan had only met Julie’s grandmother a couple of times before and had never seen the smile.

The high school portraits of Arlen, Hank, and Wyatt were fascinating, she thought. It was telling seeing Julie’s dad and uncles at ages more closely resembling her own, so she could look at them more as contemporaries than old men. Arlen looked then as he did now: handsome, confident, full of himself, and a little deceitful. Hank wore a fifties-style cowboy hat with the brim turned up sharply on both sides, his face sincere, serious, earnest, dark. It was the face of a boy who looked determined to stake a claim, a hard worker who would not be stopped. Wyatt looked big and soft, eager to please, proud of a mustache that was nothing to be proud of. Something about his face seemed wounded, as if he’d already met great disappointment. He was not a guy, Sheridan thought, you would pick first for your team if you wanted to win. Arlen would be, though, if the competition was a debate. And Hank would be the choice if there was a chance a fight might break out.