C Box - In Plain Sight

She turned on the walk and grinned. “I’m fine, Governor,” she said.

“Hell, I can give you a hand myself. Do you have any more bags in the car?”

“No.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Have a good day, then, ma’am.”

He powered the window back up. “I do enjoy being the governor,” he said. Then: “Where were we?”

Joe gestured toward the digital clock on the dashboard of the Yukon. “We all probably ought to get back.”

“You’re right,” Rulon said.

And he stopped in the middle of the road, did a three-point turn through both lanes, and roared back down Main toward the museum.

“That was an illegal turn,” Joe said.

“Screw it,” Rulon said, shrugging, picking at something caught in his teeth. “I’m the governor.”

RULON STOPPED PARALLEL to Joe’s pickup in the parking lot.

“What a piece of crap,” Rulon said, looking at Joe’s vehicle. “They give you that to drive around in? It’s an embarrassment!”

“My last truck burned up,” Joe said, not wanting to explain.

Rulon smiled. “I heard about that. Ha! I also heard you shot Smoke Van Horn in a gunfight.”

Joe paused before opening the door. “You said you had a question for me.”

Rulon nodded, and his demeanor changed. He was suddenly serious and his eyes narrowed as if he were sizing up Joe for the first time.

“I’ve followed your career,” Rulon said.

“You have?” Joe was genuinely surprised.

Rulon nodded. “I’m endlessly fascinated by the kind of people I have working for me all around the state. I’m the biggest employer this state has, you know. So when I see and hear something out of the norm, I latch on to it.”

Joe had no idea where this was going. He shot a glance at Marybeth in the back seat, which she returned.

“So, here’s my question,” the governor said. “If you caught me fishing without a license, what would you do?”

Joe paused a beat, said, “I’d give you a ticket.”

Rulon’s face twitched. “You would? Even though you know who I am? Even though you know I could get rid of you like this?” he said, flicking an imaginary crumb off his sleeve.

Joe nodded yes.

“Get out then,” Rulon said abruptly. “I have to say hello to the rest of the people here.”

Joe hesitated. That was it?

“Go, go,” Rulon said. “We’re going to be late.”

“Nice to meet you, Governor,” he said, sliding out.

“You have a lovely bride,” Rulon said.

JOE AND MARYBETH returned to their seats.

Missy had been waiting for them and turned completely around in her chair.

“What was that about?” she asked.

Joe and Marybeth exchanged glances.

“I have no idea,” Marybeth said. “But I’m suddenly exhausted.”

TEN MINUTES BEFORE ten, when the grand opening was to begin, a dirty pickup rattled into the parking lot and disgorged Hank. Joe saw that the driver of the pickup was Bill Monroe.

“There he is,” Joe said, sitting up straight and pointing out the driver to Marybeth. “Just driving around wherever he wants to go. He’s not worried about McLanahan, and he’s not worried about me.”

“That’s Bill Monroe?”

“Yup.”

“Why does he look familiar?”

Joe snorted. “I thought the same thing at first. I told you that. But there is no way in hell we’ve ever met him or run into him before.”

“Still there’s something about him,” Marybeth said, and he knew she was right. He waited for her to recall where she’d seen him. She was good at those kinds of things.

As the pickup drove away, Joe searched the crowd for Sheriff McLanahan, who stood on the side of the podium talking to some ranchers on Hank’s side about the state of alfalfa in the fields.

Joe left his seat and strode over. “Hey, Sheriff.”

McLanahan looked up with his eyes, but didn’t raise his chin.

Joe said, “Did you see who was driving that truck? That was Bill Monroe. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for him? Isn’t there a warrant out for his arrest? That was him right there.”

Pink rose from under McLanahan’s collar and flushed his face. He looked away from Joe for a moment.

“Didn’t you see him?” Joe demanded. “He was right here in this parking lot. He dropped Hank off. Aren’t you supposed to be on the lookout for him?”

Joe stepped closer to the sheriff, talking to the side of McLanahan’s turned face, to his temple. “I know what you’re doing. You’re playing both sides, keeping your head down until it’s resolved between the brothers. But don’t you think it’s time you started doing something around here? Like arresting people who commit crimes, no matter what their name is or who they work for?”

McLanahan stared ahead, angry, his mouth set tight.

“How long can you sit back and watch geese fly? Or waste your time calling my boss and telling him I’m not doing my job?”

That made McLanahan’s face twitch. Yup, Joe thought, it was McLanahan after all.

“I’ve got an idea what might be going on with Hank, Arlen, and Opal,” Joe said. “You want to hear it?”

McLanahan hesitated, said, “Not particularly.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

With that, the sheriff turned on his heel and walked away, past the podium, around the corner of the museum.

Joe returned to the chairs and sat down next to Marybeth, who had seen the exchange.

“What are you doing, Joe?”

He shrugged. “I’m only half sure. But damn, it feels good.” JOE WAS INTERESTED to note the differences between the pro-Arlen and pro-Hank contingents. Arlen’s backers tended to be city fathers, professionals, merchants. Hank’s crowd looked much rougher than Arlen’s, consisting of some other ranchers, bar owners, mechanics, outfitters, store clerks. If it were a football game, Joe thought, Arlen’s folks would be cheering for the Denver Broncos and their upstanding players in their clean blue-and-orange uniforms. In contrast, Hank’s crowd would have spiked their hair and painted their faces black and silver and would be waving bones and swinging lengths of chain rooting for their Oak-land Raiders.

Joe and his family sat on Arlen’s side, but Joe didn’t feel completely comfortable about it. Especially after Marybeth told him about Arlen’s meeting with Meade Davis. And even more so after the cell-phone message he had received that morning from forensics at headquarters. He wished there were seats in the aisle between the two factions.

THE NEW WING, called the Scarlett Wing, was actually larger than the rest of the building it was attached to, which was how Opal had wanted it. The museum itself was like every little town museum Joe had visited throughout Wyoming and the mountain west: a decent little collection of wagon wheels, frontier clothing, arrowheads, rifles, tools, old books. The new addition had state-of-the-art interactive exhibits on the founding families of Twelve Sleep County, the historic ranches, the bloodlines that flowed through the community from the first settlers. In other words the Scarlett Wing was about the Scarlett family, and was simply a much larger version of the Legacy Wall in their own home that Sheridan had told him about.

The addition had been completed that week. An earthmover and a tractor still sat behind it. Grass turf had been so hastily rolled out to cover the dirt that the seams could be clearly seen. The manufacturer stickers on the windows had yet to be removed.

ARLEN TALKED FOR twenty-five minutes without notes, his melodious voice rising and falling, his speech filled with thunderous points and pregnant pauses. It was the speech of a politician, Joe thought, one of those stem-winders that, at the time you were hearing it, seemed to be all profundity and grace, but as soon as it was over, there was nothing to remember about it, as if the breeze had carried the memory of it away.