C Box - In Plain Sight

Keeley could see Wacey lick his lips, then raise his eyes back up, then back to the can. He was like a drug addict, Keeley thought. He needed the Copenhagen. But how could he need it so much if he’d gone six years without it? Then he remembered: Convicts are stupid. Even Wacey Hedeman.

Wacey looked up, eager to talk. Keeley thought, Pathetic.

Keeley said, “I think you know why I’m here. I got a big interest in you. See, my brother moved out here to Wyoming eight years ago. He was an outfitter up in Twelve Sleep County. Name of Ote. You remember him?”

Wacey seemed interested now. “I remember.”

Keeley watched Wacey’s eyes for a hint of guilt or remorse. Nothing.

“He got killed,” Keeley said.

Wacey just nodded.

“He used to send me letters. That’s when I first heard your name. And the name of the other game warden. You remember him, don’t you?”

Again, the nod. Keeley knew Wacey was wondering where this was going, since it had been Wacey who shot his brother in an elk-hunting camp. Keeley proceeded as if he weren’t aware of that fact.

“What I’m interested in is this other game warden.”

Wacey swallowed, said, “What about him?”

“You don’t like him much, do you?”

“He was the one put me in here,” Wacey said. “So no, I’m not real fond of him.” He spat out the word fond.

“You hear about what happened a couple of years ago up in that same country?” Keeley said. “A big confrontation where some good people got burned up in the snow? A woman and her little girl?”

“I heard.”

“She was my sister-in-law, and her child, God bless them. They was also Keeleys,” he said. “They was the last Keeleys, ’cept for me. And you know what?”

Wacey hesitated. Then, finally, “What?”

“That same damned game warden was involved in that too. Can you imagine? The same guy involved with the end of our family name.”

Wacey stared at him through the glass. “That wouldn’t be the end of it,” he said. “You got the same last name. Whyn’t you just go out there and make a bunch more? Isn’t that what you people do in the South?”

Now the anger did flare up. Keeley lashed out and thumped the glass with the heel of his hand. Wacey sat back in reaction, even though there was no way Keeley could have broken through.

The door behind Wacey Hedeman opened and the guard leaned his head in. “Knock off the noise,” the guard said, and Keeley could hear him through the handset.

“You don’t understand,” Keeley said, after the guard had left. Wacey looked back, wary. It was obvious he hadn’t expected that blow to the glass.

“Don’t understand what?”

“Just shut up, and answer a couple of questions. I drove all the way here for this, and I don’t need your mouth. I drove through Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska to meet you, Mr. Wacey. I don’t need to hear your shit-for-brains views of my people, or my name.”

Wacey swallowed again, shot a glance at the miniature can of Copenhagen.

“Tell me about him,” Keeley said. “Tell me what makes him tick. Tell me how to get under his skin.”

Wacey seemed to weigh the question, his head nodding almost imperceptibly. Then: “He’s not going to look or act the way you might expect. In fact, when you meet him, I predict that you’ll feel… underwhelmed. That’s his trick, and I don’t even know if he realizes it.” Wacey paused for a moment. “I take that back-I think he does. But that doesn’t mean he acts any different.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He likes being underestimated. He doesn’t have any problem with playing the fool. But just because he isn’t saying anything doesn’t mean he’s stupid. It means he’s listening.”

Keeley nodded, go on.

“The worst thing about him, or the best, depending on how you look at it, is that when he thinks he’s right, there isn’t anybody that can change his mind. The son-of-a-bitch might even act like he’s going along with you, but deep down, he’s already set his course. And nothing, I mean fucking nothing, will get him out of it. He’s a man who thinks he’s looking at everything for the very first time, like no one else has ever looked at it before so he’s got to figure it out for himself. You know what I mean? There’s some real arrogance there, but he’d never admit that.

“Once you set the hook in him,” Wacey said, “he won’t shake it out. Even if he knows you set it. He’ll see it through to the bitter end, no matter what happens. Just realize that. Once you start with him, you better be prepared to hang on.”

AFTER ANOTHER TWENTY minutes of talking, Keeley slipped the can of tobacco through the slot, and Wacey grabbed it before it was all the way through. Keeley watched Wacey twist off the top and plunge his nose almost into the black tobacco and breathe in deeply, his eyes closed. Without another word, he put the lid back on and stuffed the can in his pocket, then reached up and hung up his phone. His part of the conversation was over.

Keeley couldn’t detect the chew in his side of the room, but he tried to imagine it. He also tried to imagine the other odor, the one that was overpowered by the tobacco. The smell of almonds.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Wacey said soundlessly.

Keeley smiled through the glass. Wacey didn’t smile back, but stood and knocked on the door so the guard would let him out.

AS HE RODE in the van back to the Administration Building, John Wayne Keeley thought over what Wacey had told him.

“Good visit?” the driver asked.

“Good enough,” Keeley said.

WHEN HE PASSED back through the security area, he fished the large can of Copenhagen he had brought out of the garbage can, and slid it back in his pocket. The guard saw him, and winked. They didn’t care a whit what you took out of the place, Keeley thought, only what you brought in.

At the desk he retrieved his driver’s license from a guard who had replaced the woman. He quickly cleaned his wallet and keys out of the locker, while noting that number 16 was locked. The old couple were still inside, visiting.

IN THE PARKING lot, he wiped down all the surfaces in the SUV with a soft cloth, then removed his duffel bag from the back seat and the sock of valuables from the glove compartment of the SUV. He carried them across the pavement to the old yellow Ford pickup and tossed the duffel into the back beneath the camper shell.

As he guessed, the cab of the truck was unlocked. He opened the door and tripped the hood latch. After a glance toward the Administration Building to make sure no one was coming, he leaned under the hood. It took less than a minute to locate the red coil wire, strip it, run half of it to the positive side of the battery coil and tie it off, and trigger the starter solenoid. The engine roared to life. These old Fords were easy to hot-wire, and he’d had plenty of practice on his own when some dumb-shit camp cook lost the keys. That’s why he’d targeted the truck right off, rather than any of the other vehicles in the lot that were nicer. He slammed the hood shut and slid behind the wheel. The steering wheel unlocked as he jimmied the locking pin on the column with the flat screwdriver blade on his knife. Easy.

He peered over the dashboard to make sure no one had watched him. No one had.

John Wayne Keeley backed up and drove out of the parking lot, up the service road, beneath the NO TRESPASSING sign. He steered with his left hand while he threw the old couple’s belongings out the passenger window: a thermos, some women’s magazines, sunglasses, cassette tapes of polka hits. Before he took the entrance ramp to the interstate, he pulled the can of Copenhagen out of his pocket, the one of two he had laced generously with potassium cyanide stolen from a jewelry store in Kansas, and tossed it out the window.