C Box - In Plain Sight

That was the difference, once again, between those stupid convicts in there and John Wayne Keeley out here. If one of those jokers had broken into a jewelry-restoration shop he would have walked right past the chemicals used to refurbish diamonds and gold-cyanide-and straight to the jewelry itself. And then he’d have had a bunch of worn trinkets to try and fence. Not John Wayne Keeley. Not J.W., as he liked to be called. Keeley stopped when he found the cyanide in a locked drawer of the little workroom. And he only took as much of the white powder as he needed, before reshelving the bottle. The proprietors would know they’d been broken into, of course, but would be flummoxed by their good fortune that the thieves had stolen nothing of value. They probably wouldn’t even notice the small amount of missing chemical.

He tried to imagine what was happening back there at the prison right now. Had Wacey filled his mouth with the Copenhagen right outside the door? Or had he tried to sneak it back to his cell, where he could smell and savor the tobacco, out of view of the two hundred cameras? Either way, it would kill within minutes of ingestion. Keeley remembered a hunting client, a forensic pathologist from Texas, telling him how it worked. The victim looks flushed, then has a seizure, like he’s had a heart attack. He collapses, fighting for breath. His skin turns pink, and his blood inside his veins has turned cherry red. Bright pink foam might burble out of his nose, looking like something… festive. Then, Sayonara !

“Have a good chew, Wacey!” he hollered. “That was for Ote!”

And he was thinking that he really hadn’t learned all that much from Wacey, because he already knew what he wanted to do to Joe Pickett-hit him where he lived. Make him hurt. Take him down. Make that son-of-a-bitch game warden find out what it’s like to feel lonely, worthless, unable to protect his own.

AT THE TWELVE SLEEP COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE, THE Scarlett brothers sat in molded-plastic chairs, with an empty chair between each of them, across from the sheriff who was at his desk. Arlen was on one end of the line, Hank on the other, Wyatt in the middle. All three were still cuffed. Wyatt’s and Hank’s hands were bound behind their backs but Arlen had his cuffed in front, so he could dab his head wound with a cloth. Deputies stood close to the brothers. Joe had found them like this when he arrived, and was surprised emotions had cooled down enough that McLanahan had chosen to put them all into the same room. Joe sat on the edge of McLanahan’s desk, a gesture sure to annoy the sheriff. Fine, Joe thought. Arlen had apparently persuaded the sheriff to forgo the hospital for the time being, and he held a bloody cloth to the side of his swollen head. His eyes were alert, Joe thought, and his expression was mildly amused.

Robey Hersig, the county attorney, had been called away from dinner with his family to come to the sheriff’s office and interview the brothers.

“You asked what happened,” Arlen said to Robey. “I’ll tell you. As you know, the legislature broke for the session Tuesday morning. I stayed in Cheyenne that night to pack, and drove back to the ranch. Two nights ago, I had a nice supper with my mother and Wyatt at the Holiday Inn here in town, and we went back to the ranch.”

“They got good prime rib,” Wyatt interjected, then looked back at his big hands in his lap.

“Yes, well,” Arlen said, looking at Wyatt with an expression that wasn’t quite sympathy, wasn’t quite annoyance, but a kind of uncomfortable acceptance. “Anyway, we were home that night around ten, which is late for Mother. She’s an early riser. The game warden can attest to that,” he said, nodding at Joe.

Robey looked to Joe for an explanation of why he had been brought into the conversation.

“I saw her early yesterday morning when I floated the river,” Joe said. “I guess it was about seven.” But he wasn’t sure why Arlen had thrown it to him, other than to make the point, yet again, that Joe might have been the last person to see her.

“And why were you there, Mr. Game Warden?” McLanahan asked from behind his desk.

Joe bristled at the way McLanahan asked, knowing there was sarcasm in the question.

“Fishing access,” Joe said, and left it at that.

“How did she appear when you had your conversation with her about… fishing access?” McLanahan asked.

“She was fine,” Joe said, “her normal self.”

“Did you two have a dustup?” the sheriff asked.

“No more than usual.”

Joe was grateful when Arlen jumped back in. “As I said, she’s an early riser. Yesterday, we had a nice breakfast in the house, Mother, Wyatt, my niece Julie, and me.”

At the mention of Julie’s name, Hank suddenly sat up. His mouth was now pulled back into an ugly grimace. Joe noted that Arlen had confirmed what Reed had told him about Julie being Hank’s daughter.

“Yes, Julie,” Arlen said, aware of his brother’s reaction but pretending, Joe thought, not to notice it. “Such a sweet, sweet girl. She’s developed a real interest in political science and history, and she’s a good student. We talked about the legislature, how laws are made, how the system works. Things she never would have learned at home if she’d stayed with her father…”

At that, Hank twitched, and his neck and face got darker. His eyes were boring into Arlen now, as Arlen continued in a pleasant voice that was somehow grating.

“This morning, Mother wasn’t around, which was highly unusual. Nevertheless I assumed she’d gone to town so I made breakfast for Julie and myself and then took her out to the main road in my pickup so she could catch the bus to school. Then I went back to the main house, to my office on the third floor, and remained there all day catching up on correspondence and paperwork. You’d be amazed how many things pile up while I’m away at the session.

“I remember hearing a bit of a discussion outside near the bank of the river. I heard raised voices, one of them being Mother’s.”

Joe leaned forward, asked, “Who was the other?”

McLanahan cleared his throat, a signal to Joe that he’d intruded on the interview.

Arlen shrugged. “A local fishing guide. I’m not sure I know his name. They were having an argument about trespass fees. This wasn’t that unusual, really. It happened all the time. In the end, Mother always got them to pay up.”

“Then”-Arlen furrowed his brow, trying to recall something-“I believe it was about three when Wyatt pounded on the door. It was three, wasn’t it?” Arlen asked Wyatt.

Wyatt shrugged.

“It was three,” Arlen said. As he spoke, his voice lapsed into a bit of a singsong. Joe thought the cadence of Arlen’s speech was another way to get at his brother Hank. It was probably a way of speaking that had been established long ago specifically because it enraged Hank, who hardly talked at all. “Wyatt said our brother Hank called in a rage. Apparently Hank had been to the house and couldn’t find Mother, or her car. And, Hank being Hank-who isn’t really supposed to be on our side of the ranch in the first place-immediately came to the conclusion that Mother met with foul play…” Joe watched, amazed, as Hank’s face turned almost purple and a vein in his throat swelled to look like a writhing baby snake. “… and of course if there was foul play involved, then in my brother’s twisted mind, that meant I must somehow be involved with it. My brother needs professional help in the most serious way, which is obvious to all who meet him, and especially to those of us forced to, um, coexist with him. So, Hank being Hank, he assumed the worst and was ready to act out his own western movie. That’s pretty much what Hank told you, isn’t it, Wyatt?”