C Box - Trophy hunt

As Joe nosed his pickup onto the ancient steel bridge, he thought that the RV park looked like the aftermath of a giant garbage can tipped over in the wind. Bits of glass, metal, weathered plywood, and old tires looked like they were caught in the spidery silver trees that had just lost the last of their leaves. On closer inspection, however, he saw that the trash was actually a number of aging mobile homes tucked into alcoves among the trees. The old tires had been placed on the tops of the mobile homes to keep the roofs from blowing off in the wind.

Under the bridge, he noticed a single fisherman in the water below, and smiled. It was the man known as Not Ike, who since his arrival in Saddlestring, had become the single most dedicated fly-fisherman Joe had ever seen. Not Ike was the "slow" cousin of Ike Easter, the county clerk. Because Ike Easter had been the only black face in Saddlestring for ten years, when his cousin the fly-fisherman moved to town he found himself being called Ike everywhere he went, so he had a sweatshirt printed up that said I'M NOT IKE. But instead of being called by his actual name, which was George, he became known as Not Ike.

Along with a couple of retired local men named Hans and Jack, Not Ike worked the pocket waters near the two bridges that crossed the Twelve Sleep River for trout, and Joe had seen him out there in every kind of weather. Because Not Ike couldn't yet afford an annual nonresident license, he bought cheaper, three- and five-day temporary licenses, one after the other, as they expired, so he could keep fishing. At least Joe hoped Not Ike was still buying the licenses, and made a mental note to check him out later.

As he reached the other side of the bridge, Joe turned left and passed under a faded hanging sign announcing his entrance to the Riverside Resort and RV Park.

Although once conceived as a "resort," the Riverside RV Park had declined and amalgamated into a sort of idiosyncratic hybrid. Most of the spaces were occupied by permanent residents; retirees from the lumber mill, service workers for the Eagle Mountain Club, transients, and now CBM crews. A few new model mobile homes with strips of neat landscaped lawn sat next to sagging, dented trailers mounted on cinder blocks, with out-of-plumb wooden storage sheds occupying every foot of the property. From the entrance, the road branched into three lanes, with mobile homes lining both sides of the lanes.

Joe had been to the Riverside two years before, following up on an anonymous poaching tip, so he was somewhat familiar with the layout. He had caught two employees of a highway construction crew skinning prong- horn antelopes hung from trees behind a rented trailer, and he had arrested them both for taking the animals out of season. The RV park had changed very little since then, although due to the influx of CBM workers, it now looked as if most of the spaces were occupied.

He stopped at the first trailer, the one with RESORT MANAGER in sculpted wrought-iron above the gate. The trailer had been there long enough that the silver skin of the unit had oxidized into pewter. A basket of frosted plastic flowers hung from a sun porch near the door.

Leaving his truck idling with Maxine curled and sleeping under the dashboard heater vent, he swung out and clamped on his gray Stetson. It was a cold, still morning, and the park was silent. He zipped his coat up a few inches, and thrust his hands into his coat pockets.

He could smell coffee brewing and bacon frying from inside the manager's office as he approached the door. The doorbell rang, and he stepped back on the porch and waited, wishing the bright morning sun could find him through the trees and warm his back.

The interior door clicked and opened inward, then the manager pushed the screen door open.

"Good morning, Jimbo," Joe said.

Jimbo Francis had been the manager of the Riverside since Joe had moved to the Saddlestring District. He was a big man with a massive belly. His face was as round as a hubcap, with protruding ears and a band of wispy, white cotton under a bald dome that expanded into a full mustache and beard stained with streaks of yellow. Jimbo had once been a government trapper, in charge of eradicating predators in the Bighorns and valleys by shooting, trapping, or poisoning them. When federal funding was withdrawn, he had taken the job of managing the "resort" temporarily, until funding for the program was restored. That was twenty-five years before, and he was still waiting. Jimbo was also a self-proclaimed patron of the arts, and was the chairman of the Saddlestring Library Foundation. He had once told Joe and Marybeth that his passion in life was "reading books and eradicating vermin." Now that he was in his late seventies and his eyes were failing-he had been instrumental in creating the books-on-tape section in the library-both of his passions were waning. As was his sanity, Joe suspected.

"And a good morning to you, Vern Dunnegan!" Jimbo boomed.

"Joe Pickett," Joe corrected. "Vern's been gone for six years. I replaced him." Vern's in prison where he belongs, Joe thought but didn't say. No reason to confuse Jimbo further.

"I knew that, I guess," Jimbo said, rubbing his hand through his hair. "Of course I knew that. I don't know what I was thinking. Vern was here so damned long, I guess, that I still think of him. That just goes to show you that a man shouldn't open his door in the morning until he's had his first three cups of coffee. I knew Vern was gone."

"Sure you did," Joe said, patting Jimbo on the shoulder.

"Is Marybeth still working at the library?" he asked, as if trying to further prove he was lucid.

"Not anymore, I'm afraid."

"That's too goddamn bad," Jimbo said. "She was a looker."

Joe sighed.

"You need some coffee? You're here pretty early, Joe. I've got breakfast started. Do you want some eggs and bacon?"

"No thanks, Jimbo. I need to check with you on a new renter."

"We call them guests."

"Okay. On a new guest. The name is Cleve Garrett."

Jimbo rolled his eyes into his head, as if trying to find his mental rental list. Joe waited for Jimbo's eyes to reappear. When they did, Jimbo said, "It's a cold morning. Do you want to come in?"

"That's okay," Joe said patiently. He remembered the interior of Jimbo's trailer from before. The place was claustrophobic, books crammed among Jimbo's collection of coyote, badger, beaver, and mountain lion skulls, empty eye sockets of dozens of predators looking out over everything. "If you could just tell me what space Cleve Garrett is renting, I'll be off."

"He's got a girl with him," Jimbo said. "Skinny little number."

Joe nodded. He could have simply cruised the lanes, looking for the new RV. But he'd wanted to clear it with Jimbo first. Now he was regretting his choice.

"He's here, then."

"He's here, all right," Jimbo said. "Been a parade of folks through here lately, all asking about 'Cleve Garrett, Cleve Garrett.' They're all star- struck. He's some kind of big expert in the paranormal, I guess. He's giving lectures on it. I plan to attend a couple. Maybe we can get him to speak at the library while he's here."

"Maybe," Joe said, his patience just about gone. "Which space is he in?"

"Lot C-17," Jimbo said finally. "You know, I've seen him before, but I can't figure out where. Maybe on television or something. These mutilations in our community are weighing heavily on my mind. You want a strip of bacon to go?"

Chewing on the bacon, Joe drove down lane C. He tossed the second half of the strip to Maxine.

Cleve Garrett's trailer was obvious before Joe even looked at the lot numbers. It couldn't have been more out of place. Joe fought an urge to laugh out loud, but at the same time he felt an icy electric tingle shoot up his spine. The huge trailer stood out as if it were a spacecraft that had docked in a cemetery. A bulging, extremely expensive, gleaming silver Airstream-the Lexus of trailers-bristled with antennae and small satellite dishes. A device shaped like a tuning fork rotated in the air near the front of the trailer. The Airstream was unhitched, and the modified, dual-wheeled diesel Suburban that had pulled it was parked to the side. Joe stopped his truck briefly behind the Suburban, jotting down the Nevada license plate numbers in his notebook before pulling to the other side of the trailer.