C Box - Trophy hunt

Later that night, at 3:30 A.M., Joe was jolted awake when Marybeth suddenly sat up in bed. "Are you all right?" he asked her. She was breathing deeply, trying to calm down. "I had a bad dream," she said. "I heard that horse screaming again and again." "Are you sure it was a dream?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "Positive." "Do you want me to check our horses?" She eased back down into bed. "That's not necessary. I know it was a dream." He pulled her close and cupped her breast beneath her nightgown. He could feel her heart thumping. He held her until the beating slowed and her breathing flattened out. When she was asleep, he untangled himself from her and slid out of the bed. Pulling his boots over his bare feet, clamping on his hat, and cinching the belt on his robe, Joe went outside to check the horses. He took his shotgun with him. The horses were fine, and he sighed in relief.

He was wide awake when he came back into the house. He entered his small office and closed the door, leaning the shotgun against the wall. It was so quiet in the house that he flinched at the noise his computer made as he booted it up.

Opening his e-mail program, he sat back and waited while mail flooded his inbox. Directives and press releases from the Cheyenne headquarters, spam, a message from Trey Crump with the subject line "How's it going?," nothing from Hersig or Dave Avery, nothing from the lab, and a very large file that took a few moments to download.

There was no subject line in the large e-mail. But the return address was "deenadoomed666@aol.com."

He clicked on it.

As the e-mail opened, Joe felt his breath stop. "Oh, no," he whispered.

Ready and waiting for Joe Pickett… it said in a stylized color font.

Beneath the header was a digital photo. As he scrolled down, Joe noticed how cold he suddenly felt, and cinched his robe tighter.

The photo was of Deena. She was posed on top of the metal table in the Airstream he had sat at with Garrett that morning. She was nude except for thick-soled Doc Martens boots. She sat on the table with her legs spread open, smiling coyly. She had a light blond wisp of pubic hair, and her vagina was pink and slightly parted. Her breasts were small and her nipples were pierced with silver rings and erect. Her skin was so white it hurt to look at it, except for the tattoos on her inner thighs and upper arms, and the bruises that mottled her ribs and neck. There was a compress bandage the size of a hand on her left shoulder. The bandage looked moist, the skin around it glistening. The ointment he had smelled in his coat, he thought. Across her abdomen was a tattoo that said ABDUCTEE.

"Oh, no," he said again.

She looked so young, so unbearably thin and unhealthy. He was not aroused. He was sickened.

Beneath the photo was another stylized caption. Strong, tall, and silent, he tries to save her. But she doesn't want saving. She wants him inside of her like an animal. She wants him to know he can do anything to her…

I'm not that strong, not that tall, not that silent, Joe thought, feeling his face flush.

A second photo. On her hands and knees on the table, her buttocks aimed at the camera, her face peering back at him with a grin. Whatever he wants, however he wants it, she is agreeable. There is nothing he can do to her that hasn't been done. She likes his hat and wants to wear it…

Another photo. This time, she is clothed. Standing outside of the Airstream wearing all black except for blood-red lipstick. She's mugging for the camera, head tilted forward, mouth parted, trying for a seductive come-hither look. He knows where she lives, and he can't stay away. She won't be there forever, he knows. She will be gone soon, permanently out of here. She knows things, and she does things…

Then, of all things, a graphic of a garish, yellow, smiley face.

Will he write back soon?

Joe slumped in his chair. The air in his office seemed oddly thin. He could hear the clock ticking in the living room, and Maxine snuffling outside the door to be let in. What, he wondered, could create a girl like this? What had happened to her that resulted in this? Deena wasn't that much older than Sheridan, but she was so different. What had caused the horrible bruises, or the wound? Had Cleve Gar- rett hurt her? Or were the injuries self-inflicted? Joe shook his head. He didn't understand why she had approached him this way. Is this what she thought all men wanted? He rubbed his face hard with both hands, inadvertently knocking his hat off. His hat. She liked his hat. "Joe?" He nearly pitched out of his chair. "Joe, what are you doing in here?" Marybeth asked, squinting from the light but looking at his computer screen. He turned in his chair toward her. "It's not what you think," he said. "And what is it I think, Joe?" Her voice had a sharp edge. "That I'm looking at pornography." "Well?" She jutted her chin toward the screen, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "Come here, Marybeth," he said. "Remember that girl with Cleve Garrett I told you about?" "Sheena something?" "Deena. Sheena would be the jungle girl." "Yes, what about her?" "This is from her. I guess it is pornography though. In the very worst kind of way." Marybeth stood beside Joe and he showed her the message. He watched her face as he scrolled through the e-mail. "That's disgusting," she said. "Yup, it is. I don't know what she's thinking." "She's thinking this will get you hot and bothered, Joe. It's like she's trying to lure you back there in the worst kind of way. Like she's desperate." Joe nodded, sighed. "It just makes me, I don't know…"

"It's pathetic, isn't it?" Marybeth agreed. She leaned into Joe and he held her, pressing her hip into his chest.

"You need to stay away from her," Marybeth said. "She's trouble. It looks like she's been severely abused." She paused for a moment, before continuing. "Do you think she took the pictures herself?"

That jolted him. "I assumed she did."

"But what if she didn't, Joe?"

His mind spun. What if Cleve had taken the photos and the whole thing was his idea to lure Joe back out there? To get something on him, to get some leverage Cleve could use to get into the task force? If so, Joe thought, it was despicable to use Deena in this way. Unless, of course, she was in on it as well.

"This is too much right now," Marybeth said, giving his shoulder a good-bye squeeze. "Tonight was bad enough without adding this on top of it. I'll meet you in bed. We need to try and get some sleep."

Joe sat there for a few minutes. He wasn't sure what to do with the e-mail. Should he show Hersig? Call someone? He couldn't help thinking Deena was in trouble, that Garrett was abusing her in terrible ways. Even if she let him-and Joe found that very likely, given her age and situation-that didn't mean she didn't need saving. But what could he do? Rush out to Riverside Park with his shotgun, create the Wyoming version of the seminal scene in Taxi Driver?

Finally, he closed down the e-mail program and shut his computer off.

Back in bed, Joe stared at the ceiling and waited for the alarm to ring.

It took two hours, and he shut it off immediately when it sounded.

Marybeth sighed and turned over toward him, her warm hand finding his chest. He moved to her, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Nate Romanowski. He needed to find Nate and talk to him, get Nate's take on everything.

Joe slipped from the bed. Marybeth stirred.

"You're up early," she murmured. "I'll make coffee," he said. "While you were gone last night, did you check the horses?" she asked. "Yup." "Are they okay?" "They're fine." She opened her eyes. "Joe, are you okay?" He hesitated. "Dandy," he lied. The phone rang, jarring them both. Joe grabbed it from the bedstand. "Joe Pickett."

"You the guy that's on that task force?" It was a man, and he spoke in a rushed, no-nonsense way. "Yes, I'm on the task force."