C Box - Trophy hunt

Although they were in bed and it was late, Joe could tell that Marybeth wasn't sleeping, and neither was he. He lay with his hands clasped behind his head on the pillow, and he stared at the ceiling. The half-moon outside striped the bed in pale blue coming in through the blinds. He tried to set all of the other tracks of the case aside and work through what Marybeth had learned. He wondered if he had been assuming the wrong thing all along by concentrating on Tuff's death instead of Stuart Tanner's. Even though Tuff's death seemed an aberration, maybe it was intended to look that way. To steer anyone looking into the crimes toward Tuff, away from Tanner. Maybe Tanner was the key to both murders, not Tuff. Maybe Tuff was killed to draw attention away from Tanner's death.

But who could be so calculated?

In Joe's experience, conspiracies like this simply didn't work out. People talked too much, made too many mistakes, had too many individual motives to keep a secret for long. The coordination of two deaths fifty miles apart in the same night suggested a level of planning and professionalism that just didn't seem likely, he thought. That was why no one even assumed it. The two murders, in the midst of the animal mutilations, were assumed by everyone-including him-to be part of the overall horror. But if someone used the cattle and wildlife mutilations as cover to murder Tanner in the same method, that suggested an icy, devious calculation. And if the killer was capable of that kind of subterfuge, maybe he took it to another level and went after Tuff for no reason other than to mask his true target.

Could it be Cam Logue?

He couldn't see it, although there had always been something about Cam that hadn't felt right to Joe. Cam seemed overeager, a bit too driven. Although both traits were the qualities of successful people, it seemed to Joe that just under the surface Cam seemed a little… desperate. Whatever drove him was powerful. But could it possibly drive him to murder? Joe didn't think so.

If the report that Tanner had delivered to Cam indicated that the water was bad beneath the surface of the Timberline Ranch, who would be hurt? Cam would, but only to the degree that the ranch likely wouldn't sell and he'd be out of a commission. But Cam had plenty of ranch listings, many larger than the Timberline Ranch.

Cam's secret buyer might be hurt, Joe thought. If the buyer knew that he could never drill, the ranch would be all but worthless. But the buyer wouldn't have had the mineral rights in the first place, since they had been sold off years ago. So why would he care?

Suddenly, Joe felt a spasm in his belly. Realtors didn't work for buyers, Joe thought. Realtors worked for sellers. The person-people-who would be hurt by the discovery would be the Overstreet sisters. But could two old, cranky women who hated each other be capable of this? Again, it didn't work, he thought. If the mineral rights didn't go with the property, a bad-water report wouldn't impact the sale to a buyer who wanted a ranch and not a CBM field.

So who was the secret buyer?

Then, as if a dam was breached, more questions poured forward.

Where were Cleve Garrett and Deena?

Who was L. Robert Eckhardt, the owner of the cell phone number, and what was he doing driving forest backroads in Wyoming at 4:30 in the morning?

What in the hell did "Nuss-Bomb" mean?

Joe moaned out loud.

"Are you okay, honey?" Marybeth asked sleepily.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking," he said. "I'm giving myself a headache."

"You're giving me one, too," she said.

It was an hour later, and although Joe hadn't come up with any answers, he had thought through a list of places where he might find them. Carefully, he swung out of the bed, trying not to disturb Marybeth.

"I'm not sleeping," she said. "Don't worry about it."

He looked at the clock next to his pillow. It was 3:48 A.M.

She turned over and snapped on the lamp.

"Joe, if the information I got was so easy to find, why didn't the task force do it earlier?"

"We weren't looking into the backgrounds of the victims," Joe said. "We were searching for aliens and birds, or not doing much at all. We were hoping the whole thing would go away, I think."

"That's…" she hesitated, then her eyes flashed, "that's inexcusable."

Joe nodded, "Yup."

"Aren't you cold standing there in your underwear?"

"I can't sleep. I was going to get up and make a list of things to do in the morning."

She looked at the clock. "It's practically morning now. Why don't you come to bed?"

"Can't," he said. "I'm too edgy. Every time I close my eyes, a million things charge at me and I can't stop any of 'em."

"What if I make it worth your while?" she said and smiled.

He hesitated, but not for long.

W

hen they were through, Joe rolled over onto his back. "Sorry," he said. "I couldn't concentrate."

"You did fine," she purred.

The County clerk's office was located in the same building as the courtroom, jail, sheriff's office, and attorney. A man named Stovepipe manned the reception desk and metal detector, and he nodded at Joe and waived him through at 7:45 A.M.

"You're up early this morning," Stovepipe said, lowering the morning edition of the Saddlestring Roundup. Joe noted the headline: HERSIG SAYS NO PROGRESS IN MUTILATION DEATHS.

"Still broken?" Joe asked about the metal detector.

Stovepipe nodded. "Don't tell nobody, though."

"I never do. Is Ike in yet?"

"They don't open until eight, but I think I seen him come in earlier."

Ike Easter's glass-walled office was behind the counter where Twelve Sleep County citizens lined up daily to do business with the three matronly clerks who sat on tall stools and called out "NEXT!" Most of the business transactions involved titles on automobiles and property. This was also the place to get marriage licenses, so the clerks who worked for Ike Easter were among the better informed gossips in the county, and much sought after when they got their hair done.

When Joe opened the door to the main office, all three of the matronly clerks wheeled on their stools and glared at him. It was easily one of the most unwelcome receptions he had ever received, he thought. One of the clerks quickly raised an open palm to him as he entered. "Sir, we're not open for fifteen minutes," she said. "Please take a seat in the hall and…"

"I'm here to see Ike," Joe said flatly, ignoring her, and went through the batwing doors on the side of the counter.

"Sir…" The clerk was irritated.

"It's okay, Millie," Ike called out from his office when he saw Joe coming.

"I forgot about your elite Republican Guard," Joe smiled, stopping outside Ike's office and tipping his hat toward Millie. Millie huffed melodramatically. To Ike: "Do you have a few minutes? It's important."

Ike motioned Joe in, and Joe shut the door behind him.

"I'll ignore the Republican Guard comment," Ike said, not unpleasantly, "but they won't. Next time you need a new title for your car, expect delays."

Joe sat in a hardback chair across from Ike. "Unfortunately, it'll be a while before we get a new car."

"All my clerks are county employees," Ike said. "They work eight hours a day and not one minute longer. They take an hour for lunch and get two fifteen-minute breaks. If you woke one of them up in the middle of the night, she could tell you to the hour how long she has until retirement, how many days of sick leave she's got left this fiscal year, and to the penny what her pension will be. Those women keep me in a constant state of absolute fear."

Ike had a smooth, milk-chocolate face and wore large-framed glasses. He had a silver mustache and his receding hair was also going gray. Like his cousin, Not Ike, Ike was quick to smile and had dark, expressive eyes. He had been reading the newspaper as well, and it lay flat on his desk, opened to the page where the NO PROGRESS IN MUTILATION DEATHS front-page story was continued inside.