C Box - Blood Trail

Years before, Vern Dunnegan had retired as a game warden for the state and came back to Twelve Sleep County as the landman for a natural gas pipeline company. He used his relationship with local landowners and politicians to secure a right-of-way through the mountains but involved others-including some of Joe’s friends-to eliminate a population of endangered species in the way. The crime spiraled out of control and resulted in murder and the attempted murder of Marybeth. Dunnegan was convicted and sent to prison. Joe shot him in the butt with a shotgun, and word was Dunnegan still had a pronounced limp.

“I know about that,” Conway said. “But the man did right by me, and I’ll always owe him for that.”

Robey turned in his seat, confused.

Conway said, “We live here for the quality of life-to be able to go into the mountains to hunt and fish or just think restful thoughts. To think there’s somebody up here assassinating innocent men-especially friends of mine-angers me to my core. Vern did us all a good turn once that allowed us to get on with our lives. I’m happy to do what I can to help.”

Robey looked out over the darkened mountain landscape, noted the moon had risen a few more inches, then turned to Conway.

“What do you mean, friends of yours?”

Conway looked quizzically at Robey. “You mean Randy didn’t tell you?”

I AM UPSET that my target is not at the crime scene and feel that I may have not only wasted my time but exposed myself unnecessarily. Aren’t they supposed to be up here? Aren’t they supposed to be investigating the killing?

I’ve chosen not to use the knoll again. It would be too obvious and risky because they’re probably watching it. So I settle in farther up the ridge, behind some weathered rocks that provide both shelter and a place to take aim. When my breathing calms down from the long trek I let my eyes get used to the dark and peer through the scope of my rifle. Like all good-quality scopes, it gathers more light than the naked eye and I can see down the slope to where I hung Frank Urman in the trees. The band of light-colored material is crime-scene tape, I realize, and for a moment I expect to see my target within the perimeter. But he isn’t there. No one is there. I fight the building rage that has formed in my chest and pushed upward into my throat. I’ve taken a chance I shouldn’t have taken. For nothing.

But I think I hear talking. It is low, more of a muffled murmur than actual words. Sound carries up here, and the distance of origin can be deceptive. I lean down hard on the scope, sweeping it slowly through the trees, trying to find the source. The wind shifts almost imperceptibly and I realize the voices are coming not from the trees or meadow but from above them.

I slowly climb the hillside with my scope until I can make out the outline of a pickup truck. I can’t see it so much as make out its blocky outline against the star-splashed horizon. Only one vehicle, which seems odd since there were at least four men at the airport. Where has the other vehicle gone?

Despite training the crosshairs of my scope on the windshield for what seems like half an hour, I can make out nothing, and no one, inside. If they are in there, and I’m sure they are because I hear voices, they are talking in the dark. I consider a blind shot but decide against it. I don’t do things blind. I strategize, I plan, then I act. I don’t just fire away if I don’t know who I’m shooting at. It’s the first ethos of hunting: know what you’re aiming at.

Sooner or later, someone from inside the pickup will open a door and trigger the dome light and I will see who is inside. Or turn on a light to look at a map.

But I can’t wait all night. I’ll be missed. This has to be done soon or I’ll have to abort and go back. But after taking this risk and having this opportunity, I don’t want to simply leave. I can’t just leave.

Ayman al-Zawahiri of al-Qaeda, whom I’ve studied, perfected a strategy he used for maximum casualties. In Nairobi, Kenya, he set off two bombs timed a minute or so apart in front of the American Embassy. The first bomb created minimal damage but the surprise and impact of it outside on the street made scores of people inside the embassy building rush to the windows to see what had just happened. When the second bomb went off, hundreds were killed or severely wounded by the shattered windows they had just exposed themselves to. He justified the action by saying that although he was sacrificing civilians and fellow Muslims, it was still for the greater good because it effectively unleashed more terror on the infidels.

It was a lesson learned.

And one to be applied.

THE FOREST had closed in and darkened around Joe and Lothar and they moved silently under the narrow canopy. They were on a game trail through the heavy brush. Lothar kept nodding, as if saying, yes, yes, yes, we’re getting closer . Ahead of them, through the dark timber, Joe could both see and sense an opening lit by moonlight. Before breaking through the brush into the meadow, Lothar stopped and looked over his shoulder at Joe, his eyes wide and excited.

“What?” Joe mouthed.

Without speaking, Lothar pointed just ahead of him at a space between two branches that opened into the meadow. At first, Joe couldn’t tell what Lothar was trying to show him.

Not until Joe crouched a bit and saw how the moon lit up the broken thread-thin strands of a spider’s web did he understand what Lothar was telling him. The strands undulated in the near-perfect stillness like algae in a stream. Which meant that there had been a web across the game trail that had been broken through just moments before. Joe felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and an involuntary chill swept through him that threatened to make his teeth chatter.

In the timber on the other side of the small meadow a twig snapped.

They were on him.

Lothar nodded his head and gestured toward the black stand of pine trees on the other side of the meadow while unslinging his automatic rifle. Lothar used the barrel of his weapon to indicate to Joe that he should move to the left. Using Lothar’s heel-first technique in the soft loam, Joe managed to distance himself about twenty feet without stepping on a branch or knocking his hat off in the heavy brush. As he moved he thumbed the safety off his shotgun and peered into the dark wall of trees, willing himself to see better.

The sharp voice came so suddenly he nearly dropped his shotgun.

“Drop your wapon! Drop it! Throw it out where I can see it!”

The man giving the command did so with authority that masked his exact position. Joe thought he heard a note of familiarity in the voice but couldn’t place it.

“Throw it out. Now! ”

“Okay,” Lothar said. “Calm down, calm down.”

“Is there anyone with you?” the voice asked.

Joe thought, He doesn’t know I’m here . Would Lothar give him away?

“I’m coming out,” Lothar said, stepping from the brush into the meadow, the moon bathing him in shadowed blue. He held his AR- 15 loosely at his side. Joe could see Lothar’s face in the moonlight. He was grinning.

What was Lothar doing? Why didn’t he identify himself as an officer of the law? Should I , Joe asked himself, and give away my position?

“I said drop it!” the voice bellowed, and Joe detected a note of panic. He also realized where he’d heard the voice before.

Joe shouted, “Lothar, no…”

But before Joe could finish, Lothar howled a piercing rebel yell and leaned back and swung his weapon up, pulling the trigger as he did so, the automatic fire ripping the fabric of the night wide open, the muzzle flashes strobing the trunks of the trees.