C Box - Blood Trail

Chris Urman was in custody in the sheriff’s department, but Joe expected him to be released quickly. Joe told Deputy Reed that Urman had simply defended himself, firing only after being surprised by Lothar and being fired upon. Joe knew Urman felt horrible about what had happened, and had dismissed any suspicion he may have had of him on their trek back to the pickup to find Robey and Conway. Joe’s pickup was still on the mountain, shot up and bloodstained. He’d need to send a tow truck for it. Another year, another damaged truck.

Speer leaned over and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Go home, Joe. Get cleaned up. Get some rest. There’s nothing you can do here.”

Joe shook his head. “I need to be here when Nancy comes. I need to apologize to her for putting Robey in that situation.”

Speer shook his head sadly, gave Joe’s shoulder a squeeze, and went back in the direction of his little morgue.

NANCY HERSIG looked frantic when she pushed through the hallway doors. Nancy had always been meticulous in her look and dress, always composed and calm, comfortable with herself. Given to jeans, sweaters, blazers, and pearls, Nancy Hersig was the queen of volunteer causes in Twelve Sleep County, heading up the United Way, the hospital foundation, the homeless shelter. But Joe saw a different Nancy coming down the hall. Her eyes were red-rimmed and looked like angry red headlights. Her makeup was smeared and the right side of her hair was wild, the result of raking it back with her fingers on the drive from Casper to Saddlestring.

Joe stood up and she came to him, letting him hold her. She began to weep in hard, racking sobs that had to hurt, he thought.

“I thought I was cried out,” she said, her teeth chattering as she took a breath, “but I guess I’m not.”

“It’s okay,” he said.

“What have you heard, Joe?”

“He’s in surgery,” he said, hoping a doctor would burst through the doors at exactly that moment with good news.

“What did the doctors say?”

Joe sighed. “That he’s hurt real bad, Nancy.”

“He’s tough,” she said, “he’s always been tough. He used to rodeo, you know.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could see him and talk him through this.”

Joe didn’t know what to say, and simply held her. She regained her composure and gently pushed herself away, dabbing at her face with her sleeve. “God, I’m a mess,” she said, her eyes sweeping across his face and lingering on the splotches of dried blood on his Wranglers.

“Is that Robey’s?” she asked, pointing.

“We did all we could to stop the bleeding,” Joe said, “but…”

She nodded and held up a hand, as if to say, Don’t tell me.

“Nancy,” Joe said, struggling to find the right words, “I’m just so damned sorry this happened. It didn’t have to. I never should have left him last night. I called for backup but it didn’t get there in time.”

Again, she shook her head. Don’t tell me.

“I hate not being able to do something,” he said, fighting back a surprising urge to cry.

“Oh, you can do something,” she said, suddenly defiant. “You can find the man who did this and put him down like a dog .”

The vehemence in her words took him aback.

He said, “I will, Nancy. I’ll find him.”

“And put him down,” she repeated.

“And put him down,” he said.

She turned on her heel away from Joe and wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, Joe. I don’t know whether to go get our kids and bring them here, or pray, or what. Maybe I should bust through those doors so I can see him.

“Joe,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “there’s no manual for this.”

They both jumped when the ICU doors clicked open.

And they knew instantly from the look on the surgeon’s face what had happened inside.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, shaking his head.

Nancy didn’t shriek, didn’t wail. She stood immobile, stunned, as if she’d been slapped. Joe took a step toward her and she shook her head.

“I’ll contact our grief counselor,” the surgeon said in a mumble, his eyes fixed on the top of his shoes. “We did all we-”

“I’m sure you did,” she said, cutting him off. “And there’s no need for a counselor. I just want to see him. Let me see him.”

The surgeon said, “Mrs. Hersig, I don’t think-”

“I said, let me see him,” she said with force.

The surgeon sighed and stepped aside, holding the ICU door open for her. As she passed, she reached out and squeezed Joe’s hand.

“Maybe Marybeth could give me a call later,” she said with a wan smile, “if she doesn’t mind. I might need some help with the kids and arrangements. I’m not even sure what I’ll need help with.”

“She’ll be there,” Joe said.

“And remember what you promised me,” she said.

“I do,” he said, struck by the words-the same words and solemn tone he’d used for his wedding vow.

Nancy Hersig paused at the open door, took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, patted her hair down, and strode purposefully into the ICU.

The surgeon looked at Joe, said, “Tough lady.”

Joe nodded his agreement and dumbly withdrew his phone to call Marybeth.

“I FIGURED I’d find you here,” Randy Pope said hotly, appearing at the other end of the hallway at the same time the ICU doors closed. “Finally checking your messages, I see. I’ve been calling you all morning, and so has the governor.”

Joe held up a hand. “Give me a minute. I have a call to make.”

“Joe, damn you, have you heard what’s happened?”

“I said I need to make a call.”

Pope quickly closed the distance between them.

“The governor’s got his plane in the air to pick us up as we speak,” Pope said. “He wants us in his office right away, and he means right away . He’s furious about what happened out there last night, and so am I. We look like a bunch of incompetents.”

Joe took a deep breath and leaned back from Pope, who was standing toe-to-toe, his face a mask of indignation.

“Give me a minute-”

“We don’t have a minute.”

“Randy,” Joe said, speaking as calmly as possible, “Robey Hersig didn’t make it. My friend is dead. I need to get in touch with Marybeth so she can come here and help out Nancy.”

“Joe…” Pope said, reaching for Joe’s phone to take it away from him. As Joe turned his head, Pope’s knuckles grazed Joe’s cheek.

Something red and hot popped in the back of Joe’s head and he tossed the phone aside and backed Pope against the wall, squeezing his throat. The director’s eyes bulged and his nose flared and he clawed at Joe’s hands. Joe realized he was snarling.

Pope made a gargling sound and tried to pry Joe’s hands away. Then his boss kicked Joe in the shin, so hard electric shocks shot through his body, and Joe realized what he was doing and let go and stepped back, as surprised at his behavior as Pope was.

“Don’t touch me,” Joe said.

Pope made the gargling sound again while doubling over, one hand at his throat, the other held up as if to ward off another attack.

“My God,” Pope barked, “you tried to kill me! My own subordinate tried to kill me!”

“Your subordinate has a call to make,” Joe said, retrieving his phone and fighting the urge to do it again.

AS HE SAT in the backseat of Deputy Reed’s cruiser-Reed had been waiting outside the hospital to give them a ride to Saddlestring Airport to meet the governor’s plane-Joe said to Pope, “How’s your neck?”

Pope was in the front seat, next to Reed. He kept hacking and rubbing his throat. “I just hope there isn’t permanent damage,” Pope said, his voice huskier than usual.