C Box - Blood Trail

Everyone was so tightly packed around Rulon’s desk that it was both intimate and uncomfortable in equal measures, and Joe guessed that was exactly the atmosphere Rulon wanted to create. The governor was the only one with room, with the ability to wave his arms or pounce across the desk like a big cat to make a point. To Joe, Stella’s silence and stillness only seemed to make her more conspicuous. Or at least it did to him.

Pope was obviously flustered by Rulon’s question, and he once again withdrew his digital camera from his coat, turned it on, and handed it across the desk to the governor.

“This was in my room,” Pope said gravely.

Rulon leaned forward, saw the image of Frank Urman’s head, and winced.

Pope handed the camera to Brewer, who turned white when he saw it. Portenson looked at it and rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if to say, “You people out here are savages.” When offered the camera, Stella shook her head quickly to refuse.

“The shooter knew I was up there,” Pope said. “He wanted to send me a personal message.”

“Looks like he did,” Rulon said. “Has the press gotten ahold of this yet?”

Pope shrugged.

“They will,” Rulon said, “and it will make a bad situation even worse.”

“Expect to see it on the Internet,” Brewer said. “Somebody will post it.”

Rulon sighed.

Joe noted how skillfully Pope had steered the topic away from his leaving them on the mountain. He wanted to hear the answer. And he still wanted to know why Pope had brought Wally Conway.

“What happened to your neck?” Rulon asked Pope, fingering his own.

Joe thought, Uh-oh.

“Just an accident,” Pope said quickly. “I walked into a branch up there in the mountains and nearly strangled myself.”

Joe stared at Pope, wondering why he was protecting him.

“I feel really damned bad about Robey,” Rulon said to Joe. “He was a good man. He was a buddy of yours, wasn’t he, Joe? Please let me know about the funeral arrangements so I can be there, okay?”

Joe nodded.

Rulon said, “I’ve already alerted the AG to get ready for the civil suit from Buck Lothar’s family, assuming he has one. Even though it sounds like the guy screwed up, according to Joe, it’s gonna cost us millions, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Brewer echoed, gesturing toward Joe. “The potential suit may hinge on my investigation of the incident, which I’m prepared to do immediately.”

The governor waved him away, indicating there was no hurry.

“What about this other guy, Conway?” Rulon asked Pope. “Should we expect something from his family?”

Joe listened with anticipation.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Pope said, casually dismissing the notion out of hand. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about. We’ve got a lot bigger trouble brewing.”

“No shit,” Rulon said.

Joe wondered what had just happened, what he’d missed.

“DO YOU BOYS remember the story of Eric Rudolph?” Governor Spencer Rulon asked in such a manner that it was clear he was going to tell the story no matter how Joe or Pope answered.

“Eric Rudolph,” Brewer said, answering the governor’s question. “North Carolina. Rudolph-”

Rulon proceeded as if Brewer had never spoken: “Eric Rudolph was and is a slimeball, a walking bucket of pond scum. But he may be relevant to our situation here. How? you ask. I’ll tell you.”

Joe settled back in his chair, wondering where this was going.

“Eric Rudolph was the miserable buckaroo who set off a bomb at the Atlanta Olympics in 1996 that killed two people and injured a hundred and eleven others. He also bombed an abortion clinic in Atlanta and a gay and lesbian nightclub in Birmingham, which killed a cop. Eric Rudolph was a true believer,” Rulon said. “The problem was he was a true believer in a horseshit set of beliefs that included the Christian Identity Movement-whatever that is-and what he called global socialism. He said he was an anti-Semite who was against homosexuality, abortion, globalism, et cetera, et cetera. The only thing I agree with him about is he thought John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ was a despicable song.”

Joe noted that Rulon’s last comment brought a hint of a smile from Stella.

After a few beats, Randy Pope said, “Sir, I don’t see what Eric Rudolph has to do with us.”

Rulon made a pained face. “You don’t?”

“No, sir.”

“You don’t see the similarities?” Rulon asked with incredulity.

“I’m afraid not.”

Rulon heaved a sigh, leaned forward on his desk, and lowered his voice. “Director Pope, Eric Rudolph was on the run for five and a half years before he got caught. Everybody knew who he was, knew what he looked like, knew all about him. Everyone knew he was in Appalachia, and most likely North Carolina, the whole time. But despite the best efforts of federal, state, and local law enforcement, he eluded them for five and a half years. Yes, five and a half years.

“Finally, in May of 2003, a rookie police officer in Murphy, North Carolina, caught Rudolph Dumpster-diving outside a Save-A-Lot store. Rudolph was unarmed and clean-shaven, wearing new clothes and new shoes. They found his little camp, which turned out to be a stone’s throw from two strip malls and a high school. Apparently, the officers reported they could hear the highway traffic from where Rudolph’s camp was-it was that close to civilization.”

Rulon paused again. When Pope shook his head to indicate he still didn’t get it, Rulon said, “For five and a half years, the top fugitive on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list lived and prospered in the hills of North Carolina and was finally captured wearing new clothes and with a fresh shave, despite a one-million-dollar reward. Everyone was astonished when it happened, but they shouldn’t have been. What those law-enforcement people should have been paying attention to was the fact that ‘Run Rudolph Run’ T-shirts and bumper stickers were damned hot sellers in the area, and that there were enough local sympathizers-true believers-to keep Rudolph fed, clothed, and well taken care of right under their noses. Despite a massive ground search and the best experts and high technology, this guy lived two hundred yards from a strip mall in a densely populated area.”

Rulon slammed his desk with the heel of his hand. “The reason Eric Rudolph remained free was because of sympathizers who were true believers like him. Not the whole county, to be sure, but it doesn’t take a whole county-just a few true believers. They’d rather take care of him and give him food, shelter, and clothes than collect on a million bucks. They believed in him and his cause.

“Right now,” Rulon said, “Klamath Moore is up there in Saddlestring with a bunch of followers. Most of his people have come in from other states, but some, no doubt, are local. Joe, how many people in your county would you guess are pro-hunting?”

“It’s hard to say, but I’d guess sixty percent,” Joe said. “Maybe higher.”

“What percentage just couldn’t care less?”

Joe shrugged. “Twenty-five, thirty percent, I’d say.”

“Which leaves us what-ten percent anti-hunters?”

Joe nodded.

“How many of them are true believers?”

“I have no idea,” Joe said.

“Even if it’s five or ten people,” Rulon said, “that’s enough to create a support network for the guy who is out there. And that’s all he needs. Plus, he’ll have a good percentage of the press and a lot of sympathetic elitists who despise hunting on his side. And make no mistake, there are more people in this country against hunting than for it. Right now, today, even in my own state, Klamath Moore is up there preaching to the converted and radicalizing maybe just a few more folks over to his cause. His aim is to build something that will last a long time. As hard as it is to believe, gentlemen, there are already people all across this country and the world who look to Klamath Moore and the killer as heroes. Some of the news coverage is already being spun that way-‘Neanderthal hunters in Wyoming are finally getting their comeuppance.’ The world is going mad, as we know, but all these years we’ve been isolated from that. Not anymore.