C Box - Blood Trail

Joe grinned, embarrassed but proud.

“One thing I do know, though,” she said, chewing, “is that when somebody is as hateful as Klamath Moore is-even if it is sort of for a good cause-I don’t like them. It’s too much.”

Joe nodded. “You are philosophical. And maybe even wise.”

She grinned at the compliment. “When people want to control other people… it’s like those fascists, you know?”

Joe wasn’t sure what to say. His daughter amazed him. Where had little Sheridan gone?

“Hey, nice hat,” he said.

WHEN THE telephone rang Sheridan sprang out of her chair to answer it, assuming it was for her. She said, “Just a minute, I’ll get him,” and handed the handset to Joe.

“Your boss,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Gotta go.”

Joe sighed. “Yes?”

Randy Pope said, “Any progress?”

“None.”

“None?”

“None.”

“What’s your plan of attack?”

“I don’t have one,” Joe said. “I’m reviewing the FBI files. I just got home at one in the morning.”

Pope cursed. “So you’re just sitting around? Do you not quite understand the significance of this case? Are you aware that your sheriff is assembling teams to go into the mountains and hunt the shooter down? That he is on the Associated Press saying, and I quote, ‘Since the governor has thrown up his hands and gone to ground, we’ve got to take on this thing ourselves.’”

“I hadn’t heard,” Joe said. “But wouldn’t it be good if the shooter was arrested? Isn’t that what we want?”

Pope paused uncomfortably long. “Of course that’s what we want.”

Joe wondered, Why the hesitation?

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Randy?”

Pope snorted. “Back to that again, eh? Why can’t you just do your job without constantly questioning me? If you spent half the time trying to find this killer that you do questioning my motives, we might actually have some progress. Have you thought of that?”

Nice dodge , Joe thought.

“I put my reputation on the line supporting your insistence on springing that Nate Romanowski,” Pope said. “I hope you’re in control of him. Is he there with you now?”

“No.”

“No? Where is he?”

I don’t have a clue , Joe thought, but said, “He’s following some leads on his own.” He hoped it didn’t sound like the lie it possibly was.

Pope took an audible breath before shouting, “ On his own! He’s got federal charges against him and he was released to your custody! On his own? What are you thinking?”

Joe didn’t respond.

“Are you out of your mind? If either the governor or the FBI finds out he’s on his own you’ll be toast. I’ll be toast. And so will the governor! Jesus, what are you thinking?”

Joe swallowed. “Nate operates on different channels than we do. He works best with a loose rein.”

“All I can say is you had better rein him in! Like right now.” Pope moaned, and Joe could visualize the man pacing his office with his free hand flying around his head like a panicked bird. “I don’t know why the governor even trusts you,” Pope said.

Me either , Joe thought.

“I’m calling you tomorrow,” Pope said, “and when I do, you had better be able to hand the phone over to your friend Nate Romanowski so I can talk to him. And if he isn’t there… there will be hell to pay.”

Joe raised his eyebrows.

“If he isn’t there, I’m coming up there again to take over this investigation. Do you hear me?”

Joe punched off the phone.

HE DIDN’T like what Pope had told him about the sheriff, though. Not that the sheriff was disparaging the governor so much as McLanahan leading parties of armed men into the field was a recipe for disaster.

ATTACHED TO the summary of Bill Gordon’s calls were several sheets of names Gordon had gathered from rallies around the country. Joe guessed it was the closest thing there was to a membership roster of Klamath Moore’s movement. A caveat at the top of the first page, written by the agent who compiled the list, said the spelling of the names couldn’t be verified.

Joe skimmed the list. A couple of names jumped out at him because they were Hollywood actors.

On the third page he saw it: Alisha Whiteplume.

He moaned and raked his fingers through his hair.

Joe recalled what Marybeth had said about Nate: “What it all boils down to is you either trust him or you don’t.”

FOR THE REST OF Saturday and Sunday, Joe tried to reach Nate Romanowski while at the same time avoiding calls from Randy Pope. Joe tried Nate’s home on the river and his cell (both long disconnected) as well as Alisha Whiteplume’s home (no answer, but Joe left repeated messages) and her employer (Wind River Indian High School), who said she’d called in sick both Monday and Tuesday. As each hour went by with no contact from Nate, Joe knew he was digging himself deeper and deeper into a professional hole he may never be able to climb out of. He considered calling Bud Longbrake, Marybeth’s stepfather, to see if the rancher could use a ranch foreman again, but decided to wait.

There were no more murders.

Joe’s only progress, and it was minimal, was to learn via Deputy Mike Reed that Klamath Moore’s followers were staying at the Blue Moon Motel, an ancient but clean twenty-room throwback to the 1950s at the edge of town. The motel was a favorite of budget-minded fishermen because it catered to weekly rentals and had kitchenettes. During hunting season, the owners allowed hunters to hang antelope and deer from a huge cottonwood in the courtyard. Joe wondered how Klamath’s people would react to that -until he remembered that the state was all but shut down for hunting while the shooter remained free, so there would be no hunters.

He assumed that Bill Gordon would be at the Blue Moon Motel, and planned to contact the informant that evening after he’d checked in with the FBI and was notified of Joe’s assignment.

Joe and Reed had agreed to meet for breakfast Wednesday morning at the Chuckwagon Diner to compare notes and catch each other up on new information or lack thereof. Maybe, Joe thought, Reed or someone in the sheriff’s department had seen Nate.

JOE WAS downtown early to exchange the Yukon for his repaired pickup and to meet Reed for breakfast. As he drove to the Chuckwagon he happened on a spectacle taking place in front of the county building, something out of an old western movie, as the sheriff organized a posse to search for the shooter in the mountains. Each team consisted of at least four men, all heavily armed and recently deputized. Joe recognized many of the volunteers from out in the field or at high-school sporting events or simply around town. These were not the small-town elite, the city council types or the lawyers or cronies of the politicians or business leaders who met each morning at the Burg-O-Pardner to drink coffee and plot how to run the town. These men were the blue-collar guys, the ones who fixed cars and dug septic systems and stacked hay and kept Saddlestring operating. The men who worked hard so they could go hunting for two weeks out of the year, the men who asked, “Get your elk yet?” to one another by way of greeting. Joe knew them, liked them for the most part, respected them for both their work and their outdoor ethic, and wondered if the sheriff had any idea what he was doing.

The sheriff had assigned each team a sector and given them radios to check in with his dispatcher on the hour. McLanahan milled among them, slapping backs, shaking hands, asking if they wanted any of the coffee or doughnuts that had been donated to the cause by a bakery.