C Box: Blood Trail

Before Joe could answer, he heard the woman in the governor’s office say, “Right.”

Joe thought he recognized the voice, which sent a chill through him. “Stella?”

“Hi, Joe,” she said.

At the name Stella, Marybeth locked on Joe’s face in a death stare.

“I was going to introduce you to my new chief of staff,” the governor said, “but I guess you two know each other.”

“We do,” Stella Ennis purred.

“Joe, are you there?” Rulon asked.

“Barely,” Joe said.

WHILE JOE changed into his red uniform shirt with the pronghorn antelope game and fish department patch on the shoulder and clipped on his J. PICKETT, GAME WARDEN badge above the breast pocket, Marybeth entered the bedroom and said, “Stella Ennis?”

The name brought back a flood of memories. He’d met her in Jackson Hole on temporary assignment three years before. She was the wife of a prominent and homicidal developer. She’d “befriended” the previous Jackson game warden and complicated his life. She tried to do the same with Joe, and he’d been attracted to her. It was a time in their marriage when they seemed on the verge of separation. They persevered. Now they owned their first home.

“The governor introduced her as his new chief of staff,” Joe said.

“How is that possible?” she asked. “Wasn’t her husband convicted of trying to kill her?”

Joe shook his head. “He was never charged because Stella turned up alive and well. Marcus Hand was his lawyer. The Teton County DA plea-bargained the rest of the charges and Don Ennis paid some fines and moved to Florida.”

“How did she wind up in the governor’s office?”

“I have no idea,” Joe said. “She’s resourceful.”

“This state is too small sometimes,” she said.

“Yes it is.”

Marybeth approached Joe and pulled him to her with her hands behind his neck, so their faces were inches apart. “Stay away from her, Joe. You know what happened last time.”

“Nothing,” Joe said, flushing.

“Yes, but,” she said.

“Honey…”

“She’s a very good-looking woman. I’ve seen pictures of her. She’s beautiful, and very dangerous. But so am I.”

He smiled. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I believe you.”

“Besides, it sounds like I’ll be too busy dealing with Sheriff McLanahan and Randy Pope. I’m not looking forward to that .”

“I don’t trust her,” Marybeth said. “But I do trust you.”

“You should.”

“Plus, Sheridan and Lucy would kill you if you ever did anything untoward.”

“That I’m sure of,” Joe said.

“So what’s going on? Another hunter?”

“Apparently,” Joe said. “I don’t know much yet, but the governor’s worried.”

“Any idea how long you’ll be gone this time?”

“I should be back tonight.”

“No,” she said. “I mean on this case.”

He buckled on his holster with the.40 Glock, pepper spray, and handcuffs and reached for his Stetson that was crown down on the dresser.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t know if it’s another accident or foul play. Everyone’s jumpy because of those other hunters who got shot. No one wants to imagine that someone is hunting hunters, but everyone is thinking that.”

She nodded. She didn’t need to tell him there were parent-teacher conferences later in the week at Lucy’s junior high and Sheridan’s high school. Or about the party they’d been invited to with members of their church. Or about the fact that she wanted him home while she battled with her mother and needed his support.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said.

She walked him to the door. Lucy was still watching television and didn’t look at him. She simply said, “Gone again?”

Joe stopped, hurt. Marybeth pushed him gently out the door into the front yard.

“We’ll be here when you get home,” she said. Then: “It looks like there’s someone who would like to go with you.”

He turned, hoping Sheridan was on the porch pulling on her jacket. But it was Maxine, his old Labrador who had turned white four years before and was now half-blind, half-deaf, and fully flatulent.

“Come on, girl,” Joe said.

Maxine clattered stiff-legged down the sidewalk, her tail snapping side to side like her old self. Joe had to lift her back end into the cab.

“I am curious how she ended up on the governor’s staff,” Marybeth said. “I’ll have to do a little snooping.”

Joe kissed her. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about here. I need to go.”

“I understand,” she said, “but Ed Nedny is going to be real upset with you.”

PHIL KINER, the new game warden of the Saddlestring District, was waiting for Joe in his green Ford four-wheel-drive pickup with the Wyoming Game and Fish logo on the door in front of Joe’s old home on Bighorn Road. Joe drove an identical pickup. Joe tried not to let it get to him that Phil now lived in his former state-owned home with the view of Wolf Mountain, tried not to allow the nostalgia he’d let in that morning eat further into him, but when he saw the house he couldn’t help it. The picket fence needed painting and the corral needed repair. When he shot a glance at the windows of the house he saw the images and ghosts of his younger family looking out as they had once posed-Marybeth, Sheridan, Lucy-and his foster daughter, April. He shook his head hard to rid himself of the memory and stanched his longing for the innocence and naivete of that time.

Kiner unrolled his window as Joe pulled up beside him nose to tail, the quintessential cop maneuver so neither would need to get out of his vehicle. “Have you been listening on your radio?”

“Not really,” Joe said, a little ashamed he’d been so preoccupied on the eight-mile drive out.

“McLanahan’s up ahead, waiting for us,” Kiner said. “He knows the general area but doesn’t know where this elk camp is at. He needs for us to get there and show him.”

“Whose camp?”

“Frank Urman from Cheyenne. He’s the victim. You know him?”

“The name’s familiar,” Joe said. “I think I know the camp.”

“Good, because I don’t.”

Kiner said it without bitterness, which Joe welcomed. Throughout the first year Kiner took over, he hadn’t contacted Joe for advice or background on the district Joe had overseen for six years. Marybeth speculated that it was either misplaced pride or Kiner’s fear of displeasing Randy Pope by creating the impression he was close to Joe. Either way, it hurt. Joe tried to put himself in Kiner’s shoes, and when he did he understood the dilemma but still thought Kiner should have reached out. They had reconciled only after Sheridan slugged Kiner’s son Jason in the lunchroom at school and both sets of parents were called in for a conference with the vice principal.

“How many are up there?” Joe asked.

“Three,” Kiner said. “Related to the victim, from what I can tell so far. They sound really pissed off, so we need to get up there before they go after whoever shot the fourth guy.”

“Is it possible it was an accident?” Joe asked.

“It sure as hell doesn’t sound like one, but we won’t know for sure until we get there,” Kiner said, raising his eyebrows. “But from what I’ve heard, it sounds fucking horrible. In fact, I can’t even believe what they’re telling the dispatcher they found.”

“What?”

“Turn on your radio,” Kiner said while putting the pickup in gear and roaring off.

Joe sat for a moment, took a deep breath, and followed. He kept far enough back of Kiner’s dust cloud to look up at the looming dark mountains as they framed the valley. Fingers of fall color probed down the slopes and folds. The sky had turned from brilliant blue to a light steel gray as a film of cloud cover moved from the north, bringing, no doubt, a drop in temperature and possibly snow flurries. He turned on his radio beneath the dash and clicked it to the mutual aid channel. It was crackling with voices.