In Plain Sight

That morning, before leaving his house for the field, Joe called again and got a message on the receptionist’s phone saying she was “either on another line or away from her desk.”

“Joe Pickett here,” he said on her voice mail. “Again. Calling for Randy Pope. Again. Wondering if he realizes he has crossed over the line from bureaucratic micromanagement to obstruction of justice.”

Joe had also called the sheriff’s department throughout the week to check on the status of the investigation into Bill Monroe.

“That Bill done hit the highway” was how Sheriff Kyle McLanahan sized it up.

JOE GLANCED OVER at Sheridan as he drove. Her overnight bag and rolled-up sleeping bag were on the floor. She looked back with an expression that said, “What?”

“I’m taking you to the main ranch house, right?” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And there will be other girls there?”

“A few.”

“And the reason we’re going to the main ranch house, not Julie’s father’s house, is that she actually lives at the main house, right?”

Sheridan nodded her head, as if she were engaged in a competition and speaking would make her lose points.

“Sheridan, I’m not crazy about this idea,” Joe said.

“I know,” Sheridan said.

“It was one of Hank’s men . . .” He couldn’t say who beat me up.

“I know,” she said. “But I’ve never even seen Julie’s father, Hank, on Uncle Arlen’s side of the ranch.”

Joe cringed inside. He didn’t want his daughter to think he was scared of Hank, or Hank’s man, and it wasn’t just fright anymore. He knew he was capable of violence if he saw Hank or Bill Monroe again.

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t have had Julie to our house for a sleepover,” he said.

“Because she invited me and some other girls,” Sheridan said. “That’s how it works.”

Joe sighed. Recently, he had begun to encounter some of the same intransigent behavior from Sheridan that Marybeth had been dealing with for the past year. Sheridan was closemouthed, sullen, and, more often than not, sarcastic. Where had that little chatterbox gone? The one who verbalized everything? The little girl who once provided play-by-play commentary of her own life in wild bouquets of words? Joe had to admit that her moods hadn’t bothered him as much when they’d been directed at her mother. But now that they extended to Joe too he didn’t like it. He always had a special relationship with his older daughter. Deep down, he thought it was still there. But they had to get through this early-teen thing. At the recent parent-teacher conference, Sheridan’s English teacher, Mrs. Gilbert, asked him and Marybeth if they knew what was worse than an eighth-grade girl. They shrugged, and the teacher said, “Nothing on earth.”

“ARLEN WILL BE around the whole time, right?” Joe asked.

Sheridan did a quick eye-roll, so fast he would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it. “Yes. And so will lots of employees. Not to mention Uncle Wyatt.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t mention Uncle Wyatt,” Joe said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “He’s kind of an odd guy, from what I can tell.”

Sheridan said, “I’ll avoid him. I always do.”

“What about her mother?” Joe asked. He’d heard that Julie’s mother, Hank’s ex-wife, lived in a small cabin on the ranch in order to stay involved in Julie’s life.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Sheridan,” Joe said, exasperated, “what do you know?”

Which really made her clam up.

Joe said, “Sorry,” and kept driving. He knew Marybeth had extracted enough information out of Sheridan to give the sleepover her stamp of approval. But he wanted to know the details too.

As he drove, the motor hiccupped and the check-engine light came on.

“What’s wrong with the truck?” Sheridan asked.

“It’s a piece of crap,” Joe said.

THE MAIN RANCH house was a lumbering stone castle of a home with sharp gables and eaves and the look of a building that belonged not in Wyoming on a river but on some country estate in England. Towering hundred-year-old cottonwoods shrouded the home on all sides, the spring leaves having burst out just that week. Joe approached the home from the east on a firm graded and graveled three-track that snaked through heavy trees. He could see assorted out-buildings through the timber; old sheds, a tall barn that was falling down, an old icehouse built of logs.

As they crossed a bridge over a little stream made manic by snowmelt, Joe saw what looked like an old chicken coop tucked away in an alcove facing the road, and noticed the windows had glass in them and the roof had a new set of shingles. It puzzled him that the Scarletts would maintain a chicken coop, and he was about to say so when Sheridan said: “That’s where Uncle Wyatt lives.”

Joe stopped the truck.

“Wyatt lives in a chicken coop?”

“That’s what Julie told me,” Sheridan said. “He keeps odd hours, so instead of waking everybody up all the time, he lives in there. I guess he doesn’t mind.”

Joe looked at his daughter. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Sheridan nodded grimly. She was of an age when the last thing she wanted to do was admit that her parents