Joe looked up the slope at Monroe.
“What’s wrong with your truck?” Monroe shouted down.
“You’re under arrest,” Joe shouted back.
“For what?”
“For killing that buck. I saw the whole thing.”
Monroe shook his head. “I didn’t kill no buck.”
“I saw you.”
“I don’t even own a rifle.”
“Your word against mine, I guess.”
“Yup.”
“I understand you’re pretty convincing when it comes to Judge Pennock,” Monroe said.
Joe felt a pang in his chest. So Monroe was well aware of the rejected search warrant.
The rain hammered the brim of Joe’s hat and an icy stream of it poured into his collar and snaked down along his backbone.
“Good thing your truck blew up,” Monroe said. “You would have been trespassing on private property.”
The fence line was just in front of Monroe, Joe saw.
Then Joe realized Monroe wanted him to come over there onto the Thunderhead, where access had been previously refused by Hank. What would Monroe have done when Joe crossed the line? What had been his plan?
IT WAS AN odd thing, how sometimes there could be a moment of absolute clarity in the midst of rampant chaos. With the rain falling hard, his vehicle disabled, the dispatcher calling for him, and Bill Monroe grinning at him from behind the fence, at least part of the picture cleared up. Portenson’s call had reminded him of something.
The truck Monroe was driving was light yellow, ten years old, with rust spots on the door. Where had that description come from? Then it hit him.
Joe looked up at Bill Monroe, who wasn’t really Bill Monroe.
“You know who I am now, don’t you?”
Oh, God. Joe felt a chill.
“You’re John W. Kelly,” he shouted, dredging up the name Special Agent Gary Child had told him.
Monroe snorted. “Close,” he said.
“You shot a cowboy in the Shirley Basin,” Joe said, suddenly thinking of the .40 Glock on his hip and the shotgun in his pickup. Up there on the ridge, Monroe had the drop on him.
Monroe laughed. “I didn’t shoot no cowboy, just like I didn’t shoot no antelope buck.”
“I saw you.”
“It’s just too damned bad your truck blew up,” Monroe said. “Another two hundred fifty feet and you woulda’ been on private property. Who knows what would have happened.”
Joe started to answer when Monroe backed away from the top of the ridge. In a moment, Joe heard an engine flare and the grinding of gears before the truck drove off, leaving him there.
JOE STOOD IN the rain, thinking, running scenarios through his mind. They kept getting worse.
He got back inside the cab with Maxine. Even though the motor wasn’t running the battery still worked, as did his radio. He even had a cell-phone signal, although it was weak.
BEFORE CALLING RANDY Pope, Joe reached Bud Longbrake on the ranch. Bud had a one-ton flatbed with a winch and he was much closer to where Joe was stranded than any of the tow-truck drivers in town. Bud agreed to come rescue Joe, bring his truck back, and even lend Joe a ranch vehicle in the meantime. Bud was positively giddy when Joe talked with him.
“This rain just makes me happy,” he said. Joe could tell Bud was smiling by his voice. “It hasn’t rained this hard in three years.”
ROBEY WASN’T IN his office when Joe called. His secretary said he was trapped in his house because a flash flood had taken out the bridge that crossed over to the highway from Robey’s property. She told Joe that Robey’s phone was down now as well, as were most of the telephones in the valley, because lightning had struck a transformer and knocked the service out.
“What about his cell?” Joe asked.
“You can call it, I guess,” she said. “But I can see his cell phone sitting on his desk in his office. He must have forgotten to take it home with him last night.”
Joe rolled his eyes with frustration. “Please have him call me the minute he makes contact,” Joe said. “It’s important.”
“Will do,” she said. “Isn’t this great, this rain? We really needed it.”
“Yes,” Joe said.
THE NEXT CALL was to the FBI office in Cheyenne. Joe asked for Tony Portenson and was told Portenson was away from his desk.
“Tony, this is Joe Pickett,” he said on Portenson’s voice mail. “Can you please fax or e-mail me the file on John Kelly? I may have a lead for you.”
FURTHER DELAYING THE inevitable, Joe speed-dialed the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department and asked for McLanahan.
“McLanahan.” He sounded harried, high-pitched, and out of breath.
