In Plain Sight

“My real name is John Wayne Keeley.”

Hank stopped and swallowed. Keeley liked the look of confusion on Hank’s face.

“You know,” Keeley said, standing up and pacing, “when I first heard about what happened to April I was in prison. I went along for a year or so, not really thinking about it. Things that happen on the outside don’t seem real. Then one day I looked up and I realized I had no family. Nobody. No one was still alive to connect me to anyone else. My folks were dead, my brother, my sister-in-law, now my little daughter. I tried to forget all that when I started a guide service. But this fucking arrogant asshole client from Atlanta was there with his wife. They treated me like dirt, especially him. So I fucked her just to piss him off, and he walked in on us, and . . .”

Hank’s eyes were wide.

“You remember Wacey Hedeman?” Keeley asked, still pacing, although he now circled the table.

Hank nodded, following Keeley’s movement with his eyes.

“That was me.”

Keeley left out the cowboy. He would never tell anyone about it. That was his secret, like a sexual fantasy, the way that cowboy had tumbled off his horse after the shot.

He was behind Hank now, and the rancher would have had to turn completely around in his chair to keep his eyes on him. But before he could do that, Keeley snatched a dirty steak knife from the table with his right hand while he clamped Hank’s head against his chest with his left hand and he cut the rancher’s throat open from ear to ear.

Hank tried to spin away, but all he could manage was to stand and turn around, facing Keeley while his blood flowed down his shirt. Keeley used the opening to bury the knife into Hank Scarlett’s heart. It took three tries.

Hank looked perplexed for a moment before his legs turned to rubber and he fell to the floor. Keeley stood above Hank’s gurgling, jerking body, watching blood stream across the floor like the Twelve Sleep River jumping its banks outside.

THE LIGHTS FLICKERED on. Keeley had no idea how long it would last, but he used the opportunity to walk across the dining room and pick up the phone. He left bloody footprints on the Navaho rug.

There was a dial tone, so Keeley punched in the numbers out of memory.

Arlen picked up.

Keeley said, “You owe me big-time now, Bubba . . .”

“Who is this?”

“You know who it is.”

“Bill? What are you talking about?”

“You know who it is. The problem is solved.”

“Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Knock it off, Arlen. You know what we discussed. You said you’d make it worth my while in a big way if I helped you out with your problem. That night in your kitchen, remember? That’s what you said.”

“Who did you say is calling?”

Keeley held the phone away from his ear, trying to figure out what kind of man Arlen really was to suddenly play this dangerous game with him.

“Arlen, goddammit,” Keeley said, his voice cracking, “you know who this is and you damn well sure know what I’m talking about when I say your problem is solved . . .”

“Bill,” Arlen said, his voice flat, “you must be having a bad dream. We’ve never discussed anything of consequence I can think of . . .”

And then the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness except for the lanterns.

“I’VE BEEN BETRAYED,” Keeley told Hank’s lifeless body as he poured another half glass of bourbon. “You were right about him. He has no conscience, that brother of yours.”

Keeley sipped. The bourbon had long since stopped burning. Now it was just like drinking liquid warmth. The aroma of the alcohol drowned out the copperlike smell of fresh blood. That was a good thing.

Cut the body up, Keeley was thinking. Scatter the pieces all over the ranch. What the predators don’t eat, the river will wash away.

But he’d need more fortification before he could start that job, he thought. Keeley had butchered hundreds of animals over the years. He knew how to do it. But this would be his first man.

He’d retrieved the skinning knives and bone saws he used on the Town Elk from the shed. Now all he needed was nerve.

After draining the glass, Keeley managed to lift Hank’s body up on the kitchen counter, so it straddled the two big stainless-steel sinks. He was surprised how light Hank actually was. All that gravitas he’d credited to Hank was a result of attitude, not bulk, he guessed.

Keeley slipped the boning knife out of the block and sharpened it on the steel, expertly whipping the edge into shape. The German steel sang on the sharpening stick, so Keeley almost didn’t hear the sound of the front door opening.

It had to be the wind, Keeley thought. Or one of those fucking ranch hands, wandering back up the road to complain about something. Whoever or whatever it was, he had to make sure no one entered the dining room . . .

As he flew through the doorway of the dining room, into the living room, he could see the front door hanging open and the rain splashing puddles outside. Keeley reached out to close the door when an arm gripped his throat in a hammerlock.