trapping, or poisoning them. When federal funding was withdrawn, he had taken the job of managing the “resort” temporarily, until funding for the program was restored. That was twenty-five years before, and he was still waiting. Jimbo was also a self-proclaimed patron of the arts, and was the chairman of the Saddlestring Library Foundation. He had once told Joe and Marybeth that his passion in life was “reading books and eradicating vermin.” Now that he was in his late seventies and his eyes were failing—he had been instrumental in creating the books-on-tape section in the library—both of his passions were waning. As was his sanity, Joe suspected.
“And a good morning to you, Vern Dunnegan!” Jimbo boomed.
“Joe Pickett,” Joe corrected. “Vern’s been gone for six years. I replaced him.” Vern’s in prison where he belongs, Joe thought but didn’t say. No reason to confuse Jimbo further.
“I knew that, I guess,” Jimbo said, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Of course I knew that. I don’t know what I was thinking. Vern was here so damned long, I guess, that I still think of him. That just goes to show you that a man shouldn’t open his door in the morning until he’s had his first three cups of coffee. I knew Vern was gone.”
“Sure you did,” Joe said, patting Jimbo on the shoulder.
“Is Marybeth still working at the library?” he asked, as if trying to further prove he was lucid.
“Not anymore, I’m afraid.”
“That’s too goddamn bad,” Jimbo said. “She was a looker.” Joe sighed.
“You need some coffee? You’re here pretty early, Joe. I’ve got breakfast started. Do you want some eggs and bacon?”
“No thanks, Jimbo. I need to check with you on a new renter.” “We call them guests.”
“Okay. On a new guest. The name is Cleve Garrett.”
Jimbo rolled his eyes into his head, as if trying to find his mental rental list. Joe waited for Jimbo’s eyes to reappear. When they did, Jimbo said, “It’s a cold morning. Do you want to come in?”
“That’s okay,” Joe said patiently. He remembered the interior of Jimbo’s trailer from before. The place was claustrophobic, books crammed among Jimbo’s collection of coyote, badger, beaver, and mountain lion skulls, empty eye sockets of dozens of predators looking out over everything. “If you could just tell me what space Cleve Garrett is renting, I’ll be off.”
“He’s got a girl with him,” Jimbo said. “Skinny little number.”
Joe nodded. He could have simply cruised the lanes, looking for the new RV. But he’d wanted to clear it with Jimbo first. Now he was regretting his choice.
“He’s here, then.”
“He’s here, all right,” Jimbo said. “Been a parade of folks through here lately, all asking about ‘Cleve Garrett, Cleve Garrett.’ They’re all starstruck. He’s some kind of big expert in the paranormal, I guess. He’s giving lectures on it. I plan to attend a couple. Maybe we can get him to speak at the library while he’s here.”
“Maybe,” Joe said, his patience just about gone. “Which space is he in?” “Lot C-17,” Jimbo said finally. “You know, I’ve seen him before, but I can’t figure out where. Maybe on television or something. These mutilations in our community are weighing heavily on my mind. You want a strip of bacon to go?”
Chewing on the bacon, Joe drove down lane C. He tossed the second half of the strip to Maxine.
Cleve Garrett’s trailer was obvious before Joe even looked at the lot numbers. It couldn’t have been more out of place. Joe fought an urge to laugh out loud, but at the same time he felt an icy electric tingle shoot up his spine. The huge trailer stood out as if it were a spacecraft that had docked in a cemetery. A bulging, extremely expensive, gleaming silver Airstream—the Lexus of trailers—bristled with antennae and small satellite dishes. A device shaped like a tuning fork rotated in the air near the front of the trailer. The Airstream was unhitched, and the modified, dual-wheeled diesel Suburban that had pulled it was parked to the side. Joe stopped his truck briefly behind the Suburban, jotting down the Nevada license plate numbers in his notebook before pulling to the other side of the trailer.
A Formica plate was bolted to the front door. It read:
DR . CLEVE GARRETT iconoclast society re no, nevada Joe turned off his motor and shut his door when the Airstream door opened and a smiling, owlish man stepped out.
“Cleve Garrett?”
“Dr. Cleve Garrett,” the man corrected, pulling an oversized sweater around him. Garrett was in his late forties, thin, with a limp helmet of hair that gave him a disagreeably youthful appearance. His mouth was wide, with almost nonexistent lips, and it turned down sharply at each corner. His nose was long and aquiline, and his big eyes dominated his face, appearing even larger through thick, round lenses.
“Joe Pickett. I’m the game warden and a member of the task force investigating the mutilations.”
Garrett tilted his head back, as if looking at Joe through his thin nostrils. “I was wondering when someone was going to show up. I’m a little surprised they sent a game warden.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Joe said, although he wasn’t.
Garrett waved it away. “Never mind. Come on in, I’ve been waiting. Everything is ready.”
Joe hesitated. Everything is ready? He pondered revealing to Garrett that he had some background on him, and his “work” in Montana, courtesy of Dave Avery. Joe chose not to say anything yet, to let Garrett do the talking.
“Iconoclast Society?” Joe asked. “What’s that?”
Garrett’s large eyes widened even further, filling the lenses, unnerving Joe. “Iconoclast,” Garrett said. “Breaker of images. Burster of bubbles. De-nouncer. Decrier. Without passion. I’m a scientist, Mr. Pickett.”
Joe said, “Oh,” wondering why he had volunteered to Hersig to take this part of the investigation.
“Let me show you what you people are up against,” Garrett said. Stepping into the Airstream was like stepping inside a computer, Joe thought. On three of the four walls were shelf brackets that held stacks of electronic
