soon, permanently out of here. She knows things, and she does things. . . .
Then, of all things, a graphic of a garish, yellow, smiley face.
Will he write back soon?
oe slumped in his chair. The air in his office seemed oddly thin. He could hear the clock ticking in the living room, and Maxine snuffling outside the door to be let in.
What, he wondered, could create a girl like this? What had happened to her that resulted in this? Deena wasn’t that much older than Sheridan, but she was so different.
What had caused the horrible bruises, or the wound? Had Cleve Garrett hurt her? Or were the injuries self- inflicted? Joe shook his head. He didn’t understand why she had approached him this way. Is this what she thought all men wanted?
He rubbed his face hard with both hands, inadvertently knocking his hat off. His hat. She liked his hat.
“Joe?”
He nearly pitched out of his chair.
“Joe, what are you doing in here?” Marybeth asked, squinting from the light but looking at his computer screen.
He turned in his chair toward her. “It’s not what you think,” he said.
“And what is it I think, Joe?” Her voice had a sharp edge. “That I’m looking at pornography.”
“Well?” She jutted her chin toward the screen, her arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Come here, Marybeth,” he said. “Remember that girl with Cleve Garrett I told you about?” “Sheena something?”
“Deena. Sheena would be the jungle girl.” “Yes, what about her?”
“This is from her. I guess it is pornography though. In the very worst kind of way.”
Marybeth stood beside Joe and he showed her the message. He watched her face as he scrolled through the e-mail.
“That’s disgusting,” she said.
“Yup, it is. I don’t know what she’s thinking.”
“She’s thinking this will get you hot and bothered, Joe. It’s like she’s trying to lure you back there in the worst kind of way. Like she’s desperate.”
Joe nodded, sighed. “It just makes me, I don’t know . . .”
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” Marybeth agreed. She leaned into Joe and he held her, pressing her hip into his chest.
“You need to stay away from her,” Marybeth said. “She’s trouble. It looks like she’s been severely abused.” She paused for a moment, before continuing. “Do you think she took the pictures herself ?”
That jolted him. “I assumed she did.” “But what if she didn’t, Joe?”
His mind spun. What if Cleve had taken the photos and the whole thing was his idea to lure Joe back out there? To get something on him, to get some leverage Cleve could use to get into the task force? If so, Joe thought, it was despicable to use Deena in this way. Unless, of course, she was in on it as well.
“This is too much right now,” Marybeth said, giving his shoulder a good-bye squeeze. “Tonight was bad enough without adding this on top of it. I’ll meet you in bed. We need to try and get some sleep.”
Joe sat there for a few minutes. He wasn’t sure what to do with the e-mail. Should he show Hersig? Call someone? He couldn’t help thinking Deena was in trouble, that Garrett was abusing her in terrible ways. Even if she let him—and Joe found that very likely, given her age and situation—that didn’t mean she didn’t need saving. But what could he do? Rush out to Riverside Park with his shotgun, create the Wyoming version of the seminal scene in Taxi Driver?
Finally, he closed down the e-mail program and shut his computer off.
ack in bed, Joe stared at the ceiling and waited for the alarm to ring. It took two hours, and he shut it off immediately when it sounded. Marybeth sighed and turned over toward him, her warm hand finding his chest. He moved to her, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Nate Romanowski. He needed to find Nate and talk to him, get Nate’s take on everything.
Joe slipped from the bed. Marybeth stirred. “You’re up early,” she murmured.
“I’ll make coffee,” he said.
“While you were gone last night, did you check the horses?” she asked. “Yup.”
“Are they okay?” “They’re fine.”
She opened her eyes. “Joe, are you okay?” He hesitated. “Dandy,” he lied.
The phone rang, jarring them both. Joe grabbed it from the bedstand. “Joe Pickett.”
“You the guy that’s on that task force?” It was a man, and he spoke in a rushed, no-nonsense way.
“Yes, I’m on the task force.”
“I asked because I called the sheriff, and the dispatcher said the sheriff is out at some ranch investigating a mutilation. A horse this time, she said. Anyway, she suggested I call you. She said you were on the team.”
“What can I help you with?”
