Nate Romanowski had a habit of vanishing for weeks at a time. He took clandestine trips to surrounding states—Idaho, mostly—although he sometimes went overseas. Joe and Sheridan fed his birds while he was gone. Nate told Joe little about the purpose of his journeys, and Joe didn’t ask. He was involved in things Joe didn’t want to know about, and their short history together already had too many skeletons in the closet as it was. Their relationship was unusual, but oddly comfortable, Joe thought. Nate had pledged his loyalty to Joe in exchange for proving his innocence in a murder, and that was that. Joe hadn’t asked for the pledge, and was a little surprised and awed that Nate had remained steadfast, even extending his protection to Joe’s family. Joe and Marybeth never discussed what they knew about Nate Romanowski—his years with no record when he worked for a mysterious federal agency, the murder of two men sent to find him in Montana, the death of a corrupt FBI agent, and his involvement in Melinda Strickland’s suicide the winter before. Sheridan worshipped the man, and was learning falconry from him. Sheriff Barnum, his deputies, Agent Portenson—even Robey Hersig—feared Nate, and were suspicious of Joe’s friendship with him. That was okay with Joe.
With the strange things that had been happening in the valley, Joe looked for Nate with a niggling feeling of dread forming in the back of his mind. The image of the defaced horse at the Longbrake Ranch had not yet left him. It bothered him more than anything he had seen, including the remains of Tuff Montegue.
“Nate!” His shout echoed from the deep red wall on the other side of the river. It was still, and the echo returned twice before it faded away.
He thought he heard a faint response, and he stood and listened. The sound had come from the direction of the river.
“Nate, are you down here?” Joe called as he walked. He scanned the near banks and followed the river downstream until it S-curved out of sight, but saw no one. He cocked his head and looked up—something he had never felt the need to do before—and saw nothing unusual in the clear blue sky.
When he looked down he saw it. A thin plastic tube broke the surface of the river in a calm back eddy ten feet from the bank. As he approached the water he could make out a dark form below the water, and long blond hair swirling gently in the current like kelp. Nate was underwater, breathing through the tube.
Joe shook his head and sat down on a large curl of driftwood. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He noticed that in the hollow of the log was Nate’s massive .454 Casull handgun in its holster, within quick reach if Nate needed it.
“Nate,” Joe said, “do you have a minute?”
Nate tried to talk through the tube. It came out in a nasal gibberish. This was the sound Joe had heard earlier when he called.
“Should I come back?”
After a beat, the water puckered and Nate sat up, breaking the surface. He looked at Joe through strands of wet hair that stuck to his face. Nate was wearing a full-body wet suit that gleamed in the morning sun. He removed the tube with two fingers as if taking a cigarette from his mouth.
“Should I even ask?” Joe said.
Brushing his hair from his face, Nate grinned, fixing Joe with his hardeyed stare. Nate had an angular face with a bladelike nose separating two sharp, lime green eyes.
“It’s amazing what you can hear under the surface,” he said. “I’ve been doing this since the river warmed up. I thought it would be relaxing, but there’s a lot going on under the surface. The river looks calm but things are happening in it all the time.”
Joe just nodded.
“It’s like being one with the earth, as stupid as that probably sounds,” Nate said. “When you’re below the surface, you’re out of the air and wind and everything is solid, connected to some degree. That’s why you can hear and sense so much.”
His eyes widened. “I’ve heard river rocks dislodging and rolling down the bed of the river in the current. They sound a little like bowling balls going down a lane. I hear fish whooshing by, going after nymphs. I heard you drive up, get out, and walk around. If I concentrated, I could even hear your footsteps from underneath walking toward the river.”
Joe thought about it. It wasn’t something he would want to do, but this was Nate.
“Pretty cool,” Nate said.
Nate brewed more coffee in his house while Joe told him everything that had happened with the murders and mutilations. Nate listened in silence, but was obviously paying attention. He served two large mugs and sat down across from Joe.
They were on their third cup when Joe finished.
Nate leaned back and laced his fingers together behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, his mouth set. Joe waited.
“I think you’re thinking too much like a damned cop,” Nate finally said. “You’re letting the events steer you. You need to get out of your cop mode and look at everything with a fresh eye, from a completely different angle.”
“What angle would that be?” Joe had expected something like this from Nate, although he had hoped for more. Like an answer. Or at least a theory. “I think you’re assuming that everything is connected. That’s a logical, coplike approach. But maybe everything isn’t connected. Maybe there are a bunch of different things going on, and they just happen to be culmi-nating around us.”
“You sound a little like Cleve Garrett,” Joe sighed.
Nate’s eyebrows shot up. “Just because he’s a weirdo doesn’t mean he might not be on to something. But from what you told me, I disagree. Cleve Garrett is trying to attribute it all to one thing, aliens or whatever. What I’m saying is that maybe the connections really aren’t there. That there are different threads running.”
Joe sat up, tingling with recognition. This was what he had been speculating. “From what you’ve heard, can you pick out any of the threads?” “Maybe. When was the last time there were credible reports in this area about cattle mutilations?”
“Thirty years ago,” Joe said. “In the early and mid-seventies.” “What was going on then?”
