team. They openly doubted his claim that the collar was an old model. Trey promised to send it to them after he received it from Joe. One of the researchers accused another of using old equipment, and the man accused denied it. An argument started. Joe turned down the volume of the radio to a low roar.
He thought about the sheep wagon, the collar, what Nate had said. He thought about Nate out there in the dark, letting the grizzly come to him. And what had Nate meant about different levels of reality? Joe shook the thought off.
Then he remembered the telephone number.
Why not, he thought. He pulled over to the side of the road and found the number in his notebook. Grabbing his cell phone from the dashboard, he keyed the number, then held it to his ear.
It rang four times, then someone picked up. “Nuss-bomb,” a deep voice answered.
“Hello?” Joe said, not understanding.
“Nuss-bomb.”
“What? Who is this?”
“NUSS-BOMB!”
“I can’t understand you,” Joe said, his voice betraying a hint of panic as well as the knowledge that he might have just done something really stupid.
“Nuss. Bomb,” the man said patiently. “Where are you?”
The phone clicked off.
“Damn it!” Joe shouted. What had he done?
He weighed calling again, but decided against it. This might be a matter for the task force. He pulled back on to the road, mentally kicking himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Driving down Bighorn Road to his house, he reconsidered slightly. Why would the man who answered assume he was involved in any kind of investigation? As far as the man on the other end knew, it was a wrong number. Joe hadn’t identified himself, or given any indication why he called.
Joe was pleased to see that Maxine was up and excited to see him when he came in the house. She was still white, though.
Sheridan worked on homework on the kitchen table, while Lucy watched television.
“Where’s your mom?” he asked.
Sheridan gestured toward his office. The door was closed, which was unusual, and he opened it.
Marybeth sat behind his desk, the glow of the computer monitor making her features look harsh. But when she raised her face, Joe could see she was troubled.
“You’ve got some messages on the answering machine,” she said. “Why don’t you take care of those and then come back in here. We need to talk.”
27
The first telephone message was from Sheriff Harvey in Park County.
“We tracked the cell phone number down, Joe. It is leased from Cingular Wireless to a guy named L. Robert Eckhardt, RN, whose last known address is Fort Bragg in North Carolina.”
Nate was right about that, Joe thought. He wrote the name down on a legal pad.
Harvey continued, “I’m assuming RN stands for registered nurse. We’ve got calls down there but we couldn’t get much cooperation. One guy we talked to was friendly at first, then he put us on hold and came back and wouldn’t say jack-shit. I got the impression he’d been told to stonewall us. We asked the FBI through Portenson to put some heat on them down there, and we should know more tomorrow. I’ll give you a call.”
The second message was from Robey Hersig: “The APB is out, Joe, but as of six this evening, there are no reports of Cleve Garrett and his traveling road show.”
The third was from Sheriff Barnum. His voice was tight with anger. “Pickett, I got a call from Sheriff Harvey in Park County. He says they may have an angle on somebody, but didn’t give much detail.” There was a long pause, and Joe pictured Barnum fuming at his desk, trying to keep calm, trying to find the right words to say. Finally, “You need to keep me in the goddamned loop here, Mr. Pickett.” The telephone was slammed down violently on the other end. Joe saved the messages for later, in case he needed them.
“Done?” Marybeth asked, trying to contain her impatience. Joe nodded. “Can I grab something to eat first?”
“Sure. There’s some cold Wally’s Pizza in the refrigerator.” “I haven’t eaten since . . .”
“Go, Joe.”
He returned with the box and a bottle of beer and sat down across from his desk. Except for some condiments, milk, and something old and green wrapped in plastic, the refrigerator was now officially empty. He tried not to let it get to him.
The look on her face shifted his line of thinking immediately. She looked agitated, yet sad. Maybe a little angry. He hoped it wasn’t aimed at him.
“You wanted me to find out what I could about Tanner Engineering, and how long ago Tuff Montegue worked for them,” Marybeth said, standing up and walking past Joe so she could close the door of his office. “There is a lot of information on them on the Internet. I started with a simple Google search.”
Joe listened, eating cold pizza.
“It was really easy to find,” she said, her eyes widening. She gestured at a stack of paper she had printed out and placed facedown on the edge of the desk. “Tanner Engineering is an environmental research firm that is
