Joe gripped the phone so tightly that he thought it would break. “I don’t care who you send—call the goddamn highway patrol if you have to. Someone’s got to be around. Cam’s involved in this one way or the other and we can’t risk losing him like we did Garrett.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Hersig snapped. “But I’m not making any promises.”
“Funnel everything through the dispatcher,” Joe said. “I’ll keep the radio on and report in if there’s anything to report.” Hersig clicked off without answering.
oe tried to tie it all together. Garrett’s involvement puzzled him. He had been so focused on Cam Logue that he had paid scant attention to Garrett. Deena had provided Joe with a reason to dig more deeply into Garrett’s motivations, but Joe hadn’t done it in time to stop what was happening now.
Something else clicked in, regarding Cleve Garrett. Garrett was a publicity hound. He wanted the attention in order to advance his crackpot ideas on aliens and conspiracies. But maybe Garrett was darker, more twisted. Maybe Joe’s lack of credulity was the motivation for Garrett to step up his crimes?
And where in the hell did Cam Logue fit into all of this? Joe wondered. He had to be part of this. How else could Garrett have known about Joe’s conversation with Cam? Garrett had left before Joe confronted Cam. Were they in contact?
Despite the bungling of the rest of the task force, Joe had been the closest to the killer all along and he hadn’t seen it. There might still be another explanation—he hoped so—but he doubted it. If this played out the way it seemed to be headed, it was his fault for not preventing another murder. He cringed as he drove.
“Man, oh man, oh man,” Joe said aloud.
He grabbed his cell phone from the dash, speed-dialed Nate Romanowski’s number. For once, Nate answered.
“It’s Joe.”
Nate was excited. “Joe, I haven’t talked to you since we found the bear. Well believe it or not . . .”
“Nate! I really need your help!” “Go ahead.”
“How fast can you grab your weapon and meet me on Bighorn Road? I’m heading west toward the mountains.”
“Ten minutes.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
As Joe screamed over the hill, he saw Nate climbing out of his Jeep and pulling on his shoulder holster. Joe slowed to a roll, and Nate swung into the cab of the pickup.
Without actually stopping, Joe eased the pickup back onto the Bighorn Road and the motor roared. “It’s Cleve Garrett,” Joe said.
“Really?” Nate whistled. “I guess it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.” “No,” Joe said sourly. “I guess it shouldn’t be. But I think Cam Logue is involved somehow, maybe others as well.”
While they drove, Nate pulled his weapon, checked the five-shot cylinder, and shoved it back into his shoulder holster.
“Consider yourself deputized,” Joe said, looking over at Nate. Nate said, “I didn’t know game wardens could deputize anyone.”
Joe shrugged. “We probably can’t. So I’ll deputize you in the name of the Murder and Mutilation Task Force.”
“Cool,” Nate said. “As long as you undeputize me later.” Joe nodded.
“Remember when I told you about what it was like under the calm surface of the river?” Nate asked, his eyes wide, “how there is a whole different world, with noise and chaos?”
“Nate, what does this have to do with . . .”
“Just listen for a minute, Joe,” Nate said. “I’ve come to believe that there are different levels of consciousness and being. There are whole worlds out there with their own different versions of what reality is, and their own sets of natural laws. Sometimes, the laws are broken and things spill over from one level to the next. When that happens, we hope that something from that level is sent to fix the mess or all hell will break loose.”
Joe was speechless. “Nate . . .”
“I know,” Nate said. “We don’t have time for this. But the bear is with me now, at my place. We’re communicating.”
The radio crackled. It was Wendy, the dispatcher.
“A fisherman just reported seeing a vehicle and trailer matching the description of the suspect’s vehicle and trailer at a public-access fishing campground.”
Joe and Nate exchanged glances, and Joe snatched the microphone from its cradle.
“This is Joe Pickett, Wendy. There are six public-access campgrounds on the Upper Twelve Sleep River. Can you tell me which one?”
There was a pause, then: “The fisherman says he saw the unit in question at the Pick Pike Bridge campground.”
Joe knew which one she was talking about. It was the last public-access fishing location before the start of the national forest. It was small, with four or five spaces, and was located in dense woods. The only facilities there were a pit-toilet outhouse and a fish-cleaning station near the water. Because of the way it was tucked into the heavy timber near the river, it was a good place to hide out. He had ticketed more over-limit fishermen there than any other place on the river, because the fishermen assumed no one would see or catch them.
“I’m fifteen minutes away from there,” Joe said to Wendy. “Are there any other units in the vicinity?”
