possible. Despite Ennis’s manner, it seemed to Joe that Ennis had a legitimate complaint.
“How about this afternoon?” Joe said.
“Hot damn,” Ennis cried, “finally somebody I can work with.”
Maybe, Joe thought.
Eighteen
To meet with Don Ennis and the principals of Beargrass Village, Joe used the map provided in a glossy fourcolor brochure entitled The World’s First Sustainable Good Meat Community he had found in the file. He drove his pickup on the highway toward Teton Pass, past the oldfashioned haystacks that existed purely for scenic effect in the landtrust meadows, past the gated communities with scores of milliondollar homes almost hidden in the timber that were referred to as “starter castles” by the locals. He thought about what he had read in the file that Will Jensen had assembled.
The concept of Beargrass Village had been launched with a complicated land swap between Ennis and his partners with the U.S. Forest Service: 7,500 acres of timberland across the border in Idaho for 7,500 acres in the county. The file contained schematics and land plats, letters of support from federal agencies including the Forest Service and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. The letters showed the tremendous political clout Ennis had behind him. There were opinions written by staff people within his own office: biol
ogists, fisheries experts, and the liaison for the interagency grizzly bear management team. Joe read enough to know that the staff letters pointed out potential problems with Beargrass Village, but didn’t propose outright opposition to the plan. Only the grizzly expert admitted grave concerns, but the letter was written in a kind of bureaucratic “cover your ass” language that would exempt the expert from blame no matter what happened in the end. In the margin of the bear report, Will had scribbled, This is a big problem.
What it boiled down to, Joe saw, was just as Ennis had said on the telephone: The final approval of the project from a wildlife management standpoint would depend on the opinion of the local game warden. Will, for whatever reasons, had withheld his final written opinion and impeded the process. Now it was up to Joe.
No wonder Will drank too much, Joe thought, smiling bitterly.
The headquarters for Beargrass Village was a dark, modern, lowslung building built of unpeeled logs and native stone. It was set into the side of a wooded rise so naturally that it would be possible for someone not aware of its existence to drive right past the building, which Joe almost did. Fortunately, he noticed a wink of sunlight off the windshield of a black Lexus SUV in a woodshrouded parking lot, and turned his pickup toward it. Three other latemodel SUVs were in the lot. He knew he had found the right place when he saw Don Ennis emerge through a sliding glass door and wave.
“Welcome to Beargrass,” Ennis boomed. Joe waved back.
Carrying the file, Joe entered and heard the door slide shut behind him. Several men sat at an enormous table in the room. A PowerPoint projector was on a stand, fan humming. Easels were positioned in each corner of the room, as well as a huge diorama of the planned development.
“Funny thing is,” Joe said, surveying the room and meeting the eyes of the men at the table, “there is no beargrass in Wyoming. There’s beargrass in Montana, in the northwest corner. But I guess you like the name.”
Ennis blinked uncomfortably, then glared at Joe.
“That’s trivial,” he said in a way intended to end the discussion.
“Probably is,” Joe agreed.
The three men at the table all stood to shake Joe’s hand and introduce themselves. Jim Johnson was the contractor, a bearish man with a full beard, a barrel chest, and callused hands. Shane Suhn was younger, stylish and fit, and said he was Don Ennis’s chief of staff.
Joe asked, “Chief of staff ?”
Suhn’s face hardened and paled. “Personal secretary, then,” he said.
“Pete Illoway,” the third man said in a melodious tone.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Joe said, seeing that his comment made Illoway smile with the glow of recognition. Illoway had sunburned, chiseled moviestar features and longish blond hair that curled over the collar of his Patagonia fishing shirt. He exuded health, contentment, and wellbeing, Joe thought. Illoway carried himself in a way that suggested he was used to being stared at and admired.
“So you know of the Good Meat Movement,” Illoway said. “That’s a good start.”
“I know a little,” Joe said, “not much.”
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Ennis said, charging toward the table in the headdown way he charged toward everything. “Let’s show Mr. Pickett our plan and have some lunch.”
Shane Suhn dimmed the lights and handed the projector remote to Ennis. Ennis waited until Joe was seated, then stood directly behind him, pointed the remote at the projector, and triggered the first image. Ennis stood so close that Joe could smell his cologne and feel his body heat.
...
The presentation took twenty minutes and was dazzling in its professionalism, Joe thought. The logo for Beargrass Village, the stylized lettering set against stalks of tawny beargrass, appeared in the lower left corner of every slide and burned into his subconscious.
The concept was for 120 homes, each with ten to twenty private acres. The homes would be situated concentrically throughout the property, built with native materials within a restored landscape, much like the headquarters itself.
There would be no telltale signs of construction, reseeding, commercial landscaping; it would look as if the homes emerged from the earth itself with no assistance from human beings. No home could be seen from another home.
