“Joe, about a week before he died, Will said something to me.”
Joe sat down.
“He was in pretty bad shape when he came into the office that morning,” she said. “I thought he was hungover, and frankly, I wasn’t very kind to him. Now, when I look back on it, I think he was sick, or really depressed.
“I gave him kind of a hard look, I guess, when I gave him his messages. He just stood there. He looked so lonely, but at the time I didn’t feel sorry for him.”
Mary stopped and took a breath, kneading her hands together, looking around the room as if she suspected someone might be listening. “Will said he thought they were out to get him, and they were closing in. He said he thought there was only one person he could trust in this valley. I thought at the moment he said it he meant me.”
“He didn’t?” Joe asked.
“No,” she said, “he said someone else. That really hurt me, Joe. I know it’s emotional, and irrational, but it really hurt me. I’d been covering for him for so long . . .”
“So who was it?” Joe asked.
Mary’s face hardened. “He said the only person he trusted was Stella Ennis.”
It was late afternoon before Joe set off for the trailhead in Will Jensen’s pickup, the horse trailer hooked up behind. The interior of the truck was so similar to his own that when he realized he had not called Marybeth, he reached for the cell phone that wasn’t there.
He cursed. He had to reach her before he rode north, into country where he would be inaccessible. He stopped at a pay phone on the side of the highway, but it was out of order. Finally, he called the dispatcher over his radio and asked her to patch him through to his home number. He hoped Marybeth would be there, and maybe he could speak to Sheridan and Lucy since school was over. God, he missed them.
His wife answered, and the sound of her voice lifted his spirits.
“Marybeth, I’m glad I caught you.”
“It’s about time, Joe. I was starting to think you’d run off on me.”
“Honey,” he said, wondering how many game wardens, dispatchers, brand inspectors, and citizens with scanners were listening to every word, “I’ve been patched through on the radio. So this isn’t a private call.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously disappointed. “Why didn’t you call me on the cell? Or from your office?”
“My cell phone burned up. In fact, my whole truck burned up.”
Silence.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but my truck caught on fire this morning in the parking lot. I’m calling from Will’s old pickup.”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine. Don’t worry about anything. Look, I’m going to be out of touch for three or four days. I wanted to check in with you before I go.”
Her hesitation told him everything he needed to know.
“Three or four days?”
“At least,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He was in a bind, he thought. He didn’t want to tell her where he was going in case someone who knew Smoke Van Horn, or Smoke himself, was monitoring the radio traffic.
He wished he could explain himself fully to her to alleviate her concern and lessen her anger.
When she finally replied, she sounded cold, businesslike: “Joe, when you get back and to a phone, we need to talk.”
“I know. I’m looking forward to it.” “That’s nice, I guess.” “Marybeth—”
“A man threw a dead fawn on our lawn last night. Oh, and we keep getting those calls.”
His heart sank. He had hoped to hear that things were going surprisingly well. “I hope you called Nate,” Joe said.
“Yes. He helped us out with the fawn.”
“Good—”
“But there are still the calls. And Joe, we need to talk again about one of our daughters.”
“Sheridan?”
“I thought you said this wasn’t a private call,” Marybeth snapped.
“It isn’t, I’m sorry. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, but we’re having some difficulties.”
“Marybeth—”
“Joe, this isn’t working. This call, I mean. I don’t like talking with you this way. So just make sure to call me the minute you can, okay? If you can spare the time.”
He heard the phone slam down and felt needles of ice shoot into his heart.
At the same time, not far from the Twelve Sleep River, Nate Romanowski released his redtailed hawk and
