of the batwing doors.
“Don’t say it,” Joe said. Dark thunderheads of guilt had already begun rolling across his sky.
“Just like Will,” Ed said anyway.
Thirty Two
At least once a day he takes his birds out,” Bello said, while driving. “He lets them fly around and he puts food out for them or holds it in his hand. The birds drop out of the sky to eat it.”
“He’s training the birds to hunt with him,” Barnum said. “It’s called stooping.”
“I don’t care what it’s called,” Bello said testily. “I just care that he does it once a day, usually in the afternoon.”
The exsheriff felt a rise of anger but said nothing. Bello shouldn’t talk like that to him, he thought. He was getting sick of the lack of respect people showed him, Bello included.
“Like I told you,” Bello said, swinging his SUV off the state highway onto the twotrack that led to the stone house and the river, “before we actually get to his place the road goes up over a rise. It’s about three hundred yards from the house. He can’t see a vehicle approaching until it comes over the top. When I was scouting him, that’s where I put the sandbags, up there on that rise behind some sagebrush. He never looked in my direction. The sandbags are about a hundred yards apart, so we’ll have sight lines from two angles.”
“What if he hears us coming?” Barnum asked. “The noise of a car carries a long way out here.”
“That’s why we walk the last mile to the rise,” Bello said tersely. “I’m guessing your old legs can handle that.”
“Fuck you, Bello,” Barnum said, not fighting his anger this time.
Bello laughed dryly. “That’s the spirit, Sheriff.”
Their rifles were between them on the seats, muzzles down. Bello’s .300 Winchester Mag had a satin finish and an oversized Leupold scope. Barnum’s old .270 looked like a hillbilly gun beside it, Bello said when he saw it.
“Forty elk and a drunken Mexican with a shovel would disagree,” Barnum shot back.
Bello had told him the story almost casually the night before, as they sat on opposite sides of Bello’s room at the Holiday Inn. Both had cocktails in hand that Barnum had mixed.
Nate Romanowski had been known by a code name, the Falcon, and was one of the best the agency had, Bello said. He was out of the country for years at a time. But like others who were too tightly wound and too independent, Romanowski had started to choose which orders to follow and which ones to disregard. When he was called back to headquarters, it took three months for him to show up, and he clashed immediately with the new director. The Falcon quit loudly, in agency terms, intimating he would talk if they tried to stop him. “You’ve never seen paranoia like the paranoia we had in our outfit,” Bello said, showing his teeth.
Two operatives, one a friend of Randan Bello and the other his soninlaw, were sent to find the Falcon and assure themselves, and the agency, that he had no intention of talking after all. The operatives took annual leave to do it, so the agency couldn’t be accused of official covert activity within the country. Their last dispatch was from northern Montana, via email, reporting that they had heard about a loner who fit the profile of the Falcon. The suspect was a falconer who drove an old Jeep and packed a .454 Casull from Freedom Arms in Wyoming. The next day, the bodies of the operatives were discovered by a passing motorist, who reported the accident to the Montana State Patrol.
“Romanowski killed them both?” Barnum asked. “Why didn’t we hear anything about it?”
Bello drained his glass of scotch and held it out for a refill.
“The inquiry concluded that the engine on their vehicle quit on a switchback road and they lost control and rolled eight times. Both were crushed.”
Barnum looked over his shoulder as he poured. “You’re pretty sure he did it though.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Sure enough that the day after I retired I headed out here to Wyoming,” Bello said. “My daughter has never remarried.”
“Kids?”
“Nope. I’ve got no grandkids.”
Barnum thought of his own grandchildren, teenage darkskinned delinquents on the reservation he had never even met. No great loss, he thought.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” Barnum asked, finally.
“Because you asked,” Bello said, drinking and looking out the window. “And you offered to help.”
Barnum hadn’t believed him at the time—Bello’s explanation just hadn’t sounded right. Nevertheless, he had gone along, because he had reasons of his own.
Bello pulled off the twotrack more than a mile from the rise and turned off the engine. Climbing out, he pocketed the keys, slung the .300 over his shoulder, and buckled on a large fanny pack. Barnum followed suit, sliding his .270
out of the truck. He loaded it with 150 grain shells and worked the bolt.
“Are you ready?” Bello asked in a low voice.
Barnum nodded, and they shut the car doors softly.
There was a slight breeze coming from the direction of the river, which was good because it made it even more unlikely that their car had been heard.
Bello walked around the SUV and handed Barnum a small Motorola Talkabout set to channel four.
