certainly didn't seem to be his first shot of the afternoon, judging by how flushed his face was. Vern had always been a hard drinker, and there had rarely been a night after work when Vern didn't suggest they stop for one or two. But since Vern had returned, Joe had yet to see him without bourbon within his grasp.
'Have you given what we talked about any thought?' Vern asked.
Joe nodded.
'Well?'
'I need to discuss it with Marybeth,' Joe said. 'We really haven't had a chance to talk it over yet.'
Vern's eyes never left Joe's. 'She's a smart woman,' Vern said. 'She'll steer you in the right direction. D'you want me to talk to her?'
'That won't be necessary.' Joe felt a twinge of resentment toward his former boss. Vern obviously thought he could talk Marybeth into making Joe take the job. Vern thought he could talk anybody into anything. Usually, he could. Vern was a highly intelligent man and very persuasive. But for a reason Joe couldn't quite articulate, he found himself resisting the job offer.
'I know one thing,' Joe said, drinking at the beer.
'I know I won't be ready to make any big moves until these outfitter
murders are finally solved.'
Vern sat perfectly still. He looked at Joe with disbelief.
'What in the hell is there to solve, Joe?' Vern asked, his voice low and tight. 'Clyde Lidgard shot three local white trash outfitters, and you guys shot him. Case closed.'
'There are too many unanswered questions,' Joe said quickly. 'Why did he do it? Why was he up there? Why did he stay there if he did it? Why did Ote Keeley come to my house? What was in that cooler? In my mind, there are a lot of things that have to be answered.'
Vern sat perfectly still with a look of outright contempt on his face, his eyes boring a hole in Joe. Although he felt his resolve weakening, Joe looked back and did not flinch. He steeled himself against Vern, determined to not let him talk him out of continuing the investigation.
'Joe,' Vern said, his voice barely over a whisper. 'Let's you and me take a couple of minutes and talk about the real fucking world.' Vern bit off the last three words with a vehemence that caught Joe completely off guard and unnerved him. 'I don't know the answers to those questions, and I frankly don't give a shit,' Vern hissed.
'Murders are messy. When the killer is shot before he can talk, there are all kinds of loose ends. This is not an exact science--you should know that by now. These things aren't always wrapped up neatly. Sometimes when it's too neat, an innocent man goes to prison, but usually the guy is scum and should be in there anyway. Don't beat yourself up trying to put every piece together. Forget about it and move on with your life, Joe.'
Joe thought about what Vern said. And he thought about Vern. There was an urgency there Joe couldn't understand and hadn't expected.
'What about the cooler Ote brought to my house?' Joe asked. 'What was in it?'
Vern brought his hand down on the table with a wet slap. 'Again, who the fuck cares?' Vern asked, reaching over and taking one of Joe's shots.
'Let it go.'
'I talked to a couple of hunters today who asked me if I knew anything about an endangered species being found in the mountains,' Joe said. 'They wouldn't elaborate, and I don't know if they were kidding or not.'
'Who were they?' Vern asked. He knew everybody.
'Hans and Jack.'
'Fuck 'em,' Vern said, dismissing them. 'Coupla gossipy old hens.'
'I don't know about that,' Joe said. 'I always thought they were all right.'
'Joe...' Vern sighed. 'I've got an obligation to find out and report on it,' Joe said. 'You know that.'
Vern sneered back. 'An obligation to whom?' he asked. 'The Wyoming Game and Fish Department? The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service? The Sierra Fucking Club? The president of the United States?'
'Vern,' Joe reasoned. 'You know what we're supposed to do if we find something like this. Or even suspect it. And what if it's tied to the outfitter murders in some way?'
Vern rolled his eyes. He used to do the same thing when he thought Joe had said something incredibly naive. 'You know, Joe, what I'm about to say will shock you,' Vern said. 'But I know good men who have found an endangered species on their land and shot it and buried it without a second thought rather than announce it to the world. I know a rancher over by Cody who cornered some kind of wolverine-type creature that he knew was supposed to be extinct. He blew that little sucker away and fed the pieces to his dogs. That rancher knew that if he had reported it, he would have been kicked off of his own land so that a bunch of bark-beetle elitists could claim they were saving the world.'
One of the men from the stools at the bar weaved near their booth as he made his way toward the bathroom. Vern leaned across the table to Joe and kept his voice down.
'Do you realize what would happen to this valley if it got out that there might be something in the mountains? Even if it was nothing more than a silly rumor started by a couple of gossipy old hens? Even if there was no more to it than a couple of future Alzheimer's candidates blabbering into the wind? Or even if you, as the game warden, announced that you thought there was something up there?
'Think of the people who work in the lumber mill,' Vern said. 'Think of the logging truck drivers, the cowboys, the outfitters, the fishing guides. They'd be unemployed while the Feds roped off the entire valley for the future. Environmentalists from all over the country would move in with their little round glasses and sandals and start giving press conferences on how they're here to protect the innocent little creatures from the ignorant locals. Whether or not anything was ever found up there, the environmentalists would keep things tied up in the courts for decades just so that they can tell their members they're actually doing something with their dues.
'Third-generation ranchers would lose their ranches. Support people--teachers, retailers, restaurant owners-- would lose their jobs or move on eventually. All because Joe Pickett, master game warden extraordinaire, suspects
