remaining was how many people would
be involved in the blast.
Dim lights were on inside the pharmacy and Joe pressed his face to the window and looked in. In the parking lot, he had seen the pickup with a magnetic sign on the door that read Hans' Janitorial Service. Hans was in there all right, pushing a vacuum through the aisle that featured magazines and paperback books. Joe rapped on the window, but Hans didn't look up. He couldn't hear Joe over the vacuum. Joe hit the window again so hard he risked smashing it or tripping the alarm. But Hans, who has half deaf anyway, didn't respond.
Joe took his flashlight from his belt and shined it through the window into Hans' face. Hans twitched and absently rubbed his mouth, not yet aware of what was annoying him. When he finally looked up, he jumped and nearly stumbled back into the bestsellers. Joe turned the flashlight on himself so Hans could see him, and he held his badge to the window. Hans stood thinking it over, his chin in his hand, then motioned Joe around to the backdoor.
'I probably shouldn't let you in,' Hans said as he unlocked the door in the alley.
'Bill Barrett told me never under any circumstances to let anyone in the store after hours, even him. There's all kinds of narcotics and stuff in the pharmacy.'
Joe thanked him and brushed by.
'It's official state Game and Fish Department business,' Joe answered. 'It's lucky you were here.'
Hans grunted and locked the door after them. 'I gotta tell Bill Barrett about this.'
'That's fine,' Joe said, walking through the store to the photo counter.
'Hope you don't mind if I vacuum,' Hans said. 'I went hunting with Jack this afternoon, and I'm running late. Got a buck, though. Finally. Missed a nicer one. You can ask Jack about it.'
'Hans, I've got to ask you something.' Hans stopped and stared at Joe. His hands shook. Joe could tell that Hans was trying to recall anything he might have done recently that could be a violation of the Game and Fish regulations.
'Don't worry,' Joe assured him. 'You haven't done anything wrong that I'm aware of.'
Hans continued to shake.
'Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when I drove up on you and Jack after you got that pronghorn buck?'
Hans nodded his head yes.
'You asked me about whether or not I had heard of an endangered species in the mountains. Do you remember that?'
Hans nodded again.
'What do you know about it?' Joe asked. His voice was firm.
'Nothing,' Hans said. 'Honestly. We just heard rumors. You know, bar talk. Somebody said somebody else had found something up there.'
'Who found it?'
'Somebody said it was Clyde Lidgard,' Hans said.
'Vacuum away,' Joe said, waving his hand. He slipped behind the counter and slid out the oversize drawer that held envelopes of developed pictures. The envelopes where alphabetized by name. Joe quickly leafed through them, finding the packets filed under 'I .' He found Lawton, Livingston, Layborn, Lane, and Lomiller. But he didn't find what he was looking for. Across the store, Hans fired up the vacuum cleaner. Joe slammed the drawer shut and said, 'Shit!' But Hans was oblivious.
There was a stupidly simple reason, Joe thought, why Clyde Lidgard had no photos in his trailer from the two months leading up to the outfitter murders: he had not picked them up yet from the pharmacy after they'd been developed. But somebody apparently had. Maybe, Joe thought with a grimace, he was about ten steps behind everybody else just as he had been since this whole thing had started.
But maybe not.
He pulled open The drawer again and went to the back. Beyond 'XYZ' he found a tab file that said 'Unclaimed.' In the file there were ten envelopes. Three of those were slated for pickup by Clyde Lidgard.
Joe ripped the first envelope open and slid the photos out onto the counter.
They looked familiar: blurred, off-kilter snapshots of trees, clouds, Clyde's penis, a manhole cover. Then he saw what he was looking for. There were dozens of them.
***
The Stockman's Bar had been closed since two, but Joe drove by it just in case before he proceeded to the Holiday Inn at the edge of town. He parked under the motel's registration sign, clamped on his hat, and went in.
Like all night clerks and auditors, the man behind the desk was jumpy. He wore a greasy ponytail and thick horn-rimmed glasses. His eyes, magnified through the lenses, were enormous. He slammed a Penthouse magazine shut in a night auditing folder but not quickly enough that Joe didn't see it as he approached.
Joe introduced himself and showed his badge. He said a package was supposed to be sent to him at the hotel in care of Vern Dunnegan. He said he had tried to call to check on it but couldn't get through.
'Phones are out all over town,' the night clerk said. 'We can't get in or out.'
Joe watched carefully as the clerk used his finger to go down the registry. His finger stopped on room 238.
'I can't see a note for any package,' he said.
