them. The sheriff and his men let them pass before joining in. Joe caught a glimpse of McLanahan as they rocketed by. McLanahan had completed his physical and mental transformation from a hotheaded deputy to a western character who spoke in semiliterate cornball folkisms. The huge handlebar mustache he’d grown completed the metamorphosis.
“It looks like the posse is now complete,” McLanahan said over the radio. “Carry on, buckaroos.”
Joe rolled his eyes.
THE CARAVAN of law-enforcement vehicles was forced to ratchet down its collective speed as it entered the Big Horn National Forest. Kiner eased to the shoulder to let Joe overtake him and lead the way. The gravel road gave way to a rougher two-track that led through an empty campground and up the mountain in a series of switchbacks. Frank Urman’s camp was located over the top of the mountain through a long meadow.
The dispatcher called out his number and asked for a location.
“This is GF-52,” Joe said. “I’m with GF-36 and local law enforcement. We’re headed up the mountain now to the subject’s camp.”
“Hold for Director Pope.”
Joe grimaced.
“Joe?” It was Pope. Joe could hear the whine of the state airplane in the background.
“Yes, sir.”
“Joe, we’re about thirty minutes out. When we land we’ve got to get vehicles and get up there to the scene. About how long will it take for us to get there?”
“At least an hour, sir.”
“Damn it.”
After a beat, Pope said, “Do you know what happened yet? Is it as bad as we hear it might be?”
“We don’t know,” Joe said, “we’re not yet on the scene.”
“Who is the RP?”
“The reporting party is named Chris Urman,” the dispatcher broke in. “He’s the victim’s nephew.”
“How many people are involved?” Pope asked.
“Involved?” Joe asked. “As far as we know there is one victim.”
“No, I mean how many people know about this? How many have heard what happened to him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Joe said.
“I’m issuing a direct order,” Pope said. “This is to you and Kiner. Don’t give any statements to anybody until I get there. Don’t talk with anyone or tell anybody what happened. Got that?”
As had happened many times before when Pope was on the radio, Joe held the mike away from him and looked at it for answers that never presented themselves.
“Affirmative,” Kiner finally said, “no public statements until you’re on the scene.”
“You got that, Joe?” Pope asked.
“I got it,” Joe said, “but we’ve got the sheriff behind us, and anybody listening to the scanner will know we’ve got a situation here.”
“Look,” Pope said, his voice rising, “I can only control my own people. I can’t control anything else. All I ask is that you follow my direct goddamned order, Joe. Can you do that?”
“Of course, sir,” Joe said, feeling his ears get hot.
“Good. I’ll call when we land. In the meantime, you two keep off the radio. And I’ll politely ask Sheriff McLanahan to do the same.”
McLanahan broke in. “Shit, I heard you. Everybody did.”
“Everybody?”
“We’re on SALECS—the State Assisted Law Enforcement Communications System,” McLanahan said. “If you want to go private you need to switch to another channel.”
Pope didn’t respond and Joe pictured him stammering and angrily hanging up. Joe waited awhile before cradling the mike. When he looked in his rearview mirror he could see Kiner signaling him with two fingers, meaning he wanted Joe to switch to the car-to-car band so no one could hear them. The frequency worked as long as the vehicles were in sight of each other, and not much farther than that.
“Joe,” Kiner said, “do you have any idea what’s going on with Pope? I’ve never heard him like this.”
“I have,” Joe said.
“So what’s up? Why in the hell is the director flying up from Cheyenne for this? Since when does he get personally involved in a case? And especially since you two avoid each other like the plague?”
“I was wondering that myself,” Joe said.
“There’s something going on here we don’t know about, that’s for damned sure.”
Joe nodded. “I agree.”
“Me too,” McLanahan said.
“What are you doing on our channel?” Kiner asked McLanahan. Joe held his tongue.
