Blood Trail

fixed for the handheld he had taken with him two hours before. There hadn’t been a report from Joe and Lothar since they walked down the saddle slope. Lothar had told Robey not to expect one until they decided to head back. Lothar also asked him to try not to call them and break radio silence unless it was an emergency.

The longer it went, the more excruciating the wait became for Robey. He wanted to be home in his leather recliner watching television with a fire in the fireplace. He did not want to be in a freezing pickup in the dark with a friend of Randy Pope’s whom he didn’t know.

Finally, Robey said, “Wally, since it looks like we’ll be here awhile, can I ask you a question?”

He could see Conway smile in the dark, see the flash of teeth. “Sure.”

“Why are you here?”

Conway chuckled. “I was wondering that myself. I kind of feel like I’ve been thrust upon you guys, and it’s an uncomfortable place to be, let me tell you.”

Robey appreciated Conway’s candor. He wondered how far it would go. “How long have you known Randy Pope, then?”

“It seems like forever,” Conway said. “Jeez . . . thirty years, I guess, although that’s hard to believe. Growing up, I never thought I’d know anybody thirty years. I met Randy at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. Heck, we were in the same fraternity and then we hunted together for years after that. I’d like to say we kept in touch but you know how guys are. I wouldn’t hear from him for five years but I’d see him at a Cowboys game or something and we’d pick up the conversation we were having the last time we talked. That sort of thing drives my wife crazy, you know. She thinks men don’t know how to be friends properly, and I think we do it exactly right. Why talk when you have nothing to say? I suspect it drives most women crazy, the way men do that.”

Robey said, “So you haven’t talked to him for a few years?”

Conway shook his head. “Nope, but like I say, that isn’t all that unusual.”

“What did he do—just give you a call this morning and say, ‘I’m in the area, let’s go on a manhunt’?”

Conway chuckled again. “That’s not too far from what happened.”

“I can’t believe you came.”

“I guess I didn’t know all the circumstances,” Conway said. “I thought it might be a chance to catch up with Randy, you know? But he’s a busy man now that he’s the director of the game and fish department. Today, he spent almost the whole time on his phone. But I’d like to do my part to catch the bad guy as much as anyone else. We can’t have someone like that around.”

“Nope.”

“So you’ve known Joe Pickett for a while, eh?”

Robey nodded. “Yes. We fish together. There’s no greater friendship.”

“Did you know the game warden before Joe? Vern Dunnegan?” Conway asked. “He was quite a character.”

“I knew him,” Robey said without enthusiasm.

“He was a throwback. He kind of made his own law, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Robey said. “That’s why he’s still in the Wyoming state pen.”

Years before, Vern Dunnegan had retired as a game warden for the state and came back to Twelve Sleep County as the landman for a natural gas pipeline company. He used his relationship with local landowners and politicians to secure a right-of-way through the mountains but involved others—including some of Joe’s friends—to eliminate a population of endangered species in the way. The crime spiraled out of control and resulted in murder and the attempted murder of Marybeth. Dunnegan was convicted and sent to prison. Joe shot him in the butt with a shotgun, and word was Dunnegan still had a pronounced limp.

“I know about that,” Conway said. “But the man did right by me, and I’ll always owe him for that.”

Robey turned in his seat, confused.

Conway said, “We live here for the quality of life—to be able to go into the mountains to hunt and fish or just think restful thoughts. To think there’s somebody up here assassinating innocent men—especially friends of mine— angers me to my core. Vern did us all a good turn once that allowed us to get on with our lives. I’m happy to do what I can to help.”

Robey looked out over the darkened mountain landscape, noted the moon had risen a few more inches, then turned to Conway.

“What do you mean, friends of yours?”

Conway looked quizzically at Robey. “You mean Randy didn’t tell you?”

I AM UPSET that my target is not at the crime scene and feel that I may have not only wasted my time but exposed myself unnecessarily. Aren’t they supposed to be up here? Aren’t they supposed to be investigating the killing?

I’ve chosen not to use the knoll again. It would be too obvious and risky because they’re probably watching it. So I settle in farther up the ridge, behind some weathered rocks that provide both shelter and a place to take aim. When my breathing calms down from the long trek I let my eyes get used to the dark and peer through the scope of my rifle. Like all good-quality scopes, it gathers more light than the naked eye and I can see down the slope to where I hung Frank Urman in the trees. The band of light-colored material is crime-scene tape, I realize, and for a moment I expect to see my target within the perimeter. But he isn’t there. No one is there. I fight the building rage that has formed in my chest and pushed upward into my throat. I’ve taken a chance I shouldn’t have taken. For nothing.

But I think I hear talking. It is low, more of a muffled murmur than actual words. Sound carries up here, and the distance of origin can be deceptive. I lean down hard on the scope, sweeping it slowly through the trees, trying to find the source. The wind shifts almost imperceptibly and I realize the voices are coming not from the trees or meadow but from above them.

I slowly climb the hillside with my scope until I can make out the outline of a pickup truck. I can’t