He eyed her closely to see if she was baiting him. She was, but there was a grain of sincere incredulity as well.
“I’ve yet to see Bambi murdered,” he said.
“You know what I mean.”
“In a shallow and very superficial way, I do,” he said. “But that isn’t what this is about. It’s about the murder of innocent men. This has nothing to do with
“Struck a nerve, eh?” she said, a slight smile on her lips.
Joe sighed. “In order to process a game animal properly, the carcass needs to be field-dressed and the head and hide removed. Otherwise, the meat can be ruined. It’s not a pretty thing, but it’s necessary. And it’s not the purpose of the hunt.”
“What is?” she said. “To drink whiskey and grunt and run around in the hills with a rifle?”
“I don’t think we have the time for this,” Joe said wearily, thinking he was sitting at the longest red light in the state of Wyoming. “I just hope you ask the same questions the next time you sit down to eat dinner. What events occurred behind the scenes and out of your view to deliver that food to you? Some eggs get broken to make your breakfast omelet, you know. Do you ever think of that?”
“That’s different,” she huffed. “The food producers didn’t do it for pleasure. It is just a job to them.”
“Most hunters don’t kill for pleasure either,” Joe said, “and at least they’re honest enough to get down and dirty and take part in the harvesting of the food they eat. They’re honest enough not to use proxies to do their killing for them.”
“
“Struck a nerve, eh?” Joe said, and smiled. “Hey, the light’s green.”
“SO ARE you surprised I’m here?” Stella asked as she swung into the parking garage of the Federal Building.
“Very,” he said.
“Have you ever told anyone about what happened in Jackson?”
“I told Marybeth there was an attraction but nothing happened,” Joe said. “She doesn’t like you very much.”
“Not that,” she said, whacking him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I mean about my relationship with Will Jensen. Does anyone know but you?”
“No,” he said.
“I helped him do what he was incapable of doing at the time.”
“So you say,” Joe said.
She pulled the big SUV into a dark parking space and turned off the motor and handed him the keys. “The governor is assigning this to you until you get your truck back,” she said. “Despite your reputation for destroying government property.”
“What about the state plane?” Joe asked. “I thought it was flying me back.”
“He said he wouldn’t send his worst enemy on that death trap.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t even ask, Joe. That’s what I’ve learned.”
He took the keys from her.
“I really like my new life here,” she said. “I like working for the governor. I’m damned good at my job. This is my second chance in life, and I’d like to leave my past behind me. You’re one of the few who know anything about it.”
“Okay.”
“What I’m asking you is if you’ll let it all go, what happened.”
“I already have,” Joe said.
She let a beat go by. “Do you ever think of me?”
“Only in the past tense,” Joe said.
Her eyes misted, and she wiped at them angrily. “I
Joe nodded. “Agreed. And you’re no Marybeth. Now let’s go see Portenson and get Nate before they close the building on us.”
As they walked to the elevator, she briefly locked his arm in hers, said, “I can be your best friend or your worst enemy, you know.”
As the elevator doors opened, Joe turned to her. “Likewise.”
THE FBI’S MAN on the inside of Klamath Moore’s movement was named Bill Gordon, according to the file handed over to Joe by a reluctant special agent. Gordon was from Lexington, Kentucky. There were three photos of him in the file. The informant was tall and lean with a ponytail, a long nose, and soulful eyes. Joe thought he recognized him from the gathering in front of the county building that morning.
Joe skimmed the documents behind the photo, learning that Gordon had encountered Klamath Moore and a few of his followers on a tract of heavily wooded and undeveloped land outside Lexington two years before when Moore was searching for a good place to set up a camp and hold a rally. Gordon was a solitary, bookish outdoorsman who
