Blood Trail

“You’ve got one shot at our man,” Portenson said. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Joe was grateful Portenson didn’t mention Nate, which meant he didn’t yet know. But Joe assumed the FBI would know soon, one way or another—possibly even Pope would tell them in an effort to take over—and he wondered if he’d hear the explosion from 350 miles away.

IT WASN’T the new knowledge of Shenandoah Yellowcalf, or the calls from Stella or Portenson that suddenly unnerved Joe, caused the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck to stand on end, his flesh to crawl. It wasn’t something that had happened or what he’d learned as much as what he was feeling: there was something malevolent in the air.

He was being watched.

Over the years, he’d come to trust his instincts in this regard. When he had felt he was being watched he habitually discarded the notion, convinced himself he was imagining things, tried to move on, only later to learn that he had been correct in the first place.

He raised his eyes, surveyed the cars in the parking lot. No one. He scanned the school grounds, anticipating the sight of a student skulking in the shadows and alcoves, maybe sneaking a smoke, keeping his eyes on Joe. He scanned the windows of the school for a face. Maybe Mrs. Thunder and Mrs. Shoyo looking out at him, seeing him off. Maybe those boys who had been pretending to be “poaching fools” were having another laugh at his expense.

He scanned the sagebrush-covered hillsides that flowed like frozen swells toward the foothills and the mountains beyond. There were pockets of pine and aspen, plenty of vantage points to hide in.

Joe saw no one.

22

I WATCH the game warden through my binoculars as he leaves the school building. He is wearing his red uniform shirt. He clamps his Stetson on his head and climbs into his green pickup truck. He’s doing something in front of him or on his lap, eyes down. Probably checking a PDA or his cell phone.

Following him wasn’t a problem and I’m sure he never suspected I was there.

The stand of aspen is behind me, the dried leaves rattling in the wind. I’ve parked my vehicle on the side of the old road in back of the trees, so it’s hidden from view. My rifle is beside me, pulled from its case. I estimate 250 yards at most across the flat. It is a clear, sunny day. The wind is so slight it wouldn’t be a factor in aiming.

Two things, though: I don’t like long shots, and killing the game warden now would hurt me more than help me.

Shots at this distance can be problematic. There is no guarantee. I like them much closer; close enough there is no doubt. Beyond the game warden’s pickup is the school, and the windows of the classrooms are at the same height as the windshield of his truck. I’ve heard of occasions when bullets were deflected by glass. If I missed—not likely, but always possible—I could kill a teacher or a student. An innocent.

More important is that I have nothing against the game warden, although I fear in his clumsy way he’s getting closer. I don’t fear the sheriff, or the sheriff’s men in the mountains right now. They’re hunting a ghost. But this game warden has worried me since the first time I saw him. There is something earnest and relentless about him that scares me in a way I can’t articulate. He reminds me of me.

But why would he be at the school, if not to ask about Alisha Whiteplume? Or question the staff about the person once known as Shenandoah? If he makes the connection, it is a big step toward finding out about me. I can only hope in this case I am mistaken. I’m not ready to be found out.

Not yet.

The game warden has frozen up in a way that I think he must know I’m here. I can see a certain stiffness to his movements, an attempt not to give away the fact that he’s looking for me, trying to find the eyes that he feels on him. I wriggle backward on the hill, in case he uses his binoculars or spotting scope.

I wait until I hear him start his pickup and drive down the road. I hear the crunch of his tires on the gravel road.

I don’t need to follow him. I know where he’s going.

23

PORTENSON HAD said Bill Gordon would be waiting for Joe in the public park at 8 P.M. in the little town of Winchester, population 729, which was eighteen miles northwest of Saddlestring via the interstate north to Montana. Joe was familiar with the park because years before he’d taken Sheridan, Lucy, and Maxine to a local dog show there. Maxine didn’t place in any of the events but was awarded a “Most Unusual Color” consolation certificate that his girls were very proud of and that still hung on the refrigerator with magnets. None of the judges had ever seen a Labrador that had once been scared completely white. Nobody had.

The park consisted of a few picnic tables, a shelter, some benches, and a jungle gym and slide erected and maintained by the Winchester Lions Club, according to a sign. The park was a perfectly square town block. It was sealed off on four sides by neat rows of ancient cottonwood trees, which made it a good place to meet because of its seclusion on a cold fall night and because of its location off the main street.

As instructed by Portenson, Joe wore street clothes—Wranglers, boots, snap-button cowboy shirt, his worn Carhartt ranch coat—and drove the family van instead of his game and fish pickup. Any suggestion that he was official would blow the meeting, expose Gordon if someone saw them together. The interstate was clear of snow but black and wet in his headlights. His twelve-gauge Remington WingMaster shotgun rested against the passenger seat, muzzle down, and his .40 Glock was clipped to his belt and out of view under the coat. He was edgy, unsure, which is why he’d brought his weapons. But he wanted to talk to Gordon. Joe had the feeling—and it wasn’t more than that at this point—that he was getting somewhere, that momentum was finally with him. Not that he was solving the murders or understanding what was going on, but that finally he was in motion toward an end.

Winchester was primarily a ranching and timber town, five hundred feet higher than Saddlestring, where the foothills paused for rest before beginning their climb to become the Bighorns. Winchester’s lone public artwork,