Blood Trail

located on the front lawn of the branch bank, was an outsized and gruesome metal sculpture of a wounded grizzly bear straining at the end of a thick chain, its metal leg encased in a massive saw-toothed bear trap. Joe thought it was one of the most grotesque and disturbing pieces he had ever seen, while at the same time reflecting the rough sensibilities of the little town.

At 7:45, Joe took the Winchester exit. He was close enough to the town limits he could smell wood smoke from the two hundred or so homes already battened down and prepped for a long winter when the whoop of a siren came out of nowhere on the side of the road and his van was lit up by the flashing red-and-blue wigwag lights of a police car.

Joe looked at his speedometer—forty-five, the speed limit—before slowing down and pulling over onto the shoulder of the road. The cruiser eased in behind him.

“What?” Joe asked aloud. “Why now? Why me?” A burned-out taillight? What?

The thought that Portenson had set him up crossed his mind.

In his rearview mirror, Joe could see the inside lights go on in the police car. The lone Winchester town cop looked to be in his midtwenties, with a heavy shelf of brow, a buzz cut, and a slight mustache. He wore a neat blue police vest over a crisp blue shirt. The cop was calling in Joe’s license plate for a vehicle check before getting out and approaching. The look on the officer’s face was serious and zealous. Joe had seen that look on overeager cops before, and it was rarely a good thing.

Joe groaned, bit his lip, debated getting out first to head off what could quickly become ugly if the cop shone his flashlight inside the van and saw the shotgun or his sidearm. Joe’s badge was pinned to his red shirt on the back of a chair in his bedroom at home. He ran through his options quickly: get out, hope the cop recognized him as the local game warden and let him go quickly so he could meet Gordon in ten minutes (at the risk of the cop becoming alarmed by the armed violator he’d just pulled over); wait for the cop to approach him and try to explain away why he was entering Winchester with a shotgun and no badge or official identification, and beg the officer to let him pass; lie—say he was hunting coyotes or taking the shotgun to a gunsmith in Winchester to fix something, hope the cop didn’t check for concealed weapons. But he was no good at lying. Maybe he could hide the weapons under the seat where they may or may not be found, accept a ticket for whatever it was he was pulled over for, promise to buy a new bulb for the tailgate or whatever, hope the transaction would be done quickly enough so he would be at the park by eight; confess everything—I’m working directly for the governor and I’m undercover in order to meet with a confidential informant for the FBI who may have information on the murders of those hunters so you have to let me go right now—and hope the cop believed him even though Joe, in the cop’s place, wouldn’t buy it for a second. Or he could peel away when the cop got out of the cruiser and try to lose him on the two-lane highway before doubling back to meet Gordon in the park. . . .

Joe thought, All bad options.

He watched the cop nod as he got confirmation on the plate and hung up his mike, then opened his door. His approach was textbook—Maglite in his left hand, his arm bent so the barrel of it rested on his shoulder with the beam directed into Joe’s van to illuminate the backseat, the floor, the side of Joe’s face. The cop’s right hand rested on his pistol grip. He walked close to the side of the van and Joe read his name badge backward in the mirror: NORYB.

Joe toggled the switch to open his window.

“Officer Byron,” Joe said, “I’m not sure why you pulled me over—”

“Put both of your hands on the steering wheel where I can see ’em,” the cop barked. He’d seen the shotgun.

“Look,” Joe said, “my name is Joe Pickett. I’m a game warden in Saddlestring—”

The cop stepped back and squared into a shooter’s stance, his pistol out and aimed at Joe along with the blinding beam from the flashlight. “Get out of the car!”

Joe briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

“I said, get out of the car, sir. Now!”

“Okay, I’m getting out,” Joe said. “But I need to tell you right now I’m a peace officer myself and I’ve got a concealed weapon.”

Byron, eyes wide and mouth set, aimed down his semiautomatic. Joe kept his right hand aloft while he opened the door with his left and stepped out onto the cold wet pavement with his hands visible. He couldn’t believe what was happening.

Byron said, “Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your feet.”

Joe hated to turn his back on the cop, but he did. He said, “This is a mistake. I’m on duty myself if you’d just let me explain.”

Byron kicked the inside of Joe’s left ankle hard, nearly taking his legs out from under him. The pain shot through his body.

“I said, spread ’em,” the cop yelled. “There. And lean forward. Put your weight on your hands.”

Joe felt his coat being pulled back and the weight of the Glock suddenly wasn’t there.

“And what do we have here?” Byron asked, playing the tough guy.

“I told you I had it,” Joe said, looking over his shoulder. “Now would you listen to me for a minute?” Byron tossed Joe’s weapon into the borrow pit where it landed with a soft thud. Joe said, “Now, why did you do that?”

“Shut up. How many more guns do you have with you?” Byron asked, pulling the shotgun through the open window butt-first and tossing it into the wet grass as well.

“I don’t have any more guns,” Joe said, his anger rising. “Come on, this is ridiculous. What is it you think I did?”

“You mean before I pulled you over and found the guns? Start with speeding—forty-five in a thirty.”

“Thirty? What are you talking about?”