Blood Trail

Byron shone his flashlight down the highway until the beam lit up a SPEED LIMIT 30 sign so new and white it sparkled. “See?”

“When did you change it?” Joe asked, hot.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s thirty now.”

“It looks like you guys put that up this morning.”

“It was last week,” Byron said, “but it doesn’t matter when we put it up. It’s up, it’s the law, and I clocked you at forty-five. That gives me probable cause to look inside the car.”

A set of headlights appeared coming from the town of Winchester. The vehicle—a light-colored SUV like the one he’d seen in his binoculars picking up Nate—barely slowed as it neared the van and the police car and swung wide in the road to avoid them. Joe tried to see if the driver was Bill Gordon, but the driver looked straight ahead, didn’t look over, which was odd in itself. Wasn’t the driver curious as to what was going on? Joe got only a glimpse of the profile behind the wheel as the SUV shot by, and he thought how much it resembled Klamath Moore. The red taillights receded on the highway.

“Hey,” Joe said, wheeling around, “we need to stop that car!”

“Turn back around!” Byron hollered, pointing his gun in Joe’s face, his trigger finger tightening. Joe could tell from Byron’s eyes that he was ready—and willing—to fire.

“Okay,” Joe said, trying to calm Byron, “but you just made a big mistake.”

Byron laughed harshly. “I’d say the only guy making mistakes around here is you. And you just keep making ’em.”

Joe tried to keep his voice reasonable. “I’m a game warden for the state of Wyoming. I’ve got ID in my wallet and a badge at home to prove it.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Byron said.

“You do?”

“Yeah. You’re the guy who busted my uncle Pete and me up on Hazelton Road six years ago. You said we forgot to tag the elk we had in the back of the truck, and you gave Uncle Pete a damned citation.”

Joe looked over his shoulder at Officer Byron, who’d probably been seventeen or eighteen at the time. His face did look vaguely familiar, and he recalled how filled with attitude the boy had been at the time. He’d told Joe, “I’m gonna remember this.”

“Your elk didn’t have tags,” Joe said. “I was doing my job.”

“And I’m doing mine,” Byron said, grinning.

Joe sighed deeply, and turned his wrist a little so he could see his watch. Eight on the nose.

“Look, just give me my speeding ticket,” Joe said. “Let me get the hell out of here. Here’s the situation: I’m working undercover for the state, for Governor Rulon. I’m here to meet a confidential FBI informant, right now, in Winchester. This is about the murder of those hunters and Robey Hersig. You knew Robey, right? This guy may know something. If I’m not there he’ll bolt and I may not get a chance to talk to him. Take my weapons and wallet and anything else you want. As soon as I meet my guy, I’ll come to the station and turn myself over to you and you can check it all out. I promise. I swear.”

And Byron laughed. “That’s a new one. You must think I’m an idiot.”

Well, yes, Joe thought.

Byron said, “Just keep your mouth shut and don’t move. I’m going to check your ID. And I’ll need to see your registration and insurance card.”

Joe moaned with frustration and anger. Had Marybeth even put the registration in the car? And if so, where? It was her car, and he normally had very little to do with it other than maintenance.

He imagined that Gordon would be checking his watch and probably walking toward his vehicle with his keys out.

And what was Klamath Moore doing in Winchester, if that was him?

Byron said, “Never mind getting your wallet, I’ll get it,” and Joe could feel the cop lift up the back of his coat again. Dropping his chin to his chest and looking back under his armpit, he could also see Byron lower his weapon to his side while he dug into Joe’s pocket with his other hand.

Joe swung back as hard as he could with his right elbow and connected with Byron’s nose, the impact making a muffled crunching sound like a twig snapping underfoot. Joe spun on his heel and grabbed the cop’s gun with both hands and twisted, wrenching it free. Byron backpedaled clumsily to the center stripe in the highway, reaching up with both hands for his broken nose.

Joe pointed the gun at the cop while at the same time not believing he was doing it. Dark blood spouted through Byron’s fingers.

“Get in the van,” Joe said.

“What are you going to do?” Bryon asked with a mouthful of blood.

“We’re going to the park.”

“The park?”

JOE STEERED the van into Winchester with his left hand on the wheel and Byron’s weapon, pointed at the cop in the passenger seat, in his right.

“Don’t hurt me,” Byron burbled.

“I’ll try not to,” Joe said.

As he turned from the main street toward the park, Joe said, “I had my gun taken from me once. It sucks, doesn’t it?”