painted on and a tight white Lycra top that clung to her breasts like a film. He was lean, shaved bald, olive-skinned, and heavily tattooed. His arms were outstretched, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her toward him. She strained toward him, her own arms outstretched, her fingers furiously caressing the tips of the collar of his white jumpsuit with a kind of unrestrained animal lust that Joe found both riveting and revolting. The inmate looked as if he would explode at any second. He was red-faced, his eyes wide, his face inches from hers. Joe hoped the guard had his wet wipes at the ready.
“I think I’ll take the other corner,” Joe said.
“Good idea,” the officer said, then, shouting to the couple, “Hey, dial it back a notch over there! It’s kissing only—no fondling. You know the rules.”
A GUNMETAL gray door opened on the wall opposite where Joe had signed in and Vern Dunnegan entered the room. At the sight of his old supervisor, Joe felt his stomach and rectum involuntarily clench and his breathing get short and shallow. He hadn’t seen the man for eight years, but here he was.
Vern wore an orange jumpsuit with no pockets and blue rubber shoes. He was thicker than he used to be, his face more doughy and his limbs and belly turned to flab. His hair was thinner and grayer and pasted back on his large head, and he was clean-shaven, which revealed a reptilian demeanor that had always been there but was masked by the beard he used to wear. Despite the avuncular smile on his face when he saw Joe, Vern’s eyes were obsidian black and without depth, as if blocked off from the inside. Joe remembered the whole package. Vern could smile at you while he stabbed you in the heart.
Vern Dunnegan had once been the Wyoming game warden for the Saddlestring District. Vern had considered Joe his protege and Joe naively thought of Vern as his mentor. But Vern was one of the old-time wardens, the kind who bent the law to suit his needs and curry favor, a one-man cop, judge, and jury who used his badge and the autonomous nature of the job to manipulate the community and increase both his influence and his income. In those days, before the discovery of coal-bed methane, Twelve Sleep County was in an economic slump and those who lived there were scrambling to stay afloat. Vern and Joe, both state employees with salaries and vehicles and insurance and pensions, were the envy of most of the working people. Joe fought against the uncomfortable recollection of how it once was between them, when he was the green trainee and Vern the wily vet. Although Marybeth always distrusted the man, Joe refused to see it while he worked under him. It wasn’t until Vern quit and came back as a landman representing a natural gas pipeline company that Joe found out what Vern’s bitter worldview was all about, as his former boss set up a scenario that led to Marybeth’s being shot and losing their baby—all so Vern could enrich himself. The last time Joe had seen Vern was when he testified against him in court.
“Long time,” Vern said, nodding hello to the guard at the desk and sidling up to Joe’s table. “And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me, like you didn’t care anymore.”
The last was said with a lilt of sarcasm and anger.
Vern settled down heavily in the chair opposite Joe. In Vern’s face, Joe could see traces of green and purple bruising on his cheekbones and the side of his head, and when Vern spoke Joe saw missing teeth. The man had been beaten, which really didn’t bother Joe in the least. In fact, now that Vern was just a few feet away from him, all the things he had done came rushing back. Joe had to tamp down his own urge to leap across the table and pummel the man.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a former peace officer in this place?” Vern asked softly, reaching up and touching the bruise on the left side of his face. “I have to be ready to defend my life every goddamned day, every goddamned minute. I never know when someone will take a whack at me just for the hell of it. I’ve been in H-Pod so many times I know all the nurses by name and they know me.”
Joe assumed the “H” stood for hospital but didn’t really want the conversation to be about Vern Dunnegan’s perceived victimization and self-pity.
“You probably noticed the color,” Vern said, patting himself on the breast of his orange jumpsuit. “Orange means I’m segregated from the general population for my own protection—supposedly. What it really means is I’m a walking target for these predators in here. You have no idea what it’s like. Some asshole will be walking behind me and for no reason at all he’ll elbow me in the neck and just keep going. Or he’ll cut me with a shiv . . .” Vern shot his arm out so his sleeve retracted, revealing a spider’s web of old scars. “Not enough to kill me, just enough for stitches.
“I’m all alone in here,” Vern said. “Nobody visits anymore. I get along with most of the guards but almost none of the population. It’s a living hell. At least if I were on Death Row I’d get the respect those guys get. As it is, I’ve got at least four more years of this. Bad food. Bad dreams. Eight head counts per twenty-four hours. This orange jumpsuit. Having to live my life with deviants, reprobates, and human scum as my neighbors.”
“Gee,” Joe said, “it must be rough.”
Vern did his trademark chuckle, the one that meant exactly the opposite of how it sounded. “You’ve changed,” he said. “You’ve gotten harder.”
Joe glared at him.
Vern said, “I’ve been following your career with great interest. I’ve got to say that you’ve impressed me with your exploits. I never thought you had it in you, to be honest. I always thought you were a little slow—too naive, too much of a Dudley Do-Right. But you’ve matured, Joe. You’re as cold and calculating as I was.”
Joe shook his head. “Wrong.”
“I’m not so sure,” Vern said, leaning back and appraising Joe with his cold eyes, the pleasant grin frozen on his face.
“Then you must have left that wife of yours by now,” Vern said. “I always saw her as an emasculator.”
Joe took a deep breath. “Nope. We’re still together with our two beautiful girls.”
“I’m shocked,” Vern said, not shocked at all, but enjoying the game of getting Joe worked up. Just like he used to do.
“Enough,” Joe said. “You apparently know why I’m here.”
Vern nodded. “It took you long enough.”
Joe looked at his wristwatch.
“I understand you’re now buddies with the governor,” Vern said evenly. “And that he’s desperate to solve these murders so he can open the state back up. I can help him do that. But there are terms.”
