Blood Trail

Joe looked up. “Terms?”

JOE ASKED the desk guard if he could use his phone, and he was able to get through to the governor’s office. He asked the receptionist to transfer him to Rulon. Joe stood waiting near the guard’s desk. The guard pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping. Vern sat perfectly still at the table, his big hands on the tabletop, fingers interlaced, watching the silent television flicker. He looked completely in control, Joe thought.

“Stella Ennis,” she said crisply.

“Stella, it’s Joe.”

A pause. “Hello, Mr. Pickett.” Did Joe detect an inappropriate purr?

“I’m at the Wyoming state pen and I’ve got quite a situation here.”

“From what I understand, you’ve got a situation back at home as well. What is it I heard about an agent of the governor assaulting a police officer?”

Joe shook his head, as if she could see him. “I’ll explain all of that later. Right now I need you to put that aside and listen to me.”

“My, my,” she said, “aren’t we the tough guy this morning.”

“Look, I’m here seeing my old boss Vern Dunnegan. He’s served eight years of a twelve-year sentence for conspiracy and being an accessory to murder. He claims that he knows where to find the Wolverine. He says he’ll tell me everything in exchange for the governor commuting the rest of his prison time.” Out of corner of his eye, Joe saw the guard spill coffee all over himself.

Stella said, “Do you believe him?”

“Yes.”

“This is very unusual.”

“I know it is, and I hate to even call you with this. Vern should spend the rest of his life in here; it’s where he belongs. But I really do think he knows how we can catch who we’re after.”

“How would a man eight years in prison know that?” she asked.

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“Hold on. I’ll ask Spencer.”

Not “the governor” or “Governor Rulon,” but Spencer, Joe thought.

Rulon came on the line so quickly Joe could only conclude that he had either been listening in on another line or Stella was so close to him physically that he heard what Joe had told her. Joe briefly closed his eyes, thought, Uh-oh.

The governor sounded annoyed. “Is he there?”

“Vern Dunnegan? Yes, he’s here.”

“Let me talk to the son of a bitch.”

“Okay,” Joe said, crossing the room and handing the handset to Vern. “It’s Governor Rulon.”

Vern’s eyebrows shot up, and a self-satisfied smirk crept across his lips. He took the phone. “Hello, Governor Rulon.”

Joe sat back down and listened to Vern’s side of the conversation. Occasionally, he could hear Rulon shout or curse through the handset. Again, he thought of how close Rulon had to have been to Stella to hear Joe clearly. He rubbed his eyes and listened.

“That’s right,” Vern said. “I can help you close this case and then you can reopen the state for hunting.”

Vern listened for a while, said, “Why didn’t I come forward sooner? Well, I have to admit that it didn’t really register when John Garrett was killed. I mean, I knew the name and I vaguely remembered him, and when I read about it in the paper nothing clicked. Then I read about Warren Tucker a couple of weeks later and it started to make some sense to me. I almost told the warden of my suspicions at that point, but that’s all they were, suspicions. A man can’t bargain with suspicions. . . .”

A few moments later, “Right. Frank Urman was the clincher. When I heard his name I knew how the victims were connected. Wally Conway just drove the nail in the coffin, so to speak.”

Joe glanced angrily up at Vern, who chatted away with the governor.

“What? No. Not anymore. I’m a prisoner of the state, remember? I have no kind of obligation anymore,” Vern said, rolling his eyes.

Joe shook his head.

“Yes, there will be at least one more murder as it stands right now,” Vern said. “Maybe more. I can promise you that. But if we can make a deal, I can help you prevent it. And you can be the hero. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Fat chance, Joe thought, seething.

“No, I can’t give away any more. Not until we’ve got an understanding.”

Joe could hear the governor going on in his best growl.

“Sure, I understand,” Vern said into the phone. “If what I tell Joe here turns out to be wrong, I know the deal would be off. But I think we both know I’ve got very valuable information that I’m willing to share.”

As they negotiated, Joe glanced over at the table where the couple sat. It appeared that the inmate was chewing on her collar. He could see the man’s jaws working, and his eyes rolling back in his head in pleasure. Her gaze was focused above his head, and she looked detached. Joe couldn’t help but think of the old joke where the wife, beneath her husband in bed, says, “Beige. I think I’ll paint the ceiling beige.”