Blood Trail

Joe tore himself away as Vern Dunnegan said, “So we have a deal then.”

Then: “Okay, I want it in writing. You can fax it to the prison. I won’t say a word to Joe here until I read it over and see that it says exactly what we discussed.”

Then: “Sure, I trust you. You’re the governor, right? What is there not to trust? But nevertheless, I subscribe to the Ronald Reagan notion of ‘trust, but verify.’ So I need that paper and your signature.... Sure, I’ll wait. But visiting hours will be over in ninety minutes. I need the agreement by then. You’re a wordsmith and a former federal prosecutor—it shouldn’t take long.”

“Here,” Vern said, beaming, thrusting the phone back across the table, “he wants to talk to you.”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“We made a deal,” the governor said wearily.

“So I heard.”

“What an asshole.”

Joe looked up at Vern, said, “Yup.”

“So you think it’s legit, then?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, we’ll fax the paperwork over within a half hour. Then he better spill the beans. Call me when you’ve got something solid and we’ll proceed from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Joe . . . ”

“Yes?”

Hesitation. Joe frowned.

“Nothing,” the governor said. “Forget it.”

“Is it about Stella?” Joe asked.

Rulon barked a laugh. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

Joe cringed, and punched off the phone.

AS THEY waited for the agreement to arrive, Joe and Vern sat at the table in silence, each pretending the other man wasn’t in the room. Joe kept checking his wristwatch. He shot another glance at the couple in the corner, and looked away guiltily. Vern chuckled.

“Caught you,” he said.

“It looks like he’s eating her neck,” Joe mumbled.

“It’s a con trick,” Vern said. “The female cooks meth down into crystal and hangs it from her necklace chain like a pendant. She sits there while he sucks it and gets high. The guards haven’t figured that one out yet. They’ll do a full-body and cavity search, but they don’t think about testing the jewelry.”

“My God,” Joe said.

“It’s a different world in here,” Vern said. “I’ll be glad to be leaving it soon.”

THE DESK GUARD got a call, spoke a few words, and motioned Joe over.

“There’s a fax from the governor for Vern Dunnegan at admin. They’re bringing it over.”

Joe sighed.

The driver who had delivered Joe to A-Pod brought the fax. As Joe took it to Vern, he read it over. It was on official letterhead stationery and signed at the bottom:

 

I, Governor Spencer H. Rulon, agree to commute the remaining years of prison time for inmate Vernon Dunnegan in exchange for information that results in the arrest and conviction of the so-called Wolverine who has been responsible for the deaths of several Wyoming resident hunters. If no arrest and/or conviction is/are obtained, this agreement is rendered null and void.

AFTER VERN had told his story, Joe shut his notebook and said, “So this is all your fault.”

Vern shrugged. “I was never like you, Joe. I wasn’t in it to save Bambi.”

Joe shot his fist across the table and hit Vern Dunnegan flush in the face, snapping his head back.

“Hey!” the desk guard yelled, standing. “Do I need to call my boys in?”

Joe, still enraged, stood up quickly and walked away. He knew if he looked for another second at Vern’s self- satisfied face or heard his arrogant words that he wouldn’t be able to stop swinging.

“I need to get out of here,” Joe said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, you do,” the guard said, picking up his handset to call the driver.

“See you on the outside,” Vern called from the table, one hand at his face to stanch the flow of blood, the other waving and flittering his fingers in a toodle-do.

Joe turned, squared his feet, and stared Vern down. “If I do,” Joe said, meaning it, “you’re going to wish you were back in here.”