“But you said nothing. You kept it to yourself. My guess is you thought about it for the first time after John Garrett was murdered. Especially when you heard about the poker chip. Am I right? That’s why you shut me down so fast when I brought it up.”
Pope said nothing. Joe took his silence as confirmation.
“And when Warren Tucker was killed, and again there was a poker chip, you knew there was a connection. Two of your old friends in a row. Each hunting at the time, each with a poker chip on them. You knew.”
Pope stared ahead as if Joe wasn’t speaking.
“That’s what hacks me off so much,” Joe said. “Neither you or Vern Dunnegan did the right thing. You sat there while two men were murdered, leaving behind widows, children, and grandchildren, and you didn’t do a thing because all you could think of was yourselves.”
“I wasn’t sure,” Pope said softly.
Joe shook his head. “You can say that now. But you knew. That’s why you were all over this when Frank Urman was butchered. You were just waiting for it. So for the first time in your professional career, you were on the scene. You wanted to be in charge so if we caught the killer you could mitigate the damage to you. And you offered up your buddy Wally Conway to get him out of the way so he wouldn’t start talking. You were appeasing the shooter, offering up Wally, hoping that would put a stop to it. But when you saw how Klamath could get to you, could put a severed head in your hotel room, well, you knew it wasn’t over after all. You knew you’d be next no matter what. Am I right so far?”
Pope snorted, as if Joe were amusing him. It wasn’t convincing.
“But more than anything, you were hoping we’d trail the shooter and take him out so nothing would ever get out. Right? That’s why you were there to help spring Nate, right? Because whatever you think of him, you know he’s lethal.”
“Damned right,” Nate said.
“You’re insane,” Pope said. But his shoulders slumped in defeat.
THE TREES closed in around them as they ascended. The sky was gray, the air almost still. Two hours until dark. Joe pulled his truck off a two-track and turned off the motor.
“Recognize this place?” Joe asked Pope.
“Of course,” Pope said, annoyed. “It’s where Frank Urman was found.”
“And where Randy Pope will be found,” Joe said.
Pope’s red-rimmed eyes filled with tears.
30
THERE IS a very specific way to skin an animal so that a taxidermist can create a flawless shoulder mount. It’s called caping. It works best if the animal to be caped is hung up by the back legs.
Caping requires a sharp skinning knife with a short, fat blade like the one in my sheath. A slit is made in the skin behind the shoulder at the midway point of the rib cage. Another is made around the legs just above the knees. Or the arms, in this case. A third precise cut is made to join the slits on the back of the leg (or arm). The skin is then peeled like a banana toward the jaw until the neck is exposed. Then the very delicate work begins: cutting the skin away from the ears, skull, nose, and mouth. The weight of the hide—skin is surprisingly heavy—helps because it pulls the skin-peel downward. The skin is sliced away from the flesh with extremely light knife strokes. If the procedure is done correctly, the skin will drop away into a wet pile in the grass, showing an inverted, inside-out face.
This is what will happen to Randy Pope. My only dilemma is whether I’ll cape him when he’s dead or still alive.
THE TERRAIN, of course, is familiar. As I stride—careful to step on exposed rocks and to keep slightly to the side of established and muddy game trails—I weigh the advantage of knowing this mountain and the exact location of my prey against the possibility that I’m being led into a trap. Given the odds and what I know to be true—that the FBI informant has yet to give bad information and that an opportunity like this is too great to disregard—I proceed.
The sky concerns me. Even a skiff of snow makes tracking easy. I vow that if it starts to snow I’ll turn back the moment it begins, despite the opportunity offered me. I study the clouds and conclude it will snow, but later in the evening. After I’m done and back.
My backpack is empty except for several thick-ply plastic garbage bags. The pack will be heavier when I return due to fifteen pounds of skin.
I CAN’T shake the feeling I’m being followed. I’ve neither heard nor seen anything to confirm my impression. Several times I stop and stand still, compelling my senses to reach out beyond their capacities to tell me something. The only thing I can point at that supplements my suspicion is the utter quiet—except for a slight breeze in the treetops—that remains in my wake. I’ve learned that after I’ve passed though an area, after a respectful period, the birds and squirrels begin talking to one another again. But I hear no resumption of sounds. It’s as if I’ve shut out all life by being in its presence.
There are conceivable justifications for the quiet. Low pressure can do it.
Either I’m imagining things or whoever is behind me is as good as I am. I proceed.
FINALLY, I’M CLIMBING the last rise and the trees start to thin. This is where Frank Urman was taken, just below the ridge I now approach. I drop to all fours, cradling my rifle on my forearms, and crawl to the top and look over the other side.
A quarter of a mile away, in that stand of trees, is Randy Pope. He’s just standing there, his back against a tree.
JOE FELT the presence of the shooter without actually seeing anyone. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and a shiver rolled up the length of his body from his boots to the top of his head.
