Nate said, “Joe? Did you hear me?”
He heard Joe’s voice, tight and forced. “I heard you.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“What’s happening?”
“The shooter is coming down the hill toward Pope.”
Nate looked at his radio for a second, then shook it. “Come again?”
“Oh my God,” Joe Pickett said. “No.”
THE SHOTS in the woods behind me sent a bolt of fear up my spine. So many shots, so quickly. I drop to a knee and thumb the safety off my rifle, anticipating more fire that doesn’t come. Who was it—hunters? The number of shots reminds me of when a group of hunters come upon a herd of elk—that furious fire as the herd breaks and runs. Is it possible there are hunters up here despite the moratorium? And if so, why didn’t I see their camp or cross their tracks?
I wonder if it had to do with my earlier sense of being followed. The sheriff has men up here, I know. But they’re incompetent. Maybe they circled in on themselves. Maybe I just heard friendly fire.
Or maybe Klamath followed me and got caught. I briefly close my eyes. It makes sense. He’s always been suspicious of me, and the way he looked at me today when I excused myself—yes, it’s possible. But there is no way to know for sure until later.
No matter. This was never about Klamath, despite what he thinks. Because in his world, everything is about Klamath Moore. Not this, though. This is about bestowing dignity and righting wrongs. Klamath just happens to be breathing the same air.
I look up. Randy Pope is within a hundred feet but somehow he has not seen me yet. His head is down, chin on his chest, arms behind his back. What is he doing?
The shots and Randy Pope’s demeanor and appearance unnerve me. I abandon my plans to cape him. Simply killing him—killing the last one and stopping this—will have to be enough. It will be enough.
I rise and walk toward him, striding quickly. I could easily take him from here but I want him to see me. I want to be the last person he ever sees and the last thought he ever has in his mind.
“OH MY God,” Joe said. “No.”
He watched Shenandoah Yellowcalf Moore approach Randy Pope down the length of his shotgun barrel. She wore cargo pants, gloves, a fleece sweater, and a daypack. Her expression was tight and willful, the same face he had seen in the yearbook photos as she drove to the basket past taller players. The breeze licked at her long black hair flowing out beneath a headband. As he looked at her his heart thumped, making his shotgun twitch; his hands were cold and wet and his stomach roiled.
And suddenly, things clicked into place:
She’d been at the airport to greet her husband, Klamath, meaning she’d been in the area prior to his arrival, when Frank Urman was killed.
While Klamath’s movements throughout the hunting season had been accounted for—mostly—by Bill Gordon, there had been no mention of Shenandoah’s travels.
She knew the state, the back roads and hunting areas from traveling with her team and later as a hunting guide.
She knew how to track, how to hunt, how to kill and process game.
She had a motive.
It fit, but he wanted no part of this. He’d been convinced the Wolverine was Klamath himself or one of his followers working under Klamath’s direction.
“Nate,” Joe said, speaking softly into the radio, “I need your help down here.”
“It’ll take me at least five minutes.”
“Hurry.”
At ten feet, she fit the stock of her rifle to her shoulder and raised it until the muzzle was level with the crown of Randy Pope’s head.
She said, “Pope, look up.”
Joe could see Pope squirm, try to shinny around the tree away from her, but he could only go a quarter of the way because his cuff chain hung up on the bark. She took a few steps to her left in the grass so she was still in front of him.
I RECALL not the night it happened but the next morning, when I woke up feeling dirty, bruised, and sore. I was alone in my tent wearing only a T-shirt. They hadn’t even covered me up. I was damaged and it hurt to stand up.
The sun warmed the walls of the tent and as it did I could smell not only me but them. All five of them. I dressed—my clothes were balled up in the corner—and unzipped the flap and stepped outside where it was surprisingly cold. The campfire was going, curls of fragrant wood smoke corkscrewing through the branches of the pine trees, a pot of coffee brewing on my black grate. Three of them sat on stumps around the fire, staring into it as if looking for an explanation. They were unshaven; their faces told me nothing. They were blank faces, hungover faces. Maybe they were ashamed. But when they looked up and saw me, none of them said anything.
No one asked me if I wanted coffee. They weren’t going to talk about it. They were going to pretend nothing had happened.
That was the worst of all. That’s when the rage began. I was nothing to them. It was all about them, not me. This was apparently what they had expected when they hired me. The problem was, I felt the same
