“Keep the lights on, Joe. When the power goes out, bad things happen. Streetlights go out; computers go down; home oxygen units fail. Innocent people die, Joe.”
“Got it.”
“Plus, I’m watching a football game.”
“I’ll do my best,” Joe said, rolling his eyes.
Rulon said, “I hope you find your girl.”
“Me too, sir. Thank you again for letting me pursue this.”
“Don’t mention it. Besides, it sounds like it’s turning into something much bigger than anticipated, something you seem to have a penchant for. I bet being a normal game warden sounds pretty good to you right now.”
“It does. But I nailed the Mad Archer yesterday.”
Rulon said, “Again? Good work!”
WHEN BOTH SKIDS were firmly on the ground, Portenson turned in his seat and gestured for Joe to get out first. He was happy to comply. He almost didn’t notice that Coon hadn’t unbuckled his safety belt or that the pilot wasn’t turning off the rotors.
His boots thumped the ground, and he clamped his hat on his head with his hand to save it from the rotor wash. He felt more than heard the hatch close behind him.
He turned as the motor roared and the helicopter lifted off. Behind the Plexiglas, Portenson waggled his eyebrows and waved good-bye with a sardonic smile on his face. Coon looked away, embarrassed.
Behind him on the edge of the field, the Rangeland police officers scrambled back into their cars and pulled out one by one and U-turned onto a gravel road that headed south. Joe sank to his haunches with one hand on his hat. He watched the taillights of the cars get smaller down the county road and the chopper move across the sky. He didn’t stand until it became quiet, as the
Joe rubbed dust from his eyes and sighed a heavy sigh. Then he heard a dirt bike motor cough and come to life. A single headlight blinked through a hedgerow and turned toward him once the rider found an opening in the brush. Joe started walking toward the headlight.
Nate was wearing a ridiculous helmet that looked like a German army helmet. His face shield was pushed up on top but spattered with starbursts of insects. He looped around Joe and stopped the bike just ahead of him. The motor popped and spat as Nate gestured to Joe to get on behind him.
Joe threw a leg over the saddle and tried to balance himself without having to hold on to Nate.
Joe said, “I was hoping you’d have a car or a truck.”
“Nope. I’m actually starting to like this thing.”
“Are Stenko and Robert still here?”
Nate nodded. “They were when I left them.”
“And my phone?”
Nate turned and grinned. “I found a bread truck at the truck stop gassing up. I opened the back and tossed it inside amongst the buns. The last I saw of it, the truck was headed south on I-Twenty-five toward Cheyenne.”
Joe nodded. He figured he and Nate would have no more than fifteen minutes before Portenson realized what had happened and turned back around.
30
STENKO WATCHED THROUGH PAIN-SLITTED EYES AS HIS SON emerged from the bar with a grin on his face. Robert twirled something on a string or chain. He’d been gone a long time, it seemed. Stenko had taken the rest of the morphine, and the spent plastic pill bottles lay open on the floor of the car near his feet.
Robert threw the door open and jumped in. He was ebullient. He said, “So are you ready for one great and glorious last act?” His smile was maniacal.
Stenko grunted. It hurt to talk.
“Hey,” Robert said, suddenly alarmed. “Where’s that rancher?”
“Got away.”
“You let him get away? You old fool. What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” Stenko moaned. But he wasn’t. Ten minutes before, he’d turned to Walter and told him to get the hell out of there. The rancher had asked about his truck. Stenko had said, “Run, you idiot, before my son comes back and puts a bullet in your head.”
Reluctantly, Walter had gotten out and done a stiff-legged jog in the general direction of the interstate highway.
“He’s going to talk,” Robert said. “I was going to make sure he kept quiet.”
“He overpowered me,” Stenko lied. “He’s a strong old fart.”
“Christ, is there
Stenko thought:
He said, “Guess not.”
“SO THE TOUGH THING for me,” Robert said, starting the motor and backing out of the gravel parking lot, “has been to reconcile myself to the fact
