Blood Trail (16 page)

There were several gasps, and at least one girl put her face in her hands. Another plugged her ears with her fingers. Sheridan kept her hand up, glaring back at Moore.

“When that’s all done and you’re covered with blood and your hands stink of guts, you cut the head off the innocent animal and take it to a taxidermist. Then you proudly put it up on the wall as your trophy, as proof of what a big man you are.”

He turned his eyes directly on Sheridan. “Or in your case, what a big girl you are. So tell me, how did it make you feel?”

“You’re asking me?” Sheridan said. She noticed that the woman was looking at her as well, with a surprising nod of sympathy. In fact, the woman turned from Sheridan and glared at her husband.

“I’m asking you,” Moore said. “Did you like it? Did you like taking the life of an innocent animal? Did it please you in some way?”

Sheridan’s face was burning, and her throat ached.

“Klamath,” the woman whispered, “leave her alone.”

“Did you like the warm blood on your hands?” he goaded.

“I’ve never killed anything,” Sheridan said.

Moore was perplexed. “Then why did you raise your hand?”

“I just wanted to show I oppose you,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m an apprentice falconer. I’ve watched falcons hunt. They don’t just kill the sick and weak, so I know you’re lying. Plus, I see a big difference between hunting animals and killing a man. And I think you’re an asshole and you should stop trying to intimidate us.”

“Sheridan!”
Mrs. Whaling gasped.

Sheridan thought she detected a slight smile in the woman’s eyes.

The bell rang, saving the day.

Jason Kiner whooped. Jarrod Haynes said, “This is why I love that girl.”

Klamath Moore stepped back to let the classroom empty, but Sheridan could feel his eyes burning through her. She kept her head down and clutched her books to her chest. She could hear Mrs. Whaling apologizing to Klamath Moore’s back about Sheridan’s language.

As she passed the woman, Sheridan felt a hand on her arm. She looked over to see the woman’s large dark eyes on her. Then the woman reached up and stroked Sheridan’s cheek with the back of her fingers, the same way she’d stroked her sleeping baby.

Sheridan didn’t jerk back, but was shocked by the intimacy of the gesture.

“You’re the daughter of the game warden, aren’t you?”

Sheridan nodded her head.

“You’re terribly misguided, but I hope your father knows what a brave daughter he has,” she said, and looked at Sheridan with a sudden sadness that, for some reason, made Sheridan want to cry for the second time that morning.

14

JOE SAT ALONE in the middle of a row of red molded plastic chairs in the hallway of the Saddlestring Hospital near the secure doorway to ICU. On the other side of the doors, surgeons worked to save Robey Hersig’s life. Joe rubbed at the stubble on his chin and covered his eyes with his hand and tried to get a few minutes of sleep. When he drifted off, though, violent recollections of the night before came rushing back as if his mind had just been waiting for the opportunity to try to expel them from his memory by force. Like the thought of Chris Urman and him carrying Buck Lothar’s dead body through the dark forest, while Urman moaned with shame and guilt. Then Lothar’s body slipping at times through their hands to crumple into a pile on the forest floor until they fashioned a travois of two stout lodgepoles and secured the body so they could drag and carry it through the brush. Or Joe’s growing comprehension as they struggled through the black, unforgiving timber that he and Lothar had been tracking not the killer but Urman the entire night while the killer slipped around them and returned to the original crime scene. Remembering his guilt for not immediately identifying himself when Lothar stepped out into the meadow cradling his automatic weapon, and wondering if his choice to remain silent was tactical—as he thought at the time—or cowardly resulting in Lothar’s death. Thinking of Robey’s lack of response on the radio and failure to respond to Joe’s periodic three-shot signaling, the first indication that something tragic had happened to his friend. Then finding Wally Conway’s dead body and Robey bleeding out next to his slumping pickup at the same time Phil Kiner and Deputy Reed arrived twenty minutes too late to provide backup. Picturing the garish image of Wally Conway’s face in the beam of a flashlight, his mouth open, the bright red poker chip next to his extended purple tongue. And the shocking realization that of the four of them who’d been on the mountain just two hours before, he was the only one still alive and unhurt, and that everything they’d done was misguided and stupid and epically wrong; that Robey, his friend and colleague and fishing partner since he’d been in Saddlestring and one of the most honest and good-hearted men Joe had ever known, in all likelihood wouldn’t survive the morning.

 
 
“YOU SHOULD get yourself cleaned up, Joe.” County coroner Will Speer stood before Joe and looked down through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with pained sympathy in his eyes. Speer had a light brown thatch of hair and a graying mustache, and wore an open white lab coat.

Joe sat up, blinking, momentarily confused. He hadn’t heard Speer walk down the hall and didn’t know how long he’d been half-sleeping, suffering through the nightmares. Joe could smell himself: dried sweat and mud, with flowery bloodstains on his Wranglers and the sleeves of his red uniform shirt, half-moons of black blood under his fingernails that wouldn’t wash out. “Maybe so,” Joe said, nodding toward the ICU entrance, “but I think I’ll wait until I hear about Robey.”

Speer nodded. That he didn’t volunteer words of encouragement was not lost on either of them.

“Does Nancy know?” Speer asked.

“She was in Casper at a meeting,” Joe said. “She’s on her way here.”

“I bet that wasn’t an easy conversation.”

Joe shook his head. “Nope.”

“Let’s hope things calm down out there,” Speer said, gesturing vaguely with his chin in the direction of the mountains. “I only have three drawers down in the morgue and they’re all full. I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”

It took Joe a moment to figure out what Speer meant. “Frank Urman, Lothar, and Wally Conway,” Joe said. Meaning if Robey didn’t pull through, Speer wouldn’t know where to put his body.

“At least we were able to reunite Mr. Urman’s head with his body,” Speer said with bitter humor.

Joe winced. He’d forgotten about the hysterical cell phone call he’d received from Randy Pope as he, Kiner, and Reed drove down the mountain with all the victims. At the time, Joe cradled Robey in his arms, hoping the makeshift compresses they’d fashioned would stanch the flow of blood from the entrance and exit wounds in Robey’s chest and back. Pope had screamed about finding the head mounted in his room, saying, “Now this is
personal
!” like the tagline to an action movie. Joe had said, “I’m busy right now,” and closed his phone.

It was clear now to Joe what the killer had been doing between the time he shot Frank Urman and when he returned to the crime scene—mounting Urman’s head on a plaque in Pope’s hotel room. The savagery of the act was incomprehensible, and Joe did his best to shove it aside for later when he could better process the information.

“I suppose you heard,” Speer said, “the governor closed all hunting and access to state lands and he’s asking the Feds to do the same.”

Joe hadn’t heard, but he wasn’t surprised. Pope and the governor’s worst-case scenario had materialized. Joe was numb and completely unmoved by the news, although he knew what kind of uproar was likely to erupt statewide. All he cared about now was what was happening on the other side of the ICU doors. He had several messages on his cell phone from the governor, but hadn’t the will nor the energy to return them. He had four from Randy Pope. They’d been left while he was giving his statement to Deputy Reed earlier. Sheriff McLanahan had stood off to the side, a disdainful look on his face. Disdainful but triumphant, a look that said,
You froze me out of the investigation, and just look what happened. . . .

Chris Urman was in custody in the sheriff’s department, but Joe expected him to be released quickly. Joe told Deputy Reed that Urman had simply defended himself, firing only after being surprised by Lothar and being fired upon. Joe knew Urman felt horrible about what had happened, and had dismissed any suspicion he may have had of him on their trek back to the pickup to find Robey and Conway. Joe’s pickup was still on the mountain, shot up and bloodstained. He’d need to send a tow truck for it. Another year, another damaged truck.

Speer leaned over and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Go home, Joe. Get cleaned up. Get some rest. There’s nothing you can do here.”

Joe shook his head. “I need to be here when Nancy comes. I need to apologize to her for putting Robey in that situation.”

Speer shook his head sadly, gave Joe’s shoulder a squeeze, and went back in the direction of his little morgue.

 
 
NANCY HERSIG looked frantic when she pushed through the hallway doors. Nancy had always been meticulous in her look and dress, always composed and calm, comfortable with herself. Given to jeans, sweaters, blazers, and pearls, Nancy Hersig was the queen of volunteer causes in Twelve Sleep County, heading up the United Way, the hospital foundation, the homeless shelter. But Joe saw a different Nancy coming down the hall. Her eyes were red-rimmed and looked like angry red headlights. Her makeup was smeared and the right side of her hair was wild, the result of raking it back with her fingers on the drive from Casper to Saddlestring.

Joe stood up and she came to him, letting him hold her. She began to weep in hard, racking sobs that had to hurt, he thought.

“I thought I was cried out,” she said, her teeth chattering as she took a breath, “but I guess I’m not.”

“It’s okay,” he said.

“What have you heard, Joe?”

“He’s in surgery,” he said, hoping a doctor would burst through the doors at exactly that moment with good news.

“What did the doctors say?”

Joe sighed. “That he’s hurt real bad, Nancy.”

“He’s tough,” she said, “he’s always been tough. He used to rodeo, you know.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could see him and talk him through this.”

Joe didn’t know what to say, and simply held her. She regained her composure and gently pushed herself away, dabbing at her face with her sleeve. “God, I’m a mess,” she said, her eyes sweeping across his face and lingering on the splotches of dried blood on his Wranglers.

“Is that Robey’s?” she asked, pointing.

“We did all we could to stop the bleeding,” Joe said, “but . . .”

She nodded and held up a hand, as if to say,
Don’t tell me.

“Nancy,” Joe said, struggling to find the right words, “I’m just so damned sorry this happened. It didn’t have to. I never should have left him last night. I called for backup but it didn’t get there in time.”

Again, she shook her head.
Don’t tell me.

“I hate not being able to do something,” he said, fighting back a surprising urge to cry.

“Oh, you can do something,” she said, suddenly defiant. “You can find the man who did this and
put him down like a dog
.”

The vehemence in her words took him aback.

He said, “I will, Nancy. I’ll find him.”

“And put him down,” she repeated.

“And put him down,” he said.

She turned on her heel away from Joe and wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, Joe. I don’t know whether to go get our kids and bring them here, or pray, or what. Maybe I should bust through those doors so I can see him.

“Joe,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “there’s no manual for this.”

They both jumped when the ICU doors clicked open.

And they knew instantly from the look on the surgeon’s face what had happened inside.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, shaking his head.

Nancy didn’t shriek, didn’t wail. She stood immobile, stunned, as if she’d been slapped. Joe took a step toward her and she shook her head.

“I’ll contact our grief counselor,” the surgeon said in a mumble, his eyes fixed on the top of his shoes. “We did all we—”

“I’m sure you did,” she said, cutting him off. “And there’s no need for a counselor. I just want to see him. Let me see him.”

The surgeon said, “Mrs. Hersig, I don’t think—”

“I said, let me see him,” she said with force.

The surgeon sighed and stepped aside, holding the ICU door open for her. As she passed, she reached out and squeezed Joe’s hand.

“Maybe Marybeth could give me a call later,” she said with a wan smile, “if she doesn’t mind. I might need some help with the kids and arrangements. I’m not even sure what I’ll need help with.”

“She’ll be there,” Joe said.

“And remember what you promised me,” she said.

“I do,” he said, struck by the words—the same words and solemn tone he’d used for his wedding vow.

Nancy Hersig paused at the open door, took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, patted her hair down, and strode purposefully into the ICU.

The surgeon looked at Joe, said, “Tough lady.”

Joe nodded his agreement and dumbly withdrew his phone to call Marybeth.

 
“I FIGURED I’d find you here,” Randy Pope said hotly, appearing at the other end of the hallway at the same time the ICU doors closed. “Finally checking your messages, I see. I’ve been calling you all morning, and so has the governor.”

Joe held up a hand. “Give me a minute. I have a call to make.”

“Joe, damn you, have you heard what’s happened?”

“I said I need to make a call.”

Pope quickly closed the distance between them.

“The governor’s got his plane in the air to pick us up as we speak,” Pope said. “He wants us in his office right away, and he means
right away
. He’s furious about what happened out there last night, and so am I. We look like a bunch of incompetents.”