Winterkill (13 page)

“Really? That’s interesting,” Hersig said. “I didn’t know that. And Romanowski’s not cooperating. Even with his P. D.”

“I know. He says he’s depending on me to help him out,” Joe said sourly.

Hersig frowned. “Romanowski’s only arrest was in 1999—he was held in Idaho for allegedly beating a rancher. He
claimed the guy shot his falcon out of the sky. Spent ninety days in the Blaine County Jail for that.”

“Do you see a connection between Romanowski, the Sovereigns, and Lamar Gardiner?” Joe asked. “They all sort of happened at once.”

Hersig peered at the ceiling for several beats. “It almost seems like there’s got to be one, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe so,” Joe said.

The door opened and one of the Forest Service employees looked in. “Oops, sorry,” he said.

Hersig waved to indicate it was okay. “Leave the door open. We’re through, aren’t we?”

“Yup.”

Hersig heaved himself off of the desk, and they stood in the doorway looking out. Elle Broxton-Howard stood in the middle of a gaggle of midlevel Forest Service managers as well as Reed and McLanahan. Hersig tilted his chin toward her.

“She likes ’em rugged and real, or so she says,” Hersig confided to Joe. “Ranchers, cowboys, loggers. Real manly men.”

Joe stared at Hersig. “How do you know that?”

Hersig smiled, but his face was flushed. “She told me that. And believe me, she’s got a few notches on her lipstick case in this county already.”

As if she’d heard Hersig, or read Joe’s thoughts, Broxton-Howard suddenly turned, extricated herself from the knot of admirers, and walked boldly up to Joe Pickett.

“You were there when Mr. Gardiner was killed,” she stated flatly. Joe was surprised she hadn’t known that already.

“Yes.”

“You’ve met with Wade Brockius and the Sovereigns as well.”

“Sort of.” Joe felt his neck getting warm.

“Then we
must
have an interview,” she said, her eyes boring into his, her jaw set with sincerity. Without breaking her gaze, she fished Joe’s card out of her pocket and raised it until it came into her view.

“Joe Pickett. Game warden,” she said, in a breathy British accent. Then she turned on her heel and walked back to her admirers.

Marybeth entered the room from a dark hallway, looking
for Joe. Joe felt both guilty and slightly exhilarated. As Marybeth made her way over, Hersig leaned toward Joe and mocked, “We
must
have an interview!”

“
W
hat
did Robey say about April?” Marybeth asked, as they drove out of Saddlestring on Bighorn Road. The storm clouds had blocked out the moon and stars, and the wind was relentless. Tiny flakes of snow, like sparks, flashed past the headlights.

“He wasn’t encouraging,” Joe said. “But he didn’t indicate that Jeannie’s tried to get April back, either.”

“That was a very strange experience back there,” Marybeth said, sighing. “The funeral was disturbing, and the reception was even worse. The person I feel for the most is Carrie Gardiner. Or Cassie, as Melinda Strickland calls her. I almost look forward to seeing my mother.”

Joe laughed. “Me, too,” he said. But he was thinking of Melinda Strickland. And Nate Romanowski. And Elle Broxton-Howard.

“What did she say to you?” Marybeth asked abruptly.

“Who?” Joe asked. He sounded guilty, even to himself.

“You know who,” Marybeth snapped. “The chick you and Robey were melting in front of when I came from the bathroom. Ms. Broxton-Howard.”

Again, Joe felt his neck get hot.

“She wants to interview me,” Joe said.

“I’ll
bet
that’s what she wants,” Marybeth snorted.

Joe didn’t say a word. He had learned that, in these kinds of situations, the less he said, the better.

He felt Marybeth looking at him and he turned to her.

“Honey, I . . .”

“JOE!” Marybeth shouted. And Joe looked, saw the ragged form of a man bathed in the white of his headlights, his wide-eyed face black with streaming blood, outstretched frozen hands up as if to shield himself; then he heard the sickening thump despite his violent effort to wrench the car away into the ditch, saw what looked like a scarecrow turned bright red by the taillights bounce and crumple on the glass-slick surface of the snow-packed highway in his rearview mirror, heard Marybeth scream.

H
is name was
Birch Wardell, he was an employee of the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, and Joe hadn’t killed him after all. The collision did break Wardell’s pelvis, however, which was just one of many injuries he sustained that day after wrecking his truck in a sharp ravine in the breaklands that led up to the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains.

The emergency-room doctor had recognized Joe from when he’d brought Lamar Gardiner’s frozen body in.

“I’m seeing more of you than I want to,” the doctor said. “And every time you show up, you bring trouble.”

Joe agreed with him.
But at least this time,
he thought,
the man’s alive.

J
oe
sat in the hallway on a molded plastic chair, still in his jacket and tie, outside Wardell’s room at the clinic. It was well into New Year’s Day. He had called Marybeth to tell her that Wardell was alive and expected to recover. Marybeth thanked God.

“I can’t believe that poor man was walking down the middle of the road,” she said. “On a night like this.”

“I’ll try to find out why,” Joe said. “Now go to bed and get some sleep.”

“How are you going to get home?” she asked.

Joe hadn’t thought of that yet. Marybeth had taken the car home after they had brought Wardell to the hospital.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said.

T
he
hospital was silent and subdued, the lights dimmed for the night. Mrs. Wardell had been in to see her husband after he came out of surgery, and she thanked Joe for bringing him into town.

“But I was the one who hit him,” Joe said.

She patted Joe’s arm. “I know,” she said. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. “But if you hadn’t found him, the doctor said there was no doubt he would have died of exposure out there. It’s eighteen below.”

“I wish I could have missed him, though.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Pickett,” she said soothingly. “He’s alive, and conscious. The doctor says he’ll be okay.”

“You think it would be okay if I talked with him?”

Mrs. Wardell looked over Joe’s shoulder for a doctor or nurse but the hall was empty.

“They gave him medication to help him sleep,” she said. “I’m not sure he’ll make much sense.”

B
irch
Wardell lay in his hospital bed with his eyes at half-mast. A thin tube of fluorescent light extending from the headboard lit up half his face and threw peaked shadows across his blankets. In addition to his broken pelvis, Wardell also had a broken collarbone and nose. Stitches climbed from his neck into his scalp like railroad tracks. Joe had overheard the nurses say that the tips of three of his fingers and four of his toes were severely frostbitten.

The man in the bed was stout and in his mid-forties, with a thick mustache and brown eyes. Joe had seen him before while patrolling.

Wardell’s eyes found Joe in the doorway, and he raised his good hand slightly in greeting.

“You doing okay?” Joe asked softly.

Wardell seemed to be trying to find his voice. “Much better since they filled me full of drugs. In fact, I’m kind of . . . happy.”

Joe approached Wardell. The room smelled of bandages and antiseptic.

“Happy New Year,” Joe said, smiling.

Wardell grunted, and then winced because the grunt clearly hurt his ribs.

“Thanks for saving my life. The doctor said I couldn’t have stayed out there much longer.”

“I’m just sorry I hit you,” Joe said. “So what happened? You walked all the way out of the breaklands after you wrecked your truck?”

“I was on my way back to town,” he said. “Must have been about four-thirty or so. I had about another half hour, forty-five minutes of light yet. I wanted to get home because Mrs. Wardell and me had tickets for the steak and shrimp feed at the Elks Lodge for New Year’s.”

Joe nodded, urging him on.

“I seen a white pickup truck on BLM land up on a ridge, past the signs that say the damn road is closed in the winter. You know, in that cooperative Forest Service/BLM unit?”

Joe had patrolled the area. It was a rough, treeless expanse of sharp zigzag-cut draws and sagebrush that stretched from the highway to the wooded foothills of the Bighorns. The “unit” had been recently designated a research area, jointly managed by the two federal agencies to study the spread of native buffalo grass in the absence of cattle or sheep. The designation had raised the ire of several local ranchers who had grazed their stock in the breaklands for years, and of some local hunters and fishermen who used the roads to get to spring creeks in the foothills. Wardell was the project manager.

“Well, this white truck was in the process of pulling my ‘Road Closed’ signs out of the ground with a chain. When I seen that, I thought:
‘What the hell?’
” Wardell pronounced it “hay-uhl.”

“I heard something about signs being vandalized,” Joe said.

Wardell nodded his head slightly. It took him a moment to start up again—the sedatives were working. Joe hoped Wardell could finish the story before he went to sleep. “It’s been going on for a few months now. Sometimes the signs are gone, and other times they’re just run over.

“So I says to myself,
‘What the hell?’
” Wardell said again. “And I turned up that closed road and give chase.”

“Got it. Can you identify the vehicle?”

“White. Or maybe tan. Light-colored, for sure. Not brand-new. The damn sunlight was starting to go bad on me about then.”

“Ford? GMC? Chevy?” Joe asked.

Wardell thought. “Maybe a Ford. The truck was pretty dirty, I noticed that. There was mud or smudges on the doors, I think.”

Joe smiled grimly. Finding a Ford pickup in Wyoming was about as hard as finding a Hispanic male in Houston.

“Anyway . . .” Wardell swallowed, and his eyes fluttered. He was tiring. Joe felt a little bit guilty pushing him so hard. Joe looked at his watch: 3:30
A
.
M
.

“Anyway, that truck saw me coming and the driver took off over the hill, still on the closed road. You know how it is out there with all them draws and hills. It’s damn easy to get lost or turned around. But whatever . . . I took off after him up that hill anyway.”

“Did you try to call anyone?”

“Damn right I tried. But the BLM office closed early, on account it’s New Year’s Eve. Our dispatcher left early.”

“Go on.”

“I got to the top of that hill and the whole unit was out there to be seen. The road turned to the left and I started to go that way but then I seen that white Ford halfway down the hill. He had gone off-road and was barreling down the hill toward the bottom. I said
‘What the hell?’
and followed him. All I wanted to do by then was get a license plate.”

“I think this patient needs some rest,” a night shift nurse said tersely from the doorway.

Joe turned. “We’re about done.”

“You better be,” the nurse said.

“Sassy little number,” Wardell commented, watching her walk away, her big hips making the hem of her skirt jump.

Joe turned back. “So, you saw the truck at the bottom of the draw. Doesn’t it start to get brushy down there?” Joe was becoming convinced that he knew the specific road and hill Wardell was describing.

Wardell nodded, then winced. “Yeah, it gets all tangly down there. And it was getting pretty dark, but I could see those taillights go right into the bush and disappear. Hell, I had no idea there was a way to get across that draw down there in a vehicle.”

Joe stroked his jaw. He didn’t know of any way to cross there either.

“Then I saw the truck come out of the brush on the other side and start climbing the hill straight across from me. I said . . .”

“ ‘What the hell?’ ”
Joe joined in with Wardell.

“I tried to get a read on the plate through the binoculars, but I couldn’t get an angle on it. So I thought, shit, if he could cross down there,
I
can cross down there.”

“What about the snow?” Joe asked suddenly. “Wasn’t it deep?”

Wardell shook his head. “That hill is on a southern exposure. The wind and sun cleared it down to the grass. The big drifts are all toward the foothills.”

“Okay.”

“So I followed the tracks straight down that mountain, stayed right in ’em. Right into the big bushes . . . and then WHAM! I was suddenly ass over teakettle, and in the air. I literally was airborne for a second until I hit the bottom of the draw. I hit harder than hell. Good thing I was wearin’ my seat belt.”

Joe agreed. “You didn’t see how the truck crossed down there?”

Wardell said no, he didn’t see how anyone could have done it. It was steep on the sides, and there was a frozen little stream on the bottom.

“So how did he get across?” Joe asked.

“I have no earthly idea,” Wardell said, his eyes widening with amazement. “No clue at all. But when I was hanging there, suspended by the seat belt with blood pouring out of my head, I could hear laughing.”

“Laughing?”

“That son-of-a-bitch in the truck was laughing out loud. I heard his truck start up again, and he just laughed his stupid head off. He must have been sitting up there on that hill watching me. I’m sure he thought he left me there to die.”

Joe stood up straight and crossed his arms. The scenario just didn’t sound quite right.

“I finally got out of the cab of the truck and started walking. To be real honest, there must have been an angel with me, because I wasn’t even sure I was going the right direction toward town.”

You weren’t,
Joe thought. Luckily, though, he had stumbled into Bighorn Road—and then Joe had hit him with his car.

Joe stared at the ceiling tiles, trying to figure it all out.

“I think it was those goddamned Sovereigns,” Wardell mumbled.

“What makes you say that?” Joe asked, but although Wardell’s eyelids flickered he didn’t respond. Wardell was asleep.

The nurse was back at the door. “Good night, Mr. Pickett. Drive safely. It’s cold and icy out there.”

Joe let himself be ushered out.

In the lobby, the emergency-room doctor was pulling his coat on to leave after his shift.

“Quiet night, except for you,” the doctor said, winking, and offered Joe a ride home. Joe accepted gratefully.

Outside, it was still dark and the wind was bitter, and it sliced right through his clothing. The doctor drove a Jeep Cherokee, a vehicle prized locally because of how fast the heater started working.

Joe sank back in the leather seat, realizing how exhausted he was. He liked the doctor because the man felt no compulsion to start up a conversation.

Joe thought about what Wardell had said. He thought about how cruel it was of the driver of the light-colored truck to leave Wardell behind like that. Surely the driver would have seen or heard Wardell crash, and realize that if Wardell wasn’t killed on impact, he would likely freeze to death out there. Either way, it was a bad way to die. It had suddenly occurred to Joe when he was talking to Wardell that the viciousness was similar to how Lamar Gardiner had been treated.

If the same person who was responsible for Gardiner’s murder was involved in leaving Birch Wardell to freeze to death, then the killer was not Nate Romanowski. The likelihood that the perpetrator was a Sovereign, as Wardell had
suggested, didn’t make sense to Joe, since Birch had seen the truck well before the Sovereigns had set up camp. It was unlikely, Joe knew, that any of the Sovereigns—including Jeannie Keeley—had the kind of intimate familiarity with the BLM land and the complicated terrain within it to know the secret route that Wardell said the light-colored pickup had taken. Joe shuddered. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that neither the Sovereigns nor Nate Romanowski were to blame. And that the real killer was still out there.

T
hey
drove slowly down Main Street while the defroster cleared ever-larger sweating holes in the ice on the windshield. Saddlestring was still. Streetlights illuminated the clouds of heat and steam that escaped from the vents of dark buildings, giving the illusion that they were silently breathing. Joe noticed a few more cars than normal still parked downtown, and guessed they belonged to revelers who would come and get them in the morning.

The only place with lights and cars out front was the Elks Club. As they passed, Joe rolled his head over on the headrest. A couple stood in profile in the front door, backlit by a bare porch light, their outlines in silhouette. The woman wrapped her arms around the man, and his cowboy hat tipped back as he lowered his head to kiss her.

Joe moaned, and turned to stare straight out the front window.

“Are you alright?” the doctor asked.

“Yup,” Joe answered. “I just thought I saw my mother-in-law back there.”

J
oe
thanked the doctor and gingerly approached his front door, careful of the ice on the walk. Inside, he confirmed that the couch bed had not been slept in.