Trophy Hunt (18 page)

“Something Engineering,” one of the drinkers said. “Turner Engineering?”

Montegue frowned. “No, that ain’t it. Something like that, though. Why does it matter?” he asked Joe.

Joe shrugged. “I’m not sure it does. I was just curious. I’ll check around.”

“Check away,” Montegue said.

“Did Tuff have enemies? Someone who might want to kill him?”

Montegue snorted, “Me, at times. He owed me 850 bucks. He still does, I guess, and I aim to sell a couple of his rifles so we’re even.”

Joe nodded.

“He had his share of fights, I guess. But he’s like all of these assholes. They fight, then they buy each other a drink, then they’re butt-buddies for life. I can’t think of any serious enemies Tuff had. Anything else you want to ask me?”

“Nothing I can think of,” Joe said. “But I might come back.”

“Feel free,” Montegue said, then thought of something that brought a smile to his face. “In fact, bring your wife. I’ll waive the first year of membership if you bring
her.
”

“I’ll
pay
for your membership if you bring her,” one of the drinkers said, and the others laughed.

“Leave my wife out of it,” Joe said with enough steel in his voice that Montegue raised his hands in an “I’m just kidding” gesture.

A
s he climbed into the Bighorn Mountains and neared Bud Longbrake’s Ranch, Joe mulled over a theory that had been floating in the back of his mind. Something about Tuff’s death was just a little bit wrong. It almost but not quite fit the pattern.

The wounds on the cattle and wildlife had been reported in gruesome detail in the
Saddlestring Roundup,
Joe thought. What hadn’t been reported
was the exact kind of cut made in the hides of the cows. A person following the story would have known just enough to make Tuff’s murder appear to be like the others, he thought. But the wrong knife or cutting instrument was used. And how could a killer possibly prevent predators from finding the body? While there was something extraordinary in the bodies of the cattle, moose, and Stuart Tanner that apparently prevented predation, Tuff’s killer obviously hadn’t been able to duplicate whatever it was.

Maybe, Joe thought, Tuff’s murder was a copycat and entirely unrelated to the others. Maybe Tuff was killed for reasons wholly different from the other deaths, by someone who saw his opportunity to take advantage of the bizarre happenings to solve a personal problem with Tuff Montegue?

Again, Joe felt that if he could figure out what had happened to Tuff, and who murdered the man, the answers to the other and bigger parts of the puzzle might become more apparent.

“Or maybe not,” Joe said aloud to Maxine, his voice rising with frustration. “Maybe all of this crap has been the work of two wiry, hairy, creepylike guys who hang out in an alley in Saddlestring, like Not Ike said.”

M
ARYBETH DROVE LUCY
, Jessica, Hailey Bond, and Sheridan to the Logues’ home after school, but something felt wrong about it. The three younger girls shared the middle seat in the van, and she could see through the rearview mirror that they were conspiring; they were animated, sneaky, whispering directly into each other’s ears, barely containing excitement. Something was going on, Marybeth thought. She could tell by their body language and sparkling eyes, and the way they shot glances at her while they whispered.

She said, “Jessica, are you sure it’s okay with your parents that they drive Lucy home?”

Marybeth tried to read Jessica in the mirror. The little girl was good, Marybeth thought. She could lie well.

“Yes, Mrs. Pickett, it’s okay,” Jessica said, while Lucy and Hailey stopped talking and looked innocently—too innocently—at Marybeth.

“And Sheridan’s coming too,” Lucy said.

“What?”

Sheridan chimed in, bored, from the backseat, “It’s okay, Mom. Really. I’ll make sure we’re home for dinner.”

Now Marybeth knew that something was up. Why would Sheridan want to join Lucy at the Logues? A conspiracy was afoot, no doubt. Sheridan was in on it, which was unusual in itself. Marybeth tried to read Sheridan’s face in the mirror while she drove. Sheridan, anticipating the scrutiny, looked casually out the side windows of the van, feigning a sudden interest in the homes along the street.

Marybeth felt a pang; her girls were growing up. They no longer wanted to share all of their secrets with her. It hurt to think that. Maybe if she didn’t work so much, Marybeth thought, it would be different. Maybe if she was home when school was out, like she used to be, her girls would confide in her again. Sheridan, especially. Sheridan used to tell Marybeth everything, lay bare her feelings and concerns, bounce things off of her while Marybeth prepared dinner. She didn’t do that anymore, because of Marybeth’s schedule, her work, her burgeoning new enterprise. Dinner was rushed, something she thawed in the microwave and gave Joe to grill, or takeout. While Marybeth still insisted on a family dinner together, it wasn’t the same anymore. Everything was rushed. Dinner was for eating, not catching up and visiting, talking about everyone’s day. Dinner now was a fuel stop that preceded homework, showers, and bed. God, she felt guilty.

But when Cam Logue had come into her office earlier in the day, looking surprisingly interesting—she chose that word, rather than others—in a black turtleneck and blazer and blue jeans and cowboy boots, and perched on the corner of her desk with his hair askew in his eyes and an open, hangdog expression on his face, and asked her if she would consider becoming a full partner in the real estate firm, she had had a brief, giddy vision of what it would be like if she succeeded as she knew she was capable of succeeding. She pictured them moving to a home in Saddlestring with bedrooms for everyone and a stove where all four burners actually worked.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Cam had said, “and I believe it could be profitable for all of us.” He looked at her in a way he had never looked at her before, she thought, as if he were sizing her up for the first time.

“I think it could work, too,” she had said. “I could make you a lot of money.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he said, leaning toward her, inches away so she could smell his subtle scent—Joe never used aftershave lotion or cologne—“I think you would be a great asset to the company,” he said.

“I know one thing,” she told him, as he leaned closer. “I would bust my butt for you.”

He had smiled, almost painfully. “Don’t bust it, because it’s perfect as it is.”

Then she knew.

A line had been crossed. Cam was hitting on her, and she felt momentarily flattered. Then it passed. She wanted to be taken seriously as a professional, but now she wondered. Was this whole “get-your-real-estate-license” thing a ruse by Cam to get her into bed?

“Cam,” she said, “you are way too close to me, physically, right now. Lean back. And if the reason why you want me to get my license is so something will happen with us, you’re so wrong about that it makes my head hurt. Marie is my friend, and don’t get me wrong—I think you’re an admirable businessman—but if the reason you want me to become involved is what you’re hinting at right now, well . . .”

Cam had shrunk back while she was talking, and was literally about to fall off of the desk.

“. . . Joe is my guy. That’s it. That’s all there is. He may screw up on occasion, and he doesn’t make much money, but he’s my guy.”

She was angry at herself at that moment, because she felt tears well in her eyes, which was the last thing she wanted to have happen. But she continued, narrowing her eyes, “And if you ever, and I mean EVER, even suggest again that there is anything more than a business relationship at all, I’ll tell Joe. And then I’ll tell Nate Romanowski . . .”

When she said the name “Nate Romanowski,” Cam visibly flinched.

“. . . And that will be that,” Marybeth concluded.

A
ll of this was coursing through Marybeth’s thoughts as she wheeled into the Logue home, stopped fast, once again, by the pickup with South Dakota plates in the driveway. It had been moved to the opposite side of the driveway, but the rear of it still jutted out into the path.

“So Jessica, your grandparents are still here?” Marybeth asked, looking into the mirror.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is your mom feeling better? She hasn’t been in the office in a couple of days.”

“I think so,” Jessica said. But it was obvious she was bristling to get out of the car. So was Lucy. And Sheridan was glaring at her.

“Well,” Marybeth said, “tell your mom hello from me and tell her I wish her to get well.”

“Okay, Mrs. Pickett.”

Marybeth turned in her seat, stern. “You girls be home in time for dinner. Stay away from those buildings in the back. And if Marie isn’t feeling well enough to bring you home, you call me and I’ll come get you, okay?”

Lucy nodded. Sheridan mumbled something, averting her eyes.

“What was that, Sherry?”

“Nothing.”

But Marybeth had heard what Sheridan said.
Like you’re going to cook dinner,
was what she mumbled.

Stung and hurt, Marybeth watched her girls skip toward the old house. They were leaning into each other, conspiring again. For the second time that day, she felt tears well in her eyes.

S
O HOW MUCH FARTHER IS IT
?” Hailey Bond asked boldly, but there was a tremor of false courage in her voice.

“Right up here,” Jessica said. “And don’t talk so loud. Maybe we’ll catch him in the shack.”

Sheridan reluctantly followed the three younger girls. She couldn’t believe she had let Lucy talk her into this. But Lucy had begged her older sister to accompany them, and Sheridan felt an obligation, and also responsibility for Lucy’s well-being. If there was something to this crazy story, Sheridan thought, she wanted to be there for Lucy. It made her uncomfortable to be with the younger girls, with their chattering, and she wondered if she had ever been like that. Probably not.

“It’s right up here,” Jessica said, stopping and turning, holding her finger to her lips to shush everyone. “From now on, just
whisper.
”

“You’re trying to scare me,” Hailey said aloud.

“Whisper!” Jessica admonished.

Hailey shrugged, trying to act brave.

This is silly,
Sheridan thought. Lucy would get it for this later.

But Sheridan noticed Lucy looking at her with a false, frightened smile. Even if it was silly, Lucy was taking it seriously. Sheridan nodded to her,
go on.

The shack seemed to morph out of the thick timber, as if it were a part of it. The shape of it seemed partly blurred, because it fit in so well with the trees. It was older, smaller, and more decrepit than Sheridan had imagined.

Jessica took a step ahead of the girls and turned, wide-eyed. She gestured toward the open window near the front door of the shack. This was as far as she and Lucy had been before. There was something in the air, maybe just the silence, but it got to Hailey Bond. Hailey shook her head,
no.

“I’m not going closer,” Hailey said in an urgent whisper. “You guys are just trying to scare me.”

Sheridan noticed the smirk of satisfaction on Jessica’s face. Sheridan hoped that the whole thing wasn’t a setup, and that she had been asked along to legitimize it. If that turned out to be the case, Lucy would
really
get it later. But it didn’t seem like something she would do. In fact, she had stepped back and was standing next to Sheridan, clutching at her hand.

“Let me look,” Sheridan said, shaking off Lucy’s hand.

The three younger girls stared at her, their eyes wide.

“Step aside,” Sheridan whispered.

The girls parted, and Sheridan strode past them. She tried to walk with confidence, with courage. But she felt her knees weaken as she approached the window. She remembered Lucy saying that she and Jessica had trouble seeing in. For Sheridan, that should be no problem. Her chin was about the same height as the bottom of the windowsill.

She slowed as she neared the window. It was dark inside. She never even considered opening the door and walking in.

She approached the windowsill, stopping a few inches from it. She leaned forward, holding her breath.

There was a sleeping bag on the floor, all right. With nobody in it. There were magazines, papers, empty cans. A small gas stove. Books—hardbacks, thick ones. And, on a square of dark material, what looked like silverware. A lot of silverware.

She didn’t exactly lose her nerve, but when she turned around toward the younger girls she saw them running. Hailey was gone, Jessica was disappearing into the timber. Lucy held back, fear on her face, waiting for her older sister.

Sheridan was about to tell her sister there was nothing to worry about when she noticed that Lucy’s eyes had shifted from her to the side of the shack. Sheridan followed Lucy’s eyes, and felt her own heart whump against her chest.

He was a tall man, thick and dirty. Sheridan saw him in profile as he came from around the shack. He was looking at Lucy. He had long, greasy hair and a wispy beard. His nose was hooked, his mouth pursed, his eyes black and narrow. He wore a heavy, dirty coat. His trousers were baggy.

“Get the HELL out of here!” he snarled at Lucy. “Go away!”

Lucy turned on her heels and ran a few feet, then stopped again. Sheridan knew why. Lucy wouldn’t run without her sister.

The man hadn’t yet seen Sheridan, who was now hugging the side of the building.

Sheridan hoped he wouldn’t turn his head and see her.

But he did.

For a second, she looked into his eyes, which were dark and enraged. Maybe a little frightened, she thought later.

“G-g-get OUT OF HERE, YOU l-l-little b-b-bitch!” he screamed. Her eyes slid down the front of him, at his coat. The name “Bob” was stenciled above a breast pocket.

He took a step toward her, and Sheridan ran. She had never run faster, and she overtook Lucy in seconds. She reached back, found the hand of her younger sister, and didn’t let go as they weaved in and out of trees, around untrimmed brush, until they collapsed within sight of the Logue home.