Trophy Hunt (30 page)

C
LEVE GARRETT WAS DR
.
ERIC LOGUE
. Dr. Eric Logue was Cleve Garrett. And despite the search teams, the helicopters, and the dogs, neither was found. The closest they came to him, three days after the shootout, was the discovery of a crude, abandoned lean-to campsite fourteen miles due west from the river. The camp was in the mountains, in a stand of aspen. They found the remains of a small, sheltered campfire and a half-eaten fawn. The investigators determined that the last occupant of the shelter had likely been Garrett/Logue because the fawn’s haunches—and face—had been removed. Another trophy.

Following the discovery, the search was intensified. Governor Budd authorized the use of the Wyoming National Guard, and for a week they walked the west face of the Bighorns in concentric circles. No other camp, or track, was found.

Garrett/Logue knew the terrain like someone who had grown up there. Because he had.

T
he day after Cam Logue’s funeral, Marie and Jessica had stopped by the Pickett house on Bighorn Road. According to Ken Siman of Siman’s Memorial Chapel, it was the largest funeral in Saddlestring in a decade. Marie was on her way out of town. Marybeth had agreed to let Jessica stay with them until Marie got settled in Denver, which delighted Lucy. Marie told Marybeth they would live in Denver to be near her parents. Cam’s life insurance, she said, would take care of her and Jessica for years. Both women embraced and cried, saying their good-byes. Joe and Sheridan stood uncomfortably by, trading glances.

“I think it was finding those files,” Marie said, looking to Joe as if he had asked her the question. “They brought it all back to him. I think he was trying to get revenge on his past.”

Joe nodded. “Is it possible that Eric was trying to help him? By driving land values down so he could buy the ranch back?”

Marie stared at the floor. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think he knew Eric was here until that morning. I really don’t.”

She looked up. “I don’t
want
to think that. So I won’t.”

A
s the days passed into weeks, Joe found himself thinking more about Cam Logue and less about Eric. It hurt to think about Cam. He felt more and more sorry for the man, and how things had gone. Cam was the product of cruel, twisted, unloving parents. Parents who had produced two children; one an outright miscreant and the other an emotional orphan. Despite that, Cam had tried to make something better of himself and his own family. He was a hard worker, and as far as Joe knew, Cam was a good husband and father until the end. Much like Joe himself, whose parents specialized in alcoholism, neglect, and lack of direction, Cam had been driving without a road map. Cam needed Marie for structure as Joe needed Marybeth. Under her guidance, Cam had participated in the community, won awards and accolades, received deserved admiration. His doubts, frustrations, and outright fears were kept well hidden.
Unfortunately, Cam had likely not shared his fears with Marie, who might have been able to help him. In the end, he didn’t so much betray her as allow deeply imbedded inclinations to reemerge.

Cam was guilty of greed, of trying too desperately to provide a better place and a better life for his wife and daughter than he’d had growing up. He was not a criminal by nature, or an unchecked, unprincipled entrepreneur. He had succumbed to his desire to make things right, to try and reclaim and rewrite his past. But his past came roaring back, driving a battered old pickup with South Dakota plates.

Joe thought he had glimpsed the true Cam Logue that day in the real estate office when he confronted him. What he had seen wasn’t the cocksure businessman, but someone who was unsure and bitter, someone who was deep into a scheme and situation that he never should have pursued.

T
rey Crump had called Joe with startling and disturbing news. “You’re not going to believe this,” Trey said. “You were right about that bear collar. It was older than hell, and the bear guys said it had been out of inventory for thirty years. We have no idea how it showed up in that sheep wagon.”

Joe digested this, his mind swimming. “It showed up there because it came off the bear, Trey.”

“The bear guys say no way, Joe. No way a bear wandered around for thirty years without emitting a signal, and then showed up in your district. The only thing they can figure out is that the sheepherder must have found it somewhere along the line.”

Joe remembered the trashed trailer, remembered the smell of the bear inside of it.

“Not a chance,” Joe said, confused.

Trey cleared his throat. “This is where things start to get really weird, Joe. The thing is, the rogue grizzly bear that came out of Yellowstone was killed by some idiot roughneck over by Meeteetse a month ago. That bear never made it to the Bighorns.”

“WHAT?”

“The guy shot him, skinned him out, and crushed the radio collar. We never would have known except that the idiot took the hide to a taxidermist in Cody to get a rug made. The taxidermist called me, and the roughneck confessed everything this afternoon. We even found the decomposed body and what was left of the collar.”

Joe was stunned.

“There
was
a bear here, Trey. I saw the tracks. I saw what he did to the body of a dead cowboy.”

“Must have been another bear, I guess,” Trey said unconvincingly.

Joe fought against telling Trey about the bear Nate had been “communicating” with. If he told his supervisor, both Joe and Nate could be faced with federal charges.

The telephone was silent on both ends for two full minutes before they hung up.

Joe stared out his window, confused. A thirty-year-old bear collar? A bear that had vanished off the face of the earth for three decades had suddenly reappeared?

“Nah,” Joe said out loud, deliberately shutting off that line of inquiry. God, he needed a beer.

M
oments later, as Joe was about to head to the kitchen, Nate called. Joe said, “You’re just the man I want to talk to.”

He heard Nate chuckle.

“I just heard some interesting news,” Joe said. “They found the missing grizzly. It never got here.”

“That
is
interesting,” Nate said slyly.

“But we both know there was a bear.”

“Yes,” Nate said. “I guess we do.”

“And I remember there was something you were starting to tell me just before we went out to the campground. We never finished that conversation.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Maybe we should finish it now,” Joe said.

Nate was prone to long silences, and he lapsed into one now. Joe waited him out.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Nate said, “if I knew there was a grizzly still around here and told you about it, you would be duty-bound to report the discovery, correct?”

“Correct,” Joe said. “Grizzlies are on the endangered species list and they fall under the authority of the department.”

“That’s what I thought.” Another long silence.

“Nate?”

“I’ve learned so much. Not all of it is comfortable. But in the end, it gives me hope.”

“Why is that?”

“There are bigger things than us out there, on other levels. Luckily, they take care of their own.”

“Nate . . .”

“All I can say right now is you need to trust me on this, Joe. It’s fascinating, this experience. You’ll be the first to know what happens, I promise.”

Joe sat back, thinking, recalling things Nate had said.

In my dream, the bear was sent for a reason. He has a mission.

That bear may be more than a bear. That bear is here for a reason.

We happen to be in the right place at the right time where conflicts on different levels are overlapping.

You should open your mind a little.

U
sing FBI resources, Agent Portenson tracked the path of Eric Logue from his years in the army to his escape in North Carolina to the Riverside RV Park.

Associates in the army confirmed Eric’s downward spiral from exceptionally talented surgeon into madness. He was wealthy as well, having
invested in technology stocks early and selling just before the bubble burst. Eric first showed signs of paranoia and obsession with paranormal phenomena while in the Philippines. He had been suspected of drug use, along with Nurse Bob. When his patients began emerging from surgery with wounds and grafts not related to the procedure, he was put under a full-time watch. After a suspected Filipino enemy combatant with a minor leg injury died from massive blood loss after being operated on by Dr. Logue, an inquiry was launched that resulted in his court-martial.

While in custody, guards reported that Eric claimed he was in contact with aliens and had regular nighttime visitations with them. Eric said he had been instructed by his contacts to collect samples for them. The guards suspected that Eric’s delusions were an attempt to get the charges dismissed due to mental incapacity. Then, while being transferred to another facility, Eric escaped.

He had purchased his name in New Orleans, from a man who specialized in new identities. The pickup and trailer came from a dealer in Birmingham. There was no Iconoclast Society, no wealthy benefactor who financed the research. There was only Eric, so filled with messianic self-confidence that he was practically above suspicion.

D
eena had been interviewed by Hersig while she recovered in the Twelve Sleep County hospital. Afterward, he’d called Joe and recounted the conversation.

Deena had met “Cleve” in Helena, and she knew nothing of his past and she really didn’t care to hear about it. He had never mentioned having a brother. What she knew was that he had been sent to her at the exact time she needed him most. He knew things that she hoped to learn, and was in contact with other beings on an intimate basis. He was their human conduit. At least that’s what he told her, and she saw no reason not to believe him.

If it really was Cleve who did the mutilations, she said, he was simply following orders.

Yes, she had agreed to let him experiment on her. She saw it as no different than getting tattooed or pierced. She was a little pissed off at him, though, when he cut off the top of her ABDUCTEE tattoo.

And yes, she knew Cleve disposed of her skin at the fish-cleaning station. He had told her that.

She had slept through most of the trouble in the trailer the day of the shoot-out, she said. Cleve had given her some medication for her pain, and it knocked her out. The noises from the front of the trailer were awful, in an otherworldly way, but she had thought at the time that she was dreaming.

Despite everything, she said, she still loved Cleve Garrett. And more important, she still believed in him.

Hersig’s voice was shaky as he told Joe the story. When he was through, he said, “I think I need to go take a shower.”

S
heriff Barnum claimed not to have any idea what Cam had been up to in regard to the CBM rights on the ranch, although he admitted being interested in buying his retirement home there. Joe believed him, but also knew that Barnum had sat by quietly during the course of the investigation, as land values plummeted. He had not revealed his real estate interest to the rest of the task force, and he secretly benefited from the perception that the valley was “spooked.” This led Joe and Hersig to speculate that Barnum may have had perverse motivation not to solve the crimes quickly, but they had no solid evidence of that.

Nevertheless, word got out within the community about the land deal that never was, and Barnum’s interest in it. There was even talk among the coffee drinkers at the Burg-O-Pardner about launching a recall petition on Sheriff Barnum. As far as Joe knew, the action wasn’t followed through. But there was no doubt that Barnum’s reputation had taken a beating, and that he would stand little chance in the next election. Not that it mattered much, Barnum declared in the
Roundup,
because he had planned to retire anyway. It had been a good twenty-six years, he said.

F
or the twentieth time since the shoot-out, Joe sat lost in thought in his office. All but one big-game hunting season had ended, and winter was on the way. Paperwork was piled up in his in-box, and he’d missed three straight weekly reports to Trey Crump. The mutilations had, of course, stopped. Portenson had gone back to Cheyenne. The Murder and Mutilations Task Force had been disbanded for lack of purpose.

But for Joe, there was unfinished business. The case was still open, and not just because Eric Logue was still at large. There were still too many questions.

Nate Romanowski had all but disappeared. His only communication with Joe was a terse message left on the answering machine: “Joe, I was right. That bear is here for a reason. He’s just a vessel, an agent. He’ll be here only as long as he has to be.”

In the end, as the search for Dr. Eric Logue lost both hope and urgency, the only workable scenario they could give any credence to was this:

Eric had been a boy in the mid-1970s, when the first rash of cattle mutilations in the West was news, so the concept wasn’t foreign to him. Perhaps that was when his fascination and obsession with a paranormal answer to the crimes was first implanted.