Blood Trail (30 page)

“I’m shocked,” Vern said, not shocked at all, but enjoying the game of getting Joe worked up. Just like he used to do.

“Enough,” Joe said. “You apparently know why I’m here.”

Vern nodded. “It took you long enough.”

Joe looked at his wristwatch.

“I understand you’re now buddies with the governor,” Vern said evenly. “And that he’s desperate to solve these murders so he can open the state back up. I can help him do that. But there are terms.”

Joe looked up. “Terms?”

 
 
JOE ASKED the desk guard if he could use his phone, and he was able to get through to the governor’s office. He asked the receptionist to transfer him to Rulon. Joe stood waiting near the guard’s desk. The guard pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping. Vern sat perfectly still at the table, his big hands on the tabletop, fingers interlaced, watching the silent television flicker. He looked completely in control, Joe thought.

“Stella Ennis,” she said crisply.

“Stella, it’s Joe.”

A pause. “Hello, Mr. Pickett.” Did Joe detect an inappropriate purr?

“I’m at the Wyoming state pen and I’ve got quite a situation here.”

“From what I understand, you’ve got a situation back at home as well. What is it I heard about an agent of the governor assaulting a police officer?”

Joe shook his head, as if she could see him. “I’ll explain all of that later. Right now I need you to put that aside and listen to me.”

“My, my,” she said, “aren’t we the tough guy this morning.”

“Look, I’m here seeing my old boss Vern Dunnegan. He’s served eight years of a twelve-year sentence for conspiracy and being an accessory to murder. He claims that he knows where to find the Wolverine. He says he’ll tell me everything in exchange for the governor commuting the rest of his prison time.” Out of corner of his eye, Joe saw the guard spill coffee all over himself.

Stella said, “Do you believe him?”

“Yes.”

“This is
very
unusual.”

“I know it is, and I hate to even call you with this. Vern should spend the rest of his life in here; it’s where he belongs. But I really do think he knows how we can catch who we’re after.”

“How would a man eight years in prison know that?” she asked.

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“Hold on. I’ll ask Spencer.”

Not “the governor” or “Governor Rulon,” but
Spencer
, Joe thought.

Rulon came on the line so quickly Joe could only conclude that he had either been listening in on another line or Stella was so close to him physically that he heard what Joe had told her. Joe briefly closed his eyes, thought,
Uh-oh.

The governor sounded annoyed. “Is he there?”

“Vern Dunnegan? Yes, he’s here.”

“Let me talk to the son of a bitch.”

“Okay,” Joe said, crossing the room and handing the handset to Vern. “It’s Governor Rulon.”

Vern’s eyebrows shot up, and a self-satisfied smirk crept across his lips. He took the phone. “Hello, Governor Rulon.”

Joe sat back down and listened to Vern’s side of the conversation. Occasionally, he could hear Rulon shout or curse through the handset. Again, he thought of how close Rulon had to have been to Stella to hear Joe clearly. He rubbed his eyes and listened.

“That’s right,” Vern said. “I can help you close this case and then you can reopen the state for hunting.”

Vern listened for a while, said, “Why didn’t I come forward sooner? Well, I have to admit that it didn’t really register when John Garrett was killed. I mean, I knew the name and I vaguely remembered him, and when I read about it in the paper nothing clicked. Then I read about Warren Tucker a couple of weeks later and it started to make some sense to me. I
almost
told the warden of my suspicions at that point, but that’s all they were, suspicions. A man can’t bargain with suspicions. . . .”

A few moments later, “Right. Frank Urman was the clincher. When I heard his name I knew how the victims were connected. Wally Conway just drove the nail in the coffin, so to speak.”

Joe glanced angrily up at Vern, who chatted away with the governor.

“What? No. Not anymore. I’m a prisoner of the state, remember? I have no kind of obligation anymore,” Vern said, rolling his eyes.

Joe shook his head.

“Yes, there will be at least one more murder as it stands right now,” Vern said. “Maybe more. I can promise you that. But if we can make a deal, I can help you prevent it. And you can be the hero. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Fat chance
, Joe thought, seething.

“No, I can’t give away any more. Not until we’ve got an understanding.”

Joe could hear the governor going on in his best growl.

“Sure, I understand,” Vern said into the phone. “If what I tell Joe here turns out to be wrong, I know the deal would be off. But I think we both know I’ve got very valuable information that I’m willing to share.”

As they negotiated, Joe glanced over at the table where the couple sat. It appeared that the inmate was
chewing
on her collar. He could see the man’s jaws working, and his eyes rolling back in his head in pleasure. Her gaze was focused above his head, and she looked detached. Joe couldn’t help but think of the old joke where the wife, beneath her husband in bed, says,
“Beige. I think I’ll paint the ceiling beige.”

Joe tore himself away as Vern Dunnegan said, “So we have a deal then.”

Then: “Okay, I want it in writing. You can fax it to the prison. I won’t say a word to Joe here until I read it over and see that it says exactly what we discussed.”

Then: “Sure, I trust you. You’re the governor, right? What is there not to trust? But nevertheless, I subscribe to the Ronald Reagan notion of ‘trust, but verify.’ So I need that paper and your signature.... Sure, I’ll wait. But visiting hours will be over in ninety minutes. I need the agreement by then. You’re a wordsmith and a former federal prosecutor—it shouldn’t take long.”

“Here,” Vern said, beaming, thrusting the phone back across the table, “he wants to talk to you.”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“We made a deal,” the governor said wearily.

“So I heard.”

“What an asshole.”

Joe looked up at Vern, said, “Yup.”

“So you think it’s legit, then?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, we’ll fax the paperwork over within a half hour. Then he better spill the beans. Call me when you’ve got something solid and we’ll proceed from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Joe . . . ”

“Yes?”

Hesitation. Joe frowned.

“Nothing,” the governor said. “Forget it.”

“Is it about Stella?” Joe asked.

Rulon barked a laugh. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

Joe cringed, and punched off the phone.

 
 
AS THEY waited for the agreement to arrive, Joe and Vern sat at the table in silence, each pretending the other man wasn’t in the room. Joe kept checking his wristwatch. He shot another glance at the couple in the corner, and looked away guiltily. Vern chuckled.

“Caught you,” he said.

“It looks like he’s eating her neck,” Joe mumbled.

“It’s a con trick,” Vern said. “The female cooks meth down into crystal and hangs it from her necklace chain like a pendant. She sits there while he sucks it and gets high. The guards haven’t figured that one out yet. They’ll do a full-body and cavity search, but they don’t think about testing the jewelry.”

“My God,” Joe said.

“It’s a different world in here,” Vern said. “I’ll be glad to be leaving it soon.”

 
 
THE DESK GUARD got a call, spoke a few words, and motioned Joe over.

“There’s a fax from the governor for Vern Dunnegan at admin. They’re bringing it over.”

Joe sighed.

The driver who had delivered Joe to A-Pod brought the fax. As Joe took it to Vern, he read it over. It was on official letterhead stationery and signed at the bottom:

 
 
AFTER VERN had told his story, Joe shut his notebook and said, “So this is all your fault.”

Vern shrugged. “I was never like you, Joe. I wasn’t in it to save Bambi.”

Joe shot his fist across the table and hit Vern Dunnegan flush in the face, snapping his head back.

“Hey!” the desk guard yelled, standing. “Do I need to call my boys in?”

Joe, still enraged, stood up quickly and walked away. He knew if he looked for another second at Vern’s self-satisfied face or heard his arrogant words that he wouldn’t be able to stop swinging.

“I need to get out of here,” Joe said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, you do,” the guard said, picking up his handset to call the driver.

“See you on the outside,” Vern called from the table, one hand at his face to stanch the flow of blood, the other waving and flittering his fingers in a
toodle-do.

Joe turned, squared his feet, and stared Vern down. “If I do,” Joe said, meaning it, “you’re going to wish you were back in here.”

28

NATE WASN’T outside in the parking lot and neither was Joe’s pickup. Joe stood seething in the space where he’d parked, but his fury was not directed at Nate—yet. Vern’s words,
I was never like you, Joe. I wasn’t in it to save Bambi,
echoed in his ears, but what enraged him was Vern’s attitude, his casual disregard for what he’d casually set in motion so many years before. Vern’s action—or inaction, in this situation—had resulted in ruined lives and the deaths, so far, of seven men. And in the end, instead of accountability, Vern was able to use his malfeasance as a bargaining chip to walk away free from prison.

“This isn’t over,” Joe said aloud.

A thick bank of storm clouds pushed their way across the sun, halving it, then snuffing it out. In the distance he could hear the muted roar of semitrucks on I-80. The air smelled of dust, sage, and diesel fumes. In his ears he could hear a similar roar that stemmed from anger and betrayal. Joe called Marybeth, said, “It’s going to be a long night.”

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Did you meet with Vern Dunnegan?”

“I did.” Joe said tightly. “And everything has just gone nuclear.”

“Oh, no. What did he say?”

“It all goes back to Vern,” Joe said.

“What did he say?”

“Honey, you can’t say a word about what I’m going to tell you to
anybody
.”

“Joe, I won’t. I never do.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”

As Joe explained, he looked up and saw his truck a mile away, descending toward the valley floor and the prison complex. In a couple of minutes it would be here. He hurried, rushing his words until all he could say was, “Nate’s here. I’ve got to go.”

“Joe!” she said. “You can’t do what I think you’re going to do.”

“I’ll call later,” he said, and snapped the phone shut as Nate pulled up in front of him and stopped the pickup.

Nate said, “I hope you don’t mind I borrowed your vehicle.” He got out and left the driver’s-side door open and walked around the front of the truck to get back in as a passenger. “I had to go downtown and check out a couple of pawnshops.”

Joe grunted and climbed in. The scoped five-shot .454 Casull revolver Nate had found at a pawnshop lay formidably on the seat cushion between them, along with a heavy box of ammunition. It was a massive weapon, the second most powerful handgun in the world, manufactured by Freedom Arms in Freedom, Wyoming. Joe knew that a .454 bullet was capable of punching a clean hole through a half inch of steel, penetrating the engine block of a car and stopping it cold, or knocking down a moose at a mile away. It was Nate’s weapon of choice, and he was an expert with it.

“I somehow figured I’d be needing that later,” Nate said by way of explanation. “The FBI still has mine. This baby’s a little beat up, but it’s got a nice scope and I got it for a song—eighteen hundred.”

Joe slipped the truck into gear and began to climb out of the valley.

“So,” Joe asked, “how does a man under federal indictment walk into a pawnshop and buy a hand cannon without raising any red flags in a background check?”

Nate smiled, handed back the wallet Joe had left in the pickup. “I didn’t,” Nate said. “You did. And tell Marybeth not to worry—I used your state credit card, not a personal one.”

Joe moaned.

“Did you find out anything?” Nate asked, gesturing toward the prison.

“You were right,” Joe said. “We were thinking Wolverine was targeting hunters in general. It turns out, the killer was after five specific men who
happened
to be hunters.”

Nate nodded slowly, waiting for more.

 
 
JOE SAID, “Vern was at coffee in the Burg-O-Pardner like he was every morning, even during hunting season, when Shenandoah Yellowcalf walked in the place. This was ten years ago. I wasn’t in the picture then. The breakfast crowd consisted of the city fathers, or who thought they were. Vern, Judge Pennock, and Sheriff Bud Barnum.”

When he said the name
Bud Barnum
, Joe glanced at Nate and paused. Nate looked untroubled.

“What?” Nate asked. “Do you expect remorse?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Joe said.

“Go on,” Nate said impatiently. It was clear to Joe that what bothered Nate was not Barnum’s involvement but Shenandoah’s.

Joe said, “This was when Shenandoah was operating her camp-cook-slash-guide service. She claimed she’d been hired by a party of five elk hunters who held her against her will and raped her. Vern said she said it in front of the whole table, and she demanded that Barnum and Vern go arrest the hunters. Vern thought the whole situation was uncomfortable because—according to him—it was pretty well known at the time that Shenandoah did a lot more for hunters than cook and guide.”