Blood Trail (31 page)

“That asshole,” Nate whispered.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to that charge,” Joe said. “I tend to believe there might be some truth in it, from what I’ve heard over the years and from what Alisha said last night. She said Shenandoah was wild back then, so it’s possible what Vern said is credible. That’s what I’ve got in my old notebook, that an Indian girl was prostituting herself under the cover of serving as a camp cook. No names, though. So there’s some corroboration. But if it is, there’s no evidence she made a claim of rape either before or after that incident. So in this particular case, she might have been forced and she wanted the hunters arrested.

“Vern said he went up to the elk camp with Barnum to talk to the hunters. There were five, like she said. The hunters were Wyoming men of some prominence. Vern said he recognized a couple of their names at the time. They said Shenandoah had been willing, even enthusiastic about taking them all on. They told Vern they’d been playing poker in their tent the night before and she invited them to her tent one by one. All of them were embarrassed, and begged Vern and Barnum not to tell their wives or girlfriends. They said Shenandoah must be shaking them down for money or something, because otherwise it made no sense to them that she’d come into town and make an accusation like that. The hunters said that if Shenandoah went public, it would ruin them for no good reason.”

Nate sat back in the seat, said, “I can see where this is headed.”

Joe nodded. “It’s even worse. What they ended up doing, Nate, was arresting her for public intoxication and putting her in the county jail until she realized her charge was going nowhere. That must have made her a very bitter woman.”

“And I don’t blame her,” Nate said.

Joe said, “She went from being seen as a star athlete to an alcoholic loser in the space of just a few years. There was plenty of gossip—probably some of it true—about her camp cook activities. So when she makes an accusation in public against five resident hunters,
she
gets charged. Whatever dignity she had left at that point must have been flushed away.”

Nate said, “I’m surprised she didn’t take it any further than that, like the Feds or the media.”

Joe agreed. “I asked Vern about that, and he said she didn’t take it any further because she realized she had nothing but her word against theirs. You see, Barnum and Vern ‘lost’ her original complaint. They didn’t order a rape kit done, or send her to the clinic for photos or an examination. By the time she realized all of that—when she was released on bail—any bruises she had were healed and there were at least three well-known city fathers lined up and ready to testify that she had shown up drunk and raving at breakfast. She had no case and an entire valley—whites who resented her for being Indian and Indians who resented her for doing too well—lined up against her.”

They drove in silence for the fifty miles from Lamont to Devils Gate under an unforgiving leaden sky. Joe could tell from the skitterish behavior of the antelope herds that low pressure and moisture were on the way. His stomach roiled and his hands felt cold and damp on the steering wheel. He’d told Nate the story Vern had relayed to him but he hadn’t told Nate everything.

“What were the names of our poker-playing hunters?” Nate asked, finally.

“I think you know,” Joe said. “Except for the fifth one.”

“But I can guess. Randy Pope.”

Joe said, “Yup.”

“Which is the reason he was all over this whole thing from the beginning,” Nate said. “It explains why he unleashed you and me. He thought we’d find and kill the Wolverine before the story got out and ruined his career and reputation. Or if you arrested the Wolverine, Pope would be on-site to shut him up. That’s why Pope is in Saddlestring right now, waiting for us.”

“Yup.”

“It also explains the poker chips. Only the men involved would know the significance of the poker chips.”

Joe nodded. “But that detail wasn’t released to the public. Only Randy Pope knew he was being sent a message.”

“But he wasn’t positive,” Nate said. “He was suspicious, but he wasn’t positive. So he invited his old friend Wally Conway up to the Bighorns with him, to see what would happen. And Wally got whacked.”

“Yup. Unfortunately, Robey was collateral damage.”

Nate shook his head. “Was Wally Conway dense? Didn’t he realize what had happened to his old hunting buddies?”

Joe shrugged. “He might have known. We don’t know what he discussed with Robey that night.”

Joe saw Nate’s hand drop and rest on the .454. “I don’t know who I hate worse,” Nate said, “Vern Dunnegan or Randy Pope.”

“You’re forgetting someone,” Joe said.

“Who?”

“The Wolverine. The killer.”

Nate shrugged. “Him, I can live with.”

“I can’t,” Joe said. His stomach churned. He remembered something Nate had said to him the first time they ever met, and he knew it was the core belief of Nate Romanowski. Nate had said he no longer believed in the legal system but he believed in justice.

It was a leap Joe couldn’t make, although there had been several times he’d stood at the precipice and measured the jump.

 
 
“SHENANDOAH FINALLY got herself straightened out,” Nate said, looking out the window, speaking as much to himself as to Joe. “Like always, she did it on her own, without anyone’s help. Eventually, she told her husband about what had happened. She named names. He hated hunters anyway, and now he knew the names of the hunters who had violated his very own wife, the way
he’d
been violated by his uncle but never told anyone but Shenandoah, who told Alisha, who told me. And Klamath made a plan.”

Joe said nothing, letting Nate go with it, mildly shocked at what Nate had revealed about Moore’s uncle. Finally, the burning flame behind Klamath’s obsession was clear.

“So it’s Klamath Moore after all,” Nate said.

 
 
AS THEY shot past Kaycee, Nate said, “To Chris,” and they drank another imaginary good-bye toast.

 
 
SOUTH OF BUFFALO, Joe speed-dialed the governor’s office. Again, Stella Ennis answered.

“Am I okay?” Joe asked.

“You’re okay as long as you get the killer,” she answered.

“I will, but the state may lose a game and fish director in the process. I’m going to use him as bait. Can the governor live with that?”

In his peripheral vision, Joe saw Nate turn his head and smile at him.

Rulon, who had been on the line all along, said, “Officially, you never made this call and I never got it. Unofficially, the answer is
hell yes
.”

Joe said, “What, is she on your lap?”

Rulon said, “Hell yes.”

Joe snapped the phone shut.

Nate said, “I like this plan so far, whatever it is.”

Joe thought,
You won’t later.

 
 
“WHO ARE you calling now?” Nate asked, as Joe scrolled though the list of numbers on his cell phone while driving.

“The FBI in Cheyenne. I’m going to brief them on what’s going on.”

“Are you crazy? Klamath’s got an informer in that office.”

Joe said, “Exactly.”

“Ooooh,” Nate said.

 
JOE SLOWED and swerved the pickup into a designated scenic pull-out that overlooked a sweep of ranchland meadows rising up the foothills of the Bighorns.

Joe jumped out of the truck and took several deep breaths with his hands on his hips, trying to fight off nausea. When the turmoil in his stomach and soul were under control, he wiped moisture from his eyes and looked up. White shafts of afternoon sunlight poked through the cloud cover in a dozen places, making the vista look as if it were behind jail bars.

“Are you okay?” Nate asked from the pickup.

“Fine,” Joe said. “Something I ate.” Thinking,
Something I’m about to do.

29

RANDY POPE’S state Escalade was parked in the driveway of Joe’s house and Joe pulled in behind it.

“Rude bastard,” Nate said, “using your driveway like that.”

Joe grunted, angry that Pope had the temerity to come to his home to wait. Joe hated to involve his family any more than they were already involved, and hoped Sheridan and Lucy had after-school activities that had kept them away.

“Back in a minute,” Joe said, swinging out.

Randy Pope was sitting on the couch with a half-drunk cup of coffee and a plate of cookies in front of him. Marybeth was in the overstuffed chair in her work clothes, her knees tightly pressed together and her fingers interlaced on her lap. She was uncomfortable, and she turned to Joe as he entered with an expression on her face that seemed to say, “Help me!”

“I stopped home to grab some files and guess who was here waiting?” she said to Joe.

Pope stood up, brushing crumbs off his jeans. He looked pale, distressed, angry. But even Pope wouldn’t start yelling at Joe in front of his wife.

“Gee, Joe,” Pope said, “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever show up.”

“Here I am.”

“I’ve been very concerned. Mary said you called from the road, but my understanding was that you had to stay in town until they got that assault charge straightened out.” He spoke evenly, without intonation.

“It’s Mary
beth
,” Joe said, “and I needed to follow a lead. I spent the morning talking with Vern Dunnegan.” He paused. “Remember him?”

Pope’s face froze into a wax mask.

“Can we step outside?” Joe said calmly. To Marybeth, “I hope you don’t mind.”

She shook her head, but her eyes stayed on him, cautioning Joe to stay cool.

“Are the girls here?” Joe asked.

“Sheridan’s at practice, Lucy’s at the Andersons’ practicing a play.”

Joe nodded. “Good.”

Pope hadn’t moved. The only thing that had changed about him were his pupils, which had dilated and looked like bullet holes.

“Randy?” Joe said, stepping aside.

Woodenly, Pope shuffled toward the front door with Joe following.

Over his shoulder, Joe said to Marybeth, “I’ll call. Don’t worry.”

“Joe . . .”

The moment Pope opened the front door he broke to the left and slammed the door in Joe’s face behind him. Joe threw the door open and fumbled for his weapon, shouted, “Randy!”

But Pope didn’t get far. He stood in the middle of the neighbor’s lawn, backing up with the .454 muzzle pressed against his forehead. Nate cocked the revolver and the cylinder turned.

“Can I shoot him now?” Nate asked.

“Not yet,” Joe said.

“I’d really like to.”

“Later, maybe.”

Over Nate’s shoulder, Joe saw his neighbor Ed wander out onto his lawn from his open garage. Ed was smoking his pipe, inspecting the lawn for stray leaves. When Ed looked over and saw what was happening—
on his very own property
—his pipe dropped out of his mouth.

“Evening, Ed,” Joe said, as Nate backed Pope into Joe’s pickup. Joe climbed in the driver’s side and Nate shoved Pope inside between them. Ed was still standing there, openmouthed, as Joe roared away, headed for the mountains.

 
 
“THIS IS kidnapping, assault, reckless endangerment . . .” Pope said, his voice trailing off.

“Insubordination,” Nate said, “that too.”

“Call the governor now,” Pope said to Joe. “Let’s get this thing straightened out.”

“I’ve already talked to him,” Joe said.

Pope mouthed something but no words came out.

“That’s right,” Joe said. “He’s willing to trade you for Wolverine, if necessary.”

“But we can work together,” Pope said, pleading. “You don’t have to do it this way. We can work something out now, and for the future.”

Joe seemed to think it over, to Nate’s consternation. Finally, Joe said, “Nope. I saw how you treat your friends.”

THEY WERE past Joe’s old house on Bighorn Road when Pope said, “It wasn’t like what you think.”

“What is it I think?” Joe said.

“That we gang-raped her. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“How was it, then?”

“She was more than willing. I didn’t even want her, but, you know, peer pressure and all. She was drinking and sitting in on the poker game, and she started rubbing herself all over Frank. We were all a little lit up by then, and Frank threw down his cards and took her to her tent. After a while, they came back and she started rubbing on Wally.”

“So it was all her, then?” Joe said woodenly.

“It really, really was.”

“But you all went along with it.”

Pope shrugged. “Yes, of course.”

“Even though you really didn’t want to.”

“In my case, yeah. I wasn’t all that attracted to her.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“Yeah, I did it too.”

“So why’d she try to get all of you arrested?”

Pope said, “It was extortion, maybe. And it was because she was ashamed. Of herself. She was ashamed of what she’d done, and she didn’t want anyone to find out. So she blamed us and cried rape. I mean, if she really was raped, as she claimed, do you think we all would have stayed up there in that camp and waited to be caught? When she got angry and left to go to town . . . we realized how it would look.”

Joe and Nate exchanged glances. Nate obviously didn’t believe Pope’s version. Joe wasn’t so sure.

“What we did know was what would happen if the story got out,” Pope said. “Five white guys, two married at the time, accused of gang-raping an innocent Native American girl in an elk camp. No matter what the facts were, do you think for one second that any of us would have had a chance? We’d have been tarred for the rest of our lives. I mean, all five of us grew apart after that incident and went on to become pretty successful. Frank was a bigshot in his community, and Wally was a great guy, head of his United Way campaign.
I’m the director of the game and fish department.
If she’d taken us to court, none of that would have happened, and for what good reason?”