He made a show of checking his wristwatch. Then, with the slumped shoulders of a man who’d just given up waiting, he climbed into his pickup with the pronghorn antelope decals on the door, gunned the engine, and drove slowly forward.
He made it past the Dodge with six inches of clearance to spare, although heavy brush clawed the passenger door and scratched at the window. Back on the road, he turned his headlights on and drove slowly, looking carefully—but not too obviously—from side to side for a flash of color or the dark form of a hidden man. The two-track rose to a crest, and once he dropped over the top, he could no longer see the Dodge in his rearview mirror. The river was less languid on the bottom of the hill, and rallied from its late-summer doldrums into a stretch of fast water that picked up in volume until, spent, it spilled over a small falls into a deep pool. When the rush of water overcame the sound of his motor, he let the pickup coast to a stop and he turned the lights out. There was a narrow meadow to his right—a break in the canyon wall—and he drove in it and did a three-point turn in the dark so he was pointed back the way he had come.
Joe kept a small duffel bag of spare clothes in the lockbox in the bed of his pickup and he dug through it until he found a pair of socks.
“Sorry,” he whispered, as he slipped one of the socks over the head of the eagle. He’d learned from his friend Nate, who was a master falconer, that raptors went into a state of quiet when their heads were covered by a falcon hood. He hoped the sock would serve the same purpose.
Back in the cab of his pickup, Joe turned on a small radio receiver under the dashboard and waited.
In recent years, the use of handheld two-way radios—mostly manufactured by Motorola—had become standard equipment for hunters, fishermen, and hikers. The radios worked well within a two-to-five-mile range and operated on commercial channels. They were powered by AA batteries. The receiver under Joe’s dashboard was designed to scan those commercial channels.
It didn’t take long.
“Is that asshole finally gone, Brad?”
“He’s gone.”
Joe noted the thick Okie accents—he’d heard a lot of them lately in the area.
“Are you sure?”
Brad said, “He’s long gone. I seen his truck go over that hill a while back and now I can’t even hear it.”
“Let’s give it ten minutes anyway. If you see his lights or hear anything, shout.”
“You bet, Ron. But you know I gotta get back. I’m so goddamned late now Barb’s gonna kill me.” A little bit of panic in Brad’s voice, Joe thought.
“She’ll live,” Ron said.
“Yeah, she’ll live. But she’ll make my life a living hell. She’s probably throwin’ my clothes out into the yard right now.”
“Heh-heh,” Ron laughed. Then, “What was he doing down there all that time? That game warden?”
“I don’t know. But you can bet he got your plate number and he’ll know who you are.”
“He can’t prove nothing, though. All we gotta say is the truck stalled and we walked out trying to get help. That’s our story, and we’re stickin’ to it.”
“Yeah.” Cautious.
“We’re okay.” Arrogant. “He can’t prove nothin’.”
“Yeah.” Unsure.
“ ’Cause he’s an asshole,” Ron said.
“Yeah,” Brad said.
Joe thought,
Ron is the Mad Archer. Brad is his buddy along for the ride. Brad will turn on Ron. Ron is toast.
Joe felt strangely disappointed. For a month he’d tracked the man, studied his crimes, gathered evidence. In the back of his mind, he supposed he’d built Ron into something he was not. Ron was just a stupid redneck poacher with too much time, too much money, and too many arrows.
WHEN JOE BATHED THEM
with the beam of his Maglite, Ron was reaching for his door handle with one hand while gripping the compound bow with the other. Brad was urinating on the road. Both were wearing full camo and face paint. They were in their early thirties, thick and hairy. Energy workers. Empty beer cans and energy drink containers littered the bed of the pickup.
“Hello, boys,” Joe said, the Glock lying alongside the barrel of the flashlight.
Ron and Brad looked nervous and scared. Joe was, too, but he feigned confidence. He knew the blinding beam of his flashlight was his best defense if either of them decided to go for a weapon. He could see them clearly, and all they could see of him was the intense white light.
“Drop that bow,” Joe said to Ron. “Toss it into the back of your pickup. The arrows, too.”
Ron did. The arrows clattered in the bed of his truck.
“Both of you, up against the truck, legs spread.”
“He did it all!” Brad shouted suddenly, reaching for the sky, his spray going everywhere.
“Shut the fuck up, Brad,” Ron hissed.
“I never shot once,” Brad said, “not a single damn time. I was just along for the ride.”
“Would you
shut up
!” Ron said, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ.”
“Up against the truck, fellows,” Joe said. To Brad, “Zip up first.” To Ron, “I’m kind of hoping you make a stupid move since you’re the guy who shot my dog.”
Ron turned quickly and assumed the position as if he’d done it before.
“That dog was the worst thing Ron done,” Brad said, also turning around.
Ron sighed, “That dog ain’t good for nothing.”
Joe jammed the muzzle of the Glock into Ron’s ear hard enough to make him wince. “And you are?” he asked.
JOE FOUND
a .357 Magnum revolver under the pickup seat, but neither Ron nor Brad was armed. There was also a baggie containing two vials of crystal meth. He said to Ron, “I’ll stay right on your bumper all the way into town. Don’t even think about running. I’ve caught you boys cold and there aren’t enough roads around here to get away on.”
“You mean I’ve got to drive my own self into town to get arrested?”
Joe nodded. “Either that, or I cuff you and throw you in the back of my truck with that eagle you shot.”
“Can I ride in with you?” Brad asked Joe.
“Sure you can, Brad,” Joe said. To Ron, “Lead on, Mad Archer.”
BRAD TEARFULLY CONFESSED into Joe’s microcassette while Joe drove toward Baggs and Ron followed. Every crime had been committed by Ron Connelly, Brad said.
“Why’d he do it?” Joe asked.
“Ron claimed at first he was tuning up for archery season, but things got plumb out of hand. The problem is Ron is as horny as a three-peckered owl. There’s plenty of natural gas but there are no women here, you know. I got Barb, and she’s no treat, but Ron . . . Ron is a mess.”
“Ah,” Joe said. His hands were still shaking from adrenaline, but he hoped Brad couldn’t see them in the dark.
“Ron did it all. Every one. Ron should be in prison,” Brad said.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said, “I’ll do my best,” knowing jail time was unlikely for the game violations but the meth might be the ticket.
“Good,” Brad said.
After a few miles, Brad said, “Jesus, you’re that game warden, aren’t you? The one from up north?”
Joe didn’t respond.
“I heard about you,” Brad said.
When Joe cleared the mouth of the canyon in the dark, he heard his radio suddenly gush with voices. He was back in range. At the same time, the cell phone in his pocket burred with vibration.
He took it out, flipped it open.
Three missed calls from Marybeth.
Uh-oh.
4
IN THE THREE HOURS IT TOOK TO GET THE POACHERS BOOKED and processed into the tiny Baggs jail, the word got out within the community that the Mad Archer was in custody. As Joe hoped, the deputy sheriff added drug charges to Joe’s list of game violations, and a quick search of Ron Connelly’s history via the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database showed outstanding warrants from Texas for additional drug-related charges and nonpayment of child support. In Joe’s experience as a game warden, the bad ones rarely
just
committed game violations. Behind the violation was usually a pattern of serious offenses in other fields. Ron Connelly, the Mad Archer, was a perfect example of the theory. Ron’s pal Brad, however, was clean except for a seven-year-old possession charge that had been pled out.
The deputy, a young former Iraq War vet named Rich Brokaw, was new to the job but had the weary old eyes of someone who’d seen things far beyond whatever life in Baggs could bring him. He said to Brad, “You’re free to go, but don’t even think of missing your court date.”
Brad refused to move. He, like Joe, had been noting the number of vehicles gathering outside on the street in front of the jail in the past twenty minutes. He, like Joe, could hear the rumble of men’s voices out on the sidewalk and the occasional shout. Apparently, the bars had emptied and the patrons were right outside wanting a piece of the Mad Archer and his accomplice. The new county building, financed with energy money, was under construction across the street. So the jail was located in a temporary modular unit on an empty lot. The modular was cheap and the walls quivered in strong wind. There was a single jail cell inside, open to the deputy’s office. The setup reminded Joe of the friendly small-town set for
The Andy Griffith Show.
If the men gathering outside stormed the door, they could be inside in seconds.
“If it’s all right with you guys,” Brad said, “I’ll spend the night in here.”
“Pussy,” Connelly jeered. “Assclown.”
“It’s like a damn cowboy movie,” Brad said to Joe, pretending he didn’t hear Ron. “The mob out there, Jesus. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come back with torches and pitchforks and shit.”
Joe said, “Neither would I.”
“Maybe we can sneak you out the back,” the deputy told Brad.
“No way,” Brad said, shaking his head. “I ain’t leaving tonight. If you want, I’ll pay you to stay here. There’s got to be a cost for staying the night, right? I’ll cover it so the taxpayers don’t have to.”
Brokaw looked at Joe and smiled, then went back to filling out the paperwork for Ron Connelly. Joe still clutched his cell phone. Three calls were akin to a home-front three-alarm fire, but when he’d tried to connect from the pickup, their home phone was busy. He’d left a message saying he had a man in custody and would call the second he had a moment of privacy. Marybeth knew the drill. He hoped that moment came soon, because he could feel his stomach start to roil. There were so many scenarios he could imagine involving Sheridan, Lucy, Marybeth, his crazy mother-in-law, Missy. Maybe his friend Nate had been apprehended by the FBI?
Someone pounded hard on the front door of the modular building, shaking the walls. Ron Connelly stared at the door, tried to act calm, but failed in his attempt. His hands gripped the bars of the jail door as if to milk them. Brad squirmed in a hardback chair as if he needed a bathroom.
Joe said, “If you guys would have shot somebody or robbed a bank or something minor like that, it would be calm out there. But you killed some nice game animals out of season and you shot that dog. So as far as those people out there go, it’s personal.”
Ron Connelly nervously raked his fingers through his long hair and chinned toward Joe and the deputy. “Those rednecks out there want blood and there’s just the two of you between them and us.”
“Yup,” Joe said. “And if it were up to me, I’d step aside.”
Ron’s face twitched. He didn’t know if Joe was kidding or not. Joe didn’t, either. He disliked Connelly more every minute he was exposed to him. What kind of man shot an eagle on the ground? Or Tube?
“I’ll up my offer to stay here tonight,” Brad said.
Brokaw finished the page he was working on, looked to Joe, said,
“Okay. Let ’em in.”
Ron Connelly ran in terror to the back of the cell. Brad shrieked.
“Just kidding,” the deputy said, standing up and stifling a smile. “I’ll go outside and talk to ’em.”
Joe watched with admiration as the deputy stepped outside with a shotgun and told everyone to calm down and go home. When a man shouted that the Mad Archer should be released to them, the deputy racked the pump on his shotgun, said, “Go ahead, boys, I got nothing to lose. I don’t like this job much, anyhow.”
The crowd dispersed, and the deputy came back in, sighed,
“Whew,”
to Joe.
“Impressive,” Joe said.
“I learned in Basra that there is no sound in nature that makes men move along faster than the pumping of a shotgun. Except maybe a chainsaw, but we won’t go there.”
SIMULTANEOUS WITH
the snap of the jail door on Ron and Brad, Joe opened his phone and speed-dialed Marybeth.
She was anxious. Someone claiming to be April had called their old house.
It took a moment to register. His stomach did a half-turn. Ron, Brad, the deputy, Baggs all faded from his consciousness. “Is this a sick joke?”
“I wish I could say for sure.”
“Impossible,” Joe said.
“Of course it’s impossible,” she said. But there was a hesitation—an opening he could sense that maybe she thought it
wasn’t
impossible.
“We paid for her funeral. We were
at
her funeral.”
“There was never an autopsy.”
“There was no need. I
saw
her, Marybeth,” Joe said. “She was there.”
“You saw her before. You didn’t see her after. None of us did.”
“Impossible,” he said again.
“All I can say is someone called our old house and asked to speak to Sheridan and Lucy. And whoever called identified herself as April and now has Sheridan’s cell phone number.”
“This is the sickest joke anyone’s ever played on us.”
“It’s depraved,” she said. “But Jason said the girl asked for ‘Sherry.’ No one has ever called Sheridan that except Lucy and April.”