The Edge of Justice (17 page)

“It sounds as if the weak link . . . is obviously this youth Chris. Have you talked to him?”

“No. That was number one on my to-do list before I got jumped. And it still is number one. I'll do it as soon as I get out of here.”

Rebecca hasn't said a word during our summaries. Now she asks, “What I don't understand is why. Why would those climbers push the girl off the cliff?”

I think about that. “I don't know much yet about Brad Karge, other than that he seems to be doped up most of the time. Heller though, he's a control freak. According to everyone I talk to, all those kids worship him. And he takes advantage of them, particularly the young girls, and keeps them all well supplied with crank. Maybe Kate Danning had threatened to turn him in. Or maybe he was just having fun. But we know Brad hit her with a bottle because of the fingerprints—we just need the DNA and a witness to confirm it.”

McGee says, “Which brings us to Kimberly Lee again. We know she was at least an amateur climber . . . may have run around with this Heller cult. According to her boyfriend . . . the NA counselor . . . she was planning on telling the Sheriff's Office . . . where she'd gotten her drugs. Maybe the Danning girl was thinking . . . about doing the same thing. And maybe the Knapps . . . weren't Lee's dealers after all.”

“Or maybe Heller's just found a new way to feed the Rat,” I say.

“The what?” Rebecca asks.

I explain that Heller's getting older without ever having achieved the fame he probably deserved. His climbing skills are diminishing and he's losing his grip on the group of kids who are his supplicants. Maybe this is a new way to control them, while at the same time finding some new avenue of pursuing thrills. I can picture him enjoying the rough sex, corrupting the youths around him and the youth that had betrayed him, while as a side benefit protecting his drug-selling income. He could easily have killed Lee and set the Knapp brothers up for it. It would have been simple, especially with the County Attorney's son as his accomplice. The locals would have eagerly ignored them as suspects.

“But those climbers couldn't have killed Kimberly Lee,” Rebecca says. “Remember, the Knapps confessed. And what about the evidence found in their pickup? What about the pipe in her house with one of the Knapps' fingerprints on it?”

I look at McGee. “Anyone could have dropped the glove and skin in the pickup. Who did they confess to? Who found the pipe?”

McGee says, “Sheriff Willis. Sergeant Bender.”

I don't say a word and McGee nods at me that I don't need to. We are in agreement that the Sheriff's Office is suspect. The fact that there was a brief gunfight with the police when the Knapps' door was first knocked on at two in the morning could simply be the brothers' standard procedure, considering their pseudo-militaristic leanings and the liquor and drugs they had been consuming.

“Nathan Karge's campaign manager and his nephew,” Rebecca says to herself, gently touching the bruise on her forehead. “But I can't believe Nathan Karge would go this far to protect his son. My God, the man's going to be the next governor!”

“The sentencing's on Friday morning,” McGee reminds us. I have to struggle to remember that today is Monday.

They both leave to get dinner on their way back to the hotel soon after a nurse brings me a tasteless hunk of chicken with green beans and Jell-O. The doctor stops by to check the size of my pupils. He tells me that although I am basically just bruised, I have a concussion and they want to keep me in bed and awake to prevent me from slipping into a coma. I ask him what will be done if I do go into a coma. He shrugs and gives a long explanation that amounts to: not much.

Despite the doctor's order that I remain overnight for observation, I resolve not to spend another minute there. Both the rubbery meal and the thought of Oso alone and worried in the truck gets me to my feet. I wince when I stand, and want to wince even as I breathe, but am able to slip the hospital gown off my shoulders. At the foot of the bed I find a plastic bag with my clothes neatly folded inside. The shirt smells vaguely of floor polish and shoe leather. I am able to slowly pull on my jeans and T-shirt but leave the sandals unstrapped. It hurts too much when I bend over.

In the hallway outside there is a uniformed deputy reading the sports section. I'm relieved not to recognize him. He is large-boned but frail—too old for patrol duty. His face looks more like that of a retired farmer than a cop, with close-set, friendly eyes and an upturn to his lips that appears permanent. The fingers that grip the paper are nicotine-stained. An enormous and ancient revolver is strapped to his gun belt.

“Hey, Agent,” he rasps, “you ain't supposed to be going nowhere.”

“I'm not under arrest, am I?”

The cop scratches his head. “Nope. You leaving?”

“That's my plan.”

“Mind if I call it in real quick? I'm supposed to keep an eye on you.”

He says it innocently enough, as if he is there simply to protect me from a further attack by Sureno 13. And that might be all he has been told to do, but I look at him suspiciously, wondering if he too is some distant relation of Sheriff Willis or Nathan Karge. And it doesn't look like he would be much protection; even his gun looks as if it's on its last legs. I let it go. I'm more worried about my dog than whether and why the locals are watching me.

“Not at all, Deputy. Actually, I could use a ride too. I need to go to the impound lot, where they've got my car. I don't know where I am.”

NINETEEN

O
SO IS DELIGHTED
to see me when I get my truck from the Sheriff's Impound Lot. He makes a strange sound in his throat, like an affectionate growl, and thumps his head into my chest when I open the door. I wince again and rub his flanks, feeling choked up by his obvious concern for me. And McGee's and Rebecca's and Kristi's. For the first time since the shooting in Cheyenne, I realize that people care about me. Oso explores the bruises on my face with his rough tongue. I take him back to the hotel to feed and water him.

From among the crates of climbing gear in the back of my truck I find an old bottle of prescription pain pills. Codeine and Tylenol. I take three before going to sleep, another three in the middle of the night, and by morning I feel stronger but a little fuzzy. The shower still stings the places where my skin has been abraded.

Sometime during the night the phone rang. I had ignored it, too sore and emotional and drugged to hold a conversation. Now I listen to the message that was left on the hotel's answering system. It was Lynn, who again sounded stoned. And angry.

“Fuck you, Anton. Really, fuck you. I know you're there—I drove by and saw your truck in the lot. I just wanted to say thanks a lot for calling me after you balled me the other night.”

“I didn't have the number until yesterday,” I say aloud to the telephone before erasing the message. I feel guilty and stupid. And not ready to call her back.

After giving Oso an early-morning walk, I go into the hotel's coffee shop for breakfast. My damaged face causes every head in the nearly full café to turn to me. I pull a
Denver Post
and the
Laramie Boomerang
off a counter and find a table for four that is uninhabited although still full of stained coffee mugs and half-eaten meals. Pushing the mess aside, I sit and open the
Post
.

“You're the DCI agent, right? The one that was assaulted yesterday at the courthouse?”

I turn to see a middle-aged man in slacks and a polo shirt instead of the waiter I had hoped for.

“I am, unfortunately.”

He introduces himself and says he works for the
Rocky Mountain News
. Then he moves to sit down across from me, but I raise a hand and say, “Look, I'm not going to talk about it. Let me get some breakfast in peace.”

The man hesitates. “I'd really like to ask you some questions.”

“I'm sorry, friend, but I'm not going to answer them. Get the police report—it's all there. You can get it from the Sheriff's Office.” I turn back to the paper.

“You should read the
News,
not that rag,” the man says before putting his card on top of my paper and walking off.

Reporters approach me two more times before I am even able to place my order. Neither one of them is the
Cheyenne Observer
columnist whose nose I want to punch, which is fine with me because I don't feel strong enough to do the damage I intend. Between interruptions I skim the
Post
's “Denver and the West” section and see a brief blurb with Rebecca Hersh's byline. “State Agent Attacked in Laramie's Courthouse.” The article is only two paragraphs long, just five quick sentences, but in that short space she summarizes my beating by a group of juveniles and refers to my past history with the Sureno 13 gang. I don't sound like much of a hero—just a state cop who's being sued by the families of three men he shot and who got his ass kicked by a mob of angry kids. It's accurate, but a little humiliating. It doesn't mention the role of the deputy sheriffs in failing to respond. In the local Laramie paper there is an even briefer article about the incident under the “Lights and Sirens” department.

Just as the old dishes are carted away and my eggs and toast are delivered, Rebecca herself appears, distantly followed by McGee, who is leaning heavily on his cane. She looks good and fresh; the bruise on her forehead has already faded a little. Her hair is pulled back in a tangled ponytail. There isn't a trace of makeup on her face, but her cheeks are flushed as if she has been running. She wears a long-sleeved T-shirt and her lean legs are encased in Lycra running tights. A memory of Kate Danning's splayed body and tights flashes unbidden in my head.

“Hi, Anton,” she says, sitting down at my table. “How are you feeling? And what are you doing out of the hospital?”

“I feel like I've been run over by a train,” I tell her. “I checked out last night.”

“I hope the doctor approved that,” she says doubtfully.

I don't reply and she doesn't pursue it. Beyond her McGee is working his way through the reporters, with whom he appears surprisingly popular. They are hanging on his every rasped word, laughing.

Rebecca looks around the café for the waiter. “Why's everyone giving me the stink-eye?” she asks after tentatively waving to some of her reporter friends and not receiving any response.

“Because they've been trying to talk to me all through breakfast, and now I'm talking to you.”

She smiles. “How come you're talking to me?”

“You weren't polite enough to ask before sitting down.”

She laughs and McGee finally arrives and also sits down unasked. He clutches three or four newspapers of his own. No wonder the reporters appear to like him; he makes a show of reading all their articles.

“You look worse than some corpses I've seen,” he growls to me.

“You don't look so hot yourself,” I say.

“Frigging altitude.”

“Or those cigars you smoke and all the whiskey you drink. It looks like I made the papers, Boss. Again.”

“I sold you out to Rebecca Hersh . . . that intrepid reporter. She wants to do . . . a feature on you now.”

It is Rebecca's turn to blush. I say, “I hope it's not more about me getting beat up by a bunch of kids.”

“I haven't worked it all out yet,” she explains, suddenly very professional, after the waiter comes back to fill my coffee and take orders from the new customers, “but I want it to be about police officers who have to use the guns they carry. And how it always ends in lawsuits. A sort of comment on the state of the law these days. I'd also talk to Morris Cash and the federal judge who's involved.” After the waiter leaves I suggest she use the various recent examples from New York or Los Angeles instead of my case in Cheyenne. I have had quite enough publicity.

“The
Post
's readers aren't concerned with those places. They want to hear about something closer to home. So you're my man.”

I wish.

Rebecca says she has some questions for us both about the Lee trial. McGee waves a fat hand at the café full of reporters around us and replies that she can ask them later. So instead she tells us about the two antelope and the badger she saw while running on a trail through the foothills that morning. “This is an amazing place,” she says. “You've got gangs, murderers, cowboys, corrupt cops, hippies, and incredible wildlife all in the same town.”

I remember the times when my brother and I, as kids, hiked into the low hills and canyons just east of town. A badger lived just off the overgrown road. If we ran around a turn and came quickly enough into view, we would catch the badger out of his hole and get to watch him scurry for it, muttering in annoyance. We even had a name for him—we called him Nixon because he reminded us of a picture of the president. Then one day just as we came around the corner there was a long series of staccato gunshots followed by laughter. Three university students were gathered over the corpse of the badger they had just shot. They laughed and fired into it some more until all that was left of Nixon was a blown-apart pulp of hair and blood. I remember crying silently in the bushes while Roberto crept up to their truck, took out his pocketknife, and slashed all four tires. It was the same general area where Matthew Shepard was tied to a buck fence and pistol-whipped to death, the same area where Rebecca witnessed such beauty today. Wyoming is a strange place, I think.

Once I finish my own meal, I put a ten-dollar bill on the table and reluctantly leave, explaining that I have some calls to make and reports to write.

Back in my room, I again try Chris Braddock's phone number. It is answered by the same mature male voice I had spoken to on Sunday evening.

“Is Chris there?”

“No, he's not. Want me to take down a message for him?”

“No, that's all right. But I really need to get in touch with him. Is he at work or something?”

The voice laughs. “Chris doesn't exactly work. He's gone on a climbing trip. Some of his hippie friends came by and carted him off on Sunday night.”

“Listen, my name is Antonio Burns. I'm a Special Agent with the Attorney General's Office. It's important that I find Chris and ask him some questions. Who am I talking to?”

“This is Chris's landlord. I own this house and rent out rooms to college kids, mostly. Chris isn't in any trouble, is he, Agent?”

“I don't think he's in any trouble. I just have a couple of questions for him.”

“He's not a bad kid, you know. Just smokes a little dope in the backyard where he thinks I won't notice and hangs out with a strange crowd. I wouldn't want to see him go to jail or anything.”

“Who came and got him on Sunday?”

“They were the same ones he always hangs out with. An older guy named Billy who looks like a professional wrestler and a younger guy who never washes his hair. The guy with the hair's name is Brad Karge. He's the County Attorney's son.”

“Do you know where they were going?”

“Only because they were arguing about it so loud in the room next to where I was trying to watch the Rockies game. See, Chris didn't want to go anywhere. He kept telling those two that he was tired and had things to do. But they weren't having any of it. They kept on arguing with him. I walked in to ask them to keep it down and saw that those two were packing his gear, with Chris just sitting there like a kid who didn't want to go to church. The big guy gave me a nasty look, so I ended up just turning up the TV.”

“Did they say where they were going?”

“They kept talking about someplace called Cloud Peak. They were acting weird, like they usually do. Telling him something like that's where the angels fly.”

I hang up the phone and sit still on the bed for a long time. Despite the old codeine I took after breakfast, my head, back, and legs still ache. The stuff is probably too old to be fully effective. Or worse, maybe it has developed some side effect like hallucinations. I try to remember when I was last injured and got the prescription. Two years ago? Three? After a few minutes I get up to stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are set deeper than ever, pushed back by the swelling of the bruises on my cheeks. The tennis shoe tread is still plainly visible on top of the old scar that runs down my face.

“Shit,” I say to my reflection. The visage there looks as bad as I feel. I really don't feel up to taking a trip.

When I get my car keys from the top of the dresser, their jangle causes Oso to lift his heavy head. The beast follows me outside, past the pool and the curious stares from the tanning journalists. In the parking lot I unlock the truck and drag a large storage crate from the rear. I carry it into my room and then make a second trip for the other.

Back in the room I open them up and pull out some of my camping and climbing gear. Within minutes the room looks like an outdoor store that has been bombed. Everything smells slightly of dirt and sweat and gasoline. Oso recognizes those odors and is familiar with the packing process. He watches intently, in anticipation, as he always does when a trip is being planned. He knows we are going out into the mountains, and there is nothing he likes better. And I usually feel the same.

There is a knock at the door and I call for whoever it is to come in. I expect the maid or McGee, but it is Rebecca. She steps into the room and over the mess to sit on the bed while I wrestle my sleeping bag into the tiny stuff sack. The effort makes my ribs ache.

“Going somewhere, or are you just a slob?” I'm pleased she is back to being casual with me.

“An impromptu camping trip. That witness I wanted to talk to, Chris Braddock, was apparently coerced off into the mountains Sunday night by Heller and Brad Karge. I want to talk to him, and I'm a little worried they know it. I don't want him to have a climbing accident up there.”

“So what are you going to do? Try and stop them from climbing? By yourself?”

I shake my head as I fill water bottles at the sink. “No, just try to talk to them. But mainly make an appearance in the hopes that it'll keep the other two from doing Chris any harm up there.”

“Great. I want to come.”

I turn off the sink and wipe the bottle on a towel before tossing it in the open pack. “Sorry, but I don't think that's a very good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Look, they're up in the Big Horns, in Johnson County. It's easily a four-hour drive up there. And where they're climbing is a place way back in the wilderness—a long, long hike. It's cold, there's bears, and I may have to do some climbing myself. But I promise to give you a full report when I get back.”

She crosses her arms in front of her like a petulant, beautiful child. “I still want to go. Like I told you yesterday, you seem to be where all the excitement in this town is, at least until the sentencing. And do you realize that if the Knapp brothers didn't kill Kimberly Lee, that this could be the biggest story I'll ever see?”

Instead of replying, I shake the fuel bottle to see how much gas it holds.

“Maybe you don't think I can keep up. Well, I ran six miles this morning. You may have once been some semifamous athlete, but I can easily keep up with you, especially the way you look right now. And I may not know how to climb, but I grew up camping all over the country with my dad.”

“Sorry, but also there's the fact that these are not three of the nicest guys.”

She looks at me, her smile gone. I know what she is thinking, and wonder if she will say it. That I owe her for having helped me the day before. That she was the only one who tried—even the police wouldn't help me. But she doesn't say it, and I like her even better for it. She doesn't say another word. She just gets up and walks out of the room.