"It wasn't like that," Joe said, but didn't want to explain. He was thinking about the contents of the last spiral notebook. How it was all coming together. How ugly it had been for Will at the end.

They drove in silence until Joe could see the lights of Jackson in the distance. It seemed as if he had lived there forever, not just a few days. The ambulance was stopped on the highway in front of them so that a long column of tourists on horseback could cross the highway en route to their guest ranch for the night. Tassell stopped directly behind it, the headlights of the pickup shining into the ambulance and illuminating the body wrapped in the ground tarp.

"There goes my budget for medical examinations for the fiscal year," Tassell sighed.

After an examination, a blood test, twenty stitches in his side and eight in his arm, Joe was remanded to the hospital for a night of observation. He was given sedatives by a doctor whose name tag identified him as "Dr. Thompson," who also wore a Day-Glo button that read "SKI BUM." The sedative was starting to dull the pain and bring him down. Before he went to sleep, he reached for the telephone at the side of his bed.

"Marybeth," Joe said, thrilled at hearing the sound of her voice, "I just killed the only man in Jackson Hole I really understood."

THIRTY-ONE

As he dressed the next morning, Joe tried to recall the conversation he'd had the night before with Marybeth, and snippets came floating back. It had been difficult to concentrate with the drugs kicking in, and the only thing that kept him awake during the conversation was the tone of her voice, which was urgent and somehow melancholy at the same time, as if she wanted to be angry with him but the circumstances prevented it. At the time, it was important for him to hear her voice, to touch base, to reestablish something. He needed her to be his anchor, to reel him back home from where he was. But she had other concerns. Sheridan was being difficult, having attitude problems, and life between Marybeth and her oldest daughter was getting tougher. "It's a mother and daughter deal," Marybeth said, as if Joe would understand that. In response, he offered to talk with Sheridan-they had a special rapport, he thought-but Marybeth said their daughter was already in bed.

He vividly remembered her telling him that Barnum was the 720 caller, the "720" being from a calling card, and that

Nate had caught the ex-sheriff in the act in the Stockman's Bar. The news of Barnum's humiliation had swept through town, she said, and the old ex-sheriff was lying low, nowhere to be found. Joe cautioned his wife to watch out for Barnum.

"He blames me for his bad luck," Joe said.

"Don't worry," she said, "Nate is around."

"That's good."

"Yes," she said, after a long pause, which led him to wonder. Then: "It is good, isn't it?"

It seemed there was something else she wanted to say but didn't.

She had offered to leave the girls with her mother and come to Jackson right away to see him, but he told her not to.

"I'm more tired than hurt," he said, fixing his eyes on a blank television screen to keep them from closing, "and there's a lot I need to do in the next couple of days. Remember that missing notebook I told you about?"

He could not remember how their conversation had concluded. What had he told her? Had he outlined his suspicions? If he had, he couldn't remember her response. The details weren't there, but what stayed with him as he dressed was a recollection of vague misconnection, as if they had been talking past each other, telling each other different stories, each with a point that the other didn't, or couldn't, grasp.

"So you've decided you're fine and you'll release yourself from the hospital?" Dr. Thompson said. "Usually a doctor does that. Namely me."

Joe was standing with his back to the door, cinching up his belt. He turned to see Dr. Thompson holding a clipboard chart and leaning against the doorjamb. "I needed a good night's sleep more than anything," Joe said.

"I don't disagree with your prognosis, given your, um, condition."

Joe was confused.

"Let me look at your wound and get it redressed," Thompson said. "Then we should probably have a little talk. You need to start taking better care of yourself, Mr. Pickett."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," Joe said. "Am I sick?" He thought of how he had felt since arriving in Jackson, the foggy mental state, the sleeplessness, his lack of ability to concentrate. He steeled himself for bad news.

Thompson looked at Joe with amusement in his eyes, as if signaling him they could drop the pretense.

"Look, I'm a doctor, not a cop," Thompson said. "The blood test we took last night is confidential information. No one can find out what's on it. But you seem like a nice enough guy, and you have law enforcement responsibilities, and you carry lots of guns around with you. So you need to be aware of the side effects of your, um, indulgences."

"My what?"

"First, take off your shirt and let me look at that wound."

Stella Ennis was waiting for him in the hospital lobby, and the sight of her stopped him cold. She looked up at him over the top of a Jackson Hole newspaper.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Not as good as I thought, apparently." His voice was shaky from the discussion he'd had with Dr. Thompson.

"You look pretty good," she said, smiling.

"You do too."

She laughed, throwing her head back. "You should have seen me ten years and fifteen pounds ago. I would have blown you away."

She wore a black turtleneck sweater with silver and gold threads running through the fabric, and gray slacks. Her thick auburn hair brushed her shoulders. She shook the newspaper with exaggerated force.

"Did you know you're a celebrity?" she asked.

"No."

"How about I buy you breakfast?"

"Okay."

"We need to talk."

"Yes," Joe said, "we do."

The morning was crisp and bright, the sun not yet well enough established to have burned the frost off windshields and lawns. They walked along a slick wooden sidewalk to a restaurant near the hospital that was crowded. The place specialized in baked goods and had a sign out front that read GET YOUR BUNS IN HERE.

"I used to love this place," Stella said, taking him by the hand and leading him past it, "but I'm a little too familiar in there and it isn't as good as it used to be. Let's go to the Sportsman's Cafe."

"That's my favorite," Joe said.

"I know," she said, rolling her eyes. "It was Will's favorite too."

Ed seated them in the back booth near the kitchen door, and Joe ordered the Sportsman's Special. Stella smiled knowingly at the order.

"I know," Joe said. "Will's choice too."

"It's spooky," she said, ordering coffee and a bagel.

Joe looked at her across the table, and she looked straight back. Her name had come up so many times since he'd met her. He'd thought about her, even dreamed about her. The fact that he hadn't told Marybeth about her said more than he cared to think about. When Stella looked back at him he had the impression he'd been on her mind as well, but he wasn't sure in what context. It was as if they'd been circling each other for days, each looking for an opening.