McLanahan grinned. “Did you learn anything?”

“About what?” Farkus said, turning to pour the water into the Mr. Coffee. “What I learned is that blistered feet and sore muscles ain’t my idea of a wonderful time.”

“I mean, did you learn about the terrain in the mountains up above the Big Stream Ranch? Did he show you the elk-hunting areas he likes best?”

“Yeah, and it’s no picnic. It’s rough country up there.”

“Do you think you could go back up there and know your way around?”

Finally, Farkus knew where it was headed.

“There’s a reward,” McLanahan said. “Federal money, and a lot of it—hundreds of thousands, if I heard right. Probably federal stimulus funds,” he said, and laughed. “But a hell of a lot of it.”

“How much?” Farkus asked.

“It don’t matter,” McLanahan said. “What matters is me finding Butch Roberson and either bringing him in or dragging him back facedown.”

Farkus shook his head. “But Butch is a pretty nice guy overall. He’s just an elk-hunting fool.”

McLanahan waved his hand as if swatting at a moth.

“It’s not about Butch Roberson,” McLanahan said, “and it’s not even about the reward that I’ll split down the middle with you.”

He paused for effect, then said, “It’s about nine voters when the next election comes around.”

“Oh,” Farkus said.

“You in?”

Farkus looked around the single-wide at the faded curtains and the buckled interior siding. At the quarter-inch of grease on the underside of the stove hood and the pile of cat feces in the corner of the floor near McLanahan’s boots.

“I can’t swear I can find him,” Farkus said.

“You don’t have to swear. You just have to point me in the right direction before the Feds get their poop in a group.”

McLanahan struggled to pry himself out of the tight fit and took a mug of coffee Farkus poured. He said, “I’ll be back in three hours with horses, guns, and gear. Can you get your shit together by then?”

“I guess so.”

“Pack for a couple of days and nights, although I’m guessing we won’t be up there that long. Word is Butch is on foot. He won’t be able to cover that much ground.”

Farkus asked, “Should I bring my thirty-aught-six?”

“Can you hit anything with it?”

Farkus shrugged. He hadn’t sighted it in since he’d gone hunting with Butch, and he recalled how many times that week he’d bumped the scope on rocks and trees.

McLanahan read his expression and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll have enough hardware to cover us.”

Farkus shook his head and said, “Butch Roberson—that just don’t seem right. He always seemed like, you know, a family guy, even though he could be a hell of a hard-ass on the construction site. I just can’t see him doing what you said he done. What was the deal, anyhow?”

“I didn’t accuse him,” McLanahan said. “Wheelchair Dick and the Feds did. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Will it just be us? Just you and me?”

McLanahan warned, “Don’t get all wrapped up in the details, Dave. Leave the organizing part to me. Your job is to guide, not think, okay?”

Farkus nodded, and was still nodding when McLanahan went out the door. His weight on the front step made the trailer rock.

He was right. Trouble had shown up early.

10

ON HIS WAY TO THE HOLIDAY INN TO MEET HIS NEW director for breakfast, Joe drove past the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport on the bench above the town. Despite a high chain-link fence that surrounded the perimeter, a small herd of pronghorn antelope had come back and were grazing between the two runways. Because adult pronghorns ranged from eighty to one hundred fifty pounds, they obviously posed a safety hazard to incoming aircraft and themselves, although they usually had the sense to get far out of the way.

If he didn’t have the appointment, Joe thought, he would pull over and shoo them away by firing blank .22 cracker shells. If the pronghorns continued to hang out between the runways, he might need to dart them and transport them somewhere else in his district. The prospect of a small propeller passenger plane striking one or more gave him a shudder.

And beyond the grazing pronghorns, parked in front of the state-owned hangar, was a glittering eight-passenger Cessna Encore jet. On the tail was the familiar bucking-horse-and-rider logo. It was known as Rulon One—the governor’s plane.

—

JOE CHECKED HIS WATCH as he walked through the aging atrium to the restaurant in the back of the hotel. He was on time. He tried to guess what she might look like, thinking: trim, probably fashionable, businesslike, professional, tightly wound and anxious. He spotted her sitting alone in a booth next to the wall, speed-reading the Casper Star-Tribune, an iPhone within quick reach next to her cup of coffee.

Lisa Greene-Dempsey looked up as he approached her. There was no doubting who she was, and he congratulated himself for profiling her well enough to identify. She practically fell over herself getting up, he thought, tossing the newspaper aside and striding across the carpet to greet him. She took his extended right hand in both of hers and pumped it, and said, “The infamous Joe Pickett—I’m so happy to meet you.”

He said, “Infamous?”

“Probably the wrong choice of words,” she said, pulling him to her booth, still holding his hand. “Call me LGD.”

“Okay, LGD.” He removed his hat and placed it crown-down next to him.

“Director LGD,” she said with a tight smile.

She was slim and tall with severely straight light brown hair parted just off-center on the top of her head. It was streaked with gray and cut along her jawline so it gave the impression of long hair without being long. She had high cheekbones and wore designer glasses that drew attention to her already oversized blue eyes. She smiled enthusiastically with her entire mouth, upper and lower teeth framed by a box of thin lips and thrust out at him in an overeager way. Joe felt more than slightly bowled over by the sheer intensity of her studied sincerity.

He hadn’t even settled in the seat across from her before she started talking.

“On my run this morning with the sun just lighting up the mountains, I thought: what a magnificent place this is,” she said, waggling her fingers in the air. “Mountains and fresh air, clean water in the streams, and I even saw some mule deer along the path. Two females and their babies, just watching me run past them, and I thought: we need to preserve this for future generations. They need to see and experience nature in the same way we do, and I’m afraid we sometimes take what we’ve got for granted, you know?”

Joe said, “Yup.”

“I think an important part of our agency’s mission should be to encourage the appreciation and sense of wonder a viable wildlife population brings us. I hope that doesn’t sound too touchy-feely, but I believe it.”

Joe nodded in agreement, but had trouble keeping eye contact because her look was so . . . intense. He was relieved when the waitress came over and asked for his order.

“He doesn’t have a menu,” Greene-Dempsey said archly to the waitress.

The server was middle-aged and overweight, with broad features, stout legs, and a no-nonsense set to her mouth. Her name badge said MAYVONNE. She’d worked at the restaurant for as long as Joe could remember, and she was known for sass. She took a deep breath, as if holding her tongue was a struggle, glanced at Joe, then glared at his new boss.

“That’s okay,” Joe told MayVonne quickly, trying to avert an outbreak of hostilities. “I’ll have the usual.”

As MayVonne filled his coffee cup she said, “Two eggs over-easy, ham, wheat toast, no hash browns?”