“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“I’ll give you one example of many,” Underwood said, keeping his voice low so his agents couldn’t overhear. “When Batista got named director of Region Eight, his salary went up into the mid–six figures, so he wanted a new house in a ritzy neighborhood because he figured he deserved it. So he bought a McMansion in a gated horsey development named Summit Highlands out of Denver. Two-million-dollar home with five acres, or something like that. After he moved in, he hired a contractor to outfit the roof with solar panels. You know, to set an example of how people should exist. He’s big into that stuff—a true believer. Plus, he knows how to get tax credits and rebates for solar. That’s what the agency does, after all.”

Underwood grinned bitterly. “But Summit Highlands has a homeowners’ association and the bylaws say a house can’t be modified externally unless a majority of the owners agree. Apparently, those folks thought the solar panels were an eyesore. Batista fought them but couldn’t get the votes. He became obsessed with beating them.

“He called me into his office one day and asked about my background and wondered if I’d be interested in helping him out. He thought I looked intimidating, I guess.”

“Imagine that,” Joe said, deadpan. “Go on.”

“I got the message,” Underwood said. “So over the next several weeks I visited every one of the board members of the homeowners’ association. I asked them about the fertilizer they used on their lawns and on the golf course, and where the runoff flowed. I asked them how many lawn mowers and leaf blowers were being used and what the decibel level was. I mentioned possible violations of the Clean Water Act and the Clean Air Act, all innocent-like, and I took a lot of notes. See, the dirty little secret is, our agency oversees three things: air, water, and the earth itself. Think about it. That’s a pretty damned big area to cover, and it gives us a lot of options. I never threatened anyone or initiated any action, but they were smart folks and connected A to B.

“Next homeowners’ association meeting, the solar panels for Juan Julio Batista got approved by two votes. After that, I got bumped up to chief of the special agents.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Joe asked.

“Because the son of a bitch has gone too far this time. He told me a few minutes ago he used my name with some defense guys I used to work with to get something in motion.”

“What’s he done?” Joe asked, feeling a shiver roll down his back.

“You’ll see,” Underwood said. Joe noticed a vein in Underwood’s temple throbbing as he spoke. He was angry.

“Here’s another little tidbit,” Underwood said, leaning toward Joe and lowering his voice, “and if you ever repeat it to anybody I’ll figure out a way to make your life as crappy as we did that Roberson guy’s. Do you want to know my boss’s name before he changed it?”

“He changed it?”

“John Pate,” Underwood said, and laughed. “He grew up as a boring little white dude from Illinois named John Owen Pate. But after he left college, he changed it. His parents were whiter than white, but when they divorced, when he was in college, his mother married a dude named Batista. John Pate became Juan Julio Batista because he wanted to be more exotic, you know? He wanted a name that would stand out and get him noticed in the system those years. He’s naturally dark-haired and dark-eyed, so it worked out for him. And he took advantage of policies to promote people of color.”

“How do you know this?”

Underwood chuckled. “I’m an investigator, Game Warden. I investigated. I’ve got photocopies of his high school yearbook when he was John Pate, and I found his parents’ divorce record and his mother’s marriage announcement to Sergio Batista when John was twenty-one. He changed his name the year he left college. Isn’t that a kick in the pants?”

“So he lied to get the job,” Joe said.

“Nobody checks those things,” Underwood said. “You tick a box on your employment application and you get moved to a special pile. And even if it was exposed, I doubt he’d be thrown out.”

“Because he’s good at his job,” Joe said.

“That’s right. As we like to say in the agency, personnel is policy. Batista can get things done.”

“But not immediately,” Joe countered. “Not unless someone with real political juice knew how to turn that aircraft carrier around.”

“So we’re back to that, huh?” Underwood said, his face darkening. “Didn’t you hear me when I said I didn’t give a shit?”

“But I do,” Joe said.

Underwood sighed and said, “I don’t know who put him up to it. He didn’t involve me in this one.”

“Interesting. Is it possible he initiated the action himself?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Underwood said. “I doubt it, though. Batista is a political animal. He’s after big fish and headlines. Why would he waste his time on a couple of small-town losers?”

“That’s what I want to figure out,” Joe said.

—

JOE HELD HIS TONGUE and his outrage in check while they surveyed the treeless and tumbled scree that led to the summit ahead of them. Despite the season, there were still dirty strips of snow packed into broken shale where the sun couldn’t melt them. It was nearly full dark, and the glow from the last of the sun over the top of the mountain made their side dark, confusing, and unfocused. The stars hadn’t yet taken over the night sky enough to light up the slope.

Joe proposed a switchback route that zigged right, then left around a sharp outcropping, then right again across a flat snowfield.

“We can’t just go straight up and over?” Underwood asked.

“Not unless you want to cut up your horses’ legs,” Joe said. “Plus, your guys aren’t real riders. It’s always best to take the easiest route and let the horse pick his way.”

“So be it,” Underwood declared, and turned his horse to gather his team.

Joe stayed. He turned up the collar of his Filson vest against a slight icy breeze. When Underwood’s back had faded out of sight into the gloom below, Joe reached up and unzipped the vest and reached into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt.

And clicked off the digital micro-recorder he’d left in his pocket from that morning when he encountered Bryce Pendergast.

23

THE LOG LEAN-TO WAS SO OLD AND WELL HIDDEN IT would have been hard to see if Butch Roberson hadn’t known exactly where it was. The lean-to’s roof was furry with lichen and moss that blended in perfectly in the forest, and it was set in a huge stand of thick trees that was cool and dark.

Farkus shuffled forward and was surprised there was an orange plastic cooler with a white lid set inside. After seeing nothing most of the day that wasn’t rock, trees, or brush, the modernity of the cooler was like finding a highway cone in the middle of the desert. Next to the cooler was a bulging burlap sack that had been tied off with a leather string.

He stopped and shook his head. Who put it there, and how did Butch know it would be waiting?

Behind him, Butch said, “I trust you gentlemen will help me with dinner, because we’re just about to lose our light. Farkus, you gather some wood and kindling. Sheriff, you dig a nice fire pit inside that lean-to and get the fire going.”

Then, with obvious anticipation, Butch said, “I’ll cook our dinner.”

He stepped through them and threw off the lid. Farkus was stunned to see what was inside the cooler. Huge, thick triangles of white butcher paper, potatoes, onions, Gatorade, and the unmistakable grinning tops of a six-pack of Coors beer. All of it nestled in ice.

“We’ve died and gone to heaven,” Farkus said.