A WEEK LATER, JOE and Marybeth sat together at a table in the Ramshorn Restaurant and Lounge, waiting for the arrival of Judge Hewitt, who had asked them to join him for lunch. In Saddlestring, there were two choices for a midday meal: the Burg-O-Pardner, which specialized in fried foods like chicken-fried steak and Rocky Mountain oysters, and the Ramshorn, which was a step up in atmosphere and fresh food, but was chronically unable to keep staff. Apparently, the judge now preferred the Ramshorn ever since he’d sentenced a Burg-O-Pardner short-order cook for dealing narcotics.
“So what does he want to talk to us about?” Marybeth asked Joe. She was wearing a smart dark suit and a white blouse with her hair up, and had on her reading glasses so she could scan the menu. She looked to Joe to be very much the sexy librarian, and he told her so.
“Please,” she said, pretending to be annoyed at him. “I wanted to look good for our board meeting this afternoon.”
“You succeeded,” he said.
Marybeth looked him over and smiled. Joe was in uniform and he’d spent the morning on patrol in the breaklands west of town, checking deer and antelope hunters for their licenses and conservation stamps. His boots were coated with dried mud and there was a smear of blood from a hanging mule deer carcass on the thigh of his jeans.
“I didn’t dress up,” he said.
“I see that. Is there any word on how Bill Brodbeck is doing?”
“He’s still in critical condition, but stable, from what I understand. They flew him to a hospital in Denver for more surgery.”
“Poor guy,” she said. Then: “Oh, I meant to tell you that I got a text from Sheridan. She’s on her way to that job in Colorado with no problems.”
“Walden, right? Has she met her contact yet?” Joe asked.
“I don’t think so, although she said she’s hoping to find a place to stay that will allow her to bring her falcons into her room. She seems to be okay, considering all that she has on her plate.”
*
THE PREDATOR ATTACK Team, plus a new game warden from Powell, who’d been sent to fill out the squad in Brodbeck’s absence, had dispersed earlier in the week when the rogue grizzly could not be located either by air or on the ground. Although two of the culvert traps had been tripped, the creatures inside turned out to be local black bears and they were immediately released. A mountain lion had been caught in one of the snares and it, too, was freed. There had been no images of the grizzly bear on the trail cameras the team had set up on the slopes around the river.
Fortunately, there had been no more bear attacks in the Twelve Sleep Valley, but the unresolved nature of the hunt had darkened the mood of the team, including Joe. Jennie Gordon had spoken for all of them when she said she hoped the bear had been mortally wounded and had died somewhere in the Bighorns and wouldn’t kill or maim any more human beings. But, she said, it was unsettling not to know for sure. Joe felt the same way.
The plan was for the Predator Attack Team to return and comb the area a second time to try and get a resolution one way or another. Joe had been asked by Jennie Gordon to reunite with them.
The aftermath of the two attacks had cast a pall over the area. Hunters in the breaklands and the mountains had asked Joe for details about the attacks, and several said they found themselves jumping at every sound in the woods. Men wore large-caliber sidearms and bear spray holsters at all times, and several long-established elk hunting guide operations had already broken up their camps and moved out when their out-of-state clients canceled at the last minute.
Three days before, a hunter from Michigan had killed an Angus steer in a ranch pasture, thinking it was a bear. He’d turned himself in and was negotiating with the rancher to cover the loss.
In another instance, a hiker from New Jersey bought a canister of bear spray from a local shop, but he didn’t know how to use it and applied it to his skin as if it were sunscreen before setting off on the trail. The capsicum-rich formula burned his skin and temporarily blinded him and he wound up in the Twelve Sleep County Hospital.
The psychologist at the Saddlestring Middle School was quoted in the Roundup saying that a number of students refused to go outside for gym class because they were terrified of being mauled. Joe had rolled his eyes at that one.
But he’d felt the pall himself. He was looking over his shoulder more than ever, and was hyper-attuned to the snaps of twigs in the brush, as well as Daisy’s early warning woofs. Even Marybeth, who fed her horses hay every morning and evening, no longer ventured from the house to the barn without a canister of bear spray clipped to her belt.
*
JUDGE HEWITT SHOWED up five minutes late in his usual concentrated fury, pushing through the front doors. He made his way straight to their table. Small, dark, and twitchy, Hewitt ordered “the usual” from a waitress en route without breaking stride. He’d left his robe in his chambers, although Joe assumed the man was armed, since he always was.
“Greetings, greetings,” he said as he pumped Joe’s and Marybeth’s hands.
“You look very nice today,” he said to Marybeth. “I like an attractive woman who wants to look her best.”
Marybeth smiled woodenly at that, and Joe stifled a smirk. Political correctness was not something Judge Hewitt subscribed to.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Sometimes attorneys don’t know when to shut up. Have you ordered?”
“Not yet,” Joe answered.
“Colleen,” Hewitt called to the waitress he’d brushed by.
“Coming,” she responded.
Marybeth ordered a Cobb salad and Joe a cheeseburger and fries.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Hewitt said, placing his hands palms down on the table and fixing both of them with his intense stare. “Joe, did you find the grizzly bear?”
“Nope,” Joe said. He caught the judge up on what had, and hadn’t, happened in the past week.
“I take bear spray and my weapon with me every morning on my walk now,” the judge said, shaking his head. “If that bear shows up, I’m going to blast him with the spray and finish him off with my .44.”
Joe believed him. Judge Hewitt was a world-class big-game trophy hunter who started every morning with a vigorous three-mile walk around the golf course at the exclusive Eagle Mountain Club located on the outskirts of town. He’d once shot and killed a coyote fifty yards away who was sharing his path.
Inside the judge’s palatial home was a seven-foot full-mount brown bear that he’d killed in Alaska, among other big-game trophies.
“Okay,” Hewitt said. “Our time together is short, so I’ll get down to brass tacks. As you know, the election is two weeks away.”
Joe and Marybeth nodded. Both local and statewide elections would soon take place and the political atmosphere was charged. On the statewide level, Governor Colter Allen had announced months before that he wasn’t going to run for reelection. The reason he gave publicly was to “spend more time with his family,” but the actual impetus for his decision was to avoid being exposed for corruption and malfeasance while in office. His denouement had occurred in front of Joe in the state jet as it was parked at the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport months before. The real reason for Allen stepping aside wasn’t public knowledge. Regardless, most of the voters of the state were pleased to see him go.
Governor Spencer Rulon, who had served two terms prior to Allen, had been drafted to run again and had no serious opposition. Joe welcomed the return of Rulon, with whom he’d had a special, if sometimes baffling, relationship.
“Governor Rulon has asked me to be his AG,” Hewitt said. “He wants me to take on the feds in a blizzard of lawsuits. He wants me to bury them in litigation.”
“Attorney general?” Marybeth said. “Congratulations.”
“Are you going to do it?” Joe asked.
“Yes, but it’ll be hell,” Hewitt said morosely. “Living in Cheyenne and dealing with the D.C. Blob every day. It should shorten my life span by a decade or so.”
“But you’ll be good at it,” Joe said.
“Yeah, I will,” Hewitt agreed. “Because I hate those federal agencies and bureaucrats with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns. Maybe the first thing I’ll do is sue to get the number of grizzly bears down to a manageable population so they aren’t running around like maniacs killing our innocent people.”
“Good luck with that,” Joe said.
“Another thing,” Judge Hewitt said as his rare steak sandwich arrived, “I’d like you both to support Jackson Bishop for our new sheriff.”
“Your son-in-law?” Joe said.
“That’s him. What about it?” Hewitt said while sawing at the steak. “Isn’t it a good thing to know personally about the good character of a candidate for sheriff?”
“Sure,” Joe said.
“Look, I know you’ve had a bad run with our local sheriffs. We’ve had too many chuckleheads around here. Jackson is different. He’s competent and experienced.”
“Good to hear,” Joe said. “A competent sheriff would be a welcome change around here. We haven’t had a good one since Mike Reed.”
Currently, Bishop was an undersheriff in Park County and married to Hewitt’s only daughter. His opponent was Ruthanne Hubbard, who had been the county dispatcher for over twenty years. Hubbard had conducted a not-very-secret affair with the previous sheriff, Scott Tibbs, which had led to Mrs. Tibbs relocating to California and the sudden retirement of Tibbs himself.
Joe had briefly met Bishop at the Burg-O-Pardner as the man was campaigning door-to-door. Bishop was tall and fit with dark hair, a full mustache, and pale gray eyes that darted over Joe’s shoulder to see who else had entered the diner. Joe’s instant impression of Bishop was that of a good politician, glib and smooth.
He’d introduced himself by complimenting Joe and saying, “I hear you’ve had a mixed working relationship with the sheriff’s department.”
“You could say that,” Joe replied.
“Well, I want you to know that I value the job and responsibilities of game wardens. I think you’re an important part of the law enforcement community and I would consider you a fellow LEO. I pledge to cooperate with you if you’ll make the same pledge to cooperate with me.”
“It sounds like you’ve already got the job,” Joe said.
Bishop winked and said, “I have friends in high places.”
*
“JUDGE,” MARYBETH SAID to Jackson Bishop’s friend in high places while her Cobb salad was placed in front of her, “why are you asking for our support? Joe is the game warden and I’m the library’s director. We aren’t political.”
“No, but you’re both honest and straightforward people,” Hewitt said. “Folks around here know you can be trusted. And if you come out in support of Jackson, that will mean something in this county.”
“I need to stay out of this,” Joe said. “It’s not Game and Fish business to get involved in local elections. Especially when I need to work closely with whoever wins.”
Hewitt waved Joe’s statement away with the back of his hand. “This state has barely over a half million people. Everybody knows everybody, and there aren’t any of us without conflicts of interest. Hell, Ruthanne was diddling Sheriff Tibbs, and now she’s running for his job. You don’t think that isn’t a conflict? I know you like to operate under the radar, Joe, but sometimes you have to step up.”
Joe didn’t respond.
“I work for the county,” Marybeth said to Hewitt. “The sheriff’s department is a part of county government. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to weigh in on the election one way or the other.”
Judge Hewitt sat back in a huff and glared at them both.
“Just don’t oppose him, then,” he said. “I’m sure you can do that, at least.”
“I have no reason to oppose him,” Joe said. “That’s easy.”
“Same here,” Marybeth said. “I neither support nor oppose him.”
“So it’s a small victory, then,” Hewitt declared, as if tacking on an amendment to a criminal sentence in his courtroom.
With that, he pushed his empty plate away and stood up.
“I’ve got to get back to court,” he said. “I need to put a fentanyl dealer away. And you know why I need to throw the book at him and send him to Rawlins for the rest of his natural life?”
“No,” Joe said.
“Because I can’t publicly execute him where he sits,” Hewitt said. As he spoke, he patted the bulge under his left arm, where, no doubt, his handgun was holstered.
*
AFTER JUDGE HEWITT had blown out of the restaurant, Marybeth turned to Joe. “Well, that was weird.”
“The AG part or the sheriff part?” Joe asked.
“Both, I guess.”
“I agree,” Joe said. “I don’t know why he thought we had that much influence around here. But I am curious to learn more about Jackson Bishop. I might call the Park County game warden and see what he thinks of him.”
“I’ll do a little digging myself,” Marybeth said. “I know some people in county government in Cody.”
*
AS JOE STOOD up from the table and clamped on his hat, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his breast pocket. He took it out.
“It’s Jennie,” he said to Marybeth. Then: “Hello, Jennie.”
The pause was unnaturally long, which to Joe signaled bad news.
“Oh no,” Joe said. “Was there another attack?”
“Yes. And like the previous one, this one doesn’t make any sense, either.”
“Where?” Joe asked.
“Yesterday. North of Rawlins.”
“Rawlins?” Joe said. “That’s two hundred and fifty miles south of here.”
“I know.”
“That’s not bear country,” Joe said. As he spoke, he noticed that Marybeth had paused to listen in. There was concern on her face as well.
“Don’t I know it,” Jennie said. “As far as I know, we’ve never had an incident this far south.”
“Is it our bear?”
“I don’t know that, either,” she said. “But the MO sounds similar and the photos they’ve sent me look very familiar. A man walks out of his rural house to go to work in the morning and the bear hits him before he can get into his truck. Tears the guy to shreds and kills him. His head was crushed and it appears to be an incidence of overkill.”
“Were there other wounds? Defensive wounds?”
“Yes,” she said. “There were deep claw marks on his forearms where it looks like he tried to fight off the attack. His belly was slashed as well.”
“That’s horrible,” Joe said. “Who is the victim?”
He could hear her flipping through her notes, then she said, “Ryan Winner. Sergeant Ryan Winner. Big guy in his late forties. He was a CO at the men’s prison down there.”