Blood trail

16

"PARDON MY FRENCH," Governor Spencer Rulon said after Joe detailed the events of the day and night before, "but it sounds like a classic clusterfuck."

"It was," Pope sighed, leaning away from Joe as if to distance himself both literally and figuratively.

Rulon asked Pope, "Did you come to that conclusion from the comfort of your hotel room after you cut and ran like a rabbit?"

They were crammed into Rulon's small private office in the capitol building on Twenty-fourth Street, as opposed to the public office and conference room where Rulon could generally be observed by constituents and visitors touring the building. Rulon's private office was dark and windowless with a high ceiling and shelves crammed with books, unopened gifts, and what looked to Joe like the governor's eccentric collection of fossils, arrowheads, and bits of bone. Also in the room, in addition to Pope, who sat next to Joe facing Rulon across his desk, and Stella, who sat at Rulon's right hand but managed to defer to him with such professional determination that she became an extension of him rather than his chief of staff, were Richard Brewer, director of the state Department of Criminal Investigation, and Special Agent Tony Portenson of the FBI. Joe and Portenson had exchanged scowls, and Rulon cautioned them, saying, "Now, boys…" They went back six years. Portenson was dark, pinched, and had close-set eyes and a scar that hitched up his upper lip so that it looked like he was sneering. The last time Joe had seen Portenson was in Yellowstone Park, as the FBI agent set up a scenario to betray Joe and lead Joe's friend Nate Romanowski away in cuffs.

Everyone was so tightly packed around Rulon's desk that it was both intimate and uncomfortable in equal measures, and Joe guessed that was exactly the atmosphere Rulon wanted to create. The governor was the only one with room, with the ability to wave his arms or pounce across the desk like a big cat to make a point. To Joe, Stella's silence and stillness only seemed to make her more conspicuous. Or at least it did to him.

Pope was obviously flustered by Rulon's question, and he once again withdrew his digital camera from his coat, turned it on, and handed it across the desk to the governor.

"This was in my room," Pope said gravely.

Rulon leaned forward, saw the image of Frank Urman's head, and winced.

Pope handed the camera to Brewer, who turned white when he saw it. Portenson looked at it and rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if to say, "You people out here are savages." When offered the camera, Stella shook her head quickly to refuse.

"The shooter knew I was up there," Pope said. "He wanted to send me a personal message."

"Looks like he did," Rulon said. "Has the press gotten ahold of this yet?"

Pope shrugged.

"They will," Rulon said, "and it will make a bad situation even worse."

"Expect to see it on the Internet," Brewer said. "Somebody will post it."

Rulon sighed.

Joe noted how skillfully Pope had steered the topic away from his leaving them on the mountain. He wanted to hear the answer. And he still wanted to know why Pope had brought Wally Conway.

"What happened to your neck?" Rulon asked Pope, fingering his own.

Joe thought, Uh-oh.

"Just an accident," Pope said quickly. "I walked into a branch up there in the mountains and nearly strangled myself."

Joe stared at Pope, wondering why he was protecting him.

"I feel really damned bad about Robey," Rulon said to Joe. "He was a good man. He was a buddy of yours, wasn't he, Joe? Please let me know about the funeral arrangements so I can be there, okay?"

Joe nodded.

Rulon said, "I've already alerted the AG to get ready for the civil suit from Buck Lothar's family, assuming he has one. Even though it sounds like the guy screwed up, according to Joe, it's gonna cost us millions, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," Brewer echoed, gesturing toward Joe. "The potential suit may hinge on my investigation of the incident, which I'm prepared to do immediately."

The governor waved him away, indicating there was no hurry.

"What about this other guy, Conway?" Rulon asked Pope. "Should we expect something from his family?"

Joe listened with anticipation.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Pope said, casually dismissing the notion out of hand. "That's the last thing I'm worried about. We've got a lot bigger trouble brewing."

"No shit," Rulon said.

Joe wondered what had just happened, what he'd missed. "DO YOU BOYS remember the story of Eric Rudolph?" Governor Spencer Rulon asked in such a manner that it was clear he was going to tell the story no matter how Joe or Pope answered.

"Eric Rudolph," Brewer said, answering the governor's question. "North Carolina. Rudolph-"

Rulon proceeded as if Brewer had never spoken: "Eric Rudolph was and is a slimeball, a walking bucket of pond scum. But he may be relevant to our situation here. How? you ask. I'll tell you."

Joe settled back in his chair, wondering where this was going.

"Eric Rudolph was the miserable buckaroo who set off a bomb at the Atlanta Olympics in 1996 that killed two people and injured a hundred and eleven others. He also bombed an abortion clinic in Atlanta and a gay and lesbian nightclub in Birmingham, which killed a cop. Eric Rudolph was a true believer," Rulon said. "The problem was he was a true believer in a horseshit set of beliefs that included the Christian Identity Movement-whatever that is-and what he called global socialism. He said he was an anti-Semite who was against homosexuality, abortion, globalism, et cetera, et cetera. The only thing I agree with him about is he thought John Lennon's 'Imagine' was a despicable song."

Joe noted that Rulon's last comment brought a hint of a smile from Stella.

After a few beats, Randy Pope said, "Sir, I don't see what Eric Rudolph has to do with us."

Rulon made a pained face. "You don't?"

"No, sir."

"You don't see the similarities?" Rulon asked with incredulity.

"I'm afraid not."

Rulon heaved a sigh, leaned forward on his desk, and lowered his voice. "Director Pope, Eric Rudolph was on the run for five and a half years before he got caught. Everybody knew who he was, knew what he looked like, knew all about him. Everyone knew he was in Appalachia, and most likely North Carolina, the whole time. But despite the best efforts of federal, state, and local law enforcement, he eluded them for five and a half years. Yes, five and a half years.

"Finally, in May of 2003, a rookie police officer in Murphy, North Carolina, caught Rudolph Dumpster-diving outside a Save-A-Lot store. Rudolph was unarmed and clean-shaven, wearing new clothes and new shoes. They found his little camp, which turned out to be a stone's throw from two strip malls and a high school. Apparently, the officers reported they could hear the highway traffic from where Rudolph's camp was-it was that close to civilization."

Rulon paused again. When Pope shook his head to indicate he still didn't get it, Rulon said, "For five and a half years, the top fugitive on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list lived and prospered in the hills of North Carolina and was finally captured wearing new clothes and with a fresh shave, despite a one-million-dollar reward. Everyone was astonished when it happened, but they shouldn't have been. What those law-enforcement people should have been paying attention to was the fact that 'Run Rudolph Run' T-shirts and bumper stickers were damned hot sellers in the area, and that there were enough local sympathizers-true believers-to keep Rudolph fed, clothed, and well taken care of right under their noses. Despite a massive ground search and the best experts and high technology, this guy lived two hundred yards from a strip mall in a densely populated area."

Rulon slammed his desk with the heel of his hand. "The reason Eric Rudolph remained free was because of sympathizers who were true believers like him. Not the whole county, to be sure, but it doesn't take a whole county-just a few true believers. They'd rather take care of him and give him food, shelter, and clothes than collect on a million bucks. They believed in him and his cause.

"Right now," Rulon said, "Klamath Moore is up there in Saddlestring with a bunch of followers. Most of his people have come in from other states, but some, no doubt, are local. Joe, how many people in your county would you guess are pro-hunting?"

"It's hard to say, but I'd guess sixty percent," Joe said. "Maybe higher."

"What percentage just couldn't care less?"

Joe shrugged. "Twenty-five, thirty percent, I'd say."

"Which leaves us what-ten percent anti-hunters?"

Joe nodded.

"How many of them are true believers?"

"I have no idea," Joe said.

"Even if it's five or ten people," Rulon said, "that's enough to create a support network for the guy who is out there. And that's all he needs. Plus, he'll have a good percentage of the press and a lot of sympathetic elitists who despise hunting on his side. And make no mistake, there are more people in this country against hunting than for it. Right now, today, even in my own state, Klamath Moore is up there preaching to the converted and radicalizing maybe just a few more folks over to his cause. His aim is to build something that will last a long time. As hard as it is to believe, gentlemen, there are already people all across this country and the world who look to Klamath Moore and the killer as heroes. Some of the news coverage is already being spun that way-'Neanderthal hunters in Wyoming are finally getting their comeuppance.' The world is going mad, as we know, but all these years we've been isolated from that. Not anymore.

"I predict there will be T-shirts and bumper stickers printed within the week. That unless we find this killer real fast, we won't find him for years. And that for every week that passes, this murderer will grow in stature among the loonies until he's a legend. And so will Klamath Moore."

Rulon turned his attention to Randy Pope. "Now do you see the connection? Do you follow?"

"Yes, sir," Pope said, unable to swallow. "My agency will be decimated by the lack of revenue from hunting licenses."

"Not to mention how it'll kill sales tax revenue," Rulon said. "But Director Brewer and Special Agent Tony Portenson have some information and a new theory," Rulon said, leaning back in his chair, using the words Special Agent as if they were curse words. "Much of this was unknown to me until about an hour ago, and I'd very much like you to hear it."

Portenson glared at the governor with naked hatred. Joe thought, There's something going on here. "KLAMATH MOORE really wasn't on our radar screen until recently," Richard Brewer said, withdrawing a file from his briefcase and placing it on the governor's desk. "Not until Director Pope contacted us with his suspicions that the 'accidental' hunting deaths of John Garrett and Warren Tucker might be connected in some way. For that, we sincerely thank you, Randy, for your prescience in this matter."

Pope sat up and nodded to Brewer, obviously thankful for the compliment.

"Most of what we know about Mr. Moore comes from his website," Brewer said. "I put three of our best investigators on it. They've produced this report"-Brewer tapped the file he'd produced-"which is, frankly, very disturbing."

Brewer spoke formally with a deep, melodious voice. He sat ramrod straight in his chair. He had dark hair, a prominent jaw, and heavy eyebrows that conveyed his "I am a serious man" persona.

Joe could hear shuffling and murmuring coming from the conference room next door where the press conference would be held. He checked his watch-ten minutes until the governor was scheduled to address the media.

Brewer continued, "On his website, Moore stokes the fires of the extreme animal-rights movement. He makes no bones about the fact that he finds hunting abhorrent and hunters demented. He advocates interfering with hunters in the field, and sabotaging hunting seasons across the country and the world. He's clever in how he does it, though, always couching his advocacy in phrases like 'We're not asking you to break the law, but…' or 'We don't advocate violence or criminality in any shape or form, but…' types of caveats. Obviously, he's been advised by lawyers so that his words are clear but he covers himself so he can't be held accountable for what happens.

"The most interesting thing we found on his website is called 'The Forum,'" Brewer continued, opening the file and pulling out a thick stack of printouts. "It's where his followers can post messages and have discussions. Sometimes, Mr. Moore joins in. And in doing so, he is often not as careful about his words and meaning as he is in his more formal statements on the website.

"For example, there was a post three weeks ago from a person who calls himself Wolverine. Rather than read it, I'll let you," Brewer said, handing copies to Joe and Pope.

Joe glanced at the pages, recognized the comment format of a blog. I Had A Dream. Last night, I had a dream. In my dream, a brainless American hunter was struck down and his body mutilated in the same way he had been mutilating innocent animals all his life. When he was found, people were horrified at what had been done to him. And then they began to realize this is what millions of Mighty Men do all the time. And it made them think about the pathetically sad and disgusting people in their midst who derive pleasure from killing creatures who have just as much right to be on this earth as they do.

I know, dreams are just dreams. But I'm a gambler. I like the odds that turning hunters into prey will make a difference and change some minds.

It was a good dream. by Wolverine on Mon Sept 05 08:37:26 AM PST.

Wolverine Dreams. I think it was a good dream, too. Sometimes it takes a shock to the system to make folks sit up and say, "There's something wrong going on here."

I'm just talking out loud, but this might be the thing that would actually make a difference if one were brave, committed, and a warrior. by Klamath on Tues Sept 06 08:53:22 AM PST. Re: I Had A Dream. Especially if it happened slowly, over time. First an incident that made them scratch their heads while recoiling in horror at the same time, followed by another incident worse than the first. And another. And another. Until there was no doubt the hunters were being hunted and that none of them were safe. Until they began to realize the terror they feel is what they put animals through every time they go out to get their jollies.

There are warriors among us. by Wolverine on Wed Sept 07 01:37:26 AM PST.

Re: Wolverine Dreams. In your dream, where would the campaign begin? That's important to know, because it would be important for the enlightened to be there and offer support and encouragement. There is no news unless the trees falling in the forest are pointed out in loud voices to a sympathetic press. And believe me, they looooove me. by Klamath on Wed Sept 07 02:02:12 AM PST.

Re: Re: I Had A Dream. In my dream, it would definitely take place in the reddest of the Red States, both in terms of politics and the color of blood. Hit 'em where they live, is what I think. by Wolverine on Wed Sept 07 03:37:26 AM PST. Re: Re: Wolverine Dreams. Although IT'S ONLY A DREAM, I am absolutely charged up by the pure boldness of the vision. While none of us advocate violence or criminal acts in any way, WE CAN DREAM, TOO.

Please contact me off-line, Wolverine. MAYBE I CAN TALK YOU DOWN. by Klamath on Wed Sept 07 03:55:12 AM PST.

BREWER SAID, "This exchange took place two weeks prior to John Garrett's death near Lander. Obviously, Klamath came to his senses at the end there and tried to cover his enthusiasm for the concept. And by the next day, the entire thread had been pulled from the Forum page. Luckily, my tech guys had somehow automatically archived it during the night so we have it. Did you note the reference to gambling? Gamblers use poker chips."

Joe was suddenly wide awake, his mind spinning.

"Obviously," Brewer said, "we don't have enough to make any charges or even a serious accusation at this point. But when we saw this we wanted to trace the IP address of Wolverine and see if we could find him. That was beyond our expertise, so we turned to our brothers in law enforcement who are proficient in this kind of thing," he said, gesturing to Portenson, who was now smoldering.

"I'll take it from here," Rulon said, "since it is now three-twenty-five and my friends in the press are clamoring to take a chunk out of me just outside the door."

The governor pushed his face across the desk as if it were a balled fist, aiming it at Portenson. As he spoke, his voice didn't rise so much as get harder-edged, until he was biting off his words and spitting them out, flecking the top of his desk and Brewer's file with moisture.

"So my DCI takes the information to the FBI just down the street, where we get absolutely stonewalled. In the meantime, another innocent man, Frank Urman, gets butchered, which leads to three more deaths last night in a clusterfuck and a severed head mounted on a wall. Finally, we get our entire congressional delegation on the same line this morning and pressure is applied by them on Homeland Security to such a degree that Mr. Portenson and his pals have to talk to us. And when they do, we find out they've been monitoring Mr. Klamath Moore and his followers for months because they're considered to be potential domestic terrorists, and they even have a man on the inside! And while we won't accuse the FBI of being an accessory to murder since they didn't know all we knew-"

"Oh, come on!" Portenson shouted. "We were doing our jobs! We couldn't blow our undercover investigation for an office that leaks like a sieve!"

"We can say to the press out there," Rulon continued, "without equivocation, that if the FBI had cooperated with us when we first asked for cooperation we might not be here today."

"That's ridiculous," Portenson seethed. "We had no idea this Wolverine person was going to start killing people-and we still don't know it was him. We have no idea who Wolverine is. We don't even know if he's in this country. The IP address he used was from one of those Internet kiosks in the Atlanta airport, so we can't trace him. You're speculating and trying to point the finger at us."

Rulon nodded his agreement.

"Who do you have on the inside?" Joe asked Portenson.

"Oh," the agent replied, deflated, "some guy. I can't give you his name. But we asked him a couple of weeks ago to see if he could figure out who Wolverine is. He's working on it, but he doesn't know yet."

"We need his name," Joe said. "I need to talk with him."

"Not a chance," Portenson said. "We're in the middle of breaking this thing. This is what we do now-domestic counterterrorism. We can't blow his cover and put him in danger."

"A name," Joe said, thinking of the promise he'd made to Nancy Hersig.

"Stella," Rulon said calmly, "please go tell the press I'll be out in a moment with a very big announcement."

Stella nodded dutifully and stood up.

Rulon said, "Let them know we've learned that Special Agent Tony Portenson of the FBI withheld information that resulted in the deaths of six people and the shutdown of state and federal lands across Wyoming."

"You can't do that!" Portenson shouted. "You're out of your mind!"

Rulon arched his eyebrows. "This isn't the first time someone has said that."

"I'm this far," Portenson said, pinching his index finger and thumb together, "from breaking this Klamath Moore thing and getting my transfer out of this hellhole. I should have been moved up a year ago, but it didn't happen. This will absolutely kill me! This might get me sent to Butte, Montana!"

"What's wrong with Butte?" Joe said. "I like Butte."

"It's where bad FBI agents are sent to die," Portenson whined.

"That's your choice," Rulon said, nodding to Stella to go.

"No!" Portenson said.

She hesitated at the door.

"What do you want?" Portenson pleaded with Rulon.

"Access to all your files on the Wolverine investigation and the name of your snitch so Joe can question him," Rulon said.

"Okay," Portenson said as if in physical pain. "You've got it."

"What's my role?" asked Randy Pope, the forgotten man.

"You stay here," Rulon said. "I want you in your office leading your agency and deflecting the outrage we're already getting from constituents about the state lands closure. Plus, I don't want you in a dicey situation where you might run like a rabbit again. That kind of behavior makes me want to puke."

"You don't understand," Pope said, pleading. "The head was in my room… this is personal. I have to be involved."

"No," Rulon said bluntly.

Pope dropped his head into his hands. Joe was put off and embarrassed by the reaction.

"Okay, then," Rulon said, gesturing to Stella to open the door.

Joe sat up. "That's not all."

Portenson and the governor both looked at him. Stella hesitated, with her manicured hand poised above the door handle.

"No," Portenson said, his face flushing red. "I know what you're going to ask, and the answer is: absolutely not. Don't even ask."

Joe turned to the governor. "Nate Romanowski knows the area and he has contacts with extremist groups all across the West. I don't condone it, but he does. He's got special insight into somebody like Wolverine because, frankly, Wolverine reminds me more than a little bit of Nate. If you want me to continue this investigation, I need his help."

Portenson continued to shake his head.

"If he was released into your custody," Rulon said, "do you give me your word you'll bring him back for his trial when and if this investigation is over?"

Joe swallowed hard. "I'll do what's right."

Portenson hissed, "We can't release a federal prisoner on Joe Pickett's word! We can't release him, period!"

Pope surprised Joe by saying, "I concur. We need all the help we can get."

Joe said to Portenson, "You charged him with flimsy evidence that hasn't gotten any better. You're just hoping something falls into your lap between now and the trial or you know you're going to lose."

"We're building our case!"

"Just like you were building the case against Klamath Moore and Wolverine?" Joe asked.

Rulon stood up. "Stella, tell them I'm coming out with explosive news."

"No!" Portenson shouted again, his voice cracking. Then: "Okay, okay!" He pointed his finger at Joe. "But if he doesn't live up to this agreement, I'm going to throw both of them in jail."

"Agreed," Rulon said breezily.

Joe wanted to tell the governor he'd perhaps spoken too soon. Although he had some influence over Nate and Nate had promised years before to assist Joe and protect his family, he didn't own the outlaw falconer. Nate had always gone his own way, used his own methods, lived under his own code.

"Governor…" Joe said, as Rulon turned and Stella preceded him out the door. His words were drowned out by Rulon booming, "Men and women of the press, we've got a break in the case! Due to an unprecedented partnership between the state of Wyoming and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I can tell you today that we're closing in on the vicious killer who…"

As he went on, Joe slumped back in his chair, as did Portenson.

Joe listened to Rulon assure the media that the end of the investigation was now in sight, that leads were being vigorously pursued, that the forests and high-country plains of Wyoming would once again be reopened for hunting, fishing, and recreation.

"I can't believe I just agreed to release Nate Romanowski," Portenson said sourly to Joe.

I can't believe it either, Joe thought.

"That governor of yours," Portenson said, jabbing a finger toward the conference room. "He fucked us both."

"And that's why we love him," Stella said, overhearing Portenson and leaning in the door, flashing her biggest smile at Joe.