Blood trail

30

THERE IS a very specific way to skin an animal so that a taxidermist can create a flawless shoulder mount. It's called caping. It works best if the animal to be caped is hung up by the back legs.

Caping requires a sharp skinning knife with a short, fat blade like the one in my sheath. A slit is made in the skin behind the shoulder at the midway point of the rib cage. Another is made around the legs just above the knees. Or the arms, in this case. A third precise cut is made to join the slits on the back of the leg (or arm). The skin is then peeled like a banana toward the jaw until the neck is exposed. Then the very delicate work begins: cutting the skin away from the ears, skull, nose, and mouth. The weight of the hide-skin is surprisingly heavy-helps because it pulls the skin-peel downward. The skin is sliced away from the flesh with extremely light knife strokes. If the procedure is done correctly, the skin will drop away into a wet pile in the grass, showing an inverted, inside-out face.

This is what will happen to Randy Pope. My only dilemma is whether I'll cape him when he's dead or still alive. THE TERRAIN, of course, is familiar. As I stride-careful to step on exposed rocks and to keep slightly to the side of established and muddy game trails-I weigh the advantage of knowing this mountain and the exact location of my prey against the possibility that I'm being led into a trap. Given the odds and what I know to be true-that the FBI informant has yet to give bad information and that an opportunity like this is too great to disregard-I proceed.

The sky concerns me. Even a skiff of snow makes tracking easy. I vow that if it starts to snow I'll turn back the moment it begins, despite the opportunity offered me. I study the clouds and conclude it will snow, but later in the evening. After I'm done and back.

My backpack is empty except for several thick-ply plastic garbage bags. The pack will be heavier when I return due to fifteen pounds of skin. I CAN'T shake the feeling I'm being followed. I've neither heard nor seen anything to confirm my impression. Several times I stop and stand still, compelling my senses to reach out beyond their capacities to tell me something. The only thing I can point at that supplements my suspicion is the utter quiet-except for a slight breeze in the treetops-that remains in my wake. I've learned that after I've passed though an area, after a respectful period, the birds and squirrels begin talking to one another again. But I hear no resumption of sounds. It's as if I've shut out all life by being in its presence.

There are conceivable justifications for the quiet. Low pressure can do it.

Either I'm imagining things or whoever is behind me is as good as I am. I proceed. FINALLY, I'M CLIMBING the last rise and the trees start to thin. This is where Frank Urman was taken, just below the ridge I now approach. I drop to all fours, cradling my rifle on my forearms, and crawl to the top and look over the other side.

A quarter of a mile away, in that stand of trees, is Randy Pope. He's just standing there, his back against a tree. JOE FELT the presence of the shooter without actually seeing anyone. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and a shiver rolled up the length of his body from his boots to the top of his head.

He was behind the upturned root pan of an enormous fallen pine tree. He could see Pope's shoulder through an opening in a gnarl of thick roots. He could tell by the way Pope shook that the man was sobbing.

They'd handcuffed Randy Pope behind his back to the same tree Frank Urman had been hung from and made a show of leaving the area. But instead of driving away, Joe snuck back into the tree stand and Nate hiked through the timber to a high granite knob that overlooked the tree stand, the ridge where Urman had originally been killed, and the mountain vista behind it. Both had radios turned low. Joe was armed with his shotgun filled with double-ought buckshot and the.40 Glock on his hip that he had no intention of using. Nate had the scoped.454 Casull.

Joe was thankful for the high breeze, the water sound of the wind in the trees, because it enabled him to communicate in low tones with Nate and remain out of Pope's hearing range. Joe and Nate had agreed to check in with each other every ten minutes whether they saw anything or not. The procedure they'd agreed on was a click on the transmitter button, followed by a murmured check-in. Murmurs tended to meld with nature sounds better than whispers. Joe didn't want Pope to know he was there and start begging and crying louder.

Joe wished Pope would stop crying. It made Joe feel cruel and awful, and he tried to shut Pope's suffering out. But his effort was in vain. Despite the things Pope had done and not done to exacerbate the crimes committed, Joe couldn't help but have sympathy for the man he'd handcuffed and offered up to the killer. Even Pope was a human being, although a diabolical and deeply flawed example of one. He didn't know how long he could let this go on before he rose and dug in his pocket for the key to the cuffs.

But the feeling of the presence shoved his feelings aside. He raised his binoculars to his eyes and focused on the ridge across the meadow.

As he did, Nate clicked on the handheld.

Joe momentarily ignored the chirp and focused his binoculars on the top of the ridge and saw a slight movement. It was quick: the dull glint of a gun barrel behind a knuckle of rock.

Nate said, "I've got a visual."

Joe pulled up the handheld from where it hung around his neck on a lanyard, said softly, "Me too."

Nate said, "He just came out of the timber and he's walking across the side of a meadow headed in your direction. Looks like he's got a rifle. ETA is ten minutes."

Joe was confused, and leaned into the binoculars. He could see no further movement, and certainly no one walking toward him.

"Nate, where do you see him?"

"To the east, about a mile from you. It's Klamath Moore coming your way."

Joe felt his chest clutch. Then who was up there on the ridge? SHERIFF MCLANAHAN was exhausted. He stopped every ten to fifteen minutes to rest, falling farther behind his team of volunteers who were on foot, spread through the timber up ahead of him, sweeping the mountainside. He decided that as of tomorrow he would either suspend the investigation or at least not participate in the physical part of it. He was getting too damned old and out of shape for this, he thought. Besides, despite the enthusiasm from his boys for camping out, hiking in the woods with guns, and the horseplay in the camp at night, they hadn't found a damned thing and the shooter was still at large. McLanahan doubted the shooter was even in the state anymore.

So when his radio crackled, he was in no hurry to reach for it.

"I just cut a fresh track," someone said. McLanahan recognized the voice of Chris Urman.

"Where are you at?" It was Deputy Reed.

"Right here. See me? I'm waving my arm."

"Oh, okay. On my way."

"Oh shit," Urman said. "I see somebody up ahead. On the game trail."

A pause. McLanahan felt a trill and reached down for his radio as Reed came on, his voice excited: "I see him! I see him!"

The sheriff said, "Stay calm, boys, I'm on my way. Don't lose sight of him."

McLanahan holstered the radio, took a deep breath, and began to jog up the hill, his gear slapping him as it bounced. NATE ROMANOWSKI peered through the scope of the.454, surprised that Klamath Moore was in the open. Moore skirted a small meadow, a break in the timber, the wall of dark pine on his left. Nate could see him clearly. Yes, Klamath had a rifle slung over his back. He appeared to be tracking someone because his head was down, not up. As Nate watched, Klamath unslung his rifle and held it in front of him at parade rest as he walked.

In Nate's peripheral vision there was a dull flash of clothing through the timber to the side of where Klamath was in the meadow. Nate quickly swung the.454 away from Klamath into the trees. Through branches and breaks in the timber, Nate saw the heads and shoulders of several men moving toward Klamath. Nate frowned and brought his radio up to his mouth when he recognized McLanahan's heavy-bodied gait and familiar battered cowboy hat.

Klamath Moore suddenly froze and turned toward the rushing group of men, and a beat later Nate heard a shout-the reason Klamath had wheeled.

Nate almost cried out as Klamath raised his weapon, pointing it at the men in the trees, when a crackling volley of shots punched through the air and Klamath collapsed in the grass.

Nate keyed the mike. "Jesus-they shot him. Klamath Moore is down! It's McLanahan and his guys."

Four men, led by Chris Urman, appeared in the meadow, cautiously circling Klamath Moore's body.

"Joe," Nate said, "they got him. He's down and he looks deader than hell from here."

Nate lowered his weapon. He could see McLanahan clearly now, wheezing his way across the meadow toward the body of Klamath Moore, who was surrounded by Chris Urman and other volunteers. Somebody whooped.

Nate said, "Joe? Did you hear me?"

He heard Joe's voice, tight and forced. "I heard you."

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"What's happening?"

"The shooter is coming down the hill toward Pope."

Nate looked at his radio for a second, then shook it. "Come again?"

"Oh my God," Joe Pickett said. "No." THE SHOTS in the woods behind me sent a bolt of fear up my spine. So many shots, so quickly. I drop to a knee and thumb the safety off my rifle, anticipating more fire that doesn't come. Who was it-hunters? The number of shots reminds me of when a group of hunters come upon a herd of elk-that furious fire as the herd breaks and runs. Is it possible there are hunters up here despite the moratorium? And if so, why didn't I see their camp or cross their tracks?

I wonder if it had to do with my earlier sense of being followed. The sheriff has men up here, I know. But they're incompetent. Maybe they circled in on themselves. Maybe I just heard friendly fire.

Or maybe Klamath followed me and got caught. I briefly close my eyes. It makes sense. He's always been suspicious of me, and the way he looked at me today when I excused myself-yes, it's possible. But there is no way to know for sure until later.

No matter. This was never about Klamath, despite what he thinks. Because in his world, everything is about Klamath Moore. Not this, though. This is about bestowing dignity and righting wrongs. Klamath just happens to be breathing the same air.

I look up. Randy Pope is within a hundred feet but somehow he has not seen me yet. His head is down, chin on his chest, arms behind his back. What is he doing?

The shots and Randy Pope's demeanor and appearance unnerve me. I abandon my plans to cape him. Simply killing him-killing the last one and stopping this-will have to be enough. It will be enough.

I rise and walk toward him, striding quickly. I could easily take him from here but I want him to see me. I want to be the last person he ever sees and the last thought he ever has in his mind. "OH MY God," Joe said. "No."

He watched Shenandoah Yellowcalf Moore approach Randy Pope down the length of his shotgun barrel. She wore cargo pants, gloves, a fleece sweater, and a daypack. Her expression was tight and willful, the same face he had seen in the yearbook photos as she drove to the basket past taller players. The breeze licked at her long black hair flowing out beneath a headband. As he looked at her his heart thumped, making his shotgun twitch; his hands were cold and wet and his stomach roiled.

And suddenly, things clicked into place:

She'd been at the airport to greet her husband, Klamath, meaning she'd been in the area prior to his arrival, when Frank Urman was killed.

While Klamath's movements throughout the hunting season had been accounted for-mostly-by Bill Gordon, there had been no mention of Shenandoah's travels.

She knew the state, the back roads and hunting areas from traveling with her team and later as a hunting guide.

She knew how to track, how to hunt, how to kill and process game.

She had a motive.

It fit, but he wanted no part of this. He'd been convinced the Wolverine was Klamath himself or one of his followers working under Klamath's direction.

"Nate," Joe said, speaking softly into the radio, "I need your help down here."

"It'll take me at least five minutes."

"Hurry."

At ten feet, she fit the stock of her rifle to her shoulder and raised it until the muzzle was level with the crown of Randy Pope's head.

She said, "Pope, look up."

Joe could see Pope squirm, try to shinny around the tree away from her, but he could only go a quarter of the way because his cuff chain hung up on the bark. She took a few steps to her left in the grass so she was still in front of him. I RECALL not the night it happened but the next morning, when I woke up feeling dirty, bruised, and sore. I was alone in my tent wearing only a T-shirt. They hadn't even covered me up. I was damaged and it hurt to stand up.

The sun warmed the walls of the tent and as it did I could smell not only me but them. All five of them. I dressed-my clothes were balled up in the corner-and unzipped the flap and stepped outside where it was surprisingly cold. The campfire was going, curls of fragrant wood smoke corkscrewing through the branches of the pine trees, a pot of coffee brewing on my black grate. Three of them sat on stumps around the fire, staring into it as if looking for an explanation. They were unshaven; their faces told me nothing. They were blank faces, hungover faces. Maybe they were ashamed. But when they looked up and saw me, none of them said anything.

No one asked me if I wanted coffee. They weren't going to talk about it. They were going to pretend nothing had happened.

That was the worst of all. That's when the rage began. I was nothing to them. It was all about them, not me. This was apparently what they had expected when they hired me. The problem was, I felt the same way at that moment. I thought of their wives, their daughters, assumed they were having the same thoughts.

Randy Pope was there. He looked at me and then back toward the fire with a dismissive nod, as if I disgusted him. "If you say anything about this to anyone," he said in words I can still hear clearly, "we'll destroy you. You'll end up as just another grease spot."

That's when I decided to find the sheriff and press charges. AT THIS RANGE, Joe knew, a blast from his shotgun would practically cut her in half. But he couldn't conceive of it-he didn't want to fire. Hell, he admired her. He wanted her to turn or look behind her back up the hill so he could stand and shout at her to drop the rifle. As it was, with her finger tightening on the trigger, his sudden appearance could cause her to fire out of fear or reaction. And he thought, Would that be so bad?

"Please," Randy Pope cried, "please don't do this. You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do," she said.

"No. Please. You know what happened in that camp. None of us hurt you. Nobody forced you."

She said, "Actually, I don't remember very much about that night. It's still in a fog of alcohol to me. But I do remember how you wouldn't look at me, how you threatened me. And I remember going to jail. I remember what was said about me afterward."

"It was years ago," Pope said. "We're all different now."

She laughed bitterly. "I have one more poker chip. Then it will all be over. You know, I carried those five poker chips in my pocket for years as a reminder to me of what you did and what I was. But I'm not like that anymore, and killing you kills what I was back then. I want my dignity back, and you're the last man in my way. I have a daughter now, you know. I don't want her to know about me then, or about you. She deserves better than both of us."

Pope moaned a long moan, and Joe felt the pain of it.

"I've fought through self-loathing before," she said. "This is how I cut the head off that snake."

Before pulling the trigger, Shenandoah took a second to glance over her shoulder in the direction where the shots had been fired, to make sure no one was on the ridge.

Which gave Joe the opportunity to shout, "Drop the rifle, Shenandoah! Drop it now! "

He rose so she could see him behind the root pan. His shotgun was trained on her chest. She'd lowered the rifle when she turned and it stayed low.

"I don't want to hurt you," Joe said. "Just let the rifle fall out of your hands and step back."

She looked at Joe, surprised but not desperate. The look of single-minded determination was still on her face.

"This is over," he said. "Please. You don't want your daughter to be without her mother."

He didn't say, or her father.

Pope, for once, kept his mouth shut.

"I don't want to go to prison," she said softly.

"You may not have to," Joe lied. "Lord knows you've got your reasons. Yours is a sympathetic case. This man assaulted you and then destroyed your reputation. Randy Pope will get what he deserves."

She nodded as if acknowledging Joe's words but discounting their meaning.

He hated himself.

"Just relax your hands, let the rifle drop."

She did and it thumped onto the grass. Joe kept his shotgun on her as he walked around the root pan.

"Do you have any other weapons?" he asked.

She shook her head, then said, "I've got a skinning knife. I was going to cape him."

"Don't tell me that," Joe said. "Now, ease out of your backpack and toss the knife aside."

She slipped out of her pack and let it drop, then drew the knife from the sheath and tossed it a few feet away.

"Unlock me," Pope said out of the side of his mouth as Joe passed the tree.

"Shut up," Joe said. To Shenandoah, "Put your wrists together. You're under arrest. I've got to take you in so we can sort this all out."

He chose not to cuff her behind her back and humiliate her further. He slipped hard plastic Flex-Cuffs over her thin wrists and pulled them tight. She was small, almost delicate.

"I don't want anyone to see me like this," she said.

"Alisha doesn't know, does she?"

"No."

"You killed my friend Robey."

"For that I'm eternally sorry," she said, her eyes leaving Pope for a moment and softening. "That wasn't meant to happen. It was an accident, and I'm so sorry."

"Did Klamath kill Bill Gordon, or was that you?"

"It was Klamath. I'm very upset with my husband. I liked Bill very much."

"Are you the Wolverine?"

She shook her head. "No. I think Bill was Wolverine. At least I always suspected he was leading Klamath on. I read the e-mail exchange and it inspired me."

"Klamath is dead," Joe said. "Those were the shots you heard. I'm sorry."

She nodded, blinked. For a second the fire went out of her eyes.

"He was following you," Joe said. "He ran into the sheriff's men."

"He knew it was me," she said. "He never tried to stop me. I was accomplishing his goal while accomplishing mine."

Joe couldn't reply.

"I want Alisha to raise my daughter," Shenandoah said.

"You don't have to talk like that," Joe said, feeling as if she'd kicked him in the gut. Her eyes were again fixed on Randy Pope.

She said, "Where is Nate?"

Joe chinned toward the granite ridge.

"Unlock me!" Pope shouted to Joe. "Get me out of here."

Joe ignored him.

Shenandoah glared at Pope. "He was the worst of them all. He let his friends die. I need to finish this."

"You don't know what you're doing, Joe," Pope said. "This will ruin me if she talks, if she takes the stand. The girl was willing-more than willing. It happened years ago, the statute of limitations has passed. Why dredge it up again? Why let this woman bring it all back?"

It happened so quickly Joe could barely react. Like the point guard she once was, Shenandoah faked to her right, drawing Joe, then darted to her left under Joe's outstretched hand. She ducked and snatched the knife from the grass at her feet and lunged at Pope.

Joe shouldered the shotgun, yelled, "Shenandoah, no! No!" but she sliced the blade cleanly through Pope's throat at the same moment Joe fired, the buckshot hitting her full force in the neck and kicking her sideways. She landed in a heap like dropped wet laundry.

He was horrified by what he'd done. JOE SAT on a downed log and watched Nate walk down the slope. He was numb. He didn't feel like he was all there. His hands sat in his lap like dead crabs. They were bloody from turning Shenandoah over, hoping against hope she would somehow pull through, even though he was the instrument of her death. He wished she wasn't gone because of his failed effort to save Randy Pope's worthless life.

Her body looked so small in the grass, maybe because the life in her had been so outsized. Joe thought, Promise kept, Nancy.

But it didn't make him feel any better. AS NATE approached, Joe could see his friend take it all in-Pope's slumped body still cuffed to the tree, every pint of his blood spilled down his shirtfront and pants and pooling darkly around his feet. Shenandoah's broken body thrown to the side, the knife still in her hand.

Nate holstered the.454 as he got closer and dropped to his knees in front of her body. He took her lifeless hands in his, closed his eyes.

"I saw it happen," Nate said. "There was nothing you could do."

"Nate, I'm so sorry," Joe said, his voice a croak.

"No words," Nate said.

Joe couldn't tell if Nate was asking him not to speak or if no words could express what he felt. JOE STOOD up dully and changed the frequency on his radio to the mutual-aid channel, and as soon as he did he was awash in conversation from over the hill. He heard Sheriff McLanahan, Chris Urman, Deputy Reed, and others congratulating themselves over the shooting of Klamath Moore, the monster who'd killed the hunters. McLanahan was talking to dispatch, telling Wendy to contact the governor and tell him the state could be reopened for hunting.

"Sheriff," Joe said, breaking in, "this is Joe Pickett. I've got the bodies of a couple more victims over the ridge."

The chatter went silent.

"Come again?" McLanahan said. NATE WALKED over to where Joe sat on the log and put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I feel so bad," Joe said. "I mean, a woman. And not just any woman. Shenandoah." He looked up. "Did you know it was her?"

"Not until the end," Nate said, raising his eyebrows. "Justice was done-all around."

"Here." Joe handed Nate his keys.

Nate looked at him for an explanation.

"Take them and get out of here before the sheriff sees you."

"I can't."

Joe shrugged. "Go. You don't have that much time."

"What about you?"

"I said I'd do what was right. The governor assumed I meant I'd bring you back."

"Joe, I-"

"Git," Joe said.