Endangered

5

Tilden Cudmore, fifty-two, lived alone on a sagebrush-covered swale by the wastewater treatment plant six miles west of Saddlestring. From the county road, Joe saw the pulsing lights of the law enforcement vehicles, so he knew where to turn.

He and Lucy passed under a wrought iron archway that was strung with bleached-white animal skulls, a naked and shackled storefront mannequin made to look as if it were being frog-marched to meet its fate, and a tattered DON’T TREAD ON ME Gadsden flag that rippled in the cold, light breeze.

“This place is creepy,” Lucy said, her eyes wide.

Joe grunted a response. He tried not to think of April being brought here the night before. That shackled mannequin alone, if she had seen it, seemed to foretell a horrible fate.

Lucy hugged herself. No doubt she was spooked, Joe thought. While Sheridan often used to ride along on his patrols and had experienced crime scenes, raucous elk camps, and sometimes tense confrontations, Lucy had never been eager to accompany him into the field. He understood. Lucy preferred happy situations and happy people, while Sheridan was intrigued by the procedures involved with law enforcement. Joe appreciated the differences in the way each girl was wired since birth.

The two-track entry road to the dark trailer was muddy and rutted. Old ranch equipment—broken-down tractors, a hay-baling machine, a slumped-over wooden wagon—lined both sides of the path. Unlike many remote ranches that had a graveyard of broken machinery and trucks, it was obvious someone had deliberately placed the equipment there, just as someone had erected the archway and wired on the skulls. Sheriff Reed’s van, as well as two county SUVs, were parked in front of a ramshackle double-wide trailer that looked like a flatbed had backed up and dumped it off years before. There were dead trees on the windward side of the structure and a litter-strewn front yard. A hand-painted sign was mounted on the front of the trailer near the door that read:

STAY OUT

SURVIVORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

Joe noted a ten-foot chain-link enclosure on the side of the trailer. The gravel floor of the cage was covered with feces, and lengths of chain snaked through the gravel. Obviously, Cudmore housed dogs there.

Dulcie Schalk’s Subaru Outback sat off to the side.

Joe wheeled in and killed the motor. He said to Lucy, “How about you stay in the truck until I figure out what’s going on?”

“Okay.”

She seemed to be in no hurry to get out. He reached over and patted her shoulder before opening his door.

Dulcie was in the middle of a heated conversation with Deputy Boner. Sheriff Reed was in his wheelchair between the two of them as if he were a referee.

“What we’ve got here is an illegal search,” Dulcie said to Boner. “You entered private property without a warrant and went through his garbage. I could see Judge Hewitt rule that whatever you found here is inadmissible as evidence.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Boner said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I drove out here in response to a call to ask Mr. Cudmore some questions about his whereabouts yesterday. The subject wasn’t home, and as I was heading back to my vehicle, I heard what I thought was a baby crying.”

That silenced Dulcie, and she looked to Reed. Reed was noncommittal.

“The crying sound was coming from the dumpster,” Boner said, pointing toward a dented metal box on the edge of the lot. “I thought it sounded human, so I had probable cause to look inside to make sure there wasn’t anyone in imminent danger.”

“He had probable cause,” Reed said, nodding his head.

“A crying sound?” Dulcie asked, skeptical.

“Turned out to be a cat,” Boner said. “There was a cat in there. But it sure sounded like a baby crying.”

“And where is it now?” Dulcie asked.

“As soon as I lifted the lid, it ran away.”

“And this evidence you found was just sitting on top in plain view?”

Boner looked over at Reed, then said, “Sort of.”

Dulcie moaned. “What does that mean?”

“I shined my light in there and saw some fabric poking out of the garbage. So I kind of pushed some trash aside.”

“Think of his state of mind,” Reed said. “At this point, he was still thinking baby, not cat.”

Dulcie asked Boner, “What color was it? The cat, I mean.”

Boner hesitated a second before saying, “Black.”

“A black cat,” Reed echoed.

“With white feet,” Boner said, as if just then recalling the detail.

“Did you and the sheriff cook this up together?” Dulcie asked, but her tone had softened.

“Would we ever do anything like that?” Reed asked. Then, looking up, he said, “Hey, Joe.”

“Mike.”

“I’m glad you’re here. We’ve got a couple of things to show you.”

“That’s why I brought my daughter Lucy,” Joe said. “She knows April’s clothing and such.”

He winked at Dulcie. “We would have gotten here sooner,” he said, “but I had to slow down to let a black cat cross the road.”

“Hmph,” Dulcie said, shaking her head. But she didn’t continue with her objections.

—

AFTER JOE WAS ASSURED by Boner and Reed that nothing Lucy would see should upset her, she joined them near the dumpster. The items Boner had found inside were displayed on a blue plastic tarp and covered with a clear sheet of plastic. Evidence numbers and tags were already attached and the display was ready to be photographed. Beads of moisture dotted the outside plastic from snowflakes that had melted on it.

Boner swept the beam of his flashlight from item to item.

“That’s her sweater,” Lucy said, pointing at a thick beige garment. “I know because I used to borrow it from her closet. She yelled at me when she found out, so I stopped.”

“What about the coat?” Reed asked gently.

He was referring to a multicolored leather jacket embroidered with NFR logos and insignias.

“I’ve never seen that in person,” Lucy said, “because I think it’s new. It looks new. I’m pretty sure there are a couple of photos on Facebook of her wearing it, though. That’s easy to check.”

Reed and Dulcie exchanged looks, and Dulcie nodded that she’d follow up.

“And there’s this,” Reed said, gesturing toward what looked like a leather shoulder bag with a western buckle strap on it. Joe recognized it himself from the last time he’d seen April. She had slung the bag into the cab of his truck when he’d picked her up after work at Welton’s Western Wear. All she could talk about that day as they drove home was having met Dallas Cates, who had been at the store that day to promote his line of denim jeans.

“That’s her purse,” Lucy said. Joe noticed her eyes were moist.

“We found a wallet inside with her Wyoming driver’s license,” Reed said to Joe. “There were no credit cards or cash, though. I assume she has a cell phone, but we haven’t found it yet.”

“She has a phone,” Lucy said.

Deputy Boner said, “We’re waiting for a generator and lights before we crawl back in the dumpster. There’s a lot of stuff in there, and heavier things like a phone or keys might have settled to the bottom. There may be other items in there, too. These things were obvious because they were on top.”

“Under the black cat,” Dulcie said, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” Boner said with what sounded like sincerity.

“Where’s this Tilden Cudmore?” Joe asked.

“He looks like our perp,” Boner said.

“Whoa there,” Reed said. “Who’s to say he didn’t find these things on the highway and bring them home to throw away after pocketing the credit cards and cash?”

Boner said, “He still looks like our perp. Especially since somebody saw him forcing April into his car.”

“There’s that,” Reed said.

“Again,” Dulcie said, raising her voice, “I want everyone here to proceed with caution. I’ll grant that it looks bad for Mr. Cudmore, but we only know what we know . . . about this son of a bitch.”

Joe almost smiled. Dulcie had revealed more about her thoughts than she had wanted to, he thought.

—

“HAVE YOU BEEN INSIDE?” Joe asked Reed, nodding toward the dark trailer.

“We’re waiting on a warrant from Judge Hewitt,” Reed said. “Dulcie put that in motion earlier, and we tracked him down having dinner at the Burg-O-Pardner. He signed it. We should have it within the half hour. The evidence tech is also on the way.”

Joe nodded. They were near Reed’s van. Boner and the other deputies were establishing a crime scene perimeter by threading yellow tape along the barbed-wire fence and entry arch. Lucy was in Joe’s truck on her cell, filling in her mother and Sheridan. Dulcie was leaning against her car, talking on her cell phone as well.

“I’ve got to admit this really surprised me,” Reed said. “He wasn’t on our radar at all. Maybe Brenda kind of had a point about going at this with blinders on.”

“I’m still not sold,” Joe said. “What can you tell me about Tilden Cudmore?”

“He’s a nut,” Reed said without hesitation. “I’ve had quite a few encounters with him over the years—enough that when we get that warrant I want everyone to take their time going through that trailer of his. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it’s booby-trapped. He’s probably got fragmentation grenades rigged up to trip wires and shotguns cocked and aimed toward the doors. I might even leave it alone for now and ask the state bomb squad to open it up as soon as they can get here.”

He looked up at Joe, and the ambient light from errant flashlights highlighted the spray of stress wrinkles that fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

Reed said, “Cudmore thinks of himself as a patriot and survivalist type, but he’s just a walking bundle of paranoid conspiracy theories. He moved here two or three years ago from southern Illinois, I think, hoping to find a bunch of like-minded individuals. For the most part, I think he was disappointed.

“I’ve heard him go on at city council meetings about the Trilateral Commission, the Bilderbergers, Agenda 21, all that crap. He’s a 9/11 truther who thinks Bush and Cheney brought down the towers so they could invade Iraq for oil. Cudmore’s politics are all over the map. We threw him out of the local Tea Party because he’s such a lunatic.”

“We?” Joe asked.

“I’m on board with my largest constituency,” Reed said, a little on the defensive. “You know that.”

Wyoming had a larger per capita membership in the Tea Party than any other state.

“What does he do for a living?” Joe asked.

“He can run a backhoe, I guess. But basically he does a whole lot of nothing,” Reed said, shaking his head. “He’s supposedly got some kind of disability and he lives off welfare payments.”

Joe said, “He hates the government but lives off welfare?”

“Yeah, I know,” Reed said.

Joe gestured to Reed to continue.

“You’ve never run into him?” the sheriff asked. “He drives an army-surplus Humvee. Bumper stickers and signs all over it?”

Joe now recalled the Humvee and some of the messages on it: KILL A COMMIE FOR MOMMY, 9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB, THE TREE OF LIBERTY MUST BE REFRESHED FROM TIME TO TIME WITH THE BLOOD OF TYRANTS, RON PAUL FOR PRESIDENT, ONE NATION UNDER CCTV, OBAMA LOVES AMERICA LIKE O.J. LOVED NICOLE. A miniature Gadsden flag flew from the radio antenna.

“That’s his?” Joe said. “Yeah—I’ve seen it around town. But I guess he’s not a hunter or a fisherman, because I’ve never run across him out in the field in my district. I’ll run a license check, but if he was a sportsman I think I would know it. I thought survivalists hunted at least. How else would they survive?”

“Some, like Tilden Cudmore, buy their five years’ supply of food and have it delivered by UPS,” Reed said. “We should assume Cudmore is armed and dangerous. He’s an open-carry type—wears a .357 revolver in a holster over his coat. He’s been thrown out of county commissioners’ meetings because he refuses to take it off.”

“Any sex crimes on his record?” Joe asked softly, looking over to make sure Lucy was still in his pickup. She was.

“No,” Reed said with a sigh. “No felonies at all. A few DUIs, resisting arrest, refusing to comply—that sort of thing. I think he’s in the middle of a tax dispute with the IRS, but they haven’t involved our department. So his misdemeanor convictions have been for civil disobedience stuff—except for the DUIs. But, as I told you earlier, we’ve had a few calls about him cruising way below the speed limit out on the interstate. He alarms people when they see him driving around in that Humvee of his. But we’ve never had a reason to arrest him for it.

“I sent an officer out here once to ask him why he drives around like that. Cudmore claimed he was looking for beer cans and bottles to claim the deposit on them. That doesn’t exactly square with his personality, but that’s what he said.”

“Is he prowling for hitchhikers?” Joe asked.

“That would be my guess,” Reed said. “But again, the first time we’ve ever received a report of him forcing someone into his car came a few hours ago. Thank goodness the RP put two and two together and let us know.”

Joe asked, “Who is the reporting party?”

“A female. I’m not sure she identified herself to the dispatcher.”

“Can we find out?” Joe asked.

“We’ll have a recording,” Reed said, looking skeptically at Joe. “Why—what are you thinking?”

Joe shrugged.

“Anyway,” Reed said, “we’ve put out a statewide BOLO on him and his Humvee. He won’t get far if he stays in that vehicle. It’s a rolling billboard.”

Deputy Boner appeared from the dark and held a cell phone out to Reed. “Chief Williamson for you.”

Reed frowned and shook his head before taking it.

“Yes, Rocky,” Reed said.

Joe could only hear Reed’s side of the conversation, but he got the gist of what was going on.

“No, we’ve got it handled. There’s no need for that now . . .

“I’d say sit tight and put your resources into finding Cudmore . . .

“I know he’s always armed, but sending that thing out here might play into his worldview and set him off, you know? I’d rather not do that . . .

“I understand. You’re just offering help and I appreciate that. But we’ve got the situation under control.”

Reed punched off and handed the phone back to Boner. To Joe, he said, “Our overeager police chief offered to send out his new toy. I politely declined.”

Joe rolled his eyes.

The Saddlestring Police Department, like so many police departments across the country, had received a twenty-ton military MRAP—a mine-resistant ambush protected vehicle—from the Pentagon and the Department of Homeland Security the month before. The vehicle had been designed for and used in the Iraq War. Although it had cost the government more than a half-million dollars, it was given to Chief Williamson and his six-person police department free of charge. Helmets, body armor, combat boots, and camouflage uniforms were also provided. Williamson, who was as eager to make a show of force as Sheriff Reed was to refrain from it, had also procured a .50-caliber machine gun for the turret on top.

To Joe’s knowledge, the MRAP had been used twice: once to arrest a meth cook operating out of a garage, and also to serve papers on a derelict ex-husband for failure to pay child support. There had been a column in the Saddlestring Roundup by Chief Williamson apologizing for the damage to curbs, gutters, and lawns the MRAP had crushed en route, as well as a vow to only use it in the future for more appropriate situations.

—

JOE LEFT REED to check on Lucy. It had gotten cooler. Hard pellets of snow came in waves, bouncing off the windshields and the packed ground.

It was then that he remembered the plight of the sage grouse twins.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called Annie Hatch.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “Something came up. I can be up there in a couple of hours—”

“Fuck you!” Wentworth screamed back. He’d obviously snatched the phone from Hatch. “Don’t even bother. We found Lek Sixty-four just after the snow paused for a few minutes, and we managed to find the road, no thanks to you.”

Joe punched off before he said something he’d later regret.

—

TEN MINUTES LATER, a set of bright headlights appeared on the access road. Because of his job and the long nights he had spent perching and patrolling his district, Joe had become a student of headlights in the dark. He could discern the make and model of an off-road vehicle by the spacing, height, and intensity of the headlamps. They were like faces to him. These headlights were far apart and higher and brighter than normal, and Joe shouted, “It looks like a Hummer!”

“Oh shit,” Reed said. “Here he comes.”

As he wheeled toward his van, Reed said to his officers, “Get ready for anything. Think of your safety first—and no hero antics. We just want to take him in and question him at this point.”

Deputies jogged toward their vehicles with their hands on their weapons.

Joe grasped Dulcie by the arm and guided her toward his pickup. Lucy opened her door when she saw what he was doing.

“Please get in there with Lucy, and both of you stay on the floor,” Joe said. “Don’t raise your heads until I tell you to, okay?”

Lucy nodded, and scooted across the seat to make room for Dulcie. Joe retrieved his Remington Wingmaster 12-gauge shotgun from behind the seat. If there was a firefight coming, he thought, the last thing he wanted was to be dependent on his sidearm. He racked a double-ought shell into the receiver.

When the pickup door was closed, Joe looked across the hood toward the oncoming vehicle. Rather than slow down at the band of crime scene tape, the Hummer accelerated through it.