Out of Range

THIRTY-NINE

It was mid-afternoon when Joe turned off Bighorn Road. The sight of his home filled him with joy and trepidation, Lucy's bike in the yard, Toby nickering to him from the corral, dried leaves in the grass that needed raking. Unfortunately, his mother-in-law's SUV was in the driveway next to Marybeth's van.

He climbed out of the rental car and stretched, not used to being cramped up like that for hours. Maxine didn't recognize him until he got out-she was looking for his pickup-and came bounding outside through the screen door.

"Dad!" Lucy yelled from her window. It was one of the best things he had ever heard. Marybeth appeared smiling at the front door, looking blond, fit, and beautiful. They embraced just inside the front gate, Lucy now running out to see him.

"Joe," Marybeth said, "why didn't you call ahead?"

"My cell phone burned up in the fire," he said.

"Your face," she said, running her palms over his features, "it's bruised. You need to tell me everything that's happened."

Joe looked up, saw Missy in the doorway. He thought her smile was not genuine. "Later," he said.

"We have steaks in the freezer I can thaw," Marybeth said. "I want to cook you a big dinner." Joe smiled.

Missy stayed for dinner, much to Joe's chagrin. She told him about Italy, about the food and the style of clothes they wore there, about the service in first class. Joe wanted to burst, there was so much to tell Marybeth. And so much he wanted to hear.

Sheridan sat sullenly at the table, and Joe felt the tension between her and Marybeth, even if neither said anything.

At one point, while Missy was describing Venice, Sheridan looked up and said, "I'm glad you're home, Dad."

"I am too," he said.

She made an "it's been rough" eye roll, then bent her head back to her plate. Joe saw that Marybeth had watched the exchange carefully, and he wondered what was to come later, after Missy left.

There was something about Marybeth, he thought. She seemed extremely pleased to see him, but over-conciliatory and a little guarded. If she wasn't angry with him, he decided, it was something else. Something had come between them, and he couldn't guess what. His suspension, the fact that he had killed a man? His arrest? All of the above? Or maybe, he thought, it had been their distance. In fifteen years of marriage, they had never been apart for so long. Again, the cloud of guilt that was Stella washed over him. He decided not to tell her. Now was not the time. He didn't know if there ever would be a time. And he wouldn't ask her what was wrong, what it was that made her seem different, defensive, even guilty. He would eat steak and keep his mouth shut.

After they cleared the dinner dishes off the table, Joe went down the hallway toward the bathroom and glanced into Sheridan's room. It was different, and it took him a moment to figure out what had changed.

"Where are your falconry posters?" he asked her. Over the past three years, Sheridan had filled a wall with depictions of falcons and hawks of North America, as well as National Geographic wildlife shots of falcons in flight and going for a kill. They had been replaced by photos of rodeo cowboys and rock musicians cut out of magazines. He looked at her bookshelf and saw that the books on falconry that Nate had given her were gone.

Sheridan looked up from her homework. "I guess I've got new interests."

"That came about pretty quickly," he said.

"Dad," Sheridan said, "Nate is gone. Didn't Mom tell you that?"

"No."

"I guess I'm not all that surprised," Sheridan said.

Joe continued down the hallway, puzzled.

Marybeth and Missy were having coffee at the table when Joe came into the dining room.

"What's this about Nate?" he asked, interrupting Missy, who was talking about Venetian glass.

The look on Marybeth's face struck Joe. There was some fear in it, as well as caution. "He's been gone for three days," she said.

"That's not so unusual," Joe said, thinking of Nate's long absences.

"This time, his phone is disconnected," Marybeth said.

Joe still didn't understand the gravity behind Marybeth's meaning.

"Joe," she said, "he seems to have vanished the same night Sheriff Barnum disappeared."

"And good riddance to that man," Missy chimed in. Now, Joe got it.

It was late in the evening when he returned to the house. Missy was finally gone, and Marybeth had fallen asleep on the couch with the television on. Joe hung up his jacket in the mudroom and gently woke her.

"Did you find him?" she asked, rubbing her eyes and stretching. Stretching provocatively, Joe thought.

He shook his head. "The bison's gone," Joe said. "His mews is empty, and the house is locked down tight. His Jeep is gone too."

"Joe, do you think-"

"No," he said, sitting down beside her. "He's somewhere. But it sure seems strange that he wouldn't let you know he was going since he agreed to watch over things here."

Something passed over her face that he couldn't read, something he wasn't sure he wanted to find out more about.

They sat in silence for a moment, and she said, "I'm so glad you're home."

He nodded. "Me too."

"What are we going to do, Joe?" she asked.

"That's a big question. You mean with my job?"

"That," she said, and didn't finish her thought.

"It depends on who gets elected governor," Joe said. "Trey thinks a lot depends on the election, and who is appointed director of the agency."

"I've heard Randy Pope's name mentioned."

Joe sighed. "Me too."

She seemed to want to tell him something, he thought, but she remained silent.

They opened a bottle of wine left over from Missy's wedding and took it to bed with them. They made love voraciously the first time, tenderly the second. What struck him was how different she felt at the outset, and familiar she became.

He watched her wash her face at the sink beneath the mirror, and studied her as she climbed back into bed with him.

"Don't ever leave for so long again, Joe," she said, snuggling up to him.

"I won't," he said. Then: "We've got to work on some things, don't we?"

He felt her tense up, then gradually relax. "Yes, we do."

The next week, Joe said, "Remember when you told me about that fawn in the yard?" Marybeth was next to him on the couch, and he reached over and brushed her hair behind her ear.

"Yes."

"You said Nate picked up the body and took it away."

She nodded.

"To that sulfuric mineral springs he showed me, right?"

"Yes."

"I went there today," Joe said. "I had a hell of a time getting there in that stupid little car, but I got close enough I could walk in."

Her eyes grew wide as she listened.

"I saw the remains of the fawn," he said. "Only part of the skull was left, and a few thigh bones. The rest will dissolve within a few weeks. But those weren't the only bones in the spring."

"Oh, no," she said, covering her mouth with her hand.

"The bodies of two men were in there too," he said. "Most of their flesh had been eaten away, but I could tell they were men by the size. There were two skulls, each with big holes in the forehead."

She brought up her other hand and peered at him over her fingertips.

"And I found this near the spring," Joe said, fishing in his breast pocket. He handed it to her. It was a pen, the gold nearly eaten off. But the words TO SHERIFF BARNUM FOR 28 YEARS OF SVC could still be seen on the barrel.

Marybeth looked at Joe hard. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to report it," Joe said, fully aware of the implications of that. "But I'm going to do it anonymously."

Three days later, after receiving the call from Trey Crump telling him that the shooting of Smoke had been investigated and Joe was cleared, he finally went into his home office. Joe had been consciously avoiding it since glancing at his desk the first day home and confirming his fear about mounds of paperwork. Now, he sat in his chair, looked at the pile of envelopes and parcels, and didn't know where to begin. He sorted through the mail, putting it roughly into piles relating to the agency, letters from hunters and fishers, and general mail. There was one small envelope he didn't know how to classify. It was addressed to J. Pickett and had no return address. The postage mark on it said LAGUARDIA AIRPORT — NEW YORK CITY. It was postmarked two days before. Nate? he thought.

He slit open the envelope, pulled out a single card. It read:

Good work, my hero. I'm glad I'm such a good swimmer.

While I'm pretty certain I'd at last found what I've been looking for, you are home now. And since I'd never dream of interfering, at least not uninvited, my search must continue, though at least now I have a solid reference.

I respect family very much. I bet you didn't know that.

Someday, though, I may change my mind. And you might change yours.

It was signed with that single, familiar "S."