Stone Cold

12

Jim Latta was over an hour late arriving for breakfast at the Longabaugh Café in Sundance, and Joe checked his wristwatch and ordered a second refill of coffee. He needed it, since he’d slept only three hours after returning to the Whispering Pines Motel.

The Longabaugh was located on Main Street, across from the post office, and was the only business on the block open that early in the morning. Mud-splashed pickups were parked outside, and Joe had chosen a corner booth next to the kitchen bat-wing doors with his back to the wall so he could observe the patrons and greet Latta when he showed up. When Joe arrived at seven, the place was filled with road crew workers en route to a highway construction project on I-90—men who wanted big breakfasts of chicken-fried steak, three eggs, and gravy to drown it all in. There was plenty of grumping about the weather and their bosses before they all got up and left en masse with box lunches at seven-thirty.

While he waited, Joe checked his phone — no calls or messages from Sheridan — and read about the history of Longabaugh on the back of the menu. Harry Longabaugh was a fifteen-year-old Pennsylvanian who had come west in 1887 in a covered wagon as far as Sundance, where he decided to steal a horse, saddle, and gun from a local ranch. He was caught immediately and arrested. During his year-and-a-half jail term, he’d adopted the name the Sundance Kid.

After the construction crew left, locals filtered in. A young, dirty couple in their late twenties or early thirties took the largest table in the center of the room and situated three children under six in the other chairs. The kids were loud and wild, and the mother cursed at them to shut up. The father wore a battered Carhartt barn coat and he took it off to reveal a black heavy metal T-shirt and sleeve tattoos. He was obviously not in a hurry to get to work that morning, Joe thought.

When two of the boys threw packets of jam at each other from a container on the table, the father reached over and swept the condiments away from their reach with his arm, lit a cigarette, and looked away.

“Still waiting?” the waitress asked Joe. She was heavy, with pink hair, and she wore cargo pants and a hoodie. There was a small silver hoop in her left nostril that Joe found hard not to fix on.

“A few more minutes,” he said.

“Waitin’ on Jim Latta?” she asked, nodding toward Joe’s red uniform shirt.

“Yup.”

“He’ll be here,” she said. “He comes in most days. You want to order while you wait?”

He ordered the Wild Bunch — three eggs, bacon, and toast.

There was the old iconic photograph of Harry Longabaugh, Butch Cassidy, and the Wild Bunch over the counter of the café. In it, the Sundance Kid wore a suit, tie, handlebar mustache, and bowler hat. Joe wished idly that criminals still chose to dress well, but thought: Nobody did anymore.

He was reaching for his phone to check on Latta when the game warden entered the café. Latta nodded to Joe in a brusque manner and said to the waitress, “The usual, Steffi.”

He sat heavily in the opposite seat and leaned forward toward Joe. Latta’s eyes were bloodshot and hooded, and a hundred tiny veins were visible on his nose and fleshy cheeks. He looked like he’d got about as much sleep as Joe had.

“I got your messages this morning,” Latta growled.

“I was wondering,” Joe said.

Latta shook his head, almost in sorrow. “I wish you wouldn’t have gone up there.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Joe said.

“This is my district, goddamnit.”

“I know that.”

“Then what in the hell were you doing?” Latta asked, angry and pleading at the same time.

“My job. Our job.”

Joe drew out his phone and brought up the camera roll. “Here,” he said, handing it over to Latta. “I’ve got ’em in the act. Scroll through there and you’ll see their truck, the license plate, and some dead birds. You can even see hatchery bands on one of their feet if you zoom in. The time stamp nails down when it happened.”

Latta frowned as he scrolled through the shots. He grumbled about having trouble figuring out the features of the phone to zoom in on individual shots. He complained that his thumbs were too big for the modern world.

“That’s Critchfield’s truck, isn’t it?” Joe asked.

Latta grunted an assent, then put the phone down in front of him.

“Jesus, Joe,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. “Next time you can’t sleep, why don’t you play solitaire or jerk off like everybody else?”

Joe chose not to reply.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to go back up there last night?” Latta asked.

“I tried,” Joe said. “You didn’t pick up.”

Latta said, “Shit, you stirred up a damn hornet’s nest.”

Joe was puzzled. “I did?”

The game warden turned his deadeye cop stare back on. “You left your card on their windshield.”

Joe nodded. “So you heard about that already? What, did they call you? Is that why you’re late this morning?”

“Never mind that,” Latta said. “This is my district and I deal with things in my own way. I don’t need you around here pissing in the pool.”

“Sorry you feel that way,” Joe said through tight jaws.

Before Latta went on, the waitress delivered their plates. Both had the Wild Bunch in front of them.

“I’ll try to smooth things out,” Latta said, “but in the meanwhile, I don’t need any more of your goddamn help, okay?”

“Smooth what out?” Joe asked.

A gust of cool air blew through the café as two men entered. One was obviously the sheriff, judging by his beige uniform. The sheriff had narrow shoulders and a potbelly, and wore black squared-off boots. He had a sunken, weathered face and looked bemused, and he held his gaze on Joe for a beat longer than necessary. The other wore a tie and slacks and a long gray topcoat. Both men glanced their way as they entered — two redshirts were always a curiosity in hunting country — but settled into a booth across the room. The older man in the topcoat had a large square head, silver hair, and a serious expression on his face. When Joe nodded a hello, the sheriff looked quickly to his companion as if he hadn’t seen it.

Joe noticed Latta had seen them enter as well, and the game warden’s face seemed to have drained of color.

“Who are they?” Joe asked as he stabbed the yolk of an egg with a point of his toast.

“Sheriff R. C. Mead and Judge Bartholomew,” Latta said in a low tone, not wanting to be overheard. “Don’t stare at them.”

“So that’s Judge Bartholomew,” Joe said. “I met his sister last night. I see the resemblance.”

Latta said, “Let’s eat and get out of here. You and me have to talk.”

Joe nodded and ate. He was starving. He didn’t even look up when a packet of jam thrown by one of the dirty boys hit him in the leg.

“Had to meet the physical therapist at the house before I could get going this morning,” Latta said through a mouthful. “That’s why I’m late.”

Joe thought: It took you a while to come up with that one.

After they’d paid their tab, Jim Latta left the restaurant with his head down the same way he had left the Bronco Bar the night before. He said he’d meet Joe outside. The fact that Latta didn’t acknowledge the judge or the sheriff said more, in a way, than if he had, Joe thought.

On his way toward the door, Joe skirted the table with the family and intentionally neared the booth with the sheriff and judge. Neither raised his head to acknowledge him.

As he passed, Sheriff R. C. Mead said to the judge, “And there he goes, off to enforce the game regulations for the great state of Wyoming.”

Joe paused next to them and looked over. The judge seemed to be fighting a grin.

Mead said to Joe, “If you find somebody out there engaged in major criminal activity — like with too many mourning doves in their coat pocket or something — you make sure to call 911 so I can call up our SWAT team, you hear?”

“I think I could handle that one on my own,” Joe said. “But thanks for the offer, Sheriff.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Mead said, exchanging glances with the judge.

“Joe Pickett,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’m Judge Ethan Bartholomew,” the judge said, dismissively shaking Joe’s hand. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Pines.”

“So far, so good,” Joe said.

The judge paused for a moment, then said, “And don’t go smoking in bed. Poor Anna can’t afford to lose any more units.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Joe said. Then he clamped his hat on his head and said to both of them: “Morning, gentlemen.”

The judge nodded back. Mead said, “I know all about you, you know.”

Joe raised his eyebrows.

“Bud Barnum and Kyle McLanahan were friends of mine,” Mead said, letting the names drop like lead weights. When Bartholomew looked to him for clarification, Mead said, “The last couple sheriffs of Twelve Sleep County, where Joe Pickett here comes from. He was a pain in the ass to both of them, they said. Barnum dropped off the face of the earth and McLanahan died in a mysterious fall. I’m sure you heard about that.”

“I heard about it,” Bartholomew said, then looked up at Joe as if seeing him in a different light.

Mead said, “There’s a new sheriff over there, some cripple. I don’t know him very well yet. But my guess is he’d agree with the other two how the local game warden doesn’t know how to keep his nose out of sheriff department business. That’s what they told me, anyway.”

Joe said, “His name is Sheriff Mike Reed. He’s a paraplegic because he got shot in the line of duty. He’s a good man who needs a wheelchair. There’s nothing crippled about him.”

Mead said to Joe, “Just keep out of my way in this county. I really don’t want to run across you again. You seem to be bad luck when it comes to sheriffs.”

He said it as a mock joke, but Joe could tell he wasn’t joking.

“And I’d appreciate it if you would stay out of my courtroom,” Bartholomew said. “My court has enough on the docket without a bunch of frivolous game violations.”

“You mean like locals who poach pheasants at night?” Joe asked innocently.

Something flashed through Judge Bartholomew’s eyes. Mead managed to act as though he didn’t understand what Joe had alluded to.

“That’s what I mean,” Bartholomew said with finality. “I don’t want to waste my time with trivialities.”

When the waitress arrived with their breakfasts, Joe stepped aside.

“Nice meeting you,” he said as he went out the door.

Jim Latta stood between their two pickups, shuffling his feet nervously. He had Joe’s phone in his hand. “You forgot this.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, taking it.

“What were you talking with them about in there?”

“Just saying hello.”

“That’s all?”

“That and the fact that everybody in this county seems to know where I’m staying and what happened last night.”

“It’s a small place,” Latta said. “Everybody talks. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

“Except you,” Joe said, standing close to Latta. “You don’t seem to have a need to talk to anyone around here. You move through them like you’re a ghost, I’ve noticed.”

Latta looked over his shoulder as if checking for spies and said, “That’s what we need to talk about. Why don’t we drop your rig and your dog by the motel and you can go out with me today? You can tell me all about establishing some public walk-in areas, like we talked about.”

Joe hesitated, then agreed.

When he got behind the wheel to follow Latta out of Sundance, Joe checked his phone for messages he might have missed. There were none.

But the photos had been deleted.

Joe followed Latta’s truck east out of Sundance toward Medicine Wheel. The long grassy mountain meadow they drove across was empty of other cars. Wooded hills bordered the flat on both sides and a narrow creek meandered in and out of view on the right side, its bank choked by heavy brush. A small herd of white-tailed deer grazed in the grass near the creek and didn’t bother to look up as the two pickups sizzled by.

He let Latta build a comfortable lead before scrolling through his phone for Chuck Coon’s private cell phone number. When he found it, he punched the number with his thumb and put his phone on speaker and lowered it to his lap. Joe didn’t want Latta to see him talking with anyone if the game warden checked him in his rearview mirror.

Coon answered on the second ring. “Make it quick, Joe. I’m on my way down the hall right now for a meeting with some D.C. honchos.”

“Just checking in as instructed,” Joe said.

“Anything to report?”

“Not a lot,” Joe said. “Except everyone I’ve met so far seems to know I’m here.”

“But do they know why?”

“I don’t know what they know, but it’s like walking into a bar full of regular customers — I stand out. But I can tell you Wolfgang Templeton seems to be well regarded around here. I haven’t met anyone yet who doesn’t sing his praises.”

“Interesting,” Coon said. “But will anybody give you something we can work with?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has anyone indicated they’re aware of Mr. Romanowski in the area?”

“Nope. But I haven’t asked specifically, either.”

“Do that.”

Joe grunted.

“So no whistle-blowers as yet,” Coon said.

“Not yet,” Joe said. “But there seems to be a lot going on up here I don’t understand.”

He told Coon about delivering the pheasants, then being there when they were being poached out in the middle of the night.

“You left them your card?” Coon asked incredulously.

“Yup.”

“Joe, you were supposed to keep a low profile. We talked about that and you agreed.”

Joe said, “Chuck, they already knew I was here. Now they know I’m a real game warden. They aren’t thinking of me in any other way.”

Coon paused for a moment, then said, “Okay, I see the sense in that. It establishes your cover.”

“It’s not a cover,” Joe said. “I am a game warden. But what I can’t figure out is why these two low-life poachers seem to be above the law up here. The local game warden doesn’t want to roust them, the sheriff doesn’t want to hear about them, and the judge doesn’t want them in his courtroom.”

“How do you know that?”

“They all told me.”

“All this has happened already?” Coon asked. “You haven’t wasted any time.”

“I’ll text you the names of the locals when I get a chance,” Joe said. “Maybe you can run them and find something.”

“Roger that.”

Joe said, “The game warden up here seems to be hiding something. I think he knows a lot more about what goes on than he’s let on to me so far.”

“Are you on good terms with him? Will he talk?”

“I don’t know yet,” Joe said. “I’ve got to be real careful because he seems a little suspicious. He’s not happy with me for identifying those poachers for some reason. I don’t really like spying on a fellow game warden, you know. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh well,” Coon said. “Get what you can out of him and let me know.”

“Thanks for the sympathy and understanding.”

“My pleasure.”

Joe could hear Coon’s shoes tapping out a cadence as if he were marching down a hallway. He was slightly out of breath when he spoke.

Joe said, “Hey — do you have anything for me regarding Erik Young? The name I asked you about?”

“I gave that to an agent,” Coon said impatiently. “I haven’t seen the agent yet today and I don’t know if he sent me an email on it.”

“You’ll let me know, though, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’ve got to go. Keep me posted.”

Joe punched off. When he looked up he could see Latta watching him in his rearview mirror.

Anna Bartholomew met them in the courtyard of the Whispering Pines with a platter of hot cinnamon rolls. She said she’d just baked them.

“We just ate breakfast,” Latta said to her with a grin while Joe led Daisy back to cabin number eight. “But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take one or two along for later.”

“They’re best when they’re warm,” Anna said with a chirpy voice. “But I can get some paper towels and wrap them up for the two of you. You men must get hungry out there, driving around the countryside.”

Joe rejoined Latta with his coat and the leather briefcase from his truck while the game warden waited for the cinnamon rolls.

“Walk-in area guidelines and paperwork,” Joe said, lifting the briefcase.

Latta nodded and said, “She makes the best damned cinnamon rolls in the state.”

“I like cinnamon rolls,” Joe said. He sounded simple even to himself. But what he was thinking was, How did she know we were coming back here?

Latta’s agency pickup was of a newer vintage than Joe’s, but the contents of the single cab were remarkably familiar — GPS mounted on the dashboard, radios underneath, evidence kit, reams of maps held together by rubber bands on the floor console, empty shell casings and spent sunflower seeds on the floor. An M14 peep-sight carbine was secured to a mount in the center of the cab and a combat shotgun was wedged muzzle-down between the bench seats.

“Feels strange being a passenger,” Joe said, climbing in and shutting the door.

“I bet,” Latta said, taking the road out of Medicine Wheel.

Latta seemed preoccupied, Joe thought. No small talk about the weather, where they were going, anything.

Something was on his mind and he was trying to figure out how to present it.

Joe finally said, “The photos are gone from my phone.”

Latta wouldn’t meet his eyes as he drove, but he said, “What do you mean?”

“They’ve been deleted. I think you know that.”

Latta said, “I might have pushed the wrong button when I was looking at them this morning. I told you I have trouble with those damn things.” Then: “Damn, that’s too bad.”

Joe said, “We both know it doesn’t matter. We could find feathers, blood, and other evidence in Critchfield’s truck and send it to the forensics lab in Laramie. That is, if we really wanted to nail him. But it’s your district and it’s your call.”

Latta started to respond, then caught himself. After a few miles, he let out a sigh. He said, “I might have pushed something that said ‘reformat this camera’ when I was scrolling through the pictures, I guess.”

“Gee, you think?” Joe said with sarcasm.

“Okay, okay,” Latta said. “Now is not a good time to cite Critchfield and Smith. It’s complicated, but it’s something that just isn’t worth it, Joe. You’ve got to trust me on this.”

“Are you building a case against him?”

After a pause, Latta said, “Something like that.”

They took the winding state highway through timbered hills to get to the access road that would lead them to the Sand Creek Ranch headquarters. In addition to spruce and ponderosa pine, Joe noted swaths of scrub oak in the valleys. As they passed, he saw deer and wild turkeys on the floor of the forest.

The truck approached a Y junction in the road and Latta bore left. Joe saw another historical marker whiz by. On a flat below a creek, he was surprised to see a huge red structure of sorts with turrets and a gabled roof. Two dozen four-wheel-drive vehicles were parked outside the main building. The southern wing looked empty except for two aging pickup trucks parked side by side.

“What the heck is that?” Joe asked. The building looked remarkably out of place. A sign read: THE BLACK FOREST INN.

“Used to be the home of the owner of the coal mine,” Latta said. “He built it to look like some kind of European château. Up until a few years ago, it was in bad shape. Some guy tried to turn it into a hotel, but he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. The only crowd he got there were the bikers on the way to Sturgis, and they beat it up even more.”

“It looks restored,” Joe said, noting its clean lines, new asphalt parking lot, and new roof.

“Pretty much,” Latta said. “About ninety percent of the rooms are refurbished, and they’re filled with hunters this time of year. It’s pretty convenient for them because that structure on the south end is that wild game — processing facility I told you about — the only one in the county. It gets busier than hell.”

“I saw a couple of trucks.”

“Locals,” Latta said. “When they’re butchering game, they employ five or six people from around here. It’s a damn fine processing outfit — one of the best I’ve ever seen. You know how some of those places are. But down there, you could eat off the floor. All the saws and equipment are stainless steel, and the cutters wear white coats and aprons. It’s high-quality enough I take my own deer and elk there to get it packaged. We could swing by there on the way back and pick up some German sausage, if you want. They make great sausage.”

“Who owns it?” Joe asked, already knowing the answer.

“Templeton. He saved the place,” Latta said.

“I wish I’d known about it,” Joe said. “I could have stayed there instead of the Whispering Pines.”

“The bar gets pretty rowdy,” Latta said with a grin. “Especially now, during hunting season. So you’re better off where you’re at.”

Joe nodded. He said, “Since we’re going to see him, what can you tell me about Wolfgang Templeton?”

“What do you want to know?”

“You seem to like him. Everybody I’ve met seems to like him. That’s not always the case with big landowners who move in and buy everything up.”

Latta agreed and said, “If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what this county would be like.”

As they drove, Latta said Templeton had been a generous and selfless philanthropist since his arrival years before.

“You name it,” Latta said. “When our six-man high school football team needed new uniforms, Mr. Templeton paid for them. When the county museum needed a new roof, Mr. Templeton paid for the materials and sent his men to fix it. When the medical clinic was just about to close because the mines shut down and hardly anyone had medical insurance anymore, Mr. Templeton was able to recruit a doctor from Pakistan — Dr. Rahija — and made a big donation to upgrade the place. He just helps people, Joe,” Latta said, as if that explained it all.

“He’s the biggest employer in the county by far,” Latta continued. “He employs out-of-work loggers and miners as guides, outfitters, cowboys on his ranches, cooks, even those meat processors back there. Three-quarters of this county owe their walking-around money to Mr. Templeton.”

“Interesting,” Joe said.

“Yeah, I don’t know what we’d do without him. Government checks and EBT cards only go so far.”

“EBT?”

“‘Electronic Benefits Transfer.’ The Feds issue ’em now instead of food stamps. They’re kind of like debit cards. Food stamps gave the recipients a sense of shame, I guess.”

Joe looked over to see if Latta was being facetious, but he didn’t appear to be.

“Plus, he helped you and Emily,” Joe said.

“That’s right,” Latta said, and turned to Joe. “Who else would do something like that out of the goodness of his heart? I mean, he found the best surgeon in South Dakota and flew me and Emily to Rapid City in his plane so she could get that operation. Think about that.”

“He has his own plane?” Joe asked.

“A couple of them,” Latta said, which confirmed what Coon’s file had said. “The ranch headquarters has an airstrip on it, and Mr. Templeton keeps his planes in a hangar there. See, he’s a pilot. He actually flew us there himself. And when Emily was released from the hospital, he flew back over and brought us home.”

“I’ve got to ask,” Joe said, as conversationally as he could manage. “Where did he get all his money to do these things?”

Latta turned back to the road. He said, “Beef, of course. And he grows lots of hay on a couple of his ranches.”

Joe said, “Still, there seems like there has to be another source. All the ranchers I know are land-rich but cash-poor.”

Latta continued: “Then there’s all the outfitting and hunting operations, the wild game — processing plant…” His voice trailed off.

Joe let the question just hang there, and it did.

“I don’t know,” Latta said, finally. “I heard he used to be some kind of big-shot financial whiz back east. He probably banked a ton of money away during the boom years.”

As he said it, Latta turned from the highway onto a well-graded gravel road. They passed under a magnificent wrought iron archway that identified the property as THE SAND CREEK RANCH.

As they passed through the arch, Joe noted small closed-circuit cameras mounted to the wrought iron columns on each side.

“Why the cameras?” Joe asked, pointing them out to Latta.

“Cattle rustlers, I’m sure,” Latta said quickly.

“Is that a problem around here?”

“Sure. Beef prices are up, you know. That’s why the ranch shut down all the old access roads except the main one a few years ago. Rustlers can bring their cattle trucks in only one way: through the main gate.”

“Interesting,” Joe said.

“Mr. Templeton thinks of everything,” Latta said with a nod.

“Tell me,” Joe said, “in your visits out here, have you ever run into a falconer? Big guy, with a blond ponytail?”

Latta looked over, puzzled. “No, why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Who is he?”

“Just a guy I’m always on the lookout for,” Joe said. “We have some history.”

Latta let it drop.

Joe looked ahead. The road followed the contours of a narrow but deep stream. He could see trout rising to the surface to sip at a midmorning hatch. The concentric circles were substantial, meaning the fish were big. As a fly fisherman, Joe felt a tug in his chest and wished he’d packed along his rod and waders.

“We might catch Mr. Templeton himself,” Latta said, “but more likely we’ll talk to his ranch foreman about the walk-in areas.”

Joe tried to contain his disappointment.

“But if we talk to Mr. Templeton, Joe, I’ve got to ask a favor of you.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me do the talking,” Latta said. “You tend to ask too many questions.”

Joe thought it over, recalling the admonition from Coon and the promise he’d made to Marybeth, before saying, “It’s a deal. This is your district, after all.”

The hills on both sides closed in as they drove up the gravel road and entered the shadowed mouth of a canyon. Joe kept glancing at the stream itself but also noticed the condition of the ranch: straight and tight barbed-wire fences, obvious habitat restoration work on the waterway, smart culverts and cattle guards, no ancient husks of spent vehicles or ranch equipment. The vast property was impressive, he thought, and well managed.

The road began to serpentine and narrow as it rose into the canyon, hugging the left side of the red canyon wall. When he glanced ahead, Joe could see the outward corners of four upcoming turns.

Coming around the farthest turn, more than a quarter of a mile ahead, was a flashing glimpse of the grille of an oncoming pickup.

“Oh shit,” Latta whispered, slowing down immediately.

Joe narrowed his eyes. The oncoming vehicle was already out of view as it rounded the turn. But he’d recognized it as well.

“That’s Bill Critchfield’s rig,” Latta said urgently. “Get out now.”

Joe looked over for clarification.

“If he sees you…” Latta said.

“What if he does?”

“Just get out,” Latta said. He pointed his finger toward a thick stand of ponderosa pine on the other side of the creek about two hundred and fifty yards upstream. “Meet me there. I’ll pick you up in a minute.”

“But…”

“Go,” Latta hissed, his eyes flashing.

“It’s your district,” Joe said as he threw his door open and jumped out. The grade on the side of the road was steep and the ground was loose, and he danced his way down to the bottom. When he was able to stop and look back, he saw Latta’s arm reach out from the cab and close the passenger door, then ease his truck up the road.

Confused, Joe pushed his way through heavy brush until he reached the creek. The air smelled of juniper and sage. He could hear both pickups on the road above him as they met. He imagined Latta and Critchfield stopped nose-to-tail in the road to exchange pleasantries. Or something.

Although he was too far away to make out any words, Joe heard Critchfield’s voice bark sharply. He paused and listened and waited, hoping there wouldn’t be trouble. Joe wished he’d brought his shotgun along, and he instinctively reached down to brush the grip of his service weapon with the tips of his fingers.

The stream was narrow enough at one point that he was able to jump across it, although he barely made the distance. Both of his boot heels sank into the mud of the opposite bank as he landed, and he windmilled his arms forward to keep his balance so he wouldn’t tumble back into the water.

Joe stopped to pause and listen as he walked upstream, keeping to the heavy brush so they couldn’t see him from the road. Again, he heard Critchfield’s voice rise and fall. He got the impression Critchfield was yelling at Latta, or making some kind of emphatic point. Probably about the business card he’d found on his truck, Joe thought. He was still taken aback by how panicky Latta had acted, and he wondered what Latta thought Critchfield would do if Joe had stayed in the truck.

Latta, Joe thought, had some explaining to do.

Around a long, lazy bend of the stream, with the dark stand of pine looming ahead of him, Joe found out he wasn’t alone. What he didn’t expect was to stumble upon a man who appeared to be a refugee from The Great Gatsby searching for a tennis game.