Stone Cold

15

“Follow my lead and keep your mouth shut,” Latta said over his shoulder to Joe as the two game wardens walked across the shorn meadow to where Templeton had parked his ATV in the shade of a huge river cottonwood.

“Got it,” Joe said crisply but with resentment. He was still angry with Latta and getting tired of his constant admonitions.

Latta was several strides ahead and moving faster than necessary, Joe thought. There was no doubt Latta wanted to get to the ranch owner before Joe did.

Looking ahead over Latta’s shoulder, Joe could see Templeton stiffly climb off the four-wheeler. The rancher raised his long arms to stretch, then lowered them and put his hands on his hips and leaned slightly forward to receive his visitors.

He’d aged from the last photographs Joe had seen of him. Despite the beat-up ranch clothing, Templeton maintained his patrician bearing. He was even taller and leaner than Joe had guessed from the photos, and his short hair was now silver streaked with black rather than black streaked with silver. He had sharp, intelligent eyes that revealed nothing. His once-thin mustache had grown in acreage and now covered his full upper lip and drooped down slightly on the sides, giving him an almost Marlboro Man appearance. He was a memorable presence, Joe thought: the kind of man even men looked at twice.

Joe felt his phone vibrate in his breast pocket and paused to retrieve it. There was a text message from Marybeth reading: Call me when you can. Info on E. Young.

He paused, weighing whether to call her immediately, but decided since she hadn’t indicated it was an emergency it could wait a few minutes. Especially now, with Templeton right in front of him. Joe knew he might never get the chance to see the rancher in person again, and by doing so, his assignment might be near completion. He slid his phone back into the pocket. In his peripheral vision, he saw that Latta had used the opportunity to gain more distance on him.

Latta closed on the rancher and the two shook hands and exchanged greetings, and Latta leaned forward and whispered something into Templeton’s ear. Templeton had no reaction to whatever Latta had said, but eased Latta aside and stepped forward to meet Joe.

“I’m Wolfgang Templeton,” he said, grasping Joe’s hand in a huge dry grip. “I own most of this country around here.” He had a flat, authoritative voice.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Joe said after introducing himself. “It’s nice country.”

“It’s more complicated than it looks, that’s for sure,” Templeton said, turning his head toward the hills.

Joe got the impression there was more to Templeton’s statement than the obvious.

But before he could find out, Latta intervened, literally stepping between the two.

“Mr. Templeton, remember we talked a while back about establishing a couple of public walk-in areas downstream on Sand Creek, where the county road ends…”

Latta went on to explain the parameters of walk-in areas, the benefits for the public as well as the landowner, the goodwill that could be established, on and on, Joe thought. He’d never heard Latta talk so much or so quickly. Joe let him and didn’t interrupt. He assumed it was because Latta was nervous and perhaps intimidated, and instead concentrated on trying to read Wolfgang Templeton.

Joe had learned from Marybeth to trust his instincts upon meeting a man for the first time, and he’d honed the ability over the years when encountering fishers, hunters, and other loners in the outdoors. His immediate impression of Templeton was that he was a man with both the drive to achieve what he wanted and the patience to get it done. He was also a perfectionist who personally checked not only the fences, roads, and culverts of his ranches himself but also the hay crop. Templeton listened to Latta without a word, appeared to be engaged, but Joe doubted it. He seemed like the kind of man who had heard thousands of pitches in his life and could cut through the verbosity of the proposal to its bare essence within half a minute, and sum up the presentation in a sentence better than the presenter could ever dream of — for better or worse.

Joe had been in the presence of evil men — outright violent criminals and those with hidden motives and agendas — and Templeton didn’t give off that vibration.

There was also something in Templeton’s demeanor that suggested weariness and exhaustion. As if he had too much on his plate to spare the time for Latta, even if the game warden’s intentions were good.

Templeton nodded slightly as Latta went on about access and agreements with the state, but his eyes drifted first toward the rows of cut hay and then to Joe himself, where they locked on Joe just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

While Latta was in mid-sentence about the property-tax benefits of establishing a walk-in area, Templeton cut him off and said, “Okay, we’ll do one.”

That seemed to take Latta by surprise. Again, he began to explain the benefits.

“I said we’d do one,” Templeton said with finality. “Send all the paperwork to Mr. Williams, my ranch foreman. Deal exclusively with him to establish the boundaries. I’ll let him know you and Mr. Pickett here will be in touch.”

“That was easier than I thought,” Latta said, beaming. “I thought you’d have questions and concerns—”

“I said yes even though, believe it or not, it’s not the highest on my priority list,” Templeton said. Then, to Joe: “Some people have trouble taking yes for an answer. So you’re new to the area?”

Joe nodded.

“Where’s home?”

“The Bighorns.”

Latta said, “He’ll only be here for a couple of days. He’s done this walk-in area thing a few times, and—”

Templeton waved off Latta and turned a shoulder to him. To Joe, Templeton said again, “It’s fine country, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Only a settler or two away from pure wilderness,” the rancher said. “What you see around you in this county is the first edition, even though it’s crumbling away. Think about that, how new it is even though it looks old. Most civilizations build for centuries on top of themselves. Not here. What you see is the first version of an attempt to tame wild country and draw a living from it: Black Hills 1.0. I’m not counting the Sioux and Cheyenne — they were here first. But they hunted here and passed through. They didn’t leave anything permanent except a few tipi rings.”

Joe nodded.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

Joe nodded to Latta and said, “He thinks I talk too much.”

Templeton took in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly through his nose.

“Strange how many people here feel they need to protect me in some way. I used to find it charming.”

Joe had no idea how to respond or what to say.

Before Latta could interject again, there was the sound of another vehicle roaring up the ranch access road toward the highway.

All three men paused to look up at the late-model white Suburban with the SAND CREEK RANCH logo on the door. It was traveling so fast, Joe thought, it might cause a head-on collision if someone was coming the other way around the tight curves. The tires kicked up a large plume of dust.

As the Suburban shot by, Joe saw three forms inside — the driver in front and two women in back, each in their own row of seats. Although the windows of the vehicle were darkened, he saw a pale hand wave good-bye to Templeton through the smoky glass.

Templeton raised his hand and waved. “There they go,” he said. “Off to the airport in Rapid City to return to where they came from.”

“Who were they?” Joe asked. He could feel Latta’s glare on the side of his head but didn’t acknowledge it.

“Visitors,” Templeton said. “Visitors who forgot they were visiting.”

Templeton watched them go. As the Suburban curved around the last hill, his face softened as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders, Joe observed.

“You’ve got quite a few visitors,” Joe said.

“I do,” the rancher said. “Some are better than others.”

“I assume those two in the car are who you’re talking about,” Joe said.

“Yes. But someone very special is replacing them.”

Joe arched his eyebrows.

Templeton continued, “It’s an amazing fact of life that no matter what your situation and current circumstances, you can suddenly meet a special someone who looks you right in the eye and sizes you up and opens herself up to you and everything else just melts away and you just know she will be a part of your life. Maybe even a big part. When that happens, it’s important to reassess.”

Latta’s mouth dropped open. He was obviously unsure how to respond, and a little shocked that Templeton spoke to Joe that way.

“You realize it’s time to clear out the detritus,” Templeton said. As he did it, he raised his hand and flicked his fingers at the memory of the passing Suburban.

He said, “After I’d met my special woman and returned back to the ranch, I couldn’t even look at those two anymore. It was the difference between dining on caviar and champagne and returning home where someone is opening a can of Spam for dinner. So it was time for them to leave and clear the air.”

“When will this special lady get here?” Joe asked.

“Anytime now,” Templeton said, almost in reverie.

“I met another one of your visitors down the creek,” Joe said. “He was an interesting guy who called himself Whip. He was fishing with a vintage bamboo fly rod. I don’t see many of those.”

Templeton seemed to snap back to the present. “That would be an important colleague of mine.”

“He wanted to ticket him,” Latta interjected. “Luckily, I saw what was going on and put a stop to it.”

Templeton nodded with approval. “That’s for the best.”

Joe said, “If I catch him fishing again with too many big fish or without a license, I’ll ticket him for sure. The same with your other guests, so you might want to let them know what the rules and regulations are.”

Latta moaned.

Templeton turned to Joe. He said, “I hope you’ll give that some real thought. My colleague, well, you don’t want to get on his bad side.”

“I got that message loud and clear,” Joe said. “Do you have other guests I should look out for, so I don’t ruin their day?”

Templeton smiled as if he were wise to the game that was afoot. “Other guests?”

“You know,” Joe said, “other colleagues of yours who might be out and about without paying any attention to Game and Fish regulations. Fishing without a license, for instance, or shooting pheasants out of season. Falconry without a permit — things like that.”

There was a tiny twitch at the corners of Templeton’s mouth at the word falconry, Joe noted.

“Why do you ask?” the rancher said.

“Joe, we’ve got to go,” Latta said.

Templeton said, “Yes, I’ve got to get back to inspecting my hayfields. If we don’t have rain, I can start baling that cut hay tomorrow. It’s the last cutting of the year, you know.”

Latta thanked Templeton profusely for his time as well as for agreeing to the trial walk-in area, and grasped Joe’s arm to pull him along.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Joe said to Templeton.

“Likewise,” Templeton said, coolly looking Joe over as if for the first time.

His demeanor remained serious when he told Latta, “Don’t contact Mr. Williams until tomorrow about your project. He’s busy tonight organizing a welcome reception and dinner for my very special guest.”

“Okay, Mr. Templeton,” Latta said.

To Joe, Templeton asked, “I hope the accommodations and the Whispering Pines Motel are okay for you.”

Joe nodded. Of course he knew. But how much?

“What in the hell was that all about with his guests?” Latta shouted when they climbed back into the cab of his pickup. “What did I tell you about keeping your mouth shut and letting me do all the talking?”

“You did plenty of that.”

Latta thumped the steering wheel hard with the heel of his hand. “He’s talking to you all neighborly-like, and all of a sudden you start bringing up his guests and grilling him on his own land.”

“Grilling is a strong word,” Joe said.

“And what was that about someone doing falconry? I oversee the falconry permits around here, and no one has applied. What was that all about?”

Joe shrugged. “Just popped into my head.”

“Jesus Christ,” Latta said with disgust.

“Who is this special woman he’s importing?” Joe asked.

“I have no idea,” Latta said. “Why do you think I would know or care? That’s not my business, and it sure as hell isn’t yours.”

“She must be something,” Joe said.

“It doesn’t matter!” Latta thundered. “It’s his personal life. There have been plenty of females in the past. There is this black one — sorry, African American — from down south who is an absolute friggin’ knockout. I don’t know if she’s still there or not. I don’t care about any of them, and neither should you.”

“He brought it up.”

“He was just talking. Trying to be nice. And you screw it all up.”

“Maybe I don’t want him to get his hooks into me the way he’s got them into you and everybody else around here,” Joe said.

Before Latta could respond, Joe said, “Tell me what’s going on around here. You like to talk, so talk. Tell me what it is they have on you, and why there’s a group of people in this district that are above the law. Tell me what they’ve asked you about me, and what you told them.”

“I can’t,” Latta said with heat.

“Then we’re done. Take me back to my truck.”

“You’re goddamned right we’re done,” Latta said. “I can’t protect you anymore. You just do whatever the hell you want in my district.”

“I don’t want or need protection,” Joe said. “What kind of place is this that you even talk that way? Why is it that everyone here knows me and knows my business?”

“I already told you,” Latta said, doing a jerky three-point turn on the gravel road so he could aim his pickup back the way they came. “It’s a different world here. It’s obvious you don’t belong.”

Joe said, “For once, I agree with you.”

They rode along in silence for a few minutes, each consumed with his own angry thoughts. Joe put off calling Marybeth until he could be clear of Latta. He didn’t want the game warden knowing anything about anything.

When they reached the state highway, Latta said, “If I were you, I’d pack up your dog and your stuff and head home tonight. Forget about helping me with the walk-in area. I can handle that on my own.”

“Still protecting me?” Joe asked. “From who? From what?”

“Hell,” Latta said, “I’m protecting myself, too. I’ve got Emily to think about.”

His tone had softened into uneasiness and anguish, Joe thought. He felt sorry for him.

“We’re done,” Joe said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m leaving right away. But whatever I do, it won’t involve you.”

“It better not,” Latta said, inhaling a long and trembling breath.

When they approached Medicine Wheel, Latta said, “You aren’t going to write up a report on all this, are you?”

Joe didn’t respond.

“Tell me this will be between us. Just a misunderstanding between a couple of fellow game wardens. I don’t know our new director at all, and I don’t want her getting the wrong impression.”

Joe said, “I’m not planning to send in a report to her.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Don’t,” Latta said. “Because it’s one thing if we’re through and I’m off to the side. It’s another thing if you make me your enemy, too.”

Joe looked over at Latta. There was a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes. And there was nothing worse than that.

Latta dropped off Joe without a word of good-bye in the parking area of the Whispering Pines Motel and roared away. Joe’s pickup was the sole vehicle in the lot, and he assumed he was still the only guest. As soon as Latta’s rear bumper strobed away through the trees on the side of the road and vanished, Joe called Marybeth.

“What did you find out about Erik Young?” he asked.

“He doesn’t have any priors I could find, although I can’t access juvie records. But I think I located his mother.”

The clouds had scudded off to South Dakota and the noon sun was straight overhead, warming the asphalt. Joe leaned against the grille of his truck.

Marybeth told Joe in detail about her experience that morning. She said, “If someone cold-called me and asked, ‘Are you Sheridan Pickett’s mother?’ or ‘Are you Lucy Pickett’s mother?’ the first thought that would probably come into my mind is car wreck. Or some kind of horrible accident.”

“Really?” Joe asked.

“Really. That’s how a mother’s mind works.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But if a stranger called out of the blue and asked, ‘Are you April Keeley’s mother?’ well, a bunch of other scenarios would immediately come to mind. I’d probably picture her in a jail cell or in the back of a squad car or something. I hate to admit this, but it’s true.”

Joe nodded, knowing that he wouldn’t come to any of those conclusions without hearing more.

Marybeth said, “So for Mrs. Young to blurt out, ‘I knew this call would come someday. My God, what has he done?’ scares me, Joe. This woman knows Erik is capable of something awful. Trust me — a mother just knows. It convinces me Sheridan is on to something.”

Joe took a deep breath. He said, “What did she say next?”

“Nothing,” Marybeth said with a sigh. “She hung up the phone.”

“Did you call back?”

“No. I thought if I called right back I’d spook her. She obviously didn’t want to talk to me or hear anything I had to say about her son. Just think: What if I was the police chief in Laramie or the head of university security calling? Mrs. Young didn’t even want to hear who I was or why I was calling before she blurted out what she said.”

Joe asked, “Do you think you could call her again later tonight and get her to talk? You know, mother to mother?”

“That’s my plan,” she said. “She may see the area code again and not answer, but who knows? Maybe she will have talked to her son by then. But all I can do is try. Meanwhile, I’ll keep digging. Young’s path from California to Laramie might include some other stops where he might have made a mark. Plus, I haven’t dug into social media yet. He’s got to have a Facebook page, and he might have a blog or sites where he posts.”

“Keep me updated,” Joe said. “I’ll keep my phone close.”

“Oh,” Marybeth said, “you asked me about two other names…”

She went on to detail the extensive rap sheets of Bill Critchfield and Gene Smith.

“Nothing at all in the last five years?” Joe asked.

“Not that I can find.”

“That’s odd,” he said. “I didn’t get the impression they’d reformed.”

“I thought that, too,” she said.

Joe paused, thinking it through. Then he said: “You know that wealthy rancher I told you about? He moved into this county five years ago.”

There was a pause. Marybeth said, “What’s the connection?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think those two became model citizens all of a sudden. But obviously no one arrested them. You’d think they would have had run-ins with the town cops or the sheriff, or Jim Latta.”

He said, “I think maybe those two either work for the rancher or have something on him. But I’d guess the former.”

“Then steer clear of them, Joe,” Marybeth cautioned.

He nodded, but of course she couldn’t see it.

“Joe?”

“I got it.”

“Joe, how are things going?”

He said, “They’re heating up. It’s probably good I won’t be here much longer.”

As he said it, he glanced up at the motel office to see Anna quickly back away from the window, where she’d been watching him.

“Good work,” he said. “You’ve produced more results than the FBI at this point. But that shouldn’t surprise me.”

“Just get done and hurry home,” she said. “I’m worried what I might learn from Mrs. Young, and you may need to get to Laramie in a hurry.”