Stone Cold

17

An hour and a half later in Sundance, after parking his very identifiable green Ford pickup underground in an unused outdoor bay two blocks away behind a closed auto repair shop, Joe strolled through a row of used three- and four-wheel ATVs at a ranch implement store on the outskirts of town. The business seemed to sell just about anything as long as it had an engine and was used — tractors, backhoes, utility vehicles, riding lawn mowers, and haying equipment. The gravel lot was stained with oil and the air smelled of hydraulic fluid.

In a small office a woman with a bouffant watched him carefully while she talked on the telephone, her cigarette bouncing up and down while she spoke. He waved hello to her and gestured to the row of ATVs, and she responded with an I’ll-be-there-in-a-minute-so-please-don’t-leave dance of her free hand. He nodded that he understood.

A sign above her office read: NO RETURNS, NO EXCHANGES, ALL SALES FINAL.

Joe’s phone vibrated in his pocket — a text message — and he pulled it out and checked the screen. It was from Chuck Coon’s private cell phone: Heard your message. What the f*ck was that?

Joe smiled and texted back: Stand by for call.

He was pocketing the phone when the woman in the small office emerged, shaking her head.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I seen you out here, but I couldn’t get that banker off the phone. See, I’m trying to get a revolving credit line to keep this place alive, and the crap they keep asking me is ridiculous. It’s like they want my firstborn son, but I told them he was twenty-eight. They blame the Feds, but I blame them. It would just be easier to close up shop and go on welfare like the rest of ’em around here.”

She was short and solid, and the egg-shaped helmet of hair reminded Joe of something the English guards would wear outside Buckingham Palace. She wore a bright floral-pattern blouse, too-tight jeans, and scuffed red cowboy boots.

“I’m Kelli Ann Fahey,” she said, sweeping her open palm over the row of ATVs. “I own this place, and I can see you’re a hunter. I’ll bet you’re interested in something that will get you into the woods and help you drag that deer or elk out.”

“Something like that,” Joe said.

“This is a good time of year to buy one of these,” she said. “Hunters come here from all over the country and you’d be surprised how many of ’em want to dump their equipment instead of towing it back home to Ohio or wherever. So we have plenty of inventory.”

“I see that.”

“Anything you particularly have your eye on?”

Joe nodded toward a newer model green Polaris Sportsman. The body and frame were dinged, but it had four new knobby tires and was set up with saddlebags on the rear rack and a heavy-duty rifle scabbard across the front deck.

“Wow,” she said, stepping back as if to steady herself. “You just walked right up and picked out the best deal on the entire lot.

“No kidding,” she said. “This was just turned in by a local rancher. Hardly any miles, and enough horsepower to get you where you want to go and drag anything out. The rancher used that saddle thing for his irrigation shovel, but I bet it would be perfect for your hunting rifle.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Joe said.

She reeled off the fuel capacity, wheel-base measurements, and four-stroke engine specifications. Then she mounted the ATV, started the engine, and cranked back on the accelerator on the handgrip. The engine whined until it was earsplitting and the air filled with acrid blue smoke. Then she shut it off.

“And,” she said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the handlebars and hushing her voice to him as if sharing a secret, “I could let it go for five grand as long as you promise not to tell anybody that you practically stole it from me. If you tell the locals, they’ll bum-rush this place and want deals of their own.”

Joe liked Kelli Ann Fahey. She was a good saleswoman.

“I need to check first,” he said, raising his phone.

She smiled knowingly. “Tell your wife she can ride it to go to the store, or to the mailbox, or whatever. Tell her she’ll feel twenty years younger when she’s zooming this baby around the block.”

“I’ll be right back,” Joe said, walking to the edge of the lot.

“I’ll be in my office,” she said with a wink, and climbed off. “Let’s hope some other hunter doesn’t walk up and steal this out from under you while you’re negotiating with the home front.”

Chuck Coon was incredulous when Joe reached him. He said, “I listened to your message three times and I still can’t decide if you’re serious or delusional.”

Joe said, “I’m not sure, either.”

“Explain.”

“Okay,” Joe said, turning slightly to make sure Fahey was in her office and not two steps away, handing him a title to sign. “A couple of things. As you know, I decided to stay at the Whispering Pines because that’s where the DCI agent stayed. I am literally the only guest there. But it’s hunting season up here. As you know — or maybe you don’t — Wedell is one of those little towns that only has traffic during the fall. A lot of hunters aren’t that particular where they stay, so it seemed strange to me I was there by myself. This morning, I saw some hunters get turned away. There are a bunch of hunters at a place called the Black Forest Inn. That’s probably where the guys who got turned away ended up.

“The owner herself told me Wolfgang Templeton is her biggest referrer of business. Apparently, he likes to send people there who come here to do business with him in one form or another. She thinks he’s wonderful. Everybody does.”

“Can you trust her?” Coon asked.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. Then: “I doubt it.”

“Anyway…”

“The motel has seven cabins left, and the owner told me that after the fire Templeton sent his maintenance crew to make sure the wiring was okay in the remaining units. That got me to thinking.”

“Always dangerous,” Coon said sarcastically.

Joe ignored him. “Last night I talked to Marybeth on my cell phone inside my cabin. I mentioned the same names to her that I sent to you: Critchfield and Smith. Then this morning, Jim Latta got spooked when he saw those two coming down the road we were on and made me get out of his truck before they saw me.”

Coon said, “Couldn’t that have to do with the fact that you braced them last night? That you left your card on their window?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but I think there’s more to it than that,” Joe said. “I think Latta wanted to avoid a confrontation with them that would have been more than them just complaining. Chuck, I think the motel cabins are wired for sound and maybe video. I think they’re bugged. Somebody heard me talk to Marybeth and mention their names and let those two know about it.”

Coon paused. “So you think Templeton was listening? Is listening?”

“I have no idea who is on the other end,” Joe said. “But a few hours after I talked to Marybeth and went to bed, a vehicle showed up at the motel. I didn’t see it, but I heard it. I think someone was checking me out, making sure my pickup was still there and I was in my room.”

“That’s not much to go on,” Coon said sourly.

“I know that.”

“In fact, it sounds paranoid. No offense, of course.”

“All I know is what’s in my gut. Everybody I run into around this county seems to know something, and they all seem connected in unexplainable ways. I think they briefed Jim Latta bright and early this morning, which is why he was late to breakfast. I think the sheriff and the judge were at the restaurant to keep tabs on me and overhear what I said to Latta. And I think Latta took me out to the Sand Creek Ranch as much for Templeton to size me up as for me to meet Templeton.”

Coon sighed a long sigh. “So a big conspiracy is what you’re thinking. I don’t know. Nothing you told me is actionable.”

“Nope.”

“So what is it you’re up to, Joe? Remember our deal. Your job is to poke around and gather information. It sounds like you’ve let the place get to you.”

“I told you already,” Joe said. “I’m seeing if any of what I left on that message to you turns out to be true.”

“‘Lighting the match,’” Coon repeated.

“That’s what I do.”

“All the names you left on the recording may or may not be involved?”

“No idea,” Joe said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if most of them were. And if I’m right about the cabin being bugged, this will smoke them out. It might start turning one against another.”

Coon said, “We could maybe send up one of our tech guys to check out the wiring in your room.”

“How long would that take?”

“A couple of days.”

“Forget it,” Joe said. “By then this will be over, one way or the other.”

“Joe,” Coon said, “you’ve implicated the local sheriff and the county judge. Not to mention your fellow game warden. And Templeton himself — his name came up. This is dangerous territory if that’s all you have on them.”

“It is,” Joe said. “But think about it. I haven’t made a single official charge at all. In fact, if that cabin isn’t bugged, I haven’t done anything but talk to myself and leave you a crazy phone message to the wrong person. What have I really done if I’m all wrong? Nothing, except to get you all hot and bothered.”

“This is not exactly by the book,” Coon said. “I’d never approve an agent in the field doing what you did.”

“I don’t work for you.”

“And thank God for that.” Despite Coon’s words, his voice had softened. Joe could almost visualize Coon’s mind spinning, taking in the implications of what he’d been told so far. Coon asked, “If your speculation is correct, how long do you think it will take to prove it true?”

“Fast,” Joe said. “I purposely left it hanging out there on that message to you that I should have what I need by tomorrow. So if they hear it, they’ll know they won’t have much time. They’ll either have to act or scatter.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Coon said. “What if the situation explodes?”

“Then I can get out of Dodge,” Joe said. “I don’t want to spend a single hour longer up here than I have to.”

He reminded Coon about his daughter at college, how he may have to react in an instant.

“I forgot about that,” Coon said. “Sorry. That name you asked us about. We’ve had a lot on our plate…”

“The Middle Eastern terrorists,” Joe said. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

“We can’t call them that,” Coon barked.

“Gotcha.”

Coon said, “So do you really have a couple of informants, or was that your paranoia at work along with everything else?”

“I have no CIs,” Joe said. “I wish I did. There’s got to be somebody around here who doesn’t think Wolfgang Templeton hung the moon.”

“Another question,” Coon said. “What’s this about this southern gentleman you talk about? Where does he fit in?”

“Who knows?” Joe said. “But I couldn’t leave him out. He might be a guy you’ll want to talk to. There was something about him that gave me the willies, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to run into him like that. Both Latta and Templeton seemed worried about it.”

“And what about your pal Romanowski?”

Joe shook his head. “I’ve got zero leads on him.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Good, I guess,” Coon said. “Is there anything you’re holding back?”

Joe didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I need your authorization to buy a used Polaris Sportsman. My Game and Fish budget is shot and I’m not authorized to purchase any more vehicles. I know you guys have slush funds for things like this. It’s a steal at five thousand dollars, at least according to the saleswoman. A drop in the bucket for a big-time Fed like you.”

“A what?” Coon asked.

“It’s an ATV,” Joe said. “An all-terrain vehicle.”

“Aren’t they dangerous?”

In the tiny office, Joe handed over his credit card to Fahey, who ran it through her machine. He hoped the FBI could reimburse him by the end of the month so the family finances wouldn’t go into the red, and he made a note to himself to warn Marybeth about the upcoming charge. Joe was grateful the governor had arranged for a bump in salary, but he knew the increase wouldn’t cover the cost.

“So where are you hunting around here?” she asked, although Joe got the impression she was just making conversation while she waited for the authorization.

“I have permission on the Sand Creek Ranch,” he said.

She looked up sharply. “Really?”

Joe nodded, hoping he hadn’t taken the conversation in a direction he couldn’t back out of.

She said, “It’s a huge place. The owner moved here five or six years ago and just started buying up everything. Other ranches, old buildings, you name it. Most of the people around here either work for Mr. Templeton or owe him.”

“That’s what I hear,” Joe said, hoping she would go on.

She said, “I was scared to death for a while, because there was a rumor he was going to put in a farm-and-ranch store that sold implements. Obviously, that would compete with me and drive me out of business. This isn’t exactly a booming economy around here.”

“But he hasn’t,” Joe said.

“Not yet, anyway,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t put it past him, though. He doesn’t look real kindly on independent people around here, and believe me, I’m an independent woman. I’m a single mom who raised two boys on my own and never took a dime of welfare.”

“So he doesn’t like you?” Joe asked.

She barked a laugh. “I’d guess he doesn’t even know I’m alive. But a couple of his flunkies do, and they might suggest to him that a nice new dealership would go real well in Sundance.”

Joe thought: Critchfield and Smith.

He asked, “What’s he like?”

“Mr. Templeton?”

“Yes.”

“He does a lot for the community,” she said without enthusiasm. “Very little happens around here that he doesn’t sponsor or fund in some way. So why do you ask? Do you know him? Are you on his payroll?”

The question surprised Joe. “No and no.”

“Just checking. If you’re not, you’re one of the few. You and me have that in common, I guess.”

“So he’s got his fingers into everything?” Joe said.

“Everything.”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked. “It’s got to be a good thing to have a local philanthropist.”

She stared back, puzzled.

“A guy who pays for and sponsors things,” he explained.

“Yeah,” she said. “But honestly, sometimes I wonder. I guess I’m just a suspicious person, but I wonder if he does all these nice things for the county because he has a good heart and plenty of money or if he does them so he can be in control. I think I’m about the only one asking that question anymore. There used to be others that agreed with me, but he’s picked them off one by one and now they’re all on his side. That’s what money can do, I guess.”

The credit card machine came to life with an approval, and a length of paper rolled out of it like a tongue. She ripped it free and handed it over to Joe for his signature.

As he signed, he asked, “What does he do to make all this money when he flies off in his plane?”

Instead of answering, she laughed unconvincingly and shrugged. She was done talking.

A few moments later, Joe drove the ATV down a weedy alley to where he’d hidden his pickup. Using a pair of collapsible ramps he’d purchased from the hardware store earlier, he drove the four-wheeler up into the bed, lashed it down tight with straps to a couple of eyebolts on the interior walls, and shut the gate.

He wondered if he’d found his CI.

On the way out of town, he stopped at a convenience store to top off the gas tank on his truck and to fill the ATV. He wanted to make sure there was enough fuel in his new purchase to get him to the headquarters of the Sand Creek Ranch and back.