Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(31)

“Are you fellows doing okay?” the pickup driver asked, leaning forward so László could see his face. He looked like a pleasant man of medium height and build.

“Fine,” László replied.

“Anything I can help you with?”

As his vision cleared, László could see that there was an official-looking emblem on the side of the passenger door. It depicted a pronghorn antelope inside the outline of a badge or shield. And a description.


WYOMING GAME AND FISH DEPARTMENT



“No, no,” László said while putting on his best grin and making sure his English was as flat and atonal as he could manage. “We just pulled over to look at the map. If you stay on this road, will you get to Winchester?”

“Nope, you’ll need to turn around. If you stay on this road, it’ll take you to Saddlestring.”

“Oh, we must have gotten lost.”

“I’d say that’s right.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

“My pleasure.”

The window of the pickup hummed up and the truck continued down the road. Like the van just ahead, it turned into the trees going west toward the river.

László eased the SUV into gear and pulled back on the road.

“What now?” Viktór asked with real bitterness.

“We didn’t go far enough down that road,” László said. “But now we’re sure where she lives.”

“You said that before.”

László fixed Viktór with a dead-eye glare that was quite effective. Viktór looked away.

“We find a hotel,” László said. “There is too much activity at that house tonight.”

“I’m hungry,” Viktór said.

“From now on, we speak in English,” László said while he switched languages again. “We don’t want anyone to overhear us.”

“I’m hungry, Greg.”

“We’ll find some food, Bob.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN


    Sheridan Pickett


Out of habit, Joe jotted down the Colorado license plate number of the Nissan Pathfinder SUV on the side of the road and continued on. There was no reason to call it in. This kind of encounter happened quite often on back roads in the Bighorn Mountains during hunting season, even though he’d seen no telltale indications they were hunting. No camo clothing, no weapons, no items of blaze-orange clothing. There was no probable cause to ask them to show him their hunting licenses or habitat stamps.

Therefore, he dismissed them and made the turn to his home. He passed by Lola Lowry’s trailer and noted her interior lights were on. A hundred feet later, he could see the taillights of the Yarak, Inc. van ahead of him. That’s when the cow moose suddenly stepped out on the path from the timber and stood there blocking his progress.

The moose was tall and ungainly, with stilt-like legs that brought her eye to eye with him in his headlights. Because of their height, moose were a particular danger to motorists who hit them—their high center of gravity could propel their body over the hood and into the windshield.

Joe slowed but didn’t stop, expecting her to move on like she usually did. But this time she held her ground. Daisy jumped up from her slumber on the passenger seat and whined when she saw the creature. It was all show, Joe knew. Daisy would run away in terror if she was released.

“Did you notice that she let Liv drive right by her?” Joe said to Daisy. “This proves once and for all that this particular moose is out to get us.”

He eased forward until the grille of his pickup was within two feet of the cow. Only then did she finally shuffle off into the timber.

That’s when Bert’s dog started barking from its crate in the back of Joe’s pickup. Joe had lured it to him with a plate of canned dog food. He’d kept Daisy in the cab while he did it. Bert’s dog had been wary but also very hungry. Joe had slid the dog food into the open crate and waited, and finally the animal had leaped into the bed of his pickup and entered the crate. Joe then swung the door closed and latched it while the dog ate.

The last thing they needed was another dog, but he couldn’t leave it to starve to death or get eaten by mountain lions.

He named it “Bert’s Dog.”



* * *



—

    For over twenty-five years of his life and career, Joe used to return home every night to what he often thought of as “The House of Feelings.” That’s when his daughters and Marybeth had filled their small home.

He was reminded of those years as he entered the mudroom with Daisy and heard the cacophony of female voices inside. He set down a plastic bag with a twelve-pack of beer and the peppermint schnapps Marybeth had asked him to pick up, and was met by Tube and a huge bull mastiff that was so large Joe was nearly bowled over by it.

After hanging up his jacket and placing his Stetson crown-down on the shelf, he kicked off his boots and stepped into his slippers.

“Greetings, everyone,” he said as he padded through the living room and into the now-crowded kitchen.

Liv Romanowski sat at the kitchen table with Sheridan and both smiled at his entrance. Kestrel opened her arms and squealed, as if expecting him to scoop her up in his arms, which he did. He noted a quick look of puzzlement in her eyes as he lifted her and he chalked it up to her momentary confusion. For a split second, he realized, she thought he was her father.