Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(16)

Sheridan locked her rope tight and used both hands to pry the device open and duck underneath it, where it hung in the air. When she realized the trap was secured to the sandstone beneath the ledge, she reached up and pulled the stake free. Then she watched as the trap floated slowly to the ground like a damaged parachute until Nate reached out and snagged it.



* * *



—

There were two other set traps hidden on the sides of nests on her way down and she dismantled them both and dropped them to the ground.

At the fourth nest, she paused and cringed and cursed. A prairie falcon had been caught days before. Its body was a hard ball of feathers and its eyes had been eaten out by insects.

She was instantly enraged. Not only had someone set falcon traps on every viable nest on the cliffside of Nate’s secret falcon location, they’d failed to check the traps in a timely fashion. The bird had either starved to death or had been so frightened that its heart had given out.



* * *



—

Nate stood at the base of the cliff as still as she had ever seen him. The dismantled mesh traps surrounded him in a pile.

“All of them?” he asked Sheridan through clenched teeth.

“Yes.”

“These are bownet traps,” he said evenly. “Someone is trespassing on my cliff. And someone is going to die.”

Falconers, she’d come to learn, had a strict code about encroaching on other falconer’s territory. It wasn’t done, and the penalty for it was fierce.

“Maybe we should tell my dad,” she said. Game wardens were empowered to sign off on falconry permits in their area after the applicant had passed the California Hawking Club’s written test. Maybe her dad would have an idea of who else was operating in the district.

“Any scumbag who would set up traps on another man’s honey hole isn’t the type who would apply for a license,” Nate said.

“But we should try that first, right?”

He glared at her. “That sounds like something Joe would say. No. Falconers take care of their own business. Haven’t you learned that yet?”





SIX


While Nate and Sheridan headed back to his place, Marybeth Pickett sat across a table in the Burg-O-Pardner restaurant from interim county prosecutor AnnaBelle Griffith, who seemed nervous and a little agitated. It was midafternoon and the lunch crowd had dispersed, so the two women were the only customers in the place, which smelled of faint cigarette smoke and grease from the kitchen, where the specialty, deep-fried Rocky Mountain oysters, had been served for twenty-seven years.

The interior of the restaurant was dated; its light-colored paneling buckled near the ceiling and its deer and elk mounts were interspersed with fading Gordon Snidow Coors Beer prints between them. There were no menus. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner items were written on a whiteboard in quivering script.

Marybeth had suggested they meet at a coffee shop on Main Street, but Griffith had insisted on the Burg-O-Pardner. Since they’d both ordered coffee, Marybeth wasn’t sure what Griffith was thinking.

“I’ve heard of the Burg-O-Pardner since I moved here,” Griffith said as the coffee was served. “I wanted to see it for myself. I was kind of expecting more.”

“It doesn’t look like much,” Marybeth said. “But for whatever reason it’s the place where all the city fathers meet every morning to discuss local issues. It’s our shadow city hall.”

“Are any of the city fathers women?”

“Rarely.”

Griffith nodded. “I understand that the decision to reach out to me for the job was made here.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

AnnaBelle Griffith, dressed in a dark business suit over a white top and wearing a thin strand of pearls, was in her early thirties, trim, and tightly wrapped, Marybeth thought. She’d recently been asked by the Twelve Sleep County commissioners to fill in as county prosecutor until the next local election, after the last county prosecutor, Duane Patterson, had met his sudden demise. Prior to that, Griffith had been an assistant district attorney in Natrona County.

The commissioners had been busy, and Marybeth understood the pressure they’d been under the past year. Not only had Patterson been gunned down by an associate in the street, but the newly elected sheriff, Brendan Kapelow, had simply packed his belongings and moved away before the state’s Division of Criminal Investigation could open a review of his past actions. Although there were some concerns that Kapelow would file suit against the county for the injuries he’d sustained while on the job, he hadn’t done so yet.

The commissioners had also asked former Niobrara County sheriff Scott Tibbs to come out of retirement and fill the role in Twelve Sleep County on a temporary basis. Tibbs was older, folksy, slow-moving, and, most of all, clean when it came to scandal. He had a huge white mustache and jowls, and enjoyed the Christmas season because he looked forward to playing Santa whenever he was asked. Thus far, Tibbs had been blessed with a quiet year, with no major crimes or controversies. His easygoing manner was at odds with that kind of thing, and he’d apparently been rewarded for it. His deputies and clerical staff seemed to like him, and he made a point of telling the Saddlestring Roundup that he was “button-poppin’ proud” of his team.

Marybeth reserved judgment on both new officials. AnnaBelle seemed competent if hard-charging, and Tibbs seemed anything but. It had been Marybeth’s experience that political entities always hired the exact opposite of whoever was being replaced, and it seemed to be the case here. Joe had proceeded cautiously with them both as well, saying, “Every time I get to know and like these folks, something bad seems to happen to them.”