Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(19)

“You were trying to convince me to look the other way in regard to Nate Romanowski,” Griffith said, putting her game face back on.

“That is what I was trying to do.”

“Do you realize how inappropriate that is?”

“I do.”

Griffith sat back in her chair and looked at Marybeth coolly. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that Judge Hewitt is quite fond of Romanowski, for reasons I don’t yet understand. I’ve also heard that your friend is represented by Spencer Rulon, your former governor. I’m new here, but I can see when a case is stacked against me from the start. We should probably forget that we had this conversation.”

“I’ve already forgotten it,” Marybeth said.

“Me too.”





SEVEN


The hunting party established their elk camp on the edge of a mountain meadow as long thin shadows from lodgepole pine trees turned the grass into jail bars. Joe and Brock Boedecker did all of the work. Four tents had been set up: three dome tents for sleeping and one outfitter wall tent with a small stove inside for cooking meals and providing heat.

The dark bank of storm clouds Joe had noted earlier in the day had scudded across the mountains and they were now hunkered down on the north summit, as if curled up and parked there for the night. He was grateful there had been no snow on the ride up, but snow would be just fine. It was easier to track elk in snow than on the dry pine needle forest they would be going into.

Joe filled two five-gallon plastic water bags in a small stream and carried them back to the campsite with one in each hand. They were heavy. He raised each and looped the upper handle around broken-off tree joints to suspend them, then fitted water filter assemblies to the bottom of the bags and attached plastic tubing to each. He was tired from the ride and his inner thighs were already rubbed raw from the saddle. It was early, but he knew he’d be ready to crawl into his sleeping bag.

When the water supply was secure, he looked around the camp and went through a mental checklist. Tents were up and ready. Joannides and Zsolt would be in one, Steve-2 by himself in another, Brock and him in the third. A camp table and chairs were unfolded and set up in the cook tent as well as lanterns. A small supply of firewood was stacked near the little potbellied outfitter stove. Their bags of food were a hundred yards from the camp itself and hung high in trees to prevent marauding bears from rooting through them. A pop-up latrine was set up a hundred and fifty yards away in the other direction, hole already dug.

Brock Boedecker was at the far end of the meadow, unsaddling, grooming, and picketing the horses. Joe could hear him singing a cowboy song to himself: Marty Robbins, “Streets of Laredo.”

As the sun dropped, so did the temperature. A stillness enveloped the meadow, amplifying every sound. The cooling air smelled of pine, sweaty horses, and woodsmoke. It was the very best time of the day in the high mountains, Joe thought. They’d gone as far as they could go, much farther than he’d thought they’d progress the first day, camp was set up, and dinner was to come. He didn’t think he’d ever grow weary of it.

He placed his hands on his hips and took it all in.

Tim Joannides sat on a stump near the campfire, scrolling through something on his phone. One of the portable satellite broadband units was on another stump next to him. While Joe set up the camp, Joannides had volunteered to keep the fire going. But he’d apparently gotten distracted because it was burned down to ashes and nearly out.

Zsolt Rumy had spent his time circumnavigating the location they’d chosen, checking for high ground, trails, and sight lines, he’d said. The ride up had warmed him and he strode around with his coat open. Joe noted Rumy had two shoulder holsters under his parka with black straps that crisscrossed over his chest.

Neither man, Joe noted, had offered to help set up the camp or shown any interest in the location. Rumy had placed his bear spray somewhere, although Joannides had his canister near his feet.

Steve-2 had shadowed Joe the entire time. He kept a respectful distance, but he was never very far away.

“Here,” Joe said to him. “I’ll show you how to get water.”

Price came over, his expression curious. Joe snatched a tin cup from a bag of cooking utensils and walked over to the water bags. He raised one of the lengths of tubing and released the pinch valve on the end so that a thin stream of water flowed out. Joe filled the cup, handed it to Price, and tightened the valve so no water would be wasted.

“We filter it to prevent giardia,” Joe said. “The creek looks pure, but you never know what might be upstream. Once, I found a decomposing moose fifty yards upstream from where I drank.”

Price made a sour face and the cup hesitated near his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Joe assured him.

Price gulped it down and held out the cup. “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”

“You do it,” Joe said, stepping aside. “And remember to drink twice as much water as you think you’d ever want. The elevation and the dry air will turn you into jerky if you don’t.”

Price nodded and filled the cup two more times.

“I noticed you’ve got quite a limp,” he said to Joe. “Are you sure you can get around?”

“I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“Got shot.”