Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(19)
SIX
THE EAGLE MOUNTAIN CLUB WAS SPRAWLED OUT ON A vast sagebrush-covered bench overlooking the Twelve Sleep River Valley. Within the perimeter fencing it was an oasis of grass, mature trees, ponds, and manicured fairways bordered by club facilities and private homes. With the short but intense summer season over, an air of exhaustion hung over it and it reminded Joe of a big-game animal that had been run to the point of extreme fatigue and had bedded down.
He’d wrangled a beat-up two-wheel-drive GMC pickup from the Wyoming Department of Transportation fleet and had negotiated a deal where he could “rent” the vehicle for a day or two until he could reunite with his own truck. The WYDOT supervisor didn’t like the arrangement because of the paperwork that would be involved to get reimbursed by the Game and Fish Department, but in the end, he capitulated because the truck wasn’t being used by any of his people anyway.
The supervisor did point out that Joe’s reputation for the loss of and damage to state property was well known and that he hoped and expected to see the pickup returned in one piece. Joe had promised nothing.
The vehicle was dingy white in color with the WYDOT logo—ironically similar to the triangular slow-moving-vehicle symbol—on both doors. There was an amber rotating light on the roof, rusted shovels in the bed, and a fast-food wrapper covering the passenger-side floorboard. The windshield was cracked and the gas gauge never wavered from one-quarter full.
Joe was grateful to have it, though, and he found as he drove through town toward the club that unlike his own distinctive green pickup, no one gave it a second look as he passed by. Everyone, it seemed, was interested to find out where the game warden was headed. No one cared about a highway department guy. The .308 rifle and shotgun he’d brought with him from Jackson and hadn’t yet had a chance to store away were muzzle-down on the floorboard next to him.
*
HE THOUGHT ABOUT the weapons when he saw that a sheriff’s department SUV was parked crosswise in front of the entrance gate to the Eagle Mountain Club. Not that he’d think to brandish them, but he hoped the deputy who manned the gate wouldn’t see them inside the cab and overreact.
Fortunately, Joe recognized the deputy to be Justin Woods, one of the losing sheriff’s candidates. Woods climbed out of his vehicle and held his left hand out palm-up while gripping his sidearm with his right.
Joe rolled to a stop and instinctively reached for the toggle switch to power down the window, but it wasn’t there. Instead, he had to crank it down by its handle the old-fashioned way.
“I didn’t recognize you in this truck,” Woods said to Joe with a puzzled smile. “Are you sneaking around all undercover?”
“My truck is in Jackson,” Joe said. Then: “Long story.”
“What can I do for you?” Woods asked.
“I’m here to look at the crime scene at Judge Hewitt’s place.”
“No can do. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in. If I did, the sheriff would have my head.”
“Seriously?” Joe asked.
“Seriously. He said no one was to access this property except for department personnel.”
“Even if Judge Hewitt personally ordered me to investigate the shooting?” Joe asked, even though he was pretty sure what the answer would be.
“No one gets in through the gate,” Woods said, shaking his head. He drew his cell phone out of his jacket and showed the screen to Joe. It was a text message from Kapelow that read exactly those seven words: No one gets in through the gate.
“Okay,” Joe said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Thank you. You don’t know what it’s like in the department these days.”
“I’m starting to get a better idea,” Joe said as he put the transmission into reverse and started to back away.
“You gave up easy,” Woods said, puzzled. Then he grinned and nodded as he figured out Joe’s intentions. “Oh . . .”
Joe winked at him and gave him the thumbs-up.
*
THE OLD RANCH bridge that crossed the river and accessed the Eagle Mountain Club from the other side was three miles from the gate. The bridge was used by service vehicles and employees of the club in the summer so they wouldn’t have to be observed by members who didn’t like to see traffic.
Just like many of the members didn’t know of the existence of the bridge, Joe had guessed that the new sheriff didn’t, either. Woods’s text had said nothing about a bridge, after all. Technically, he wasn’t defying Deputy Woods’s orders.
Joe slowed on the bridge and looked out his window. There was a fine deep pool underneath and the warm spurt in the afternoon had encouraged a hatch of insects. Good-sized brown and rainbow trout slid up from the depths and sipped Trico flies on the surface, then pistoned back from where they’d originated.
Despite the circumstances of his visit to the club, and despite the fact that Joe’s fly rod and flies were in his pickup in the parking area of the trailhead at Turpin Meadow in Jackson, no matter where he was or how much he was in a hurry, he always paused to observe rising trout.
It drove Marybeth crazy.
*
THE MAINTENANCE FACILITY for the club grounds was hidden beneath the bluffs that looked out over the river and the valley so members and residents couldn’t see it. It was a long-weathered metal building surrounded by huge river cottonwoods and flanked by utility vehicles, earth-moving equipment, the cage-cab ATV used to pick up driving-range golf balls, and a long line of drift boats covered for the winter and stowed away.