Blood Trail - C. J. Box [102]
“Back in a minute,” Joe said, swinging out.
Randy Pope was sitting on the couch with a half-drunk cup of coffee and a plate of cookies in front of him. Marybeth was in the overstuffed chair in her work clothes, her knees tightly pressed together and her fingers interlaced on her lap. She was uncomfortable, and she turned to Joe as he entered with an expression on her face that seemed to say, “Help me!”
“I stopped home to grab some files and guess who was here waiting?” she said to Joe.
Pope stood up, brushing crumbs off his jeans. He looked pale, distressed, angry. But even Pope wouldn’t start yelling at Joe in front of his wife.
“Gee, Joe,” Pope said, “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever show up.”
“Here I am.”
“I’ve been very concerned. Mary said you called from the road, but my understanding was that you had to stay in town until they got that assault charge straightened out.” He spoke evenly, without intonation.
“It’s Marybeth,” Joe said, “and I needed to follow a lead. I spent the morning talking with Vern Dunnegan.” He paused. “Remember him?”
Pope’s face froze into a wax mask.
“Can we step outside?” Joe said calmly. To Marybeth, “I hope you don’t mind.”
She shook her head, but her eyes stayed on him, cautioning Joe to stay cool.
“Are the girls here?” Joe asked.
“Sheridan’s at practice, Lucy’s at the Andersons’ practicing a play.”
Joe nodded. “Good.”
Pope hadn’t moved. The only thing that had changed about him were his pupils, which had dilated and looked like bullet holes.
“Randy?” Joe said, stepping aside.
Woodenly, Pope shuffled toward the front door with Joe following.
Over his shoulder, Joe said to Marybeth, “I’ll call. Don’t worry.”
“Joe . . .”
The moment Pope opened the front door he broke to the left and slammed the door in Joe’s face behind him. Joe threw the door open and fumbled for his weapon, shouted, “Randy!”
But Pope didn’t get far. He stood in the middle of the neighbor’s lawn, backing up with the .454 muzzle pressed against his forehead. Nate cocked the revolver and the cylinder turned.
“Can I shoot him now?” Nate asked.
“Not yet,” Joe said.
“I’d really like to.”
“Later, maybe.”
Over Nate’s shoulder, Joe saw his neighbor Ed wander out onto his lawn from his open garage. Ed was smoking his pipe, inspecting the lawn for stray leaves. When Ed looked over and saw what was happening—on his very own property—his pipe dropped out of his mouth.
“Evening, Ed,” Joe said, as Nate backed Pope into Joe’s pickup. Joe climbed in the driver’s side and Nate shoved Pope inside between them. Ed was still standing there, openmouthed, as Joe roared away, headed for the mountains.
“THIS IS kidnapping, assault, reckless endangerment . . .” Pope said, his voice trailing off.
“Insubordination,” Nate said, “that too.”
“Call the governor now,” Pope said to Joe. “Let’s get this thing straightened out.”
“I’ve already talked to him,” Joe said.
Pope mouthed something but no words came out.
“That’s right,” Joe said. “He’s willing to trade you for Wolverine, if necessary.”
“But we can work together,” Pope said, pleading. “You don’t have to do it this way. We can work something out now, and for the future.”
Joe seemed to think it over, to Nate’s consternation. Finally, Joe said, “Nope. I saw how you treat your friends.”
THEY WERE past Joe’s old house on Bighorn Road when Pope said, “It wasn’t like what you think.”
“What is it I think?” Joe said.
“That we gang-raped her. It wasn’t like that at all.”
“How was it, then?”
“She was more than willing. I didn’t even want her, but, you know, peer pressure and all. She was drinking and sitting in on the poker game, and she started rubbing herself all over Frank. We were all a little lit up by then, and Frank threw down his cards and took her to her tent. After a while, they came back and she started rubbing on Wally.”
“So it