Blood Trail - C. J. Box [29]
Robey took a short draw, then removed the cigar from his mouth and studied it.
“And I don’t think the fantasy is restricted to hunters,” Joe said. “I think every fisherman, hiker, camper, and bird-watcher has it at some time or other. Don’t tell me you’ve never had it.”
“Okay, I’ve had it,” Robey said reluctantly. “I remember getting that feeling recently in Patagonia. Sort of a chill that went all the way through me for no good reason. I looked all around and couldn’t see anyone except a couple of fishermen who’d become my friends. But I couldn’t shake it for hours.”
Joe said, “Maybe it’s come to pass.”
Robey made a sour expression. “Pope and the governor may really have something to worry about after all. If what we’re talking about turns out to be true, it’ll destroy the hunting and fishing economy in Wyoming and maybe all up and down the Rockies. Hunters will just stay home.”
Joe nodded. “To be honest with you, Robey, it’s not the hunters who stay home I’m worried about. It’s the hunters who don’t.”
Robey looked up.
“I’m worried about the guys who want to take this killer on. And believe me, there will be some.”
“I never thought of that.”
“You’ve never driven up to a hunting camp and looked into the eyes of some of these men,” Joe said. “They live for it, and they’ll die for it too. And don’t assume we’re talking about roughnecks and outlaws. There is a certain percentage of men in the world who would feel neutered if they couldn’t hunt. The way they see it, it’s all they have these days to prove to themselves they’re still men. It’s a one- or two-week validation of who they really are, or who they think they are. They’ll look on this situation as a personal challenge.”
Robey shook his head. “Joe, we don’t even have proof that the killings are related yet.”
“We will,” Joe said.
“How?”
“Let’s start by finding out if the three of them were killed with the same weapon. I’ll ask the head necropsy guy at the game and fish lab in Laramie to take a look at all three autopsies.”
“The game and fish guy? Why not state forensics?”
“Our guys are better,” Joe said. “We have a lot more game violations than the state has murders.”
“Oh.”
“Another thing—the poker chip we found by Frank Urman.”
“What about it?”
“I didn’t read anything about poker chips in the files on Tucker or Garrett. But those cases were investigated as accidents at the time, not murders. There are no listings of items found around the victims, the contents of pockets, or personal possessions gathered up or impounded. The possessions and clothing of the victims could have been returned to the families or they might be in a box at the county sheriff’s or coroner’s because no one’s dealt with them yet.”
Robey made a note. “I can ask my staff to follow up on the poker chips, or lack thereof,” he said, his cigar bobbing as he talked.
“The more we know about the Garrett and Tucker killings, the more we can help out Lothar the Master Tracker,” Joe said. “Those crime scenes are cold as ice, and he won’t have any interest in them. So we should try and learn as much as we can.”
Robey chuckled as he repeated, “Lothar the Master Tracker . . .”
WHEN AN aircraft emerged from the sky, the restless crowd in the airport murmured and began to knot together near the cordoned-off passenger ramp, and the dozen TSA employees grouped near the metal detector eyed them and raised their walkie-talkies to their mouths in alarm.
Pope approached Joe and Robey. He closed his phone for the first time that morning and fixed it in a phone holster on his belt.
“Finally, eh?” Pope said.
“Lothar the Master Tracker,” Robey growled melodramatically. Pope glared at him. Joe looked away to hide his smile.
A collective groan came from the crowd as the spiky-haired airline agent announced that the approaching plane was a private jet, not United Express, but that United Express would be landing within five minutes.
“A private jet?” Pope asked, raising his eyebrows. “Saddlestring has private jets?”
“We have a lot of ’em,” Robey said. “The Eagle Mountain Club up on the hill