Blood Trail - C. J. Box [30]
As he spoke, the jet touched down on the farthest runway, scattering the herd of antelope. Joe watched it brake and taxi to the far end of the tarmac to the private fixed base operator, FBO—which was larger and better appointed than the public airport—and turn with an ice skater’s dramatic flair and stop.
“Who is it?” Pope asked.
“His name is Earl Alden,” Joe said, observing as a black Suburban with smoked windows drove out onto the tarmac to greet the jet. A petite and attractive older woman got out of the Suburban and walked up to the unfolding airplane stairs to greet the lone passenger, a tall man with silver hair and a pencil-thin mustache.
“I’ve heard of him, who hasn’t?” Pope said. “Who’s the woman?”
Joe sighed. “Her official name is Missy Vankueren-Longbrake.”
“She’s a babe.”
“She’s my mother-in-law,” Joe said.
He looked at Robey and shook his head with disgust. “Why can’t people just get old and sweet anymore?” Joe said, thinking not only about Missy but about his own father, who was suffering from dementia brought on by years of alcoholism. His father was in a facility in Billings. The last time he’d gone to see his father he had to introduce himself as his son. His father had said, “Joe? Joe Schmoe? Go get me a flask, Joe Schmoe.”
THE UNITED EXPRESS flight landed five minutes later. Joe stood well back from the crowd, watching as the passengers descended the stairs and walked the short distance across the pavement to the airport. He heard a woman in the crowd gasp, “There he is!”
Klamath Moore wore an oversized white smock that accentuated his tanned and weathered face. His long blond hair blew around his face in the breeze, and he brushed it back and tucked it behind his ears as he gazed at the airport, knowing instinctively how important it was to make a powerful first impression, Joe thought.
Robey said to Joe, “Did we find out how Klamath Moore knew about the circumstances of Frank Urman’s death almost before we did?”
“Nope,” Joe said. “I’ve got a couple of other questions as well. One is if I’ve been underestimating my boss for the last few years. He seems to have picked up on the fact that these hunting accidents weren’t accidents mighty quick.”
“Self-preservation may be the answer to that one,” Robey said. “Guys like Pope can sniff out a threat to their jobs before anyone even knows there’s a threat.”
“Maybe so,” Joe said, not buying the answer.
When Moore stepped inside the terminal, the crowd cheered. Moore raised both of his arms in celebration, and boomed, “Save the wildlife!”
“Jesus,” Pope said, joining Joe and Robey, his expression sour as if he were sucking on something bitter.
Joe watched Moore shake hands and roughly hug his followers, pulling their bodies into his with a primitive force just shy of assault. But when he got to the dark-eyed woman and her baby, Moore visibly softened and took them into his arms. They left the airport together, Moore carrying the infant, holding hands.
BUCK LOTHAR, perhaps miffed that his arrival had been upstaged, made no effort to make a powerful first impression. Joe approached a tall, angular man at the luggage carousel, said, “Mr. Lothar?” The man shook his head, said, “You’re lookin’ for someone else.”
“That would be me,” said a short, overeager fireplug of a man with a close-cropped beard, a lantern jaw, aviator glasses, and eyes that went in two different directions. “I’m Buck Lothar. Can you help me with my gear and my dogs?”
“Sure,” Joe said, shaken by his mistake. While Robey and Pope introduced themselves, Joe watched in his peripheral vision as Moore and his contingent loudly filtered out of the airport into waiting cars, trucks, and vans. Lothar’s gear consisted of four huge duffel bags made of camo cloth. It was obvious from the military patches on the bags Lothar was well traveled. Two large animal carriers—each with a bloodhound in it—slid down the aluminum leaves of the carousel. “Butch and Sundance,” Lothar said.
Joe carried two of the bags, Robey one, and Pope the last, albeit reluctantly.