Blood Trail - C. J. Box [36]
“Red poker chips,” Joe said.
“Yes,” Robey said. “Red poker chips.”
“Maybe the governor should close things down,” Joe said. “It’s looking like what we hoped it wasn’t.”
“That’s what Rulon’s new chief of staff is advising him,” Pope spat. “She’s telling him he should have done it yesterday.”
Joe thought, She’s a smart woman.
Pope reached out and grasped Lothar’s arm. “We’ve got to find this shooter. Do you understand? We’ve got to find him tonight.”
Lothar pulled away, annoyed. “I can’t promise anything,” he said.
“But you need to,” Pope said, his eyes bulging with the kind of intensity Joe had seen directed at him several times. “That’s why we brought you here. That’s why we’re paying you. This guy out there is about to destroy my agency.”
Lothar looked away from Pope to Joe and Robey and mouthed, Asshole.
Wally Conway, who’d seen the interaction, looked away passively, not taking sides.
10
THE AFTERNOON got colder as they waited for darkness. Joe sat in his pickup next to Robey and glassed the timber and meadows through his spotting scope, looking for movement of any kind. He got the strange feeling that the birds and wildlife had subtly withdrawn from the area, clearing the stage for whatever was going to happen later. Robey nervously ate pieces of jerky from a cellophane bag he’d brought along. Piece after piece, chewing slowly. The cab of the truck smelled of teriyaki and anticipation.
Pope appeared at Joe’s window, blocking his view through the scope.
“I’m heading back into town,” Pope said, not meeting Joe’s eye. “I can’t run the agency with a cell phone that keeps going in and out of signal range. Let me know how things go tonight. Wally has agreed to stay here with you. Lothar’s getting all of his stuff out of my Escalade. He’ll have to wait with you.”
“You’re leaving?” Joe said.
“Do I have to repeat myself? You heard me.” With that, he patted the hood of Joe’s pickup and walked away.
“Bastard,” Robey said through a mouthful of beef jerky.
“Would you rather have him here with us?” Joe said.
“No, but . . .”
“Let him go,” Joe said. “Wacey Hedeman once said of Sheriff McLanahan—before he was sheriff—‘Having him on the payroll is like having two good men gone.’ That’s how I feel about Pope being here.”
“He’s scared,” Robey said.
“So am I,” Joe said, getting out to help Lothar retrieve his gear from Pope’s vehicle.
AS DUSK approached, the wind died down and the forest went silent, as if shushed. Joe used his tailgate as a workbench and checked the loads in his Glock and shoved an extra twelve-shot magazine into the pocket on the front of his holster. He loaded his shotgun with double-ought buckshot and filled a coat pocket with extra shells. Because of the cold stillness, the metal-on-metal sounds of his work seemed to snap ominously through the air. He’d strapped on his body armor vest and pulled on his jacket over it, and filled a daypack with what he thought he might need: flashlight, radio, first-aid kit, bear spray, GPS unit, rope, evidence kit, Flex-Cuffs, a Nalgene bottle of water.
Lothar approached him. “I think it should just be the two of us,” he said.
Joe looked up at the back of Robey’s head in his pickup. He could see his friend’s jaw working as he ate more jerky. “I hate to leave Robey alone,” Joe said. “He’s not used to this kind of thing.”
Lothar said, “Man tracking isn’t a group sport. The more people we have, the more likely we’ll blow our advantage. You have the experience and the equipment and he doesn’t. Simple as that. Besides, we need someone here in camp with a radio in case we need to relay information. If all of us are deep in the timber without a way to call for help if we need it, we’re screwed.”
Joe started