Blood Trail - C. J. Box [91]
“I despise that man.” She shuddered.
“Me too,” Joe said, digging through the thick spiral notebooks until he found the one from nine years before.
WHEN JOE and Marybeth returned to the kitchen, Nate was still at the table but Alisha was across the room, leaning against the counter. She was stoic, avoiding his eyes, and Joe could tell nothing about what had gone on in their absence.
Nate cleared his throat, said, “When you told me about the governor hiring that master tracker and Randy Pope personally overseeing the murder of the hunters, it struck me as all wrong.”
Okay, Joe thought, Nate and Alisha had come to an understanding.
Joe said, “How so?”
“It was typical law-enforcement procedure. Get the experts in to look at the physical evidence, try to figure out what was going on scientifically. And when Klamath Moore showed up it established a motive and a philosophy for the murders. You all put yourself in that particular stream of thought and never got out of it. You’re like trout sitting in a channel waiting for insects to come to you. When the insects stop coming, you don’t move to another part of the river. You just sit there, finning in one place, wondering why you’re getting hungry. You, Joe Pickett, are right there with the rest of ’em in that stream.”
Joe nodded, said, “Finning,” with a hint of sarcasm. He was used to Nate’s circular and obscure reasoning and had learned to let it play out, see where it led. Sometimes it wound up nowhere, in the ether.
“There’s nothing wrong with hiring experts and gathering evidence and doing forensics tests and all of that,” Nate said, “but without on-the-ground intelligence it’s all just technical jerking off. It gives bureaucrats something to do. I learned a long time ago when I worked for the government myself that there is no substitute for intelligence, for talking to people where they live. By being sympathetic, actually listening to what they say and sometimes what they don’t. By doing that, you might find a whole other way to look at what’s going on.”
Joe flashed back to what Marybeth had told him upstairs, how they had both looked at Alisha and Nate and seen different things.
“But without hard evidence we can’t arrest or convict,” Joe said.
Nate shrugged. “It’s not about the how—it’s about the why. And until you can figure out the why, the how doesn’t matter. But when you determine the why, the how evidence you’ve gathered will support it and prop it up.”
Joe shook his head, confused.
Nate turned toward Alisha and arched his eyebrows.
She said, “Shenandoah was—is—my best friend. We’re not blood, but we’re closer than that. We were in cribs next to each other in the nursery at Fremont County General, and we grew up together. She is closer to me than my sisters. Since she’s been back we’ve had some long, intimate talks. What you’re asking me to do now is betray her.”
“I’m not asking that,” Joe said.
“If I talk to you, that’s what I’d be doing,” she said sadly.
Joe looked from Nate to Marybeth and back to Alisha. She looked both beautiful and sad.
“My friend Shenandoah is finally happy in her life,” Alisha said, almost whispering. “She’s a mother and at long last she’s happy and grounded. She loves her family but she has a blind spot when it comes to her husband. Many of us do when it comes to the men we love.” As she said it, she gestured toward Nate, who smiled a tiny smile. She continued, “This may destroy her family. I’m her best friend, and I could destroy her when she’s finally happy. Do you understand? Do you understand what you’re asking me to do?”
Joe grimaced, not sure what to say.
“I’ve only ever seen her this happy when we were playing basketball,” Alisha said, looking at Joe but not really seeing him. “She was so willful and determined. She was so good, and it was not as natural to her as many people thought. She made herself what she was. I was in awe of her. She’d practice by herself on the hoop above her grandfather