In Plain Sight

But as he rose, the thought that they were running away came rushing back at him. And he hated to run.

21

SATURDAY BROUGHT THE GRAND OPENING OF THE SCARLETT Wing of the Twelve Sleep County Historical Society. The day was fresh with early summer, aching with sunlight, character provided by the new wildflower smells and the first bursts of pine pollen drifting down from the mountains.

Joe sat next to Marybeth on metal folding chairs set up in the parking lot of the museum. It seemed as if most of official Saddlestring and the county was there, including Missy and Bud Longbrake, who sat in the row in front of them and had saved seats for the girls. Although no usher greeted each arrival with an extended hand and whispered “Arlen or Hank’s side?” the effect was the same, with Hank’s backers on the right facing the podium and Arlen’s on the left.

On the raised podium itself, Arlen sat comfortably in a chair looking out at the audience, waving and winking at his friends. There was an empty seat on the other side of the podium. The chair was for Hank, as both brothers were supposed to speak at the event. The closer it got to ten A.M., when the wing was to be dedicated, the emptier the seat seemed to be.

JOE HAD AWAKENED in a foul mood that continued to spiral downward as the day went on. It had started when he opened his eyes in bed, looked around, and realized once again that his family was on the Longbrake Ranch instead of in their own home. It continued through breakfast, as Missy held court and pointed out repeatedly to his daughters how many fat grams there were in each bite they were taking. His black mood accelerated and whipped over into the passing lane when he started to contemplate just how ineffectual he had become; how useless, how he was no better than the bureaucrats he worked with.

Then there was the message on his cell phone from Randy Pope: “You left your house? Don’t you realize that is state property? What if it is vandalized even more while you’re gone? Do you plan to take responsibility for that?”

Joe seethed as he drove.

He was tired of following procedure, asking permission, seeking warrants, waiting for instructions, hoping for help.

No one, except him, was going to get him out of this.

As he drove his family to the grand opening, Joe made a mental list of things that were driving him mad. While he did so, he vaguely listened to Sheridan tell Lucy about the incredibly boring English literature class she was in. They were now reading Shakespeare, she said. Suddenly a thought struck him with such force that his hands jerked on the wheel and Marybeth said, “Was there a rabbit in the road?”

“No,” Joe said. “Something just occurred to me.”

“What?”

“About Opal. Something I never thought of before.”

“So . . . ?”

“Sheridan,” Joe said, looking up into his mirror so he could see her face, “would you please repeat what you just told Lucy about the play you’re reading? The one about the king?”

AS THEY WAITED for the ceremony to begin, Marybeth said, “I’ve been thinking about your new theory.”

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure I buy it. Is Opal really capable of something that mean? With her own sons?”

Joe nodded. “Opal is capable of anything. Remember, she didn’t have any qualms about stretching a neck-high wire across the river. And you untangled her books. You know how secretive she could be.”

Marybeth shook her head slowly. “Joe, if you’re right . . .”

“I know,” he said.

Marybeth started to say something to him when she was distracted by the fact that most of the people in the crowd had turned in their seats and were craning their necks and pointing.

“Well, look who’s here,” Marybeth said.

“Who?”

Marybeth pointed at the black new-model Yukon that had entered the lot with a license plate that said simply ONE.

The driver’s door opened and a big man with stooped shoulders and an easy smile swung out. He began instantly shaking hands and slapping backs. He moved through the crowd with a slick expertise, never stopping long enough to be engaged, but making eye contact with each person and calling most by name.

Marybeth said, “He looks like he’s headed this way.”

In a moment, he was right in front of them.

“Joe Pickett?”

“Yup.”

“I’m Spencer Rulon.”

“Hello, Governor.”

“Call me Spence. C’mon, let’s go for a little ride. Is this your wife?”

“Yes. Marybeth.”

“Lucky man. Come along, Marybeth. We’ll be back before the hoopla begins.”

WYOMING GOVERNOR SPENCER Rulon drove and spoke with a kind of daredevil self-assurance that came, Joe thought, from being pretty sure all his life he was not only the smartest but the cleverest human being in the room.