In Plain Sight

“I see.” Arlen’s expression hardened, as if he were concentrating on giving nothing away.

“So I hope you can clear up a couple of things for me.”

Arlen didn’t respond.

“It would help if you told me what your relationship with Bill Monroe is,” Joe said. “I’m trying to figure . . .”

“That’s confidential,” Arlen interrupted.

Joe sighed. “He seems to work for Hank, but Sheridan saw him . . .”

“It’s confidential,” Arlen said in his most stentorian voice, cutting off debate, looking around to see if anyone had overheard them. No one appeared to be listening.

Joe stared at Arlen, taking new measure of the man. At his chiseled profile, his silver hair, his big lantern jaw and underbite, his darting eyes.

“You see that earthmover behind me?” Joe asked.

Puzzled, Arlen glanced over Joe’s shoulder. Marybeth looked at Joe.

“Yes, what about it?”

Joe said, “If I find out you’re playing me, which I’m beginning to believe you are, I’m going to get in that thing and knock this building down. And then I’m coming after you.”

Arlen’s mouth dropped open. He was truly surprised.

“I got a message on my cell phone this morning,” Joe said. “From forensics. The knife that was stuck in our front door matches the collection of knives in your own kitchen. Same model, same manufacturer. ‘Forged German CrMoV steel, ice hardened and glass finished,’ forensics said.”

Arlen said, “Many people have access to my home—employees, ranch hands . . .”

“Right,” Joe said. “And it appears Meade Davis seems to have changed his story to one you liked better. Anything to that? Do you think Meade Davis would stick with the latest version if I brought him in?”

It was amazing how icy Arlen’s eyes had become, Joe thought, how frozen the expression on his face. This was a different Arlen than the glad-handing speechmaker. This was the Arlen Joe had glimpsed in the sheriff’s office baiting his brother into violence, but acting as if he didn’t know what he was doing.

Jabbing his finger at Joe, Arlen said, “You have crossed the line making accusations like that. Do you realize who you’re talking to?”

“I realize,” Joe said. “It’s getting old.”

Arlen shook his head, contemplating Joe, but saying nothing. As if Joe was no longer worth his words.

Arlen turned to Marybeth. “You’ve lost my account. If you can talk some sense into your husband, you might have a chance to get it back.”

Marybeth’s eyes were fiery. “He has plenty of sense, Arlen. We can live without your money.”

ON THE WAY back to the Longbrake Ranch, Marybeth broke the silence.

“So you really think she’s still alive,” she said to Joe as they drove past the town limit toward the Longbrake Ranch. Sheridan and Lucy were touring the museum with Missy, so Joe and Marybeth had the truck to themselves.

“Yup,” Joe said. “I think she’s holed up somewhere on the ranch, just sitting back and watching what goes on. I can imagine her seeing what lengths her sons will go to to get the ranch. Seeing how much they love it and therefore how much they love her. Everything she’s done over the years fits the theory—the secret wills, the internalized accounting, her obsession with her legacy. It came to me when I thought about Tommy Wayman claiming to have seen her, and Sheridan’s dream. Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. In both cases, they described the same thing. They said she was smiling.”

Marybeth was lost in thought for a few moments, then she asked, “Do you think Hank knows?”

“No.”

“Arlen?”

Joe shook his head. “Maybe, but I can’t be sure. I was hoping to smoke him out back there, but he’s too damned wily for me.”

After a few miles she turned to him. “There’s only one thing about your theory that might be wrong.”

“What?”

“I don’t think it’s about love at all,” she said. “I think it’s about hate.”

Joe said, “I don’t understand.”

“Look at them,” she said. “She raised them to hate each other and love her. What kind of mother does that?”

23

ON MONDAY MORNING, JOE PULLED ON HIS RED UNIFORM shirt and jeans for perhaps the last time, called Maxine, and drove out into the breaklands to finish up the mule-deer trend count he had started weeks before.

As he cruised down the state highway, he kept a close watch on the blunt thunderheads advancing over the Bighorns. The clouds looked heavy and swollen with rain. “Come on,” he said aloud, “keep on rolling this way.” By his count, it had not rained in twenty-five days. Maxine thought he was talking to her and got excited.

He had one more quadrant to go before submitting his report. The area butted up against the property line of the upper Thunderhead Ranch, Hank’s half.

When his cell phone rang, Joe opened it and expected to hear “Hold for Director Pope.”

But it was Tony Portenson. “Hello, Joe.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Joe asked, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice and wishing that years before he hadn’t given his phone number to the FBI agent.