In Plain Sight

Keeley had told Hank and the boys the story over their thick steaks: how he’d dropped the buck right in front of the game warden, then watched the warden’s truck break down in an aborted hot pursuit. The boys had laughed. A couple of them had laughed so hard that Keeley considered spilling the beans on the other things he’d done to get under the warden’s skin. Luckily, he held his tongue, because that would have led to too many questions. Hank had appeared to be smiling, but now Keeley understood that it hadn’t been a smile at all. It was too damned tough to tell if Hank was smiling or not. That was just one of the things wrong with the man.

Keeley glared at Hank. “That’s my business,” he said in response. “It ain’t no concern of yours.”

“The hell it ain’t!” Hank snapped back. “I didn’t make you my foreman so you could draw the cops in here because of your fucking antics with the local game warden. Joe Pickett knows for sure you’re out here now, and I would guess he’s told the sheriff.”

Keeley gestured toward the ceiling at the sound of the rain thrumming the roof. “That sheriff couldn’t get out here right now even if he wanted to. Didn’t you just tell the boys the river’s over the road?”

Hank nodded. “Except for one little two-track on high ground down by Arlen’s place, my guess is there is no way in or out.”

“Where’s that?”

“About a mile downriver,” Hank said. “I’d guess that road is still dry. But if the river gets any higher, that one’ll be underwater too.”

Keeley filed away the information.

“What’s your problem with him, anyway?” Hank asked.

“Personal.”

“That’s what you always say,” Hank said. “But since what you do could bring the wrath of God down on my ass, you need to tell me just what it is between you two.”

“The wrath of God?” Keeley said, thinking, from what he had observed, that it was an odd way to describe Joe Pickett.

“Him and his buddy Nate Romanowski,” Hank said. “Didn’t I tell you about them?”

Keeley nodded.

“Why don’t you grab that bottle of bourbon from the kitchen?” Hank said. “I’d like a little after-dinner snort. You can join me.”

Keeley hesitated for a beat as he always did when Hank asked him to do something that was beneath him. He wasn’t the fucking kitchen help, after all. He was the new ranch foreman. But Keeley sighed, stood up, and felt around through the liquor cabinet until his hand closed around the thick neck of the half-gallon bottle of Maker’s Mark. A $65 bottle. Nice.

Hank poured two water glasses half full. He didn’t offer ice or water. Keeley sipped and closed his eyes, letting the good bourbon burn his tongue.

“This thing you’ve got with the game warden,” Hank said again, “it’s time you dropped it.”

“I ain’t dropping it,” Keeley said, maybe a little too quickly. Hank froze with his glass halfway to his lips and stared at him.

“What do you mean, you ‘ain’t dropping it’?”

“I told you.” Keeley shrugged. “It’s personal.”

Hank didn’t change his expression, but Keeley could see the blood drain out of Hank’s cheeks. That meant he was getting angry. Which usually meant someone would start hopping around, asking what Hank needed. Fuck that, Keeley thought. Enough with Hank and his moods.

“Since you got here, you’ve been asking me questions about him,” Hank said. “You’ve been kind of subtle and clever about it, you know, not asking too much at once and not tipping yourself off to the other boys. But I observed it right out of the chute. You got me to talking about those Miller’s weasels, and what happened up there with the Sovereigns in that camp. You asked me where the game warden lived, how many kids he’s got, what his wife is like and where she works. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Bill. You’re obsessed with the guy.”

Keeley said nothing. Hank was smarter than he thought.

“There was that Miller’s weasel stuck to Pickett’s front door,” Hank said. “Then what? The elk heads? I didn’t like that one very much. It reminded me of what those fuckin’ towelheads do over there in the Middle East, cutting off heads. Plus, I like elk. Now I hear somebody put a bullet through their picture window,” he said, his eyes on Keeley like two flat black lumps of charcoal. “I’d say that’s going too far. That’s too damned mean, considering there are children in the house. Made that family move, is what I hear.

“So my question is,” Hank said, leaning forward, “just what in the hell is wrong with you? Why do you hate Joe Pickett so much? I know if I hadn’t found you and stopped you that night outside the Stockman you would’ve beat him to death.”

“There ain’t nothing wrong with me,” Keeley said, resenting the implication. Feeling the rage start to surge in his chest and belly.

Joe Pickett was all he had left, Keeley thought. After five years in prison they raided his hunting camp and tried to find the bodies of that Atlanta couple, after Keeley was forced to run away. The only thing he still had of value was his hatred, and that was still white hot.

Damn, he hated to be judged by any man.