In Plain Sight

Joe pushed past Nate and went down the damp concrete stairs. Nate followed. The passageway was dark but there was a yellow glow on the dry dirt floor on the bottom. The chemical smells were overpowering as Joe went down.

He had to duck under a thick wooden beam to enter the cellar. Nate didn’t see it and hit his head with a thump and a curse.

What Joe saw next nearly made his heart stop.

It was a taxidermy studio. A bare lightbulb hung from a cord. Half-finished mounts stared out with hollow eye sockets from workbenches. Foam-rubber animal heads filled floor-to-ceiling shelves, as did jars and boxes of chemicals and tools.

Wyatt sat on the floor, his legs sprawled, cradling Arlen Scarlett’s head in his lap. Arlen’s eyes were open but he was clearly dead. There was a bullet hole in Arlen’s cheek and another in his chest.

Hank was laid out on a workbench, his cowboy boots pointed toward the ceiling, his face serene but white, his hands palms up.

And there was a man’s entire arm on the floor near Wyatt’s feet, the hand still gripping a pistol. The arm appeared to have been wrenched away from the body it had belonged to. Joe didn’t think that was possible, but here it was right in front of him.

Joe didn’t even feel Nate run into him accidentally and nearly send him sprawling.

Wyatt looked up at Joe, his eyes red with tears, his mouth agape with a silent sob.

“Wyatt,” Joe asked. “What happened here?”

The youngest Scarlett boy closed his eyes, sluicing the tears from them, which ran down his cherubic face.

“Wyatt . . .”

“My brothers are dead,” Wyatt said, his voice breaking. “My brothers—”

“Who did it?”

Wyatt’s body was wracked with a cry. “Bill Monroe.”

Joe thought, J. W. Keeley.

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He ran away.”

“Is that his arm?”

There was a flash in Wyatt’s eyes. “I tore it out when I saw him shoot Arlen. Took a few hard twists to get it off, but it wasn’t no different than pulling a drumstick off a roast chicken. I thought I killed him last night, after what he did to Hank. But he came back.”

Joe thought: the blood on the wall and ceiling upstairs.

“Wyatt,” Joe said, trying to keep his voice calm but failing in his effort, so as not to upset the big man and cause him to clam up, “Did Monroe have my girls with him?”

Wyatt nodded sincerely. “And Julie too. But not anymore.”

“Where are they?”

“They’re safe,” Wyatt said. “They’re in my shack. Bill told Arlen he was going to hurt them if he didn’t give him money. Julie’s mom is there too.”

Joe felt a surge of blistering relief, although he wondered where Keeley was.

Nate asked, “Why are your brothers down here, Wyatt?”

Wyatt clenched his eyes, shaking his head from side to side. He looked like he was about to explode.

“Nate,” Joe cautioned.

Nate pressed, “Why did you bring them down here?”

Wyatt whispered, “To preserve them. So I could preserve my family. We’re very important here. And I loved them so much, even though they didn’t love each other.”

“Like you preserved your mother,” Nate said.

Wyatt nodded, then looked up eagerly. “Did you see how I made her smile? Not many people knew how she could smile. They know now.”

Joe turned and shouldered past Nate toward the stairs.

“Please stay with him,” Joe said. “I’m going to get my girls.”

HE RAN ACROSS the ranch yard and down the road on legs that felt as if they could go out on him at any time. The scene in the cellar had scorched his soul, and Wyatt had broken his heart.

J. W. Keeley was still out there, as far as Joe knew. As he ran, he held his gun in front of him with two hands and searched for movement of any kind in the dark trees near the ranch buildings. How far could a man go with a wound like that? he wondered. He’d seen deer and elk travel for miles with legs blown off by careless hunters. But a man?

Then a horrible thought struck him as he ran: Maybe Keeley had found the girls.

SHERIDAN’S EARS WERE numb from the drumming of the heavy rain on top of the tin roof of the shack. So numb, that when she heard a cry outside she doubted herself. Just like earlier, when she thought she had heard gunshots outside and even the unholy scream of a man. In both instances, she couldn’t be sure that her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. This time, though, she heard the cry again.

“Is someone coming?” Lucy asked from where she was huddled in the corner of Wyatt’s shack.

“Yes,” Sheridan said, summoning all her courage to approach the window and brush aside the curtains. The glass outside was still streaked with running rain, and the view undulated with the water. A form appeared in the murk outside, a man running toward the shack, crouching, looking around as if he expected someone to jump out at him. She recognized the form.

She stepped back from the window and turned to Lucy, beaming. Everything was suddenly right with the world.

“Dad’s here,” she said.

LIGHTS WERE ON in Wyatt’s shack. Joe called out again for his girls.

He heard, “Dad!” in response. Sheridan. A squeal from Lucy.