—
WORD ABOUT THE CASEgot around, and that led to another. A U.S. senator from Wyoming had a sprawling ranch and a lot of cattle. The ranch backed up to an area of Yellowstone National Parkthat had wolves in it. Shot wolves began showing up on his property and then across the fence into the park. The senator had no problem with dead wolves personally but didn’t like the idea of a criminal action that would have every environmentalist in the nation on his back, along with CBS and, worse, CNN.
“I’m not shooting the wolves, and my kids aren’t shooting the wolves, and my hands aren’t shooting the wolves, because I told them all we’re a hell of a lot better off with a few dead heifers than we are with a few dead wolves, and that if I got even a hint that they were involved, I’d have their asses,” he told Lucas. “I need this to stop, like, now.”
He said the federal wildlife people hadn’t been able to get anywhere because, basically, they weren’t criminal investigators, and because everybody knew them by sight.
Lucas went out to Wyoming, spent a few days asking around, eventually found three brothers, all cowboys, who had a little sideline rustling cattle, spoke quietly to them about who might be doing what. They called it blackmail, but not wishing to have their sideline revealed, the cowboys were willing to speculate about the wolf shootings.
With a wildlife guy in tow to make everything legal, Lucas ambushed the senator’s southern neighbor, who was stalking a decoy that looked a lot like a wolf, in the park. The senator and the neighbor had feuded over the years, some kind of complicated water dispute that Lucas didn’t try to understand.
“That sonofabitch,” the senator had said when Lucas called him. “He embarrasses the shit outta me and he gets rid of wolves that he don’t want, neither. Two birds with one stone. I know for sure he’s a fuckin’ Democrat.”
The neighbor didn’t actually shoot anything, though, so wouldn’t face much of a penalty, even if he was convicted. He claimed he’d been out for a walk and had taken his scoped semiauto .223 with him as protection against wolves... and bears and owls and chickadees and... whatever.
The senator told Lucas, “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, Lucas. That boy leases three thousand acres of BLM land to run his cattle on. I believe he’s gonna find his contracts under review. That sonofabitch... Oh, hey, send me a couple of your business cards, would you?”
—
THOSE JOBSleft Lucas feeling slightly corrupt—an ordinary citizen wouldn’t get his kind of help. On the other hand, the confluence of crime, money, and political power did hold his interest. In both of the cases, the Marshals Service director had called him at home to hear what he had to say, and at the end of each report had said, “Keep up the good work. If you fuck up, I never heard of you.”
—
AFTER THE ROUTINE WICHITA JOB,Lucas was sitting at the gate at Dwight Eisenhower National, reading anOutsidemagazine, when Porter Smalls called.
“I need you to come talk to me,” Smalls said. “Soon as you can. Sooner.”
“I saw a story in thePioneer Pressabout the accident; sounded awful,” Lucas said. “You okay?”
“Got a bloody nose from the air bag hitting me in the face, butI’m not dead like CeeCee,” Smalls said. “I called around and was told that you’re not in town. When are you coming back?”
“I’m sitting in the Wichita airport right now. I’ll be back home around eight o’clock tonight.”
“Good. I’m getting on a plane at National in five minutes. We’re supposed to get in at eight-twenty. Could you wait for me at the airport? A restaurant, or whatever? I haven’t had time to eat.”
“You know that Stone Arch place? We could get a beer. And if it’s too crowded to talk, we could find an empty gate.”
“See you there.”
—
LUCAS WAS A TALL,tough-looking man, tanned with summer, a white knife-edge scar cutting across his eyebrow and onto his cheek, the product of a fishing misadventure. He had mild blue eyes, dark hair now touched with gray, and a smile that could turn mean. He liked to fight, not too often, but occasionally. The winter before, when he could no longer hold menus far enough away to see the fine print, he’d gotten his first pair of glasses, narrow gold-rimmed cheaters, that he hated but put up with.
“I look like Yoda or something,” he grumbled to his wife, Weather.
“Yoda didn’t wear glasses, as far as I know,” Weather said.
“I don’t mean the literal Yoda. I mean that guy from Tibet—you know, the religious guy.”
“The Dalai Lama?”
“Yeah, that guy.”
Weather looked at him, then said, “Yeah, you do kinda looklike him...” Which he didn’t, but Weather refused to encourage whining. “Now, like the Dalai Lama, you can read the menu.”
Although Lucas wasn’t afraid of the occasional brawl, he feared flying. His rational mind forced his body onto airplanes, but his emotional, French-Canadian side told him that whole metal tubes flying through the air was a vicious scam that would end badly.
He tried to distract himself withOutside, but one of the cabin attendants was really,reallygood-looking, which meant that every time she passed he had to take off the reading glasses. The last time he did it, she patted him on the shoulder. She’d noticed, obviously familiar with male insecurities.
