Breaking Point

cooperation.”
    Joe blinked. The
governor
? Twice elected as a Democrat in a seventy percent Republican state, Governor Spencer Rulon was mercurial, devious, cantankerous, glib, contradictory, and wildly popular. For several years, Rulon had manipulated the agency structure to use Joe as his personal agent and point man in the field, careful to keep it arm’s length, so if Joe screwed up, nothing would reflect back to the executive office in Cheyenne. When Joe had gotten too “hot”—according to the governor’s chief of staff—he’d been temporarily shipped off into exile in South Central Wyoming and Rulon had cut off all communication. Joe had resumed his duties in the Twelve Sleep District and hadn’t heard from Rulon since.
    “I don’t even know who my new director is,” Joe said, knowing how lame it sounded.
    Underwood shrugged, then leaned slightly forward so his nose was inches from Joe’s.
    “I know about you, Pickett,” Underwood said.
    “Have we met?”
    “No, but your name is not exactly unknown to some of my friends. You’ve been around the block a few times.”
    “I’m just a game warden,” Joe said.
    “An irritating one, from what I understand.”
    Joe shrugged.
    Underwood said, “Tomorrow,” and turned and walked back to Batista.
    Joe wasn’t sure what Underwood had been talking about, and he couldn’t connect the dots between him and the EPA chief of special agents. He’d been in the middle of so many situations in his career that involved clashes with other state and federal agencies and bureaus. It was unavoidable in a state half owned and administered by myriad federal agencies—the Bureau of Land Management, the U.S. Forest Service, the U.S. Park Service, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the Bureau of Reclamation, the Interior Department, the Agriculture Department—and now, apparently, the EPA.
    Joe was sure he would have remembered Heinz Underwood, though, if he’d ever encountered him before. He was a memorable presence.
    —
    T HE COUNTY EMPLOYEES who brought the lights and the tent weren’t alone. Behind their panel van was a battered Jeep Cherokee. Joe recognized the driver and passenger as Sissy Skanlon, the twenty-six-year-old editor of the weekly Saddlestring
Roundup
, and Jim Parmenter, the northern Wyoming stringer for the daily
Billings
Gazette
. Although the two were technically in competition, they pooled their limited resources so they could cover stories together.
    “Here comes the media,” Woods said with derision.
    —
    S KANLON AND P ARMENTER gravitated to where Batista, Underwood, and Coon had grouped. Joe could hear murmured conversation. Batista took Underwood aside and spoke fervently for a minute, then stepped back. Joe was surprised Batista chose not to address the reporters himself and had apparently assigned Underwood the job. It was odd, Joe thought.
    Underwood approached the two reporters and cleared his throat. Both pulled out notebooks and digital recorders to catch his words. Joe saw Underwood hand them a business card and pause while they read his title. Skanlon looked from the card to Batista and mouthed,
“Wow.”
    “Underwood is telling them they’re going to offer a reward—big money to anyone who can help nail Butch,” Joe said to Reed. “You’ve got trouble.”
    “I know I do,” Reed said, rubbing his face with his hands. Then: “Have you ever seen anything like that before? Jesus.”
    “You did well,” Joe said. “Your guys are proud of you for the line you drew in the sand.”
    “I hope they’ll still be proud if I get buried in it.”
    Joe chuckled.
    “What’s with that Batista guy?” Reed said under his breath. “He seems to have it out for me.”
    “Maybe he’s just caught up in the moment,” Joe said. “This isn’t the kind of situation he’s used to, and he did lose two people.”
    “And what about Underwood? He seems to have it out for
you
.”
    Joe nodded. “I don’t have a clue. I don’t think I’ve ever met him before. He’s not familiar to me.”
    “You seem to be familiar to
him
.”
    “Yeah, and I don’t get it,” Joe said. Then, to the darkening sky, “There’s a lot going on I don’t get, Mike.”
    Inside his breast pocket, Joe’s cell phone suddenly vibrated with four incoming messages, one after the other. He turned and opened the phone to see who his new boss was.

7
    VEHICLES WERE COMING UP HAZELTON ROAD WITH their headlights on toward