Page 12

Chapter Eleven

“From what I’ve been told,” Susan Kany said to Joe as she drove slowly to Spike Rankin’s elk camp along a narrow two-track road flanked by towering aspens on both sides, “the Centurions are a mix of defense industry CEOs, federal government officials, current and ex-military leaders, airline executives, and even a few astronauts. I’ve heard them described as the military-industrial complex in cowboy boots.”

Joe chuckled at that.

“I went to the ranch last year when the Centurions were around,” she said. “At the time I didn’t know any better. All I knew was that there had been a big run on out-of-state fishing licenses sold at their tackle shop in a short period of time, so I thought it was a good opportunity to check fishermen. I’ll tell you what—I wasn’t exactly welcome there.”

“How so?”

“They stopped me at the front gate of the ranch. They have a little guardhouse building, and there were like five people inside. Two older ladies apparently work there all the time for the B-Lazy-U, but there were three buff guys in shades with handheld radios as well: security for some of the members, I think. They questioned why I was there and I had to show my badge and ID. They asked if I could come back later, but that made me suspicious and I said no.

“After ten minutes of the security guys talking to someone inside, they let me in. But as soon as I got within the ranch complex, a couple of other security types followed me to the river on an ATV. I checked a couple of fishermen on the river with their guides and they checked out—everything was kosher. But my minders never left me alone the whole time.”

“Did you have any idea who the fishermen were?” Joe asked.

“You could tell by looking at them that they were muckety-mucks,” she said. “They wore all-new Orvis gear straight out of the box, and they had two-thousand-dollar Sage rods. I looked up the names of the three guys I checked later. One of them was the CEO of a defense company that does radar and sensors for rockets and warplanes, one of them was the chairman of an airline, and the third guy was some kind of deputy undersecretary in the Defense Department.”

“Interesting,” Joe said.

“None of them could cast worth a hoot,” she said.

“How many of them are out there?”

“They have two hundred and fifty members, and they’ve been around as a club for over sixty years.”

“Have they always come here?” he asked. “From what you’ve told me, I’d expect them to go to some place more high-end and famous. You know, Jackson Hole or Aspen or something like that.”

“I think that’s what they’re trying to avoid,” she said. “This place has everything they want: a huge private airport, luxury ranches, outdoor things to do, no national press of any kind, and locals who keep their mouths shut.”

“Do they invite members of the community to come to any of their activities?” he asked.

“Not really—none I know of,” she said. “Of course, they have to hire people to work there during the week. Waitstaff, housekeeping, extra fishing guides and wranglers, and such. The Centurions bring staff and security folks, but they can’t fly all of their people out here. Locals who go out there for the week have to sign an NDA.”

“Who told you all of this inside stuff?” Joe asked with a sly smile.

“The night after I went out there to check licenses, I eavesdropped on a couple of the pilots who were having a few too many beers at the bar at the Hotel Wolf,” she said. “The Centurions put their pilots up there for the week while they go out to the ranch and do whatever it is they do.”

She looked over at him as she drove. “It’s always amazing what people say around me when I’m not in uniform. One of them offered to buy me a drink.”

“I understand,” Joe said. He guessed that Kany looked pretty good in her street clothes, and then he felt immediately guilty for thinking it.

“Maybe you’ll run into a couple of them,” she said.

“Maybe,” Joe said. “But I hope not to stay here more than a night or two.”

“And get out of my hair? No offense.”

“Yup,” Joe said. “None taken.”

—

The massive aspen grove cleared and the road crossed a rocky alpine meadow before plunging into a heavy copse of pine trees. Joe glimpsed the signs of a camp between the trunks of the trees as they approached.

“Rankin’s camp is straight ahead,” Kany said. “It’s tucked into those trees.”

Joe liked the location for an elk camp. It was about four miles from the state highway and the road seemed to dead-end at the copse. The mountains rose sharply to the east, and the terrain eventually sloped on the west to the rugged North Platte River canyon wilderness area. From that camp, Rankin would have easy access to hundreds of thousands of acres of mountains, scrub, scree, foothills, and river bottom.

It was still but cool outside with scattered clouds that looked close to the summits of the nearby peaks. A mottled carpet of snow lay on the ground in the shadows of the trees.

Kany slowed even more as she entered the elk camp. Joe admired that. One of the worst traits of overeager new game wardens was to rush into a camp and panic the inhabitants, who were very likely armed and not expecting visitors. It was much better to enter an elk camp in the most transparent way possible, unless they were there to surprise people.

The camp was clean, simple, and well-planned, Joe thought. There was a natural opening in the heart of the copse and the camp was surrounded by trees. Two large taut wall tents had been erected on either side of the clearing, and a larger tent in the middle likely served as the communal eating and gathering place. The side tents were big enough for four and no doubt filled with cots and sleeping bags.

Most traditional elk camps were laid out by experienced outfitters, so their clients had their own sleeping quarters and privacy. The guide tents were far enough away not to interfere, but close enough to keep an eye on their people and to make sure no one wandered off in the dark.

There was an outhouse a hundred feet behind the tents, and stripped pine poles had been lashed high to the trunks of the tallest trees to hang game carcasses. To the side of the camp was a parking area that extended into the trees. A single vehicle was in it—an aged Ford Bronco with local plates.

A big firepit bordered by heavy, round river rocks occupied the space in front of the communal tent. A pile of folded camp chairs sat on a wooden pallet next to a neat row of firewood that looked freshly split. A teepee of kindling had been built in the firepit, ready for a match.

The camp looked ready for hunters to arrive, but they were not there yet.

Smoke wafted from a round tin chimney pipe that poked through the canvas roof. Joe could smell woodsmoke when he climbed out of Kany’s pickup. He always loved the smell of smoke during fall in the high mountains.

“He’s here,” Kany said with triumph as she gestured toward the communal tent.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Joe said, thinking, Mark Eisele better be with him .

He wasn’t.

—

The right canvas flap of the communal tent was thrown back as Joe and Kany approached it, and a fireplug-shaped woman wearing an apron, a red flannel shirt, and worn Carhartt bib overalls peered out at them.

“Hey there,” Kany said with a smile.

“Good afternoon,” said Joe.

The woman came out of the tent, but left the doorway open. Joe could see a Dutch oven filled with red chili simmering on the woodstove inside, as well as a pot of coffee. The cook peered at them and looked over the top of Kany’s truck toward the road behind them. Her expression was pained.

“I could hear you coming down the road,” she said. “I was hoping you was someone else.”

Kany said, “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m game warden Susan Kany, and this is Joe Pickett. We’re here to talk to Spike Rankin.”

“Is he in trouble?” the cook asked.

“No. It’s a friendly visit.”

The woman put her hands on her hips and looked them over. She was in her late fifties or early sixties with shoulder-length white hair, thick round-framed glasses, and a ruddy expression. The cast-iron camp stove inside the tent crackled as it burned.

“I’d like to talk to Spike myself,” she said. Then: “I’m Audrey Racines from Baggs.” The town of Baggs was thirty miles away to the west. “I’ve been up here cooking for Spike for twenty-three years. This is the first time he hasn’t shown up when he said he’d be here.”

Joe and Kany exchanged a concerned look.

“When was he supposed to be here?” Kany asked Racines.

“Yesterday, damn it,” Racines said. “It’s been the same drill forever. Spike comes up here a week or two before the season opens to scout for elk and set up the camp. He sends me a list of how many clients he has and any food allergies, and how long they’re going to be up here. Then I go shopping and I come up the day before to get everything set up and plan all the meals. Spike usually goes down into Encampment or Warm Springs to pick up whatever we’re low on or we forgot.

“But when I showed up yesterday, there was no Spike Rankin. He’s been here to set things up, as you can see. But I haven’t heard hide nor hair of him.”

“And that’s unusual?” Kany asked her.

“It’s really unusual,” Racines said. “I called and texted him, but he hasn’t called back. Of course, cell service is rotten up here. But still, I should have heard from him by now. His hunters are due to show up anytime.”

“Do you know what part of the mountains he was scouting?”

“Not a clue,” Racines said. “When I’m up here at the elk camp, I stay right here. I never go out with them. My job is to keep the coffee on and the beer cooler full for when they get back.”

“Does he usually have a radio or a sat phone with him?” Kany asked.

“He’s got a sat phone in case a hunter gets injured or something,” Racines said. “If he needs to call in the EMTs. But he doesn’t turn it on unless he needs to call out.”

“What’s the description of his vehicle?” Kany asked. “We can call it in and see if anyone has reported it parked somewhere. If not, we can put out an APB for southern Wyoming. Do you have any photos of Rankin I can send along?”

“Back at home, I have some elk camp photos from over the years,” Racines said. “But I don’t have none of ’em with me.” Then, raising an index finger to her chin, she said: “Hold it.”

With that, she ducked inside the communal tent and came out with a large three-ring album. “We’ve got hunting and camp photos in here going back ten years,” she said. “Spike’s in a ton of them. We keep this on the table so new clients can see there are plenty of elk up here.”

“Perfect,” Kany said.

Racines said Rankin drove a “tricked-up” gray 2018 Dodge Ram Power Wagon with local County Six plates, meaning Carbon County. The pickup had extra clearance and knobby tires, and a platform for an ATV on top of the bed in back.

She said, “It’s hard to miss. It’s quite a unit. My husband has dreams about owning one like it one of these days, to which I say, ‘Fat chance, buddy. You need to make a lot more money than you do if you want to afford one of these.’?”

While Kany called dispatch in Cheyenne to relay the vehicle details, Joe asked Racines, “Do you mind if I look around?”

“Feel free,” she said. “I hope you find him. I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t want them hunters showing up with just me here. Some of them guys are hard to deal with as it is.” Then: “And I’m getting worried about Spike. He shouldn’t be gone this long, unless…something happened.”

Joe tipped his hat to her and set about to circumnavigate the camp. As he passed Racines, she said, “You’re pretty well known around this camp, Joe Pickett.”

He paused and looked quizzically at her.

“Spike loves to tell his hunters about the time a brand-new game warden arrested the governor for fishing without a license up in Twelve Sleep County,” she said with a laugh. “He does it so his clients know what kind of sticklers some of you guys are. It’s a way of reminding them to always carry their licenses and conservation stamps with them and to stay on the up-and-up. ‘Cuz you never know when one of those tight-assed game wardens might show up,’ he says.” Then: “That was you, right?”

“It was,” Joe said. “That was a long time ago.”

“Spike would probably like to meet you,” Racines said. Then, with a long sigh: “I hope he shows up.”

“Me too. Did he mention being up here this year with a new guy?” Joe asked.

“Yes, he did,” Racines said. “His name is Mark-something. Spike said the guy was really wet behind the ears.”

Joe didn’t respond.

“He said it’s getting harder and harder to find help these days. Nobody wants to work. They just want to sit around their houses all day and play video games and collect unemployment. That’s a damned sight easier than packing a quarter of an elk out of the woods in knee-deep snow.”

“True,” Joe said.

“I worry about my country.”

Joe let that one go.

—

There were two fit-looking sorrel quarter horses in a corral tucked into the pines not far from where the game-hanging poles were lashed up. Joe threw them some hay from a short stack of bales outside the corral and filled their water trough from a gravity feed bag hung from a branch. The animals were well-muscled and well-behaved, and since there were only two of them, Joe assumed Rankin used them not to hunt from but to pack out meat from areas too rugged to access with his Power Wagon or ATV. Like most experienced outfitters Joe knew, Rankin likely didn’t want to put his clients on the back of a horse if they weren’t extremely experienced mountain riders. Too many things could go wrong—and often did.

Joe confirmed his guess when he found two weathered packsaddles under a tarp near the corral.

He untied the flaps to the tent on the left side of the clearing to find four roomy cots, a table with a full pitcher of water, and four bedrolls. That would be for the clients.

In the other sleeping tent were three cots. Two were on the right side of the tent, and a sheet separated them from a single cot on the left. That one had a rumpled sleeping bag on it, as well as a duffel bag underneath and a vanity and mirror at the back. Joe guessed that Audrey Racines had slept there the night before. The two other cots, for Spike Rankin and Mark Eisele, were untouched.

It was impossible to know how long it had been since the camp had been set up but not used by Rankin and Eisele. Two nights? Three nights?

—

While he was inside the tent, Joe heard the rumbling of another vehicle approaching the elk camp. He left the staff sleeping tent and retied the flaps closed, hoping Rankin’s “tricked-up” Power Wagon would nose through the aspen grove and he could go home to Marybeth.

Both Kany and Racines had also turned toward the road.

Instead of a Power Wagon, however, a new-model luxury Land Rover appeared. It had three people inside and North Carolina First in Flight license plates.

Rankin’s hunters had arrived.

—

Joe met the Land Rover on foot and held up his palm to signal to the driver to park it. The vehicle stopped and Joe could see the driver angrily gesticulating to the passenger, who held up his hands in an I don’t know response. A third man in the back seat had leaned forward to listen to their exchange. The back half of the big SUV was packed to the ceiling with gear and duffel bags, making it dark inside.

The driver’s-side door exploded open and a slim, fit man in his sixties popped out. He had close-cropped, styled silver hair and his chin was thrust out. He wore tactical hunting pants and a tight beige chamois shirt with a red bandana around his neck. He was obviously angry.

In contrast, the passenger in the front seat eased his door open and slipped out of the SUV. The man in the back seat did the same.

“Who the hell are you?” the driver asked Joe.

“Not Spike Rankin.”

“Well, that’s obvious,” the man said as he peered over Joe’s head toward the camp. “Where is he? He was supposed to meet us here this afternoon. I paid a lot of money for this, and he won’t answer his goddamned phone.”

Before Joe could respond, the driver squinted at Joe and then at Susan Kany. “You’re game wardens,” he said. “Has Rankin done something wrong? Because if he has and we can’t hunt, I’m going to sue his ass.”

“Let’s calm down,” Joe said as friendly as he could. “I’m Joe Pickett and this is my colleague, Sue Kany. She’s the local game warden. Audrey Racines back there is your camp cook. Let’s relax and get this all sorted out.”

“Jimbo,” the passenger pleaded to the driver, “let’s hear him out.”

Jimbo shot a withering look at his friend, then turned to Joe and raised his eyebrows. “This better be good,” he said.

Joe explained the situation without explaining the whole situation. He and Kany had come just an hour before to visit with Rankin, but no one was there except for Racines.

Jimbo was obviously enraged, but he listened patiently. As he did, his face got redder.

“So nobody fucking knows where he is?” Jimbo asked.

“That’s about the size of it,” Joe said. “But no need to panic. I’m sure he’ll show up.” Joe wanted to believe what he told Jimbo.

“What if he doesn’t?” Jimbo asked. “I brought my clients all the way from Raleigh here to Bumfuck, Wyoming, for a ten-day trophy elk hunt. It cost a pretty penny, as you can imagine. Now I show up and the guy I sent tens of thousands of dollars to isn’t even here to meet us. Instead, we find a couple of fish cops standing around twiddling their thumbs. That’s called fraud where I come from in North Carolina. I don’t know what you call it here in Bumfuck, Wyoming.”

“ Jimbo …” the passenger cautioned.

“ Raymond …” Jimbo replied in a mocking tone.

His passenger, Raymond-something, was an overweight bald man with a round face, a tiny mustache, and reading glasses hanging from a chain around his neck. He, like Jimbo, was decked out in state-of-the-industry high-tech hunting clothes and boots. Raymond-something looked puzzled and embarrassed by the whole situation. Joe noticed he had glanced away as Jimbo complained, as if he were distancing himself from the scene.

The third hunter, whom Raymond-something referred to as Kent, was rail-thin and had an upside-down triangle of a face, a broad forehead tapering down into a tiny chin. He seemed to be amused by everything, and Joe observed that he was likely pretty drunk. His eyes were watery and his reactions to what was being said were slow on the uptake. Joe’s impression was confirmed when he noticed an empty Coors can on the grass on the side of the Land Rover. Kent must have accidentally kicked it out when he swung outside.

“We’re not fish cops,” Kany said as she walked up and stood shoulder to shoulder with Joe. “We’re game wardens from the Wyoming Game and Fish Department.

“We have full authority to enforce our state’s laws. That includes arresting people who get out of line.”

Joe nodded in agreement.

“If you’re officers of the law,” Jimbo said as he leaned forward and balled his fists at his side, “you should arrest Rankin for misleading us. That is, unless you’re in cahoots with him.”

“Jimbo, please,” Raymond-something said. “Let’s take a few seconds and talk this over.”

Jimbo reluctantly agreed, and the two men turned and walked to the rear of the vehicle and stood behind it. Kent darted back inside the SUV for a fresh beer and then joined them. The three hunters engaged in an energetic back-and-forth in whispered tones so as not be overheard.

“That escalated quickly,” Kany said out of the corner of her mouth.

“You just never know,” Joe agreed.

He gauged the situation. “I don’t think Jimbo is trouble,” he said in a low tone only she could hear. “I think he’s just embarrassed and out of his element. He probably talked up this hunt to his clients all the way out here, and now he doesn’t want them to think it’s his fault. He wanted to impress them.”

“ That impresses me,” Kany said as she chinned toward the SUV. “That’s a 2023 Land Rover Range Rover LWB. It starts at a hundred and seven thousand dollars. This one is probably worth more than that because it has all the bells and whistles on it.”

Joe looked over in amazement at Susan Kany. “How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “I priced it online after I saw one at the airport the other day. One of the Centurions had one to take to the B-Lazy-U Ranch. I was just curious.”

“Hmmm.”

“What do you think they’ll do now?” she asked about the hunters. “Go back home?”

“I doubt it,” Joe said. “That would be too much of a debacle for Jimbo. He’ll feel that he needs to take some kind of action.”

The three hunters broke up and returned to the front of their vehicle. Jimbo took the lead and Raymond and Kent stood behind him.

Jimbo crossed his arms over his chest in a defiant stance. “I need the names of a couple of other local elk-hunting guides,” he said, looking from Joe to Kany and back again. “And I need a list of lawyers who will sue Rankin’s ass for fraud on my behalf—and maybe your department for perpetuating his fraudulent scheme.”

“How about you just turn around and go home?” Audrey Racines suddenly said to Jimbo. She’d joined Joe and Kany. “We don’t need jerks like you around here anyway.”

Joe turned to Racines. “We really don’t need your help right now,” he whispered.

Racines’s eyes flared, but she held her tongue.

“I’ll tell you what,” Kany said gently to the three hunters. “We’ll get this figured out so everybody’s happy and no one needs to sue anyone.”

As she spoke, she approached the hunters and handed each one of them her business card. “I’ll call down to town and get you reservations at either the Hot Springs Resort or the Riviera Motel. Whichever one has the three best rooms available. Both are very comfortable, and the three of you can soak in the local hot springs tonight and relax. I’ll text you a list of local outfitters, and if need be, I can make recommendations. In the meanwhile, you can enjoy the town and have a few beers and a nice meal. I’d suggest you call ahead for a dinner reservation,” she said. “You’re sharing the town with a bunch of private pilots.”

“I like the sound of that,” Kent said, hoisting his can of beer.

“What about my deposit on the elk hunt?” Jimbo asked. His voice didn’t contain the fury it’d had earlier.

“I’ll text you the hotline for the Wyoming Outfitters and Guides Association,” Kany said to him. “They police their own and they do a good job of it. But for the time being, let’s get you boys settled in town and set up a fine hunting adventure. How does that sound?”

“Pretty good,” Raymond-something said. “I’m getting hungry.”

“I’ll also send along a list of restaurants,” Kany said.

“So you two aren’t up here because Rankin broke the law?” Jimbo asked them.

“Nope,” Joe said. “We were just checking in on him when you boys showed up.”

“And you really don’t know where he is?”

“No. But we plan to find him.”

“Maybe he had an accident or something,” Kany added.

Although it was obvious Jimbo wasn’t completely satisfied with the answers, he turned with the others and got into the Land Rover. His three-point turn wasn’t aggressive, and Joe and Kany watched as the vehicle rumbled away to go down the mountain.

“Well done,” Joe said to her.

“I thought, ‘What would Joe Pickett do?’?” she said with a grin.

—

A few minutes later, Joe said to Kany, “You’ve got a two-horse district, right?”

Game warden districts were designated by HQ in Cheyenne as one-, two-, or three-horse districts depending on the size of the area and the difficulty of the terrain.

She confirmed it. Kany said she had a fine, well-trained mountain quarter horse and a stubborn mule.

“Let’s trailer them up here and go look for Rankin first thing tomorrow if he still hasn’t shown up,” Joe said.

“That makes sense,” she said. “Do we notify the search and rescue folks?”

“Not yet,” Joe said. He didn’t explain why, and he could tell she was puzzled by him again.

“When, then?” she asked.

“I think first we need to talk to the sheriff.” Joe knew they needed some help.

They’d blown nearly an entire day without getting a solid lead on the missing outfitter and the governor’s son-in-law. He recalled what Rulon had said about Sheriff Regan Haswell, but he chose to disregard it. Rulon may be enemies with the man, but Joe wasn’t. And if Haswell was like most local sheriffs, he kept his ear close to the ground and might know more about Rankin’s habits and his current whereabouts. He’d also likely know if Rankin had enemies or aggressive competitors who might have sabotaged him in some way.

“You get the stubborn mule,” she said to Joe as she waved goodbye to Audrey Racines and climbed behind the wheel of her pickup. “His name is Henry.”

“I’ll take him,” Joe said.

He wished he had brought Rojo with him. Marybeth kept the gelding tuned up and ready to go at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll drop you at the Wolf and get all the tack ready tonight,” Kany said.

“Do you need some help?”

“No. I can handle it, Dad ,” she said with more than a little attitude.

He let it go. And he made a mental note to contact Ann Byrnes in the governor’s office as soon as Kany let him out of the pickup in Warm Springs. He needed to keep her apprised of his progress.

Or, in this case, the lack of it.