Page 70 of Three-Inch Teeth

“Roger that,” Soledad said while turning the ignition. Cates was grateful the man hadn’t asked why and delayed them any further.

*

FEARLESS FRANK CARROLL cruised along the eighteenth fairway and marveled at the huge empty houses. The house he’d grown up in, in Encampment, could fit into one of their garages, he thought.

He made the turn at the end of the golf course and could see Lake Joseph glow with dawn light through the trees to the right. Even though he wasn’t close yet, his heart skipped a beat when a big trout rose and created a pattern of concentric ringlets on the surface.

“Damn,” he said aloud.

For reasons he couldn’t later explain, Carroll looked up the golf cart path that ran along the side of the fairway to his left.

On top of the hill, a pair of red taillights blinked out as a vehicle crested the rise and vanished down the other side. Then he noticed the heap of dark clothing sprawled across the path halfway up the hill.

Like the reflection of the dawn sun on the surface of Lake Joseph, a stream of dark liquid glowed on the concrete path as it poured from the victim.

*

AT HOME, JOE sat up suddenly in bed. He was instantly wide awake and checked the clock on the nightstand. It was six a.m.—he’d slept in.

Marybeth stirred beside him. “Joe, are you all right?”

He shook his head. “I just had a bad dream. I dreamed that grizzly came back.”

As he said it, his phone on the nightstand lit up with an incoming call.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saddlestring

JOE ARRIVED AT the crime scene at the golf course at 6:35 a.m. to find a scrum of vehicles already parked on the eighth fairway halfway up the long green slope. There were three Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department SUVs, a Park County Sheriff’s Office pickup, two Saddlestring PD cruisers, a dark Chevy Suburban with the logo of the club on the driver’s-side door, and a white panel van that was driven by the area forensics technician, Gary Norwood. Several of the law enforcement vehicles had their wigwag lights on and their blue and red beams flashed across the walls of trees on both sides of the fairway and made the location look oddly psychedelic.

Rather than drive up the golf cart path, Joe used the tire tracks already pressed into the grass by the first responders on the side of it. As he ascended the rise, he could make out Elaine Beveridge, the interim sheriff, standing and gesticulating with Jackson Bishop, the candidate for sheriff from Park County; Ruthanne Hubbard, the dispatcher and candidate for sheriff herself; and Judy, the longtime administrative director of the club. Norwood stood apart from the group, looking down at his shoes and acting as if he’d rather be anywhere but where he was. The remaining law enforcement personnel milled around between the vehicles and near the dense stand of trees.

It was a familiar sight, he thought. Whenever there was a serious incident, the location was flooded by LEOs, who largely stood around bullshitting with each other with not much else to do.

It was Norwood who noticed Joe’s arrival first, and the tech quickly broke away and approached him as Joe turned off his truck and climbed out.

“This is a clusterfuck of the worst kind,” Norwood said. “Judge Hewitt got attacked and now I’ve got three different people telling me what to do.”

It was obvious where the attack had taken place. The path to the right of the trees and brush was painted with blood, and a lot of it. Fingers of dark crimson ran down the length of the path and pooled in a slight depression about four feet from where the body had been.

“Is he dead?” Joe asked Norwood.

“He was breathing, but really torn up. The bear got him right here,” Norwood said, placing his left hand on top of his right clavicle. “I saw holes in his chest as big as any large-caliber bullet I’ve ever observed.”

“But not his face and head?” Joe asked, surprised.

“Not that I saw.”

“That’s a little unusual.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Norwood said. “Anyway, the EMTs bundled him up and transported him to the hospital. I think they’ve already called Billings MedFlight to take him to a real hospital.”

Joe nodded. The county facility was fine for routine injuries, but severe trauma cases were flown to Montana. He’d made the flight himself several times over the years.

“Did you happen to take any photos?” Joe asked Norwood.

“Of course, but they’re pretty grisly. No pun intended.”

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