Page 2 of Dark Sky

“Thanks for helping me out with this, Brock,” Joe called out after him.

“You bet, Joe,” he answered with a wave of his hand. He paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure I’d get here on time this morning. Did you know the sheriff has a roadblock set up so only authorized people can get to the airport?”

Joe said, “I heard about that.”

“I guess they were worried about a mob scene. That’s what the deputy told me. This guy is some big shot, huh?”

“That’s what they say.”

“I can’t say I support what we’re doing,” the rancher said. “I wish we weren’t doing it.”

“I know,” Joe said. Then: “It’s supposed to be a big secret, so I’d appreciate you keeping it between us.”

“Word’s already out,” Boedecker said.

“I don’t know how,” Joe said. The only reason he’d told Boedecker what he was about to do was because he’d needed to rent horses and tack from the rancher.

“I’m just not feeling too good about this guy,” Boedecker said.

Joe nodded his understanding. Up until the week before, he’d been in the same boat. His wife, Marybeth, had needed to explain to him who the man was, even though everyone—especially their three daughters—seemed to know all about him.

“Are you still convinced we’ll have ’em all back down by the time the cattle trucks show up? The horses, I mean?”

“Absolutely,” Joe said. “We’ll be back down by Friday.”

“Good, ’cause I loaded up my best mounts. Nothing but the best, you said.”

“Thank you,” Joe said with relief. “Did you remember to stop by our place and load Toby?”

“Yup.”

Toby was Marybeth’s oldest and most seasoned mount. He was a tall tobiano paint gelding who still displayed boyishenthusiasm, especially when he was taken away from the barn and corral and shown mountain trails.

“Any of these dudes ever been on a horse before?”

“They claim they have.”

“Those types always claim they have,” Boedecker said. He shook his head as he went inside.

Joe turned back to the west. The Gulfstream was now in profile, streaking left to right across the sky in order to make the turn and line up with the north-south runway.

He rocked back on his boot heels and tried to conjure a sense of anticipation, the feeling of excitement he used to feel as a younger man just prior to setting out into the mountains on an adventure. He’d toss and turn in bed the night before and be up hours before dawn to get ready, filled with a kind of primal joy.

Joe dug deep, but he couldn’t find it now.

—

He was dressed as he always was for a day in the field, in his red uniform shirt with the Wyoming Game and Fish Department pronghorn antelope patch on the sleeve and hisJ.PICKETTname badge over his breast pocket. Under his uniform shirt and Wranglers were lightweight wool long underwear and socks. He wore a dark green wool Filson vest under hisolive-green uniform parka.

He’d been instructed not to wear his holster and .40 Glock semiauto weapon, or his belt containing handcuffs and bear spray. The lack of weight under his parka made him feel airy and incomplete.

He squinted against the reflection of the morning sun on the perfect white skin of the Gulfstream as it taxied toward the terminal building. The twin tail-mounted jet engines emitted a high-pitched whine that hurt his ears.

The pilot of the jet did a graceful turn so the passenger door lined up with the entrance of the terminal before he cut the power to the engines. The turbines wound down into silence and the only sound was the light wind. Joe could see the profiles of several people inside moving about.

A moment later, the door opened and a stairway unfolded to the surface of the tarmac.

And there, not quite filling the opening, was a pale, gangly man with a boyish face and wispy ginger hair. He waved as if there were a crowd to greet him and not just Joe.

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