Page 89 of Shadows Reel

NOVEMBER 25

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

—William Butler Yeats, “The SecondComing”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Trap

By ten the next morning, the conference room of the Twelve Sleep County Library was set up to broadcast the press announcement regarding the discovery of the photo album and there was a palpable sense of urgency, tension, and confusion in the air. Joe tried to keep out of the way.

State-of-the-art video cameras, audio equipment, and lighting were set up in the room. The library’s tech employee hovered from station to station in the background, frantically ticking items off a checklist. The gear had all been purchased early in the pandemic, when Marybeth had convinced the library foundation to obtain it so they could safely maintain book clubs and discussion groups. According to her, this would result in professional-looking events. The foundation agreed.

The singular focus of the lights, cameras, and microphones was on a lone table in the center of the space. On the surface ofthe table was the red leather-bound photo album that had once belonged to Julius Streicher.

—

Joe was carefulnot to trip over any of the cords or cables on the carpet as he crossed the room to greet Sheriff Tibbs, who had entered wearing a skeptical squint on his face. AnnaBelle Griffith, the new county prosecutor, was a few steps behind him.

The announcement was scheduled to go live at eleven a.m. mountain time.

“Hello, Sheriff. Hello, AnnaBelle.”

The sheriff said, “Joe. I wish I had confidence in what we’re doing here.”

“I understand.”

Joe had spent the morning going over with him what he and Marybeth suspected and why. Tibbs hadn’t completely bought in on their theory, but Joe had been as persuasive as he could be. Griffith played her cards close to her vest, but she seemed to be more in favor of Joe’s theory than the sheriff, who clearly had his doubts.

Griffith was young and professional, and she didn’t waste words. The month before, she’d had lunch with Marybeth, and his wife had said the new prosecutor was, she thought, a “straight shooter.” Griffith was obviously still trying to figure out where she fit within the male-dominated structure of Twelve Sleep County law enforcement.

“It’s a gamble,” Joe had said to them both. “But it’s a gamblewe have to take. Besides, what other ideas are there for smoking out and nailing these guys?”

Griffith had looked to Tibbs for an answer to the question. When there was none, she cautioned the both of them to be careful and to “go by the book.” She said she’d be present to observe.

Tibbs had reluctantly agreed.

The library was usually closed on the Friday after Thanksgiving, so there was only a skeleton crew of staff whom Marybeth had pleaded with to come in. There were no patrons in the aisles. The timing was fortuitous, Joe knew, because they couldn’t risk the safety of civilians who might have come in to browse the books or use the internet.

“Is everyone in position?” Joe asked Tibbs.

The sheriff eyed Joe coolly, as if prepared to dress him down. Apparently, he decided not to.

“Deputy Bass is watching the back door and Deputy Steck is set up in the front foyer,” Tibbs said. “We’re receiving assistance this morning from Chief Williamson and four of his uniforms to get the extra manpower. I had to make a deal with him.”

“Let me guess,” Joe said. “You agreed that he could commission his tank into use.”

“You got it,” Tibbs said with disdain. “So if this doesn’t work out, you owe me big-time.”

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