time. You’ll need a desk, won’t you? A computer that works?” She was still testing him. “You know you want Will’s office, so just take it.”
He started to protest, but thought better of it. “Okay, ma’am.”
“You can call me Mary,” she said, again with that ghost of a smile, “but if you call me ma’am you’ll get a hell of a lot better service around here.”
He smiled at her.
“The office is upstairs,” she said, and sat down to answer a ringing phone. “All of his files and records are up there.
I’m sure you’ll want to look at them.”
“Yup.”
Joe gathered his briefcase and pack from her counter and began to climb the wide stairs to the second floor.
Mounted elk, deer, and bighorn sheep heads watched his progress with glasseyed indifference, as if they’d seen the likes of him before.
“Hey, Joe Pickett,” Mary called out from her desk.
He stopped on the top step and turned to her.
She lowered the phone and cupped her hand over the receiver. “You might have a call here in a minute. Someone is saying there are some people pitching a tent out in the middle of the elk refuge. You might have to go check that out and kick them off.”
He hesitated. “Okay . . .”
“And you have several messages from your wife. She didn’t sound very happy.” Mary smiled for the first time. It was a smile of pity.
“She didn’t get the dispatch message either,” he said.
“Welcome to Jackson Hole,” she said.
Will Jensen’s nameplate was still in a fake brass slider next to the third door on the left. Joe hesitated, looking up and down the hallway, then cautiously opened the unlocked door and let it swing slowly inward. The miniblinds covering the window were closed but bled laddered light. He waited a few beats before stepping inside. He couldn’t help feeling voyeuristic, and a little ghoulish. Joe didn’t want to be seen entering, didn’t want anyone saying later that he had just barged into Will’s old office like he owned the place. He reached inside the doorway, found the switch, and turned on the lights.
Joe’s first impression was that Will had left the office planning to return to it. Papers fanned across the desk. An open can of Mountain Dew was on a coaster. A ballpoint pen, cap off and to the side, sat on the top of a large, thin spiral notebook. The fan on Will’s computer hummed, indicating that it was sleeping and not turned off.
Joe stepped inside, leaving the door open, and dumped his briefcase and daypack in the chair opposite the desk.
Overall, the room was spartan, the office of someone who rarely used it or couldn’t get away from it fast enough. That fit with what Joe knew of Will and most of the other game wardens. Their actual workplace was outside, not inside. They used their desks with hesitation and profound regret, spending only as much time there as absolutely necessary between bouts in the field.
A cheap bookcase was a quarter filled with departmental memo binders and statute books. A retro Winchester Ammunition calendar was pushpinned into the wall. There were no personal photos, no drawings from his children.
The only adornment was a framed, faded photo hanging on the wall, cocked slightly to the left, of the elk refuge in winter. Joe instinctively knew that Mary, or maybe Will’s wife—but not Will—had put it there.
The left wall was dominated by a largescale Forest Service map of the North Jackson district. Pins with tiny paper flags numbered 1 through 37 indicated where the licensed outfitter camps were located. The camps followed river drainages in a march toward Yellowstone.
Joe sat in Will’s chair, still reluctant to settle in. The chair was uncomfortable, and was much older than the building itself. Joe wondered if one of the other employees had swapped out a chair at the news of Will’s demise. He brushed the pen aside and looked at the spiral notebook.
The red cover had a large “#10” written on the outside in black
He started to protest, but thought better of it. “Okay, ma’am.”
“You can call me Mary,” she said, again with that ghost of a smile, “but if you call me ma’am you’ll get a hell of a lot better service around here.”
He smiled at her.
“The office is upstairs,” she said, and sat down to answer a ringing phone. “All of his files and records are up there.
I’m sure you’ll want to look at them.”
“Yup.”
Joe gathered his briefcase and pack from her counter and began to climb the wide stairs to the second floor.
Mounted elk, deer, and bighorn sheep heads watched his progress with glasseyed indifference, as if they’d seen the likes of him before.
“Hey, Joe Pickett,” Mary called out from her desk.
He stopped on the top step and turned to her.
She lowered the phone and cupped her hand over the receiver. “You might have a call here in a minute. Someone is saying there are some people pitching a tent out in the middle of the elk refuge. You might have to go check that out and kick them off.”
He hesitated. “Okay . . .”
“And you have several messages from your wife. She didn’t sound very happy.” Mary smiled for the first time. It was a smile of pity.
“She didn’t get the dispatch message either,” he said.
“Welcome to Jackson Hole,” she said.
Will Jensen’s nameplate was still in a fake brass slider next to the third door on the left. Joe hesitated, looking up and down the hallway, then cautiously opened the unlocked door and let it swing slowly inward. The miniblinds covering the window were closed but bled laddered light. He waited a few beats before stepping inside. He couldn’t help feeling voyeuristic, and a little ghoulish. Joe didn’t want to be seen entering, didn’t want anyone saying later that he had just barged into Will’s old office like he owned the place. He reached inside the doorway, found the switch, and turned on the lights.
Joe’s first impression was that Will had left the office planning to return to it. Papers fanned across the desk. An open can of Mountain Dew was on a coaster. A ballpoint pen, cap off and to the side, sat on the top of a large, thin spiral notebook. The fan on Will’s computer hummed, indicating that it was sleeping and not turned off.
Joe stepped inside, leaving the door open, and dumped his briefcase and daypack in the chair opposite the desk.
Overall, the room was spartan, the office of someone who rarely used it or couldn’t get away from it fast enough. That fit with what Joe knew of Will and most of the other game wardens. Their actual workplace was outside, not inside. They used their desks with hesitation and profound regret, spending only as much time there as absolutely necessary between bouts in the field.
A cheap bookcase was a quarter filled with departmental memo binders and statute books. A retro Winchester Ammunition calendar was pushpinned into the wall. There were no personal photos, no drawings from his children.
The only adornment was a framed, faded photo hanging on the wall, cocked slightly to the left, of the elk refuge in winter. Joe instinctively knew that Mary, or maybe Will’s wife—but not Will—had put it there.
The left wall was dominated by a largescale Forest Service map of the North Jackson district. Pins with tiny paper flags numbered 1 through 37 indicated where the licensed outfitter camps were located. The camps followed river drainages in a march toward Yellowstone.
Joe sat in Will’s chair, still reluctant to settle in. The chair was uncomfortable, and was much older than the building itself. Joe wondered if one of the other employees had swapped out a chair at the news of Will’s demise. He brushed the pen aside and looked at the spiral notebook.
The red cover had a large “#10” written on the outside in black
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