“You’re thinking about getting whacked.”
“What?”
“Whacked. That’s what you’re thinking.” She stood, water up to her knees. “I can see it on your face.” She stepped out of the tank. “You don’t even see me, do you?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” She found a spot in the shade. “Here I am, as if alone, naked as a jaybird, enjoying the scenery. Like the shadows on that butte . . . which are really beautiful, by the way.”
He heard her words, and let their meaning escape him.
How had that hearing gone to hell? The Kid. Why didn’t he show? When his data would have cleared everything up. And The Kid’s phone call that morning, saying he’d found something new. Something he’d share at the hearing. What happened?
“Stop thinking about that,” Erika muttered. “Think about schmoozing Claire Prescott.”
A shudder shot through him, recalling his testimony. Approved and polished by Interior. All of it, fodder for one particular congressman. Every word, prey to a pat response. Bureaucratic double talk.
Other testimony seemed loaded. As if tested, played out, and known to work on the psyche of anyone who heard it.
Members of the public, long supportive, grew confused.
Facts withered on the vine. Truth died.
People had worked so hard. People who loved the place so much. Who fought so hard to preserve it. How disappointed they were. And the senator, listening in the galley. The look on his face.
“Jack!” Erika shouted. “We’ve got to go.”
“That congressman at the hearing. The one from Indiana. It was as if he knew more about The Kid’s research than I did. Almost. He knew just enough to turn it into something it wasn’t. Lies. And the family of that sick little girl . . . who died. What they were put through. When in reality, The Kid’s research had nothing to do with her. How that started, I do not know.”
“It started. You failed to control it.” Erika picked up her uniform and began to dress. “This is a beautiful place, if it wasn’t so damned hot.”
Jack watched her without seeing.
“We don’t have all day. It’s later than you think.”
He nodded.
“See you back at the truck.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “Tell Kelly—you know, your girlfriend, my dear old friend—remember to tell her we used separate tanks.”
—·—
Jack trudged uphill, Erika ahead in his sights, Claire Prescott already at the pickup, leaning against a fender.
Erika arrived, then Jack, their uniforms already dry. Without words, they climbed in.
Erika pulled the pickup around and headed back the way they came.
“Could you drop me at my vehicle?” Jack asked.
“Where?”
“River takeout.”
Erika nodded.
“Does that take us by any more range?” Claire asked.
“It does.”
“Good. We can talk. I have more questions. First, really, why do you government biologists oppose wild horses on the range?”
“Not native. Virtually no natural predators. Have to be managed. If not, populations explode, causing lots of damage.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing from scientists who work on these issues more than you do.”
“Who would that be?”
“Well, ones working for Wild Horse and Burro Babes. Their briefing statements dispute the assertion they’re exotic. In the evolutionary record, they arose here. This is where horses came into being.”
“True, but they died off. Assemblages of plants and animals changed. When the Spanish brought them back to the continent, it was to a different ecosystem. Sounds like their scientists are more likely advocates than scientists.”
“Of course you’d say that. I was told you would. I’ve had a few calls from the director of the Babes. She’s got more confidence in their guy, than they do in the scientists advising BLM. BLM’s policy sucks. Same for yours in the Park Service.”
“I might say the same about theirs,” Jack said, then felt a knock in the knee from Erika.
“What Jack’s trying to say is, this issue’s not as simple as the Babes put it. It’s complex. We’re willing to help you understand our position, and we’re willing to listen, to see if there’s anything we need to reassess in terms of our own policy.”
“Good,” Claire said.
“I don’t think I was trying to say that,” Jack said. “Turn here.” He pointed at an approaching road.
Erika slowed and made the turn. The road aimed at a slot between hills.
“What were you trying to say, then, Mr. Chastain?”
He sighed. “Never mind. Talk to Erika.”
“I won’t let you off the hook that easily.”
“How long will you be here?”
“I leave tomorrow.”
They cleared the rise. Vehicles came into view. Some parked near the river—the river user’s take out. Some parked on the other side of the road, near a BLM enclosure. A corral, filled with cattle. Riders on horseback. Some inside the enclosure. Some outside. Tractor trucks with stock trailers. One backed to a loading chute. Other trucks in line. People. Some in uniform. Others not. Movement, only from cattle. No movement from people, even the riders.
“What’s going on?” Jack muttered, studying the crowd.
Outside the corral, a black-haired man in BLM uniform—Paul Yazzi—stood facing a circle of people. And something else. Video cameras, on the edge of the crowd, pointed at Paul. And, more troubling, men with rifles. Pointed at Paul and others. And men, between the corral and the road, blocking departure. Inside the crowd, a circle of women, on the ground, sitting, facing the government rangers.
“Turn here,” Jack ordered.
Erika steered onto the side road, then slowed as reality seemed to settle in. “We better stay out of this.” She stopped the pickup, short of the ring of cameras.
“Let me out,” Jack said, scooting toward Claire Prescott.
She opened the door and climbed out.
Jack exited and worked his way around, past the first row of cameras. He stopped.
Among the crowd stood a woman with a video camera, shouting at the BLM men and women, seeming to record as she spoke. Between her and Paul—and two other rangers, firearms drawn—stood a ring of men carrying rifles. Not just rifles, assault rifles. AR-15s and other semiautomatic weapons. They wore desert camo, no two the same. Dark sunglasses covered eyes on icy faces. One man, not in camo, stood in a face-off with Paul. In jeans, a white western shirt, and straw cowboy hat, he looked to be in control.
Jack worked his way around to see the man’s face. Is this Moony Manson?
“Move,” the man shouted. “I’m not letting you take my cows.”
Paul, brow furrowed, held his stare.
Jack slipped to the side.
“I’m gonna give you one last chance. Get out of my way.”
Paul