Chapter Seventeen #2
She slowed down as she approached Antler Creek Junction, and got a knot in her stomach when she realized that she was at the location where her dad had been ambushed two days before.
Although his pickup had been removed, there was a white panel van parked on the shoulder.
A large square was marked off in the sagebrush and yellow crime scene tape had been secured to lengths of wooden laths driven into the ground.
A man wearing coveralls was carefully walking through the sagebrush outside the marked location. He was studying the ground, it seemed.
Lucy slowed to a stop, but kept the engine running. The man in the field saw her and waved. She waved back, then motioned for him to come over. As he did, she rolled her window down.
In addition to the coveralls, the man in his midforties also wore latex gloves. A camera with a long lens hung from his neck and the top of a digital recorder stuck out from his breast pocket. She recognized him as the county forensics tech, but Lucy couldn’t recall his name.
“I thought you were Marybeth Pickett,” the man said. “Isn’t this her ride?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Can I help you?” he asked. “I’d ask that you please stay clear of the crime scene.”
“I will. Can you please tell me which road ahead goes out to the Double Diamond Ranch?”
He gestured toward the road on the left that curved to the west. “That one,” he said. Then he stuck out his hand. “I’m Gary Norwood.”
“Lucy Pickett. I borrowed my mom’s car.”
“I thought I recognized you. You used to star in plays and stuff at the high school.”
“That was me,” she said. “But I didn’t star in every play. So what are you doing out here?”
“Walking the crime scene,” he said. “I’m the evidence tech.
I prefer to do this when there aren’t a bunch of law enforcement guys running around trampling everything.
This way, I can concentrate. But honestly, I’m not finding much.
The shooters cleaned up after themselves pretty well.
They didn’t leave any cartridge casings, or items that we could use… ”
Norwood suddenly stopped talking before he could finish his thought. His face flushed pink and he said, “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget how crime can affect people who don’t do this all the time. This is your dad we’re talking about. I apologize.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can I ask how he’s doing?”
“We’re waiting to hear today,” Lucy said. “I think they’re doing the surgery this afternoon or tonight. Then we’ll know more.”
Norwood shook his head. “It makes me sick,” he said. “Usually, when I’m at a scene like this, I don’t know the victim. But I worked closely with your dad. I admire the hell out of him.”
“Thank you.”
“Has he been able to talk? To tell anyone who might have done this?”
“Not yet,” Lucy said. “They put him in a medically induced coma. It’s procedure, I guess.”
“Well, damn. If he comes out of it, I hope he can identify the shooters and tell us how this happened. Right now, we’re flying blind.”
“I hope so, too. We’re all praying for him to recover.”
“Give my best to your mom and dad, please.”
“I will.”
Lucy saw her opportunity. She said, “We heard it was probably two shooters. Have you found anything that would suggest more, or maybe just one?”
“Nope.” Norwood gestured to the field of sagebrush to the north. “I found where the snow and grass was pressed down in two places. That’s where they set up the ambush.”
“Do you have any idea which way the shooters went afterward?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We found some ATV tracks up there on the hill. Unfortunately, the terrain is too rocky to follow where they went.”
“If you were to guess?” she asked, and accompanied the question with a smile.
“If I were to guess,” Norwood said with a dawning realization, “I would guess that I might lose my job for starting rumors and sending you on a wild-goose chase. I’m here to gather evidence, not to speculate to the victim’s daughter.”
“I get it. Thank you.”
Norwood arched his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to drive out to the Double D? Thompson and his ranch foreman like to prosecute folks for trespassing.”
“I’m sure,” Lucy said. “It’s just a social call.”
—
The road improved just a mile from the junction, and the SUV hummed along its surface.
No Trespassing signs were posted every mile or so.
Before passing below a magnificent elk-antler arch made up of hundreds of sheds and a wrought-iron sign announcing Double Diamond Ranch, Lucy pulled over.
The arch framed a distant and very elaborate home built into the side of a mountain.
On the flat plateau above the estate was a gleaming white corporate jet, meaning Michael Thompson was there.
She pulled out her phone and started a new text thread to her sisters.
I made it to the Double D. Gary Norwood is at the junction. Drive right past him and look away so he doesn’t suspect what we’re doing.
Both April and Sheridan responded with thumbs-up emojis. They were both just minutes behind her.
—
As Lucy neared the spectacular home, she saw a pickup shoot out of the massive garage like a rocket being launched. It was a light gray Ford Raptor, and it turned onto the road and came straight at her to head her off.
Lucy pulled over to the right shoulder as the Raptor screeched to a stop next to her SUV. The window rolled down to reveal a bright red face crowned by a black cowboy hat.
“What in the hell do you want?” he asked. “Can’t you read the signs? Don’t you know you’re trespassing on private property?”
“Mr. Hutmacher?” Lucy said as innocently as she could manage. “How are you doing? I’m Lucy. Lucy Pickett.”
With that, Clay Hutmacher’s scowl instantly softened. “Oh, Lucy, I didn’t recognize you,” he said. “You’re all grown up.”
“It happens,” she said with a smile. “I was hoping I could speak with Mr. Thompson. That’s why I came out here this morning.”
Clay was obviously conflicted. He said, “Do you have an appointment with him? People don’t just show up, you know. Mr. Thompson is a busy, busy man.”
“I realize that, Mr. Hutmacher. But I’m sure you know that my dad was shot a couple of days ago. I was hoping Mr. Thompson might have some thoughts about who might have been involved. I’d really appreciate speaking to him.”
“Hold on,” Clay said. “Give me one second. Don’t move.”
Before Lucy could reply, Clay’s window rolled up. She watched as he raised his cell phone to his face. The conversation he had seemed animated.
While Clay Hutmacher talked with his boss, Lucy narrowed her eyes.
The foreman had once been a very good friend of her dad’s, but he was also Thompson’s main man.
From Sheridan, she’d heard that Clay had been deeply wounded by the death of his son, and that his entire personality had changed for the worse since then.
Sheridan described Hutmacher as petty, bitter, and increasingly erratic.
Lucy recognized that she should be wary of him, and also had a feeling that he might know more about what happened with her dad than he let on.
Finally, the window rolled back down.
“Mr. Thompson says he’ll give you five minutes of his time, but only because he feels sorry for you.”
Lucy bristled at the condescension, but smiled and said, “I appreciate that.”
“Follow me,” Clay said. “And remember: five minutes.”
—
“Wait here,” Clay Hutmacher told Lucy after they entered the Thompson home. Then he backed away down a hallway and left her there.
She stood in the middle of a massive great room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a stunning view of the spine of the Bighorn Mountains in the distance.
The decor was almost painfully white: floors, walls, ceiling, and furniture.
So much white, Lucy thought, seemed like a direct challenge to the county and community itself, which was filled with dirt roads, muddy pickups, and wind packed with grit.
The only thing to break up the whiteness inside were several huge multihued cowskin rugs on the floor, and a wall of mounted elk, bighorn sheep, mule deer, and pronghorn antelope heads, no doubt taken on the ranch. An eight-foot-tall full-mount grizzly bear stood in the corner looking angry.
Lucy glanced at her phone. It was 8:35 a.m. Five minutes, she’d been told.
Then she felt a presence behind her and looked over her shoulder.
Brandy Thompson stood quietly in the threshold of a doorway. She wore all-black, skin-hugging yoga clothes. Even her fingernails and toenails were painted black. She seemed slightly flushed and out of breath, and Lucy guessed she had just completed her morning workout.
“You’re Joe Pickett’s daughter?” Brandy asked.
“One of three,” Lucy responded.
Brandy’s eyes took in Lucy from the top of her head to her boots. It was a clinical assessment, Lucy thought, and it wasn’t very admiring. Lucy had studied many photos of Brandy in social settings. She was always the youngest, blondest, fittest, and most attractive woman in the room.
Now here stood Lucy, supplanting her. And she didn’t like it.
Lucy broke the icy moment. “Are you wearing Brndy?” she asked. “I love those clothes.”
Something registered in Brandy Thompson’s eyes. A hint of dominance, after all.
“It’s my clothing line,” she said. “But we’re really launching an entire lifestyle brand.”
“That is so cool. I love Brndy, although I can barely afford them.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Thompson said. Then: “Tell your friends.”
“I will,” Lucy said, thinking, she was right. Brndy wasn’t selling.
“Maybe I can arrange for you to get a discount.”
“Gosh,” Lucy gushed. “I would love that.”
“But I’m sure that’s not why you’re here,” Brandy said.
“It isn’t. We’re trying to figure out what happened to my dad a couple of days ago. We were hoping either you or Mr. Thompson might be able to help us.”
Brandy asked, “Who’s we?”
“My sisters and me.”
“What do you want to know?” Brandy asked in a distant, flat tone.
“Well, do you know when he was here last?”