Out of Range (17 page)

“Mary,” Joe said, “you’ve obviously thought quite a bit about what happened. If you were to name what—or who—drove him over the edge, what would it be?”

Her eyes flashed. “I think I’ve said too much already.”

“You’ve got a theory, though?”

She angrily shook her head, as if tossing the conversation aside, sat down at her desk, said, “I’ve got work to do here.”

As Joe climbed the stairs, he looked down at Mary at her reception desk. She was furiously arranging her things in front of her.

You know something you’re not telling me, Joe thought.

At his desk, Joe looked at his watch, then dialed home. Marybeth picked up on the second ring.

“At last,” Joe said.

“Not really,” she said, strain in her voice. “The school just called. The bus driver didn’t show up for work, so I need to take the girls to school. Then I’ve got to get to Barrett’s right after that to defend their books against some IRS auditor who showed up without any warning.”

“This has been difficult,” he said, wanting to tell her about the funeral, the urn, the strange feeling in his head that was finally dissipating, the man outside his window the night before. Wanting to hear about Sheridan’s injured eye, the silent 720 call.

“Can’t you call tonight? The girls would love to talk to you,” she said.

“Okay. What about you?”

“Oh, Joe, of course I want to talk with you. That is, if you’re sober and the line isn’t cutting in and out.”

He winced at that. “That was a little strong, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. But the girls are waiting in the car and I’ve really got to go now,” she said. “Call tonight.”

“I will.” He hung up, a dark mood forming.

...

Pete Illoway wasn’t in when Joe returned the call. The message said:

“Hi, you’ve reached the desk of Pete Illoway of the Good Meat Foundation. I’m either on the other line or away from my desk, helping people connect with their natural environment for the good of all the species on the planet.

Please leave a message. . . .”

“Sheesh,” Joe said, and hung up.

Don Ennis was in, and answered the phone with the brusqueness of a man who had important things to do quickly, Joe thought.

“I called you three times yesterday,” Ennis said.

“I was out,” Joe said, trying not to sound defensive.

“Jensen was out a lot too. You’re not like he was, are you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Never mind,” Ennis said. “I’m sure by now you’ve run across Will Jensen’s file on Beargrass Village, right?”

Joe turned and opened the file drawer, thumbing through the tabs. “I’m looking,” he said.

Ennis sighed impatiently. “It’s probably a thick one.

When you find it you should read it over. I’m sure there are some errors of judgment you’ll want to correct.”

Joe saw Beargrass written in Will’s cribbed hand on the tab of a folder. He withdrew it from the drawer and placed it on the desk blotter.

“Okay, Mr. Ennis,” Joe said, “I found the file. Can you tell me what this is about?”

Another sigh. “I’m a developer, you know that because you’ve got my card from the other night, right?”

“Yes,” Joe said. “Thank you for the—”

“A developer develops,” Ennis said, cutting Joe off.

“That’s what I do, Mr. Pickett. I’ve invested millions of dollars of my own money and have millions more lined up to develop Beargrass Village here in Jackson Hole. It’s a planned community unlike anything anyone out here has ever done or seen. The concept is brilliant. Forty percent of the home sites have already been committed, and we’re ready to start building.”

“Yes,” Joe said, now understanding why Ennis had been so anxious to get in touch with him.

“Look, I believe in doing things on the upandup. I don’t like games. I didn’t become who I am by fucking around with people. Let me ask you something straight out, Mr. Pickett: Are you one of those people who is against any development?”

“No, I’m not,” Joe answered truthfully.

“You’re not one of those limpwristed greenies who oppose anything new?”

“No.”

“Okay, then. We can talk.”

“You start,” Joe said.

“The ground can’t be broken until all of the permits are in place and all the state and federal bureaucrats sign off on it. Everybody has at this point, except for one.”

“Let me guess,” Joe said.

“That’s right,” Ennis said, his voice rising. “Will Jensen was concerned about bear and moose habitat. He was concerned that Beargrass Village would be built in the middle of a freeranging wildlife corridor.” Ennis said the word concerned with dripping sarcasm, Joe thought. “I tried to explain to him that this project was about wildlife, about animals, and if anything, it would enhance the habitat for the moose and the bears. I tried to show him, personally, but he stood me up for two meetings and when he finally did show up he was belligerent. He physically attacked me.

I had to call the sheriff and have him arrested.”

So you’re the one, Joe thought.

“I’m sorry to hear that happened,” he said. “No representative of our department should have done that.”

Ennis paused, then: “Well, I guess I’m glad you’re sorry.

But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m nearly a year behind in construction. Some of the delays were the fault of the Forest Service, but this last one was because of a single drunken, incompetent game warden who personally cost me a lot of money and inconvenienced more than a few very important people.

“This is a big deal,” Ennis said bluntly, “do you understand that? I’ve gone to the top and I want this resolved yesterday.”

The top meant the governor, Joe thought.

“The vice president of the United States will be in my house for a reception in two weeks. He’s considering building a house in Beargrass after he’s out of office. Do you want me to tell him he can’t because the local game warden won’t sign off on it?”

Oh, Joe thought, that top. “So what do you want from me?”

“I need to know how soon you can get out here,” Ennis said. “I’ll call my experts and have them assembled. They can answer any questions you’ve got, and show you how we plan to address the situation with the bears and the moose.

We’ll show you our strategic plan to create the first planned Good Meat community in the country. I think you’ll leave here impressed as hell, and you’ll give the goahead to the project so we can get started. Finally.”

“Did you say ‘Good Meat community’?”

“That’s what I said.”

Joe recalled what Trey had told him about the practice, as well as Pi Stevenson’s condemnation of it.

“Well?” Ennis asked.

“Well, what?”

“How soon can you get out here for a tour?”

Joe did a quick calculation. His intention, as of that morning, had been to get into the backcountry to check on the outfitter camps as quickly as possible. He also wanted to visit the medical examiner who had been on the scene of Will Jensen’s suicide. Given the urgency of Don Ennis’s request, Joe also wanted to try to address it as soon as possible. Despite Ennis’s manner, it seemed to Joe that Ennis had a legitimate complaint.

“How about this afternoon?” Joe said.

“Hot damn,” Ennis cried, “finally somebody I can work with.”

Maybe, Joe thought.

Eighteen

To meet with Don Ennis and the principals of Beargrass Village, Joe used the map provided in a glossy fourcolor brochure entitled The World’s First Sustainable Good Meat Community he had found in the file. He drove his pickup on the highway toward Teton Pass, past the oldfashioned haystacks that existed purely for scenic effect in the landtrust meadows, past the gated communities with scores of milliondollar homes almost hidden in the timber that were referred to as “starter castles” by the locals. He thought about what he had read in the file that Will Jensen had assembled.

The concept of Beargrass Village had been launched with a complicated land swap between Ennis and his partners with the U.S. Forest Service: 7,500 acres of timberland across the border in Idaho for 7,500 acres in the county. The file contained schematics and land plats, letters of support from federal agencies including the Forest Service and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. The letters showed the tremendous political clout Ennis had behind him. There were opinions written by staff people within his own office: biol

ogists, fisheries experts, and the liaison for the interagency grizzly bear management team. Joe read enough to know that the staff letters pointed out potential problems with Beargrass Village, but didn’t propose outright opposition to the plan. Only the grizzly expert admitted grave concerns, but the letter was written in a kind of bureaucratic “cover your ass” language that would exempt the expert from blame no matter what happened in the end. In the margin of the bear report, Will had scribbled, This is a big problem.

What it boiled down to, Joe saw, was just as Ennis had said on the telephone: The final approval of the project from a wildlife management standpoint would depend on the opinion of the local game warden. Will, for whatever reasons, had withheld his final written opinion and impeded the process. Now it was up to Joe.

No wonder Will drank too much, Joe thought, smiling bitterly.

The headquarters for Beargrass Village was a dark, modern, lowslung building built of unpeeled logs and native stone. It was set into the side of a wooded rise so naturally that it would be possible for someone not aware of its existence to drive right past the building, which Joe almost did. Fortunately, he noticed a wink of sunlight off the windshield of a black Lexus SUV in a woodshrouded parking lot, and turned his pickup toward it. Three other latemodel SUVs were in the lot. He knew he had found the right place when he saw Don Ennis emerge through a sliding glass door and wave.

“Welcome to Beargrass,” Ennis boomed. Joe waved back.

Carrying the file, Joe entered and heard the door slide shut behind him. Several men sat at an enormous table in the room. A PowerPoint projector was on a stand, fan humming. Easels were positioned in each corner of the room, as well as a huge diorama of the planned development.

“Funny thing is,” Joe said, surveying the room and meeting the eyes of the men at the table, “there is no beargrass in Wyoming. There’s beargrass in Montana, in the northwest corner. But I guess you like the name.”

Ennis blinked uncomfortably, then glared at Joe.

“That’s trivial,” he said in a way intended to end the discussion.

“Probably is,” Joe agreed.

The three men at the table all stood to shake Joe’s hand and introduce themselves. Jim Johnson was the contractor, a bearish man with a full beard, a barrel chest, and callused hands. Shane Suhn was younger, stylish and fit, and said he was Don Ennis’s chief of staff.

Joe asked, “Chief of staff ?”

Suhn’s face hardened and paled. “Personal secretary, then,” he said.

“Pete Illoway,” the third man said in a melodious tone.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Joe said, seeing that his comment made Illoway smile with the glow of recognition. Illoway had sunburned, chiseled moviestar features and longish blond hair that curled over the collar of his Patagonia fishing shirt. He exuded health, contentment, and wellbeing, Joe thought. Illoway carried himself in a way that suggested he was used to being stared at and admired.

“So you know of the Good Meat Movement,” Illoway said. “That’s a good start.”

“I know a little,” Joe said, “not much.”

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Ennis said, charging toward the table in the headdown way he charged toward everything. “Let’s show Mr. Pickett our plan and have some lunch.”

Shane Suhn dimmed the lights and handed the projector remote to Ennis. Ennis waited until Joe was seated, then stood directly behind him, pointed the remote at the projector, and triggered the first image. Ennis stood so close that Joe could smell his cologne and feel his body heat.

...

The presentation took twenty minutes and was dazzling in its professionalism, Joe thought. The logo for Beargrass Village, the stylized lettering set against stalks of tawny beargrass, appeared in the lower left corner of every slide and burned into his subconscious.

The concept was for 120 homes, each with ten to twenty private acres. The homes would be situated concentrically throughout the property, built with native materials within a restored landscape, much like the headquarters itself.

There would be no telltale signs of construction, reseeding, commercial landscaping; it would look as if the homes emerged from the earth itself with no assistance from human beings. No home could be seen from another home.

Beyond the private acres the land was common to all.

“The commons will be just as wild as it is now,” Ennis said, forwarding through photos of bears, deer, moose, and grouse, “and available to all. Beargrass residents can hike on it, camp on it, hunt on it if they want to.”

That got Joe’s attention.

“Don’t worry,” Ennis said impatiently, as if he had been anticipating Joe’s reaction, “everything will be by the book, in accordance with state law. Hunting licenses, all of that crap. But here’s the kicker,” he said, advancing the presentation quickly through drawings of barns, corrals, and a pasture so green it burned Joe’s eyes.

“This is where the stock is born, raised, and eventually slaughtered. Each resident will contract for a number of animals—pigs, chickens, goats, sheep, cattle—to be cared for by the staff. The stock animals will receive the best of care and will be rotated on our pastures. They’ll be raised holistically, organically, with no growth hormones, chemicals, or processed feed. If the residents want to get involved, they can. I suspect most of them will want to be a part of that.”