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and parties, which made Joe wince every time. It was unusual for her to actually call, and more unusual for her to call
him
.
    â€œFinally, thank God,” Farkus muttered, as they turned from the rough mountain trail onto the two-lane state highway. “Where do we drop off this wreck?”
    â€œMy house.”
    Joe lived in a small state-owned home on Bighorn Road, eight miles from Saddlestring. It was en route from the mountains.
    â€œSo who is going to pay me for this?”
    â€œGive me your bill and I’ll send it in,” Joe said, distracted. He was waiting for the NO SERVICE indicator on his phone to give way to cell phone reception.
    â€œShit,” Farkus groaned, “I have to wait for the
state
to pay me? That’ll take months.”
    â€œMaybe. Sorry.”
    â€œDo I at least get a tip?”
    Joe said, “Never trust a man who wears white shoes. There’s your tip.”
    â€œVery fucking funny.”
    Joe nodded.
    â€œAt least say we’re square now?” Farkus said.
    â€œWe’re square.”
    Joe waited, staring at his phone.
    â€œI’ve got to get on the Internet and look for someplace warm to live,” Farkus said. “Someplace with sun and an ocean I can look at. Maybe I can hook up with a boat captain and take rubes out deep-sea fishing. I haven’t tied a fly in months, but I could learn some of those exotic patterns and—”
    â€œExcuse me,” Joe said, turning away. Two reception bars had appeared on the display screen of his phone, and he called Sheridan first.
    The message said, “Please enjoy the music while your party is reached,” and launched into a bad song from a bad group Joe had never heard before. He sighed, waited, and left a brief message that he was returning her call and that she should call him back or wait twenty minutes and call the house. She
never
answered her phone on the first attempt, and like every college student Joe knew, she didn’t have a landline in her dorm room.
    As soon as he rang off, Farkus continued on as if he’d never stopped. “I’ve been reading about these bonefish out in the salt flats. They feed on little crabs, I guess, and all a man needs to do is learn how to tie an imitation crab on a big-ass number-two or -four hook.It looks easy to me, much easier than these complicated little trout patterns on a size-twenty-two—”
    Joe said, “Give it a rest, Dave. I’ve got to check a message from the governor.”
    Farkus shut up mid-sentence. “Our governor?
Rulon?
”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œWell, ain’t you the big shot?” Farkus said, whistling. Then, as Joe punched in his message code, Farkus mocked him:
“I’m Joe Pickett and I’m so important I’ve got to check a message from the governor—”
    â€œPlease shut up.”
    Joe listened to the message.
    â€œThis is Lois Fornstrom from Governor Rulon’s office.” She was the governor’s personal secretary. “Governor Rulon requests the pleasure of your company—that’s how he put it—tomorrow morning in his office. He said to tell you he’s sending his plane to the Saddlestring Airport at nine with a return to Cheyenne tomorrow and he’d like you to be on it. He said the matter was important and he doesn’t really care if you don’t like flying. You’re to meet with the governor for twenty minutes and you’ll be flown back in the evening so you can pack.”
    That was all.
Pack? For what?
    Joe said, “Uh-oh.”
    â€œSounds like trouble,” Farkus said with a wicked grin.
    â€œYup.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    J OE STARED OUT the passenger window of the tow truck as Farkus drove down Bighorn Road. Small herds of mule deer looked backfrom just inside the trees as dusk melded into darkness, and for a quarter of a mile a coyote ran parallel to the truck in the borrow pit