Endangered (A Joe Pickett Novel Book 15), by C. J. Box
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Endangered (A Joe Pickett Novel Book 15), by C. J. Box
PDF Ebook Download Online: Endangered (A Joe Pickett Novel Book 15), by C. J. Box
New York Times–bestselling writer C. J. Box returns with a thrilling new novel, featuring Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett. She was gone. Joe Pickett had good reason to dislike Dallas Cates, even if he was a rodeo champion, and now he has even more—Joe’s eighteen-year-old ward, April, has run off with him.And then comes even worse news: The body of a girl has been found in a ditch along the highway—alive, but just barely, the victim of blunt force trauma. It is April, and the doctors aren’t sure if she’ll recover. Cates denies having anything to do with it—says she ran away from him, too—and there’s evidence that points to another man. But Joe knows in his gut who’s responsible. What he doesn’t know is the kind of danger he’s about to encounter. Cates is bad enough, but Cates’s family is like none Joe has ever met before.Joe’s going to find out the truth, even if it kills him. But this time, it just might.
Endangered (A Joe Pickett Novel Book 15), by C. J. Box- Amazon Sales Rank: #5581 in eBooks
- Published on: 2015-03-10
- Released on: 2015-03-10
- Format: Kindle eBook
Review Praise for C.J. Box’s Endangered “All the action and suspense of Box’s long string of high-country adventures. Endangered is one of Joe’s best.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) “Is there a crime-fiction family as fully fleshed out as Joe Pickett’s? In singing the praises of Box’s series, we often praise the plotting, pacing, and the down-to-earth hero’s friendship with force-of-nature Nate Romanowski. But Pickett’s supporting cast lends a continuity and grounding to this series that sets it apart from all the lone-wolf stuff out there. A carefully constructed plot building to a breathless, thrilling end.” —Booklist “Series fans will love this thriller. The nonstop action, intermingling plotlines, and the return of familiar characters all mesh into a breathless, roller-coaster ride of sheer suspense and entertainment.” —Library Journal “An edge-of-the-seat thriller. A tightly coiled plot that springs from surprise to surprise.” —South Florida Sun-Sentinel “Once again, Box delivers a winner. Grade: A.” —Cleveland Plain Dealer “A great read that is fast-paced, suspenseful, and action-packed. The best yet of the series.” —Blackfive
About the Author C.J. Box is the author of more than a dozen novels including the award-winning Joe Pickett series. He s the winner of the Anthony Award, Prix Calibre 38 (France), the Macavity Award, the Gumshoe Award, the Barry Award, and an Edgar Award and "L.A. Times" Book Prize finalist. "Open Season" was a 2001 "New York Times" Notable Book. Box lives with his family outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1When Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett received the callevery parent dreads, he was standing knee-high in thicksagebrush, counting the carcasses of sage grouse. He was upto twenty-one.Feathers carpeted the dry soil and clung to the waxy blue-greenleaves of the sagebrush within a fifty-foot radius. The air smelled ofdust, sage, and blood.It was late morning in mid-March on a vast brush-covered flatmanaged by the federal Bureau of Land Management. There wasn’ta single tree for eighteen miles to the west on the BLM land untilthe rolling hills rocked back on their heels and began their sharpascent into the snow-covered Bighorn Mountains, which were managedby the U.S. Forest Service. The summits of the mountains wereobscured by a sudden late-season snowstorm, and the sky was leadenand close. Joe’s green Game and Fish Ford pickup straddled the ancienttwo-track road that had brought him up there, the engineidling and the front driver’s door still open from when he’d leaptout. His yellow Labrador, Daisy, was trembling in the bed of thetruck, her front paws poised on the top of the bed wall as she staredout at the expanse of land. Twin strings of drool hung from hermouth. She smelled the carnage out on the flat, and she wanted tobe a part of it.“Stay,” Joe commanded.Daisy moaned, reset her paws, and trembled some more.Joe wore his red uniform shirt with the pronghorn patch on thesleeve, Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and a Filson vest against thechill. His worn gray Stetson was clamped on tight. A rarely drawn .40Glock semiauto was on his hip.Twenty-one dead sage grouse.In his youth, everyone called them “prairie chickens,” and heknew the young ones were good to eat when roasted because they’dbeen a staple in his poverty-filled college days. They were odd birds:chicken-sized, pear-shaped, ungainly when flying. They were thelargest of the grouse species, and their habitat once included mostof the western United States and Canada. Wyoming contained onehundred thousand of them, forty percent of the North Americanpopulation.Of this flock, he’d noted only three survivors: all three with injuries.He’d seen their teardrop-shaped forms ghosting from brush tobrush on the periphery of the location. They didn’t fly away, heknew, because they couldn’t yet.It was obvious what had happened.Fat tire tracks churned through the sagebrush, crushing someplants and snapping others at their woody stalks. Spent 12-gaugeshotgun shells littered the ground: Federal four-shot. He spearedone through its open end with his pen and sniffed. It still smelled ofgunpowder. He retrieved eighteen spent shells and bagged them.Later, after he’d sealed the evidence bag, he found two more shells.Since eighteen shells were more than a representative sample, hetossed the two errant casings into the back of his pickup.There was a single empty Coors Light can on the northeast cornerof the site. He bagged it and tagged it, and hoped the forensics lab inLaramie could pull prints from the outside or DNA from the lip.Problem was, the can looked much older than the spent shotgunshells and he couldn’t determine if it hadn’t simply been discardedalong the road a few weeks prior to the slaughter.Joe guessed that the incident had occurred either the night orday before, because the exploded carcasses hadn’t yet been pickedover by predators. Small spoors of blood in the dirt had not yet driedblack. Whoever had done it had shot them “on the lek,” a lek beingan annual gathering of the birds where the males strutted andclucked to attract females for breeding. The lek was a concentriccircle of birds with the strutting male grouse in the center of it. Someleks were so large and predictable that locals would drive out to thelocation to watch the avian meat market in action.The birds bred in mid-March, nested, and produced chicks inJune. If someone was to choose the most opportune time to slaughteran entire flock, this was it, Joe knew.So “Lek 64,” as it had been designated by a multiagency team ofbiologists charged with counting the number of healthy groupingswithin the state, was no more.Joe took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips. He wasangry, and he worked his jaw. It would take hours to photograph thecarcasses and measure and photograph the tire tracks. He knew he’dhave to do it himself because the county forensics tech was an houraway—provided the tech was on call and would even respond to agame violation. Joe knew he was responsible for the gathering of allevidence to send to the state lab in Laramie, and it would have to getdone before the snow that was falling on top of the mountainsworked its way east and obscured the evidence. Since it was Fridayand the lab technicians didn’t work over the weekend, at best he’dhear something by the end of next week.He’d find whoever did this, he thought. It might take time, buthe’d find the shooter or shooters. Fingerprints on the brass of theshells, tire analysis, the beer can, gossipy neighbors, or a drunkenboast would lead him to the bad guys. Sometimes it was ridiculouslyeasy to solve these kinds of crimes because the kind of person whowould leave such a naked scene often wasn’t very smart. Joe hadapprehended poachers in the past by finding photos of them posingwith dead game on Facebook posts or by looking at the taxidermymounts in their homes. Or by simply going to their front door,knocking, and saying, “I guess you know why I’m here.”It had been amazing what kinds of answers that inquiry sometimesbrought.But he wasn’t angry because of the work ahead of him. There wasalso that special directive recently put out by Governor Rulon andhis agency director about sage grouse. Preserving them, that is.Game and Fish biologists and wardens had been ordered to pay specialattention to where the grouse were located and how many therewere. The status of the sage grouse population, according to Rulon,was “pivotal” to the future economic well-being of the state.Sage grouse in Wyoming had shifted from the status of a gamebird regulated by the state into politics and economics on a nationallevel. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service was threatening to list thebird as an endangered species because the overall population haddeclined, and if they did, it would remove hundreds of thousands ofacres from any kind of use, including energy development—whethergas and oil, wind, hydrothermal, or solar. The federal governmentproposed mandating an off-limits zone consisting of one to fourmiles for every lek found. That would impact ranchers, developers,and everyone else.That was the reason Joe had been on the old two-track in the firstplace and stumbled onto the killing ground. During the winter, he’dseen the flock more than once from the window of his pickup, andsage grouse didn’t range far. Sage grouse did not exhibit the brightestof bird behavior. He recalled an incident from the year before,when a big male—called a “bomber” by hunters—flew into the passengerdoor of his pickup and bounced off, killing itself in theprocess. Joe’s truck hadn’t been moving at the time.Years before, prior to the national decline in the sage grouse population,Joe had accompanied outlaw falconer Nate Romanowski tothis very sagebrush bench. At the time, Nate flew a prairie falconand a red-tailed hawk. Joe and Nate served as bird dogs, walkingthrough the brush to dislodge the grouse while the raptors huntedfrom the air. Grouse defended themselves against the falcons byflopping over onto their backs and windmilling their sharp claws,but the raptors got them anyway, in an explosion of feathers.Joe wondered if he’d ever hunt with Nate again, and not just becauseof the sage grouse problem. With a half-dozen serious allegationshanging over his head by the feds, Nate had agreed to turnstate’s witness against his former employer, a high-society killer forhire. Nate had not touched base with Joe, or Marybeth, or theirdaughter Sheridan in months. Joe had no idea if Nate’s long-agopledge to protect the Pickett family still held. And Joe was still angrywith him for getting mixed up in a murder-for-hire operation, evenif the targets richly deserved killing.Joe shook his head to clear it, and looked at the carnage. Halfa year after being named “Special Liaison to the Executive Branch”by Rulon himself, in the middle of Joe’s own five-thousand-squaremiledistrict, he’d discovered the site of the wanton destruction oftwenty-one rare game birds whose deaths could bring down the stateof Wyoming.That’s when the call came. And suddenly he was no longer thinkingabout birds.The display said mike reed.Reed was sheriff of Twelve Sleep County, and had been for twoyears. He was a personal friend of Joe’s and had cleaned up the department,ridding it of the old cronies and flunkies who had beencollected by the previous chief, Kyle McLanahan. Reed was a paraplegicdue to gunshot wounds he’d received in the line of duty andhe traveled in a specially outfitted van. His injuries had never preventedhim from getting around or performing his job.Reed’s voice was tense. Joe could hear the sound of a motor inthe background. He was speeding somewhere in his van.Reed said, “Joe, we’ve got a situation. Are you in a place whereyou can sit down?”“No, but go ahead.”“I’m running out to meet my deputy on Dunbar Road. He respondedto a call from a couple of hunters this morning. Theyclaimed they found a victim in a ditch.”Joe knew Dunbar Road. It was south of Saddlestring, an obscurecounty road that ended up at a couple of old reservoirs in the break-lands. It was a road to nowhere, really, used only by hunters, anglers,and people who were lost.“The victim is a young woman, Joe,” Reed said. “She was foundby Deputy Boner.”Joe felt himself squeezing his cell phone as if to kill it.“My deputy thinks she looks a lot like April. He says he knewApril from when she worked at Welton’s Western Wear, and it mightbe her.”Joe’s knees weakened, and he took a step back. April was theireighteen-year-old adopted daughter. She’d disappeared the previousNovember with a professional rodeo cowboy and they’d only heardfrom her two or three times. Each time she called, she said not toworry about her. She was, she said, “having the time of her life.”Because she’d turned eighteen, there was little Joe or Marybethcould do, except encourage her to come home.“She’s alive?” Joe asked, his mouth dry.“Maybe. Barely. We’re not sure. It might not be her, Joe. There’sno ID on her.”“Where is she now?”“In the backseat of my deputy’s cruiser,” Reed said. “He didn’twant to wait for the EMTs to get out there. He said it looks touchand go whether she’ll even make it as far as the hospital.”Joe took a quivering breath. The storm cloud was moving downthe face of the mountains, the snow blotting out the blue-blackforest of pine trees.“Whether it’s April or not,” Reed said, “it’s a terrible thing.”“Mike, was she in an accident?”“Doesn’t sound like it,” Reed said. “There was no vehicle around.It looks like she was dumped there.”“Dumped?” Joe asked. “Why didn’t she walk toward town?”“She’s been beaten,” Reed said. “Man, I hate to be the one tellingyou this. But my guy says it looks like she was beaten to a pulp anddumped. Whoever did it might have thought she was already dead.Obviously, I don’t know the extent of her injuries, how long she’sbeen there, or if there was, you know, a sexual assault.”Joe leaned against the front fender of his pickup. He couldn’t recallwalking back to his truck, but there he was. The phone waspressed so tightly against his face, it hurt.March and April were usually the snowiest months in high-countryWyoming, when huge dumps of spring snow arrived between shortbursts of false spring. The last week had been unseasonably warm, sohe was grateful she hadn’t died of exposure.Joe said, “So you’re going to meet your deputy and escort him tothe hospital?”“Roger that,” Reed said. “How quick can you get there? I’mabout to scramble Life Flight and get them down here so they cantransport her to the trauma center in Billings. These injuries arebeyond what our clinic can handle. Can you get there and . . .identify her?”“I’m twenty miles out on bad roads, but yes, I’ll be there,” Joesaid, motioning for Daisy to leap down from the bed of the truckand take her usual spot on the passenger seat. He followed her inand slammed the door. “Does Marybeth know?”Marybeth was now the director of the Twelve Sleep County Library.She’d be at the building until five-thirty p.m., but she wasknown to monitor the police band.“I haven’t told her,” Reed said, “and I asked my guys to keep a lidon this until I reached you. I thought maybe you’d want to tell her.”Joe engaged the transmission and roared down the old two-track.“I’ll call her,” Joe said, raising his voice because the road wasrough and the cab was rattling with vibration. Citation books, maps,and assorted paperwork fluttered down through the cab from wherethey had been parked beneath the sun visors. “We’ll meet you there.”“I’m sorry, Joe,” Reed said with pain in his voice. “But keep inmind we don’t know for sure it’s her.”Joe said, “It’s her,” and punched off.He called Marybeth’s cell phone. When she answered, heslowed down enough so that he could hear her.“Mike Reed just told me they’re transporting a female victim tothe hospital,” he said. “She was found dumped south of town. Mikesays there’s a possibility the girl could be—”“April,” Marybeth said, finishing the sentence for him. “How badis she?”“Bad,” Joe said, and he told her about the Life Flight helicopter enroute to the hospital from Billings.“I’ll meet you there,” she said.Before he could agree, she said, “I’ve had nightmares about thisfor months. Ever since she left with that cowboy.” Joe thought, Shecan’t even say his name.Joe disconnected the call, dropped his phone into his breastpocket, and jammed down on the accelerator. Twin plumes of dustfrom his back tires filled the rearview mirror.“Hang on,” he said to Daisy.Then: “I’m going to kill Dallas Cates.”Daisy looked back as if to say We’ll kill him together.2After what seemed like the longest forty-five minutes of his life,Joe arrived at the Twelve Sleep County Hospital and foundMarybeth in the emergency entrance lobby. Sheriff MikeReed was with her, as was Deputy Edgar Jess Boner, who had foundthe victim and transported her into town.Marybeth was calm and in control, but her face was drained ofcolor. She had the ability to shift into a cool and pragmatic demeanorwhen a situation was at its worst. She was blond with green eyes, andwas wearing a skirt, blazer, and pumps: her library director’s outfit.She turned to him as he walked in and said, “Sorry that took solong.”He was unsettled from being nearly shaken to death on the ridedown from the sagebrush foothills. His hands shook from grippingthe steering wheel. He saw the subtle but scared look in her eyes andwent to her and pulled her close.“I saw her when they brought her in,” Marybeth said into his ear.“It’s April. She looks terrible, Joe. The emergency doctor called itblunt force trauma. Someone hit her in the head, and her face wasbloody.”“I was hoping it wasn’t her,” Joe said, realizing how callous thatsounded. It shouldn’t be anyone.“She’s alive,” Marybeth said. “That’s all they can say. She isn’t conscious, and as far as I know she hasn’t opened her eyes or tried tospeak. I keep seeing doctors and nurses rushing back there, but Idon’t know what they’re doing other than trying to stabilize her forthe Life Flight.”“This is so terrible,” he said.“I kept telling her . . .” Marybeth started to say, but let her voicetrail off. After a beat, she gently pushed away from Joe and said, “I’mgoing with her in the helicopter to Billings. We just have to hopethat, with all she’s been through, she can hold on another hour.“I called the high school and left a message with the principal thatyou would pick Lucy up,” Marybeth continued. “Maybe you cantake her out to dinner tonight, but you’ll need to feed the horseswhen you get home.”Joe started to argue, started to tell her not to worry about hisdinner or anything else, but he knew this was how she processed acrisis—by making sure her family was taken care of. Only after itpassed would she allow herself to break down. So he nodded instead.“I’ll call Sheridan as soon as I know something,” she said. “I’vealready made arrangements to be gone a few days from work. Theywere very good about it.”Sheridan was a junior at the University of Wyoming and hadchosen not to be a resident assistant in the dormitory another semester.She was living with three other girls in a rental house and makingnoises about staying in Laramie for the summer to work. Joe andMarybeth didn’t like the idea, but Sheridan was stubborn. She wasalso not close to April, and the two of them had often clashed whenthey’d lived in the same house together.Lucy was Joe and Marybeth’s sixteen-year-old daughter, a tenth graderat Saddlestring High School. She was blond like her motherand maturing into self-sufficiency. Lucy had been a careful observerof her two older sisters and had avoided their mistakes and errors injudgment. April had stayed in contact with Lucy more than anyoneelse, although Lucy had relayed what she’d been told to Marybeth.Joe said to Marybeth, “You know who did this.”“We can’t jump to that conclusion.”“Already did,” Joe said.In his peripheral vision, he saw Sheriff Mike Reed roll his chairtoward them. If Reed hadn’t overheard Joe, he’d at least gotten thegist of what had been said, Joe thought.“When you have a minute . . .” Reed said.Joe turned to Reed and Boner, then shook Boner’s hand. “Thanksfor bringing her here. We appreciate it. You made the right call notwaiting for the ambulance to show up.”Boner was new to the department and Joe didn’t know theman well.“Just doing my job,” Boner said softly. “I’ve got a three-year-oldgirl at home. I can’t imagine . . .” He didn’t finish the thought, butlooked away, his face flushed red.Joe said to Reed, “It was Dallas Cates. That’s who she left with.We need to find him.”“Whoa,” Reed said, showing Joe the palm of his hand. “I knowyou’ve got your suspicions, and I do, too, but right now we’ve gotnothing to go on.”“It was him.”“Marybeth is right,” Reed said. “You’re emotional right now andyou’re jumping to conclusions. I know it’s against your nature, butyou need to let this thing work. I’ve got my guys working on theinvestigation and my evidence tech out there on Dunbar Road to seewhat we can find. It’s only been a couple of hours, Joe.”Joe said, “If you don’t find him, I will.”“Joe, damn you,” Reed said, shaking his head. “Slow down. Justslow down. You know as well as I do that we could screw the wholething up if we put blinders on and make accusations that turn out tobe false.”Joe smoldered.After a moment, he felt Marybeth’s hand on his shoulder and helooked back at her.She was grave. She said, “Promise me you won’t do anything crazywhile I’m gone. I need you here with Lucy, and this is too close tohome. Promise me, Joe.”“It’s obvious,” Joe said to both Marybeth and Reed. “A twentyfour-year-old local-hero cowboy takes a liking to my middle daughterand convinces her to take off with him on the rodeo circuit. Shedoesn’t know about his past, or what he’s capable of, so she goes. Afew months later, she gets left in a ditch outside of town. Who elsewould we suspect?”Marybeth didn’t respond, but Reed said, “Joe, we’re already on it.I sent two guys out to the Cates house fifteen minutes ago. SupposedlyDallas is at home recuperating from a rodeo injury right now.”“He’s home?” Joe said. “When did he come home?”“Don’t know,” Reed said. “We’ll find out.”“April was probably dumped yesterday,” Joe said. “Do you feel thedots connecting, Mike?”“We’re asking him to come in for questioning,” Reed said.“I want to sit in.”“Not a chance in hell, Joe. I was thinking about letting you watchthe monitor down the hall, but if you keep up your attitude, I’ll banyou from the building.”Joe looked to Marybeth for support, but she shook her head withsympathy instead.Reed said, “All we need is for you to draw down on our suspectduring the initial inquiry and for him to press charges against usand you. No, Joe, if we want to do this right, we do it by the book.”“Promise me,” Marybeth said.Joe looked down at his boots.He said, “I promise.”She squeezed his hand.Then he looked hard at Mike Reed from under the brim of hishat. He said, “Mike, I know you’ll do your best and I’ll behave. Butif something goes pear-shaped, things are going to get westernaround here.”“I expected you to say that,” Reed said with a sigh.BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA.The very words were brutal in and of themselves, Joe thought ashe and Marybeth trailed April’s gurney down the hallway. He couldhear the helicopter approaching outside, hovering over the helipadon the roof of the hospital.April was bundled up and he couldn’t see her face. He wasn’t surehe wanted to. Joe was grateful Marybeth had positively identifiedher earlier.He was unnerved by the number of suspended plastic packets thatdripped fluids into tubes that snaked beneath the sheets. An orderlyrolled a monitor on wheels alongside the gurney. Her body lookedsmall and frail beneath the covers, and she didn’t respond when theorderlies secured her to the gurney with straps.Joe reached down and squeezed her hand through the blankets. Itwas supple, but there was no pressure back.“Let me know how it goes,” Joe said to Marybeth, raising hisvoice so as to be heard over the wash of the rotors.“Of course,” she said, pulling him close one last time before sheleft. Her eyes glistened with tears.Joe watched as the gurney was hoisted into the helicopter. A crewmember reached down from the hatch and helped Marybeth stepup inside. Seconds later, the door was secured and the helicopterlifted.Joe clamped his hat tight on his head with his right hand andsilently asked God to save April, because she’d suffered enough inher short life, and to give Marybeth the strength to carry on.“How well do you know the Cates family?” Reed asked Joe ashe drove them to the Twelve Sleep County Building. Joe was in thepassenger seat of the specially equipped van. Deputy Boner had volunteeredto follow them in Joe’s pickup and to keep an eye on Daisyuntil Joe could retrieve his vehicle and his dog.“I’ve tangled with them before,” Joe said. “Mainly with Bull, theoldest son. I’ve met the old man, Eldon, and I’ve been to his elkcamp a few times.”He knew the Cateses lived on twelve acres in the breaklands. Theproperty contained a smattering of old structures in the scrub pine,including the shambled main house, a barn, and several fallingdown outbuildings. Their place was about twenty minutes fromtown.“What do you know about them?” Reed asked.Joe told Reed that the Cates family ran a hunting-guide businesscalled Dull Knife Outfitters. Dull Knife was one of the oldest big-game outfitters in the Bighorns, and one of the most notorious.There were rumors that Eldon was involved in taking elk out ofseason as well as in the wrong hunt areas, on behalf of clients, andthat he made deals with hunters to obtain prime licenses on theirbehalf without going through the lottery, if they paid his specialfee. Joe had even heard that Eldon had a secret elk camp deep inthe mountains that he operated completely above the law, where heguaranteed certain wealthy hunters a kill that would make the recordbooks.But they were rumors only. Joe had never caught Eldon committinga crime, and no accuser had ever come forward. He’d interviewedseveral Dull Knife clients over the years and none of themwould implicate Eldon. Despite spending years on horseback in themost remote areas of the mountains, he’d not yet found Eldon’ssecret camp—if it existed at all.Eldon had a unique reputation among the other, more respectableoutfitters in the district. Although sniping among competing huntingguides was normal, the one thing Eldon’s competitors couldagree on was that they didn’t like Eldon. They thought he used hisreputation as the oldest outfitter in the mountains as a slam againstthem, and they didn’t like how he challenged the ethics of theprofession—which reflected poorly on them. Guides said that Eldonsometimes claimed kills made by their clients by tagging them onbehalf of his clients, and that he refused to respect the boundaries of the Wyoming Outfitters Board’s designated hunting areas. Hewould also bad-mouth other outfitters to his clients, calling them“amateurs,” “greenhorns,” and worse. For a number of years, Eldondrove his four-wheel-drive pickup around town with a magnetic signon the door that read dull knife outfitters: satisfying ourcustomers when the other guides were still in diapers.Joe had been asked by several outfitters to talk to Eldon about it,but Joe told them there was nothing he could legally do. When themagnetic sign was stolen from the truck while Eldon was in a bar,Eldon had vowed to press charges for theft against the other outfittersin the county, but he never did.Joe had always considered Eldon Cates to be an aggravatingthrowback who would someday foul up. When he did, Joe wantedto be there.Bull was another story. Bull was bigger and dumber than his dad,and two years earlier, Joe had caught the son and his unpleasantwife, Cora Lee, red-handed with a trophy bull elk in the back oftheir pickup three days before the season opener.Bull’s hunting rig could be identified instantly because it hadbeen retrofitted as a kind of rolling meat wagon. He’d welded a steelpole and crossbeam into the bed and strung a steel cable and hookfrom a turnbuckle. With the device, Bull could back up to a big-game carcass, hook the cable through its back legs, and hoist it up inorder to field dress and skin it on the spot.Bull’s scheme had been to kill the bull prior to the arrival of twohunters from Pennsylvania. If either of the two hunters didn’t gettheir own trophy bull elk, Bull was going to tag the carcass withtheir license and let them take it home, thus guaranteeing a onehundred percent successful hunt. The Pennsylvania clients hadn’tbeen in on the scheme, from what Joe could determine.Judge Hewitt was a hunter himself, and he came down hard onBull Cates.The violations had cost the outfitter several thousand dollars infines, the forfeiture of his rifles and pickup, and the loss of his outfitter’slicense from the state association. Bull was bitter and claimedJoe had “deprived him of his livelihood” and that he would somedayeven the score. Cora Lee acted out during the sentencing and hurledepithets at Joe and Judge Hewitt and was forcibly removed from thecourtroom by deputies.It wasn’t uncommon for a game violator to talk big in bars aboutgetting even with the local game warden, and Bull wasn’t the first toever make threats. For Joe, it was part of the job. He knew that inthe past the threats had always dissipated with the onslaught of thenext morning’s hangover.Nevertheless, for months after, Joe had taken measures to avoidrunning into Bull and Cora Lee. There was no reason to pour fuelon the embers. Joe wasn’t as young as he used to be, and Bull had sixinches and fifty pounds on him.So when Joe would see Bull’s pickup—a 2007 Ford F-250 with adull knife outfitters decal crudely scraped off the driver’s-sidedoor—in the parking lot of the grocery store, he would drive aroundthe block until it was gone. When the vehicle was parked in front ofthe Stockman’s Bar, Joe would keep driving.When there were no hunting seasons open, the Cateses operatedC&C Sewer and Septic Tank Service. C&C stood for “Cates &Cates.” It was a dirty job, pumping out rural septic tanks. TheCateses owned several circa-1980 pump trucks, and Joe often sawthem on remote roads in the spring and fall. When he spotted one infront of him on the highway, he gave it a wide berth.“So you know Bull, all right,” Reed said with a chuckle. “Did youever run across Timber, the second son?”“Timber?” Joe said. “What’s with these names?”“If you think Bull is a problem, he’s a piece of cake compared toson number two. Timber was a hell of a high school athlete. He wasquarterback in the late eighties, the last time the Saddlestring Wranglerswon state, back before you came into this country. Timberwalked on at UW, and he might have played eventually, but he gotinto some kind of bar fight at the Buckhorn in Laramie and theythrew him off the team. Unfortunately, he moved back home. Andhe was crazy. He’d get so violent when he drank, it would take fourof us deputies to get him down. When he discovered meth, he goteven worse. Finally, he was arrested up in Park County for carjackingsome old lady on her way to Yellowstone Park because he’d runout of gas and he wanted her Mustang. Lucky for all of us, Timberis doing three years in Rawlins. I hear he isn’t exactly a model prisoner,or he would have been out and back here by now.”Reed took a deep breath. “However . . . I got word from a buddyof mine, a prison guard, that Timber could be released any day now.I’ve sent a memo to my guys to keep an eye out for him. My guess ishe’ll go straight home to Mama. Then it’ll be a matter of time beforehe gets in trouble again.”“Then there’s Dallas,” Joe said.“Then there’s Dallas,” Reed echoed.Joe had met him four months ago at his house. Dallas had beeninvited there by April, who at the time had worked at Welton’s Western Wear.Dallas was a local hero, winner of the National HighSchool Finals Rodeo, then the College National Finals Rodeo, andat that time he was in second place in the standings in bull ridingand bound for the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas. His lean,hard face was so well-known among rodeo fans that his likeness wasused to sell jeans in western stores, and he’d visit local retailers topromote the brand when he wasn’t riding bulls. That’s how Dallasand April met.Dallas Cates was shorter than Joe, but had wider shoulders, andbiceps that strained at the fabric of his snap-button western shirt. Hehad a compact frame that suggested he was spring-loaded and readyto explode at a moment’s notice. His neck was as wide as his jaw, andhe projected raw physical power.There was a two-inch scar on his left cheek that tugged at theedge of his mouth in an inadvertent sneer. Supposedly, Dallas gotthe scar when he jumped from a moving snowmobile onto the backof a bull elk, in an attempt to wrestle the animal to the ground likea rodeo cowboy did with a running steer. The sharp tip of one of theantlers had ripped Dallas’s cheek. Joe didn’t know if the story wastrue, but he’d heard it several times.Dallas was also somewhere on the periphery of a terrible crimethat had occurred when he was an all-state wrestler for SaddlestringHigh School, when a girl was abducted, raped, and dumped outsideof town by at least four high school–aged suspects. Unfortunately,the victim, named Serda Tibbs, couldn’t identify her assailantsbecause she’d been slipped a date-rape drug that rendered herunconscious. Were there four of them, or five? Four seniors werearrested, tried, and convicted. None of the four would finger DallasCates, even though several other students anonymously claimedCates was the ringleader. That was the power Dallas held over theother student criminals.“So have you met the matriarch, Brenda Cates?” Reed asked Joe,cocking his head as he pulled into his designated parking spot onthe side of the county building.The way he’d asked, Joe surmised, held significance.“No. Marybeth’s met her at the library. Brenda wanted her supporton creating signs to post at the entrances to town braggingabout Dallas.”Reed nodded. “She wants signage put up declaring Saddlestringthe ‘hometown of PRCA bull-riding champion Dallas Cates.’”Joe snorted.“Let’s just say she’s very proud and protective of her family,” Reedsaid as he swung his seat around and lifted himself into his wheelchairin a single fluid motion.Before Joe could ask what that meant, Reed’s cell phone burredand the sheriff held it up to his ear. He listened for a minute, thenasked, “What about Dallas?” before listening more and punchingoff.“What about Dallas?” Joe asked.“That was my deputy. Dallas’s parents say he’s laid up and can’tmake the trip into town right now. But Eldon and Brenda Catesthemselves should be here any minute. They’re being very cooperative,I’m told.”Joe said, “I’ll bet.”Sheriff Reed said, “If Dallas Cates is that banged-up and has actuallybeen home for a while, he might not have been the one, Joe.”“I want to see him. I want a doctor to evaluate his condition.”“We can do that,” Reed said, “and we will. But first I think weshould hear out Eldon and Brenda, don’t you?”Joe agreed.“Brenda is the one you should be interested in,” Reed said, archinghis eyebrows and sliding the van door open.
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105 of 109 people found the following review helpful. This time it's personal By Nitty's Mom Endangered was one of my favorite books in the Joe Pickett series and I've read almost all of them. As is always the case, this was a very fast read, turning pages to find out what happens and who did what. This story takes place not very long after the last installment, Stone Cold, again in the area of the Bighorn Mountain range in Wyoming, where Joe Pickett is the game warden out of the small town of Saddlestring. This plot stands alone and can be read as such, however intimate knowledge of the characters does bring extra richness to the story. CJ Box has such a smooth style of writing, with realistic dialogue, well depicted characters and efficiency of language. These attributes makes his books so likable, with such broad appeal to many readers not necessarily drawn to a novel set in the modern west.In Endangered, one of Box's most colorful character returns, Nate Romanowski, the loner, isolationist falconer, who also happens to be Joe Pickett's closest friend. This story is personal to Joe Pickett as the novel starts out with his middle daughter, April, being found beaten, near death on the side of a local road. Immediately, Joe suspects Dallas Cates, April's rodeo boyfriend, who Joe never liked and has resented the fact that April left home to be with Cates on the rodeo circuit. Meanwhile, Nate is being released from custody for his involvement in a murder for hire operation from the last novel. He is being used as bait for the Feds to catch Wolfgang Templeton, the billionaire who hired Nate because of his "outside the law" skill set.Things happen and Nate and April end up in the same hospital. CJ Box knits together this mystery/thriller like a seasoned weaver resulting in a satisfying, yet unpredictable ending. If you haven't been exposed to the Joe Pickett series, this is as good as any to start. Once you do, I'm confident you'll be picking up the rest of the series. Highly recommended.
30 of 31 people found the following review helpful. Suspenseful installment in the Joe Pickett series By CJ-MO Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett is dealing with a crisis of a flock of wild birds being illegally killed when he is faced with a more personal trauma. His daughter April has been found in a ditch, wounded and barely alive. Joe is certain the perpetrator is April’s boyfriend, Dallas Cates, but the arrogant rodeo champion seems to have an airtight alibi. While April fights for her life, Joe is determined to find out who is responsible for hurting April no matter what the consequences.This book has plenty of action and a complicated plot means there is a lot going on at all times, but for some reason, it took me a little while to get into the story. I’ve read some, but not all, of the books in this series, so it took me a few chapters to get the characters straight and figure out how they were related to a past event and character that was mentioned frequently. The book begins with several grim events and the tone is dark. However, once I connected with the main characters of Joe, his wife Marybeth, and their friend Liv, it was hard to put the book down since I wanted to find out what would happen with Liv and also with Joe and Marybeth’s daughter April.One great thing about this book is that it’s well-written and descriptive. I really enjoy the Wyoming setting and can picture the beauty of the landscape, smell the sage and the pine, and feel the danger. I also like the complexity of the characters. Joe and Marybeth seem like real people. They’re good at their jobs, but more than anything they are dedicated to each other and to their children, and will do whatever it takes to protect them. Liv seems a little larger than life, but very relatable. She is kind and loyal, but ultimately it’s her toughness that is her best quality.All of the various subplots start making more sense as the story continues and the author expertly weaves the separate threads of the story together. The ending is dramatic and satisfying. I enjoyed this book and would definitely read additional books in this excellent series.
29 of 32 people found the following review helpful. Blizzards, Bad Guys, and Bullets. Fasten Your Seatbelts. It's Gonna Be a Bumpy Ride. By E. Burian-Mohr Things are bad out in Wyoming, where Joe Pickett is the rough-hewn game warden. His daughter April ran off with narcissistic bullrider Dallas Cates of the crazier-than-bat%^$# Cates family. Then a call comes; she's been found by the side of the road, beaten unconscious, near death.Meanwhile, Nate Romanowski, Joe's closest friend and falconer, has been released from custody for his murder-for-hire exploits and is being used by the Feds as bait to snare Wolfgang Templeton, billionaire bad guy and former boss of Nate's new girlfriend. But Nate ends up full of bullet holes, also near death, in the same hospital as April, with the girlfriend mysteriously missing.And, oh yeah, an entire Lek of endangered sage grouse under Joe's watch have been blown to smithereens.Joe is, of course, convinced that Dallas is responsible for April's condition and want to go lone wolf to prove it. Local law enforcement is trying to hold him back. Dallas' family is engaging is all sorts of bizarre encounters. And there's an armed-and-dangerous wacko survivalist wandering the backroads.It's a lot to untangle and C.J. Box does it masterfully. There are a lot of things he does masterfully.1. Plot. It twisted, it's nuanced, it's everywhere, and Box pulls it together.2. Describing the look and feel of the vast Wyoming wilderness and Bighorn Mountain Range.3. Box excels at creating crazy psycho characters, colorful, unique, repugnant and utterly believable.4. There's always a little bit of nature/ecology/endangered species interest tucked away among the plotlines.So why only four stars for the magnificent Mr. Box?The poor guy can't write women to save his life. Their dialogue is flat. Descriptions of their personalities don't quite ring true. Their relationships don't feel real. He has three lovely daughters and a lovely wife and that's about as close as we come to knowing them. The closest female to reality was Ma Cates, and that's probably because she's more vermin than woman.Oh yeah. And the ending... A little too convenient. Not quite believable.But a gripping story nonetheless.(Women not included.)
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