“Have you ever noticed something hypnotic about him, Sergeant? The way people will go into his office saying one thing and come out saying the opposite? The way everyone imitates him? The way he’s made his own empire here? Here at this focal point of history?”

“You’re following orders from the FBI or someone in Washington, sir?”

“I don’t need orders from anyone. Everyone in intelligence already sees the obvious connections. It’s—”

“Shh!” Joe saw three shapes emerging silently out of the opposite woods and stopping at the trees’ edge. Three large blurs watching and listening. Could be deer, elk or horses. Joe crouched lower. The Winchester had an open sight on a short barrel, one round in the breech and five in the magazine. He wondered how good Captain Augustino was with the Marlin.

The first breath of day was a leaden gray light. Stars dulled and disappeared while the three blurs came into focus. Elk or deer from their utter quiet, Joe felt. They were waiting to make sure the meadow slope was safe, just as he was waiting to be certain of his shot. Blue light poured into the Valle, lifting the finest granules of snow. Gradually he saw them: two bull elk and a pregnant elk cow. Strange a cow would be with bulls at this time of year, he thought. He aimed at the bull on his side, assuming the captain would take the other. The bucks were beautiful, dark heads and big antlers ahead of their soft tan bodies. A heart shot, he decided. His own heart stood still, waiting, watching the lightening slope of meadow snow growing against the angle of pines. The three elk stood on shadows.

When Augustino shot, the elk cow dropped in a heap. The bucks bolted into the woods and crashed through the trees.

“You didn’t fire,” Augustino said.

“You shot the cow.”

“I gave you the bucks.”

Joe stood up. “You don’t shoot a cow that’s carrying. She was carrying, anyone could see that. You said you were a hunter.”

“Sergeant, you missed your—”

“You don’t shoot a cow that’s carrying. I thought that at least you were a hunter. I listened to this garbage of yours about Jews, this fucking drivel, because you’re an officer. But you don’t shoot a cow that’s carrying. You’re fucking crazy, Augustino, you know that? Oppy’s worth ten of you or me. That shit about Marx. I lived in New York. I marched for the Spanish Civil War vets. I had two coeds screwing me for a solid month to teach me about Marx while you were beating off in the sheets of Brownsville.”

“I’m warning—”