When Saturday rolled around, Taggart was up long before the sun.

Unable to sleep because of the week’s stressors and his unabated agitation, Joe was in his Ford by 5:15, his truck aimed east, out of town.

Once he escaped the suburbs by 6:00, he rumbled on coarse asphalt through Decker’s Pass and down into the Saskar Valley, a green twisted plain under the fir carpets enveloped it.

After passing the sizable Anderssen’s property, and the stately Benford Lodge, he turned off onto the gravel driveway that was blocked by the electronic gate. He mindlessly entered the keypad passcode, and the gate motor whirred, pulling the big metal barrier back. Taggart slowly rolled through the fence opening, and then picked up a little speed. The road wound left into a stand of tall balsam poplar, descended into a soft turn to the right, and then the trees gave way to a long open field that focused onto two tall metallic buildings standing side by side a half a mile away.

Taggart cursed as he saw the old buildings, and then he slowly drive up the drive, cautious, as if he was concerned someone might spot him here, here on this plot of immense private land tucked away in a quiet forest in the valley.

But it was an image of the man’s face that had made him anxious, and a memory of his voice shouting out of those buildings, that had made a bead of sweat appear and roll down the side of his face.

Taggart took a big swig from the coffee in his travel mug as he approached the two buildings. He assessed the tall metal structures, scanning them for gargoyles, or aliens, or the watching eyes of that man. He stopped the truck before the side door of the second.

The buildings, usually used as mechanical garages on a farm, served a less clear purpose here. A few of the massive doors hid a few recreational vehicles behind them, and one, a dingy white 1952 De Soto his brother long ago had began to rebuild, and then left in situ when he fell in with a new girlfriend. But over half of the bays were just spaces for storage: overflow from the lake house on Lake Hattie, rig gurney and scaffolding parts from the drilling offices, boxes of old paperwork from various family holdings and interests, and some harness and tack gear from the livery stables outside of Laramie.

But Joe knew exactly what he had come these buildings for this morning.

Unlocking the side door of the second building, he entered a small office space featuring a light wood wall paneling, a desk and a long wall counter topped with polished teak, two short wooden file cabinets, and several leather upholstered sitting chairs in different orientations. Behind the desk to his right was a large photo of his family, photographed in warm colors before a fall backdrop of turning trees, some twenty years ago. Beneath his father’s fierce eyes and central presence in the picture, he saw the large man’s hand resting on the shoulder of a sitting teenage boy whose charming and willing smile was betrayed by a trace of sadness in his eyes. Joe looked at the man and the boy for a long moment, and then glanced at each of the others in the photo, smiling, satisfied, certain, strong. Except for the girl that sat next to the boy, who held two fingers of her left hand wrapped in her right hand.

Joe felt his face surge with a wave of heat, and so he turned and went towards a second door to the office, which took him into the first bay in the garage.

Taggart turned to his right and rounded a stack of boxes and several waist-high bins that contained enough framed photos and paintings for several households, and went to a familiar wall of wooden crates.

He took the lid off of the one he came to visit, and without emotion, scanned its contents. And he found several of the items he was looking for.

—

In another 30 minutes, Joe’s truck was parked out in front of a grass-covered knoll that was ringed in by poplars. Before the knoll was a crude wooden fence that wound around the knoll and into some trees. An abundance of miscellaneous pieces and parts lay on the ground beneath the fence.

Taggart had stood a range of items on or against several old stumps that sat in front of the fence and the knoll, which included two thin, tall alabaster sculptures of exaggerated Egyptian cats, a square-based art deco lamp with a colorful stained glass lampshade, a thin marble oval carved with the face of the award-winning whippet, Olivet, two long framed decorative maps, and a carved Rotary Club plaque that said “Club President – Presented to Wyatt Ammon Taggart – In Recognition of Outstanding Dedication and Service to the Rotary Club of Eastern Wyoming – 1974.”

Taggert stood 30 yards away from the display and leaned over the front hood of his truck as he chambered a round in his rifle. He carefully sighted in on the neck of one of the alabaster cats, and after a slow exhale, took its head off.