by C. J. Box
“Your father?” Nate said.
“Yeah, him too,” she said.
AS THEY RODE DOWN the switchback trail toward the trailhead, Joe got glimpses of what was below. As he’d predicted, it was a small city. Dozens of vehicles, tents, trailers, a makeshift corral, curls of smoke from lunchtime cooking fires. Satellite trucks from cable television news outlets. And the ashes of his father, still in his pickup. He had no more idea what to do with the old man in death than he had in life.
Nate walked up abreast and handed the reins of his gelding to Joe. “Time for me to go,” he said.
Joe nodded.
“I’m taking her with me,” Nate said, gesturing toward Diane Shober. “I know of people who are with us. They’ll put her up. They’ll treat her well.”
Joe opened his mouth to object, but Nate reached down and touched the butt of his .454 with the tip of his fingers. He didn’t grasp, draw, or cock the weapon. But the fact that he did it told Joe things had changed between them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Nate said. “You’re thinking there’s no way I can take the victim with me before she’s interviewed. That it wouldn’t be procedure. And you’re right, it wouldn’t. But Joe, I shoved everything I believed in to the side to help you out up there. Now it’s your turn to help me.”
Joe studied his saddle horn. He said, “You promise me she’ll be okay? I have these visions of the underground that aren’t so good.”
Nate smiled. “The underground isn’t underground at all. It’s not about people in caves, really. They’re all around us. Everywhere you look, Joe. Real people, good people, are the underground. Believe me, Diane will be fine.”
“I understand.”
Nate reached out and touched Joe on the back of his hand. Then he gave Joe the reins to Caleb’s horse, so Joe now had both brothers behind him.
Nate said, “You know where to find me.”
Joe nodded but didn’t say anything.
The last glance he got of Diane as she followed Nate into the timber was when she turned in her saddle and waved. There was something sad in the gesture. Thanking him for letting them go. He waved back.
Joe tied the ropes for Caleb’s horse and Camish’s horse together into a loose knot and wrapped them around his saddle horn with a tight dally and a pointless flourish. He smiled to himself in a bitter way and clucked his tongue. All the animals responded, and started stepping down the mountain trail. No doubt, Joe thought, they sensed some kind of conclusion when they reached the trailhead. If only he felt the same, he thought . . .
DAVE FARKUS had been astonished by the number of cars, pickups, SUVs, and equipment trucks that overflowed the campground below at the trailhead. He’d never seen so many vehicles—or so many people—in one place up in the mountains before. And when they’d seen him, as he broke over the timbered ridgeline and rode his horse for ten minutes through a treeless meadow, he saw them scramble like fighter pilots getting the nod to mount up to go out there and bomb something.
The high whine of all-terrain vehicles split open the morning quiet. He watched with interest as two, three, four ATVs shot across the stream below and started up the mountain to meet up with him. There were multiple people on each vehicle, as well as electronic equipment.
Not just electronic equipment: cameras.
He pulled the reins on his horse and jumped off. He wished he could see his face in a mirror, but he couldn’t. But he did his best. He spat on his hands and scrubbed his face, then dried and cleaned himself with his shirttails. Judging by the gray smudges on the fabric he tucked back into his jeans, it was a good idea. He wanted to look rugged, but not dirty.
The ATVs were getting close. He found an extra horse bit in his saddlebag and shined it under his arm. Farkus leaned into the bend of the metal and the reflection, and he patted down his hair and made himself look weary and sympathetic.
And before the ATVs cleared the timber, he remounted, clicked his tongue, and got the animal moving again. The first ATV stopped just outside the trees, and a disheveled man jumped out and set up a tripod and put a camera on top of it under the arm-waving direction of a blonde who—no kidding—was the best-looking woman Farkus had ever seen in real life. She was tall, slim, coiffed, with large breasts and wore cool boots that she’d tucked her tight jeans into.
He thought, Whoa.
Although she was a long way down the mountain and other TV crews were making their way up, she took a second to look up and meet his eyes. He felt a jolt of electricity shoot through him.
He thought, I’m from Baggs, but I’ve watched television. Hundreds of fucking hours of television. I’ve seen hundreds like you. You’re stuck in Wyoming, trying to claw your way up. You need something spectacular for your audition tape. I can give that to you, darling. I can give that to you.
So when she reached him on her ATV, he began to smile. He thought, I know a hell of a lot more about you than you will ever know about me. . . .
And the first thing he said was, “I’ve been in the heart of the right-wing crazies. I was there for everything and I saw everything. Remember the Cline Family? Diane Shober?”
Her eyes lit up. He pressed on. “But before we talk, I want to negotiate a deal with you. I want to be on TV. I want to be an expert on right-wing fringe groups and the anger in small-town America. I want to get paid and stay in nice hotels. And if we can work it out, you get the exclusive.”
She smiled at the word “exclusive.” She said, “I need a sign-off from the suits, but I can pretty much promise you a deal. Now, let’s get out of here before anyone else can talk to you.”
Farkus thought, I may have just found my calling.
BEFORE THE MOUNTED RIDERS from the trailhead could reach them—dozens streamed up the trail—Joe reached back and got his satellite phone and called the governor’s direct line.
Rulon’s chief of staff, Carson, came to the phone.
“The governor’s in an emergency meeting,” Carson said. “He asked me to talk with you. We understand you killed those brothers and rescued Diane Shober. That’s outstanding.”
Joe grunted.
“And we’ve got good news of our own,” Carson said. “Senator McKinty of Michigan announced this morning he’s not running for reelection. We don’t have a reason. He’s been our biggest impediment for years now. The governor’s ecstatic.”
“Interesting,” Joe said.
“Look, you need to be available this evening. The governor’s planning a press conference about the rescue and he wants you here. He’s going to make you a hero, Joe.”
“Nope,” Joe said.
Carson coughed. “But you are a hero. We want the state to know. We want the country to know.”
As Carson talked, Joe glanced over to make sure there was no sign of Nate. They were gone. He didn’t know if he’d ever see Diane again, and wondered where Nate would take her. And how would he and Nate go on?
Finally, he said, “They aren’t with me.”
After a long pause, Carson said, “Who isn’t with you?”
“Diane Shober. I let her go.”
Carson stammered, “I’m not sure what to say. The governor is going to be very disappointed in you, Joe. Very disappointed.”
He shrugged, even though Carson had no idea what he was doing. Joe said, “He’s not the only one.”
He rode down the trail to meet the throng of law enforcement personnel, media, and hangers-on who waited for him. At the side of the crowd he saw Brent and Jenna Shober. They looked anxious.
Something flashed in his peripheral vision as he rode and he cocked his head. The lone wolf again, bidding him good-bye. He wondered how long they’d been tracked.
He turned in the saddle to make sure the bodies of the brothers were still tightly bound to the packhorses.
He thought: They were under control, at last. McKinty, Brent Shober, and Bobby Mc Cue would be pleased.
The sun doused as massive black thunderheads rolled across th
e sky. Storm coming.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to acknowledge the people who contributed to this book, most of all Wyoming game warden Mark Nelson, who first encountered a set of twin brothers in the Wind River Mountains and lived to tell the tale. Also Sherry Merryman, Brian Kalt, Brian Lally, Becky Box, Laurie Box, Molly Box, Don Hajicek of cjbox.net, and my stellar agent, Ann Rittenberg.
As always, a tip of the black hat to the team of pros at Putnam, including Ivan Held, Michael Barson, Summer Smith, Tom Colgan, and the legendary Neil Nyren.