Winterkill

by C. J. Box

  “I’m not sure you know what you’re dealing with here, Joe,” Nate said.

  Joe had no response, but pulled his black helmet on.

  “Don’t worry, Joe, I’ll take him to jail. And I’ll give Marybeth a call.”

  “Good,” Joe said, turning the key in the ignition. “Thank you. You’ve been more than enough help already.”

  Nate saluted, and grinned crookedly. Joe wondered whether or not Spud Cargill would make it to jail in one piece. Actually, he conceded to himself, he didn’t really care that much either way.

  On the snowmobile, Joe Pickett rocketed through Saddlestring and out the other side on unplowed streets with no traffic. Despite the protection of his helmet and Plexiglas shield, his face stung from the cold wind and the pinpricks of snow. The windscreen had been smashed by Spud Cargill. The crack in the snowmobile’s hood concerned him, but there didn’t seem to be any indication of engine damage. The tank was full, and Joe thought that would be enough gasoline to get him to the compound. In his parka pocket was Spud Cargill’s wallet and driver’s license, as well as his ear.

  The Sno-Cats had groomed a packed and smooth trail up the mountain road, and Joe increased his speed. Dark trees flashed by on both sides. He shot a look at his speedometer: seventy miles per hour. Even in the summer, the speed limit for Bighorn Road in the forest was forty-five.

  Help me save her, he prayed.

  Lord, he was tired.

  The high, angry whine of the engine served as a soundtrack to his aching muscles, broken rib, and pounding head. He had not slept for twenty hours, and he rode right through spinning, improbable, multicolored hallucinations that wavered ahead of him in the dawn. More than once, he leaned into what he thought was a turn in the road only to realize, at the last possible second, that the road went the other way.

  Despite the icy wind in his face that made his eyes water and blurred his vision, Joe’s mind raced.

  He thought about the words on Cobb’s computer screen: THEY’VE ESTABLISHED A PERIMETER. HELP US, MY LOVE. “My love”? Cobb had said he admired Brockius, but . . .

  Joe shook it out of his mind. At this point he wasn’t sure that it mattered. Maybe later, once April was safe. There was no time now.

  If he could somehow buy an hour back, he thought, he would pay anything.

  Spud’s driver’s license should do it, he thought. The ear definitely would, as unorthodox as it was. Even if Munker and Strickland didn’t back off, surely Sheriff Barnum would move to retreat or delay the assault, wouldn’t he? Not because he cared a whit about the Sovereigns, but because Barnum was politically sensitive and the next sheriff’s election was a year away. Barnum didn’t have as much invested in this thing as Strickland and Munker did. Barnum could come out looking good by putting his foot down, stopping the assault by pulling his deputies out of it. That was how Barnum operated, after all. He wanted to look good. Robey! Maybe Robey was up there, Joe hoped. Robey could shut things down in a hurry and threaten action against Melinda Strickland and Munker if they didn’t back off. Although Strickland didn’t care much about the law, she might listen if Robey convinced Barnum to pull his men out.

  He hadn’t really thought through what Romanowski had told him about Melinda Strickland and Dick Munker, but he knew they spelled trouble. The thought of Melinda Strickland sitting, as Tony Portenson had described her, bundled in blankets and cuddling her dog as she ordered her minions to ascend the mountain, made him coldly angry.

  Because he wasn’t paying attention, he almost missed a turn; he would have been launched over a bank into a deep slough. But he corrected himself at the last moment and leaned into the track of the road.

  Think of something else, he pleaded to himself. Something better.

  So he tried to imagine how he would feel coming back down this road in a little while with April bundled up in his lap. Under his helmet, he smiled. And he vowed to make that scenario real.

  A man on a snowmobile blocked the road that led to the compound, and Joe figured he’d probably heard him coming from miles away. The man wore a heavy black snowmobile suit and had an assault rifle clamped under his arm, and he waved his hand for Joe to stop. Joe slowed—his broken rib and the muscles in his back were screaming from riding so hard and so fast—and he unbent from his forward lean while the snowmobile wound down. Joe stopped a few feet in front of the man. Early-morning light filtered through the canopy of pine trees but was absorbed by the heavy snowfall, giving the morning a creamy gray cast.

  “Turn it off,” the man ordered, nodding at Joe’s snowmobile, which sizzled and popped as it idled.

  Joe ignored him and raised the shield on his helmet with a squeak that broke a film of ice from the hinges. Joe’s breath billowed in the cold from the exertion of the ride.

  “Oh, it’s you,” the man said. “I recognize you from the meeting at the Forest Service.”

  “Are they up there?” Joe asked anxiously.

  The man nodded. Joe recognized him as Saddlestring police, but didn’t know his name.

  “Anything happening yet?”

  “I haven’t heard anything. No shots fired,” the officer said. “Our radios are off, so I don’t know if they’re negotiating or what.”

  Joe exhaled deeply. Thank God, he thought, I’m not too late. “I’ve got an emergency message for Sheriff Barnum.”

  “I can’t let you in,” the officer said.

  “I said it was an emergency, deputy.” Joe’s voice took on a mean edge that he didn’t recognize. “No one has been able to reach him because all the radios are turned off.”

  The officer hesitated. “I can’t exactly call ahead and ask about this.”

  “No, you can’t,” Joe said. “Which is why I’m going.”

  “Well . . .”

  Joe flipped down his shield and roared around the officer and up the road. In his cracked rearview mirror, Joe saw the policeman throw up his hands and kick at the snow in frustration.

  The Sno-Cats were nose-to-tail on the road in front of the Sovereign compound, forming a glass-and-steel skirmish line, and snowmobiles were scattered at all angles behind them. Joe slowed and rose in his seat as he approached, trying to assess the situation as he squinted through watery eyes and snowfall so heavy that it obscured the scene like smoke.

  As he approached the gathering of vehicles, he saw that the assault team all wore identical black snowmobile suits and black helmets, just like his own. Inside those suits were Highway Patrol troopers, Forest Service rangers, sheriff’s deputies, Saddlestring P.D., maybe even more FBI—but he couldn’t tell who was who. He wanted to start with local guys who might know and trust him, but he had no idea where to begin. Obscured by their suits and helmets, Joe thought, these men could be capable of anything.

  Most of the men were huddled behind the steel wall of the Sno-Cats with their weapons pointed across the hoods of the vehicles toward the compound. Someone in a black snowmobile suit waved at him—he couldn’t tell who—and another stepped away from the line and blocked his path.

  “Who in the hell are you?” the man asked, and reached over and flipped Joe’s shield up. Angrily, Joe leaned forward on the handlebars and reciprocated, and the man stepped back as if slapped. It was Deputy McLanahan. Joe could see his dumb, rodent eyes and the bruises on his face.

  “Where is Barnum?”

  “Why in the hell are you here?” McLanahan asked.

  “I asked you a question, McLanahan.”

  McLanahan squared his shoulders as if he were about to charge.

  Joe instinctively reached back for his shotgun, which was still attached to the seat with bungee cords. McLanahan hesitated.

  “Knock it off, deputy,” Joe said. “I need to talk to the sheriff NOW! Spud Cargill isn’t up here. I can prove it.”

  Confusion overtook McLanahan’s tough-guy face.

  “What?”

  “He was at the church all along. The First Alpine Church. He tried to come up here but they wouldn�
�t let him in. I arrested him and he’s in your jail. Now, step aside.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I can prove it,” Joe shouted, turning the handlebars so the front skis pointed right at McLanahan. Joe engaged the gears and raced the engine. McLanahan knew enough about snowmobiles to know that Joe was poised to run right over the top of him if he didn’t answer. “Now, where’s Barnum?”

  McLanahan stepped aside and pointed. Joe should have noticed it earlier—a single Sno-Cat parked behind the skirmish line. That would be the one holding the leaders, the one out of fire, he thought. He revved his engine and covered the fifty yards in a flash.

  Joe shut down his engine, leaped off, and ran around the Sno-Cat. Its exhaust burbled in the cold. Joe threw open the door and stuck his head inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

  Sheriff Barnum sat in the front seat, behind the wheel. Elle Broxton-Howard sat next to him in her faux fur-lined parka. Melinda Strickland took up the entire backseat, just as Portenson had described, her cocker spaniel snuggled into the blankets with her. She held a small two-way radio in her gloved hand. All of them were shocked to see him.

  “You scared me!” Strickland said. “I wasn’t expecting you, ya know?”

  “Jesus, Pickett. What are you doing up here?” Barnum growled. “You’ve got no jurisdiction in an operation like this.”

  “Is Robey here anywhere?” Joe asked.

  “Nope,” Barnum said.

  “Listen,” Joe said, trying to calm himself, wishing he could have started this with Robey present. He was out of breath, and shaky from the ride up the mountain. “Spud Cargill is in the county jail. I arrested him about an hour and a half ago.”

  The three of them looked at each other in disbelief.

  “We couldn’t call you to let you know because you were running silent, for some stupid reason,” Joe said, looking from Barnum to Strickland to gauge their reaction to the news.

  Then Joe realized: Where was Dick Munker? Probably on the other end of Strickland’s radio, he thought.

  “You’re not pulling our chain, are you?” Barnum asked.

  Joe fought an urge to smash Barnum in the mouth. He shook it off and briefly looked away, before turning his focus back to Barnum. Someday, Joe said to himself, drilling Barnum with his eyes, you and I are going to go at it.

  “No, he’s in jail,” Joe said. “Look. I can prove it.” While he dug into his pocket, he told them about finding Cargill at the church and running him down.

  Pulling the worn black wallet out of his pocket, he flipped it open to Cargill’s Wyoming driver’s license. “I took this off him.”

  Melinda Strickland reached for it and looked at the license with distaste. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. A hint of confusion that Joe welcomed clouded her features.

  “Are you sure you didn’t find that in his truck or at his house?” Barnum asked, raising his eyebrows as if he had just come upon a clever discovery.

  Again, Joe had to hold himself back. Nate had been right.

  With his glove, Joe reached into his parka. Cargill’s ear felt like a thin, greasy slice of apple. He flipped it onto Barnum’s lap like a poker chip.

  “Here’s his ear.”

  “Oh, my God!” Melinda Strickland cried.

  “That is absolutely disgusting,” Broxton-Howard said, hiding her face in her hands.

  Barnum smiled sardonically, and shook his head in something like admiration.

  “Now, where’s Munker?” Joe demanded.

  Melinda Strickland looked to Sheriff Barnum for help.

  “He’s in a position to fire on the compound,” Barnum said.

  “Where?”

  Barnum nodded vaguely toward the fence.

  “Call him in,” Joe said.

  Again, Melinda Strickland looked to Barnum. Joe again saw her confused face. Barnum nodded, and she raised the two-way to her mouth. Why is she looking to Barnum, Joe wondered, if she’s running this operation?

  “Dick, can you hear me?” she asked. Joe noted that she used no official radio protocol.

  Everyone in the Sno-Cat now watched her.

  “Dick? Come in, Dick.”

  “He said he’d keep his radio on,” Barnum muttered.

  After a beat, there was a chirp from Strickland’s radio.

  “That means he can hear us but he doesn’t want to talk,” she explained to Joe. “He’s in a position where they can’t see him and he doesn’t want to give himself away.”

  Joe nearly reached into the backseat and throttled her.

  “Give me the radio,” he said, reaching for it. Reluctantly, she handed it over.

  Joe grabbed it and keyed the mike. “Munker, wherever you are, this is Joe Pickett. Your little show is over. Spud Cargill is in custody in Saddlestring with Agent Portenson. I repeat, Spud Cargill is NOT HERE.” Joe spoke as clearly as he could, trying to keep the rage out.

  Silence.

  Joe withdrew his head from the Sno-Cat and looked over the hood of the next vehicle into the falling snow and distant shadows of the trailers in the compound. He stood behind the open door and felt warmth from the cab radiate out. The silence was remarkable. Even with the Sno-Cat’s engine idling, the heavy snow hushed everything. Joe noticed that two members of the assault team—he couldn’t tell who they were, of course—must have heard him talking to Munker, because they now looked back at him, and at each other. They’re wondering what’s going on, he thought, waiting to see if the raid’s being called off.

  Joe searched the shadowed trees and the meadow for a sign of Dick Munker. Between the Sno-Cats and the fence was a ditch.

  Joe guessed that Munker would hide in that ditch so he could rest his sniper’s rifle on the opposite bank and see into the compound. There was enough snow-covered brush to hide behind, Joe noticed, and Munker would likely be in all-white winter gear.

  The two-way crackled to life. “This is Munker. They’ve got a hostage.”

  Joe stared at the radio in disbelief. What was this?

  Then he raised it to his mouth, still scanning the silent meadow for Munker. “What are you talking about, Munker?”

  “Give me back the radio,” Strickland whined from inside, putting her dog aside so she could reach for it.

  Joe turned his back to her.

  “What hostage?” Joe asked.

  Munker’s voice was a whisper. Joe assumed Munker had it pressed against his lips to muffle his voice even further. “She’s the wife of that crazy minister in Saddlestring. Mrs. Cobb. I can see her in the trailer.”

  Instantly, Joe understood, and his blood ran cold. He understood why Eunice Cobb hadn’t been with B.J. in the morning. He understood “My Love.” He understood where the Cobbs’ missing snowmobile had gone. She had come to the compound the night before to warn them in person after Joe’s visit, rather than e-mail. Maybe she had come up to assure the Sovereigns that they shouldn’t harbor Spud. For whatever reason—the increasing storm, or the fact that a convoy of law-enforcement personnel were coming up the road—she’d been forced to stay the night. She was probably in Brockius’s trailer when I came to the camp, he thought. She was the reason Brockius didn’t invite me in.

  “How do you know she’s a hostage?” Joe asked. “How do you know she isn’t just visiting?”

  “You’re one stupid motherfucker,” Munker replied in his deep cigarette-coated voice.

  “Give me that!” Melinda Strickland said, reaching around Joe and snatching the radio from his hand. She settled back into the rear of the Sno-Cat.

  A hot, white veil of rage covered Joe’s eyes, and it was all he could do to keep from launching himself into the cab. He sucked in a deep gulp of cold air and falling snow, forcing himself to stay in control of his actions. When he looked up, Barnum was eyeing him, as if waiting to see what Joe would do next. Panic flooded Joe as he looked into the cab and saw that Melinda Strickland was clutching the radio tightly to her chest. There was no way he was going
to get it back without breaking her fingers.

  Joe turned to Barnum.

  “She’s no hostage, for God’s sake. Mrs. Cobb and her husband have been in contact with these Sovereigns since the beginning. They’re all part of the black-helicopter crowd. It makes sense when you think about it.”

  Barnum raised his eyebrows and shrugged in a “Who knows?” gesture.

  “Barnum, you need to call your deputies off,” Joe said, glaring at Barnum’s passive face. “Pull them off and they can’t continue the raid.”

  “Hell, Joe, I don’t even know which ones are mine and which ones ain’t,” Barnum said, staring back. “They all look alike to me out here.”

  Joe was too surprised to move for a moment.

  “Besides,” Barnum said, reaching for the handle of the door, “It’ll be interesting to see how this thing plays out.”

  Barnum slammed the door shut before Joe could stop him and he heard the lock click. He couldn’t fathom what was happening. He stood outside the cab of the Sno-Cat, furious, and depressingly alone.

  THINK.

  Joe was beside himself. No matter what he did, it wasn’t enough. He had never been in a situation that seemed so . . . inevitable.

  A sudden scratch of static ruptured the silence that had reclaimed the scene after Joe’s outburst. Joe could hear the radio clearly through an open window in the Sno-Cat that had been cracked an inch to prevent the glass from steaming up inside.

  “I can see Wade Brockius through the window of a trailer,” Munker reported over the radio. “He’s pacing.”

  “Can you see the hostage?” Strickland asked.

  “Not for the last few minutes.”

  “If you took him out, could we rush the trailer and save her?”

  “No. There are too many damned Sovereigns hidden in the trees.”

  Joe couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had been slumped against the outside of the command Sno-Cat, but he now stood up. He rubbed his face hard. He didn’t know the procedure for a hostage situation—they didn’t teach that to game wardens—but he knew this wasn’t it. This was madness.