by C. J. Box
Farkus swallowed hard and studied the top of his boots.
Butch turned back to McLanahan. Farkus noted a desperate and sad cast in Butch’s eyes, a look he’d never seen before.
Butch said to McLanahan, “Doesn’t take much for you to turn on your own, does it?”
McLanahan started to defend himself, but something in Butch’s expression convinced him, for once, to hold his tongue.
“Sit down, all of you,” Butch said, backing away toward the packhorse. “I don’t want to have to hurt anyone. I just want to see what goodies you brought me.”
Roberson grinned as he pulled gear and equipment out of the panniers. Most he discarded to the side. Farkus watched as Butch found a.45 pistol, checked the loads, and put it in his pack. He also kept two satellite phones.
With one of the satellite phones clipped on his belt and three plastic double-loop flex-cuff restraints sticking out of his cargo pants’ thigh pocket for later, Butch Roberson had directed them to bury the body of the poor gut-shot hunter. He said, “I don’t know who he was, but he deserves better than to leave him to the predators.”
Farkus and Sollis did most of the work using a collapsible camp shovel Butch had found in the panniers. It was tough going, lots of rocks an inch beneath the carpet of grass, and it took them nearly an hour to dig a shallow grave. McLanahan spent the time trying to convince Butch to give himself up, that it would be better for him and his family if he came back with them voluntarily. Butch ignored him and finally swung his rifle over until the muzzle was a foot from McLanahan’s nose.
“Say another word,” Butch warned the sheriff, “and they’ll be digging more graves. Did you forget you came up here to kill me? I haven’t.”
McLanahan’s beard stopped opening for a while.
After ordering the three of them to cover the shallow grave with big twists of pitch wood and football-sized rocks from the fire ring, Butch cinched the flex-cuffs on each of them with their wrists in front, then glared at Sollis for such a long time Farkus began to feel the hairs on the back of his neck twitch.
Butch said, “I hate to have to do this, but I can’t trust you guys.”
Farkus went first into the dark timber, followed by Sollis and the ex-sheriff.
Whenever Farkus paused, Butch prodded him on. He seemed to have a specific destination in mind, Farkus thought, although Butch didn’t reveal what it was.
They trudged past the crumpled remains of the predator drone Butch had shot down. It was shockingly white and clean but in dozens of sections on the forest floor. As they passed, Farkus could see intricate wiring through splits in the seams and smell fuel leaking out of the damaged tank. Farkus saw several well-placed bullet holes in the damaged nose of the aircraft. The crash of the drone had brought down several dead and dying trees, as well as shearing a gash in the overhead canopy.
“You’ve got to figure they know where it went down,” McLanahan told Butch.
“Which is why we’re going a long way from it,” Butch had said.
“How did you know it would go down?” Farkus asked.
“I didn’t,” Butch answered.
The light changed as the sun kissed the tops of the mountains when they emerged from the dense trees and into a small rocky clearing. For the first time since they’d left, Farkus could get a sense of where they were and how much country there was surrounding them. He could see the last rays of the sun light the snowcapped top of the range in front of them, and the ocean of forest undulating away in the other three directions. They weren’t far from the tree line, where it would be too high to sustain growth.
Butch said they could sit, which Farkus did quickly. There was a sheen of sweat beneath his clothing from the climb, and his thighs ached. McLanahan grunted an old-man grunt as he lowered himself to a boulder. Sweat streamed down his face from beneath his hatband.
Butch didn’t even seem out of breath. He plucked the satellite phone out of the holster, turned it on, and hit three numbers: 911.
When he connected with the emergency dispatcher in Saddlestring, he said, “This is Butch Roberson, the man everybody’s looking for. I’ve got Sheriff Kyle McLanahan and Dave Farkus, and some pudknocker named Sollis as hostages sitting right here in front of me. I need to talk to the man in charge of hunting me down, or these three aren’t gonna see another sunrise.”
After five minutes of scrambling on the other end, Butch said, “Julio Batista, you said?”
Farkus could hear the man named Batista making the case for Butch to turn himself in, to spare the hostages, to not make this difficult or dangerous to anyone else. He said he had the authority to make a deal, and the power to make sure justice was done.
“I know you,” Butch said, cutting off Batista. “You’re the director of Region Eight, aren’t you?”
“Have we met?”
Butch snorted. “No, we haven’t met. My wife and I left about twenty messages for you to call us over the past year, but we couldn’t get past your secretary. We sent you registered letters that were signed for, but no one responded. Now you want to talk?”
“You can trust me,” Batista said. Farkus thought he heard desperation.
Butch said, “I trust you about as far as I can throw you, you son of a bitch. Get Joe Pickett on the line. He’s the local game warden.”
Batista said: “I know who he is, but why can’t we keep this between us?”
“No way. Get Joe on the call or I’ll pop Farkus or Sollis first and the ex-sheriff second and it’ll be on you.”
Farkus looked up in alarm, but when he saw Butch’s face he knew the threat was hollow. But Batista wouldn’t know that, which was the point.
When Batista started to explain why it couldn’t be done, Butch said, “You have five minutes.”
Farkus realized his knees were shaking as he sat, so he cradled them between his arms. He blamed the hard climb, but he knew that wasn’t all it was. Butch had a hard set to his face, and when he checked his watch he then looked up to assess Farkus and McLanahan. Butch shifted his weight so his rifle swung up and Farkus could see the black O of the muzzle.
When Butch had made the threat, Farkus thought he was bluffing. Now he wasn’t sure it was a bluff. Not at all.
20
Underwood covered the microphone on the satellite phone and whispered to Joe, “We’re going to agree with whatever he says, got that?”
Joe nodded, but it was more of an acknowledgment of the words than agreement with them. With that, Underwood leaned over in his saddle and handed Joe the satellite phone. When Joe took it, he heard Butch Roberson say, “Is he on?”
“Butch, this is Joe Pickett.”
“Hey, Joe.”
“Butch.”
“Is that asshole still with us?”
Joe’s first urge was to say “Which one?” but Batista broke in: “This is Regional Director Julio Batista. I’m still here.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Underwood stifle a smile. He could clearly hear the conversation in the silent and dead forest.
“Is anybody else on the line?” Butch asked.
“Just us three,” Batista said quickly. Joe knew he was lying. He could picture a team of agents with headphones in one of the communications vans at the FOB, listening to every word and coordinating with technical experts to triangulate the satellite phone transmissions and pinpoint the exact location of Butch Roberson.
“I’ve got Dave Farkus and the former sheriff here,” Butch said.
Joe shook his head. McLanahan. Joe and the ex-sheriff had never seen eye to eye. Joe considered McLanahan all foam and no beer.
Butch said, “I don’t want to hurt them, but I’ve got to have some leverage with you people. I found out over the past year that you play a rigged game, so I need some insurance.”
Batista said, “Butch, there’s no need to take hostages. You’re already in enough trouble, but that doesn’t mean we can’t talk it out and figure out a way for you to turn yourself in. Th
is can all end now. You’ll get a fair trial and the ability to make your case-”
“Bullshit,” Butch said, cutting him off. “Bullshit. There’s nothing fair about any of this. I’m through with thinking you people play fair, not after what you did to me and my family.”
“Butch, listen. .”
“You put up a reward like I’m some kind of desperate outlaw,” Butch said, his voice rising. “Then you sent a damned drone up in the sky to look for me. I hope you know I shot the son of a bitch down.”
He knows, Joe thought.
“Look, Butch. .”
“Quit using my name like we’re friends,” Butch barked at Batista.
Joe guessed that over the past few minutes, Batista had received coaching from someone with experience in hostage negotiations who had told him to be calm, friendly, and reasonable. . to try to establish a relationship with the gunman. Keep him talking. It didn’t sound like it was working.
Butch said, “I need you to shut up and listen. I know you’re probably trying to find me right now, so quit dragging this out. Joe, are you still there?”
“Yes, Butch,” Joe said.
“I wanted to tell you yesterday, but I just couldn’t. You know what they did to me, right?”
“I know some of it,” Joe said. “I talked with Pam last night, and she told us. Man, I wish you would have let us know. We had no idea you were going through this.”
“Pam?” Butch said, his voice softening. “Was Hannah there, too?”
“Both of them were at our house,” Joe said. “Hannah was there when I left this morning.”
“Are they okay?”
Joe paused for a moment. “They seem okay, Butch, considering the situation. I think they miss you.”
“I miss them,” Butch said, in a way that broke Joe’s heart.
“You can see them again, Butch,” Batista cut in with a salesman-smooth voice.
“Shut the fuck up, Batista,” Butch growled. “I’m talking to Joe.”
Joe was relieved Batista complied. He imagined him shrugging his shoulders with an I tried gesture to the hostage negotiator.
Joe said to Butch, “So Dave Farkus and Sheriff McLanahan are sitting right there with you, huh?”
“Yeah. They tried to collect the reward. Instead, they shot a hunter thinking it was me.”
Joe was startled and said, “They shot a hunter?”
“Yeah, the idiots. They saw an archery hunter and gut-shot him. They brought some idiot long-range shooter along with them.”
“Oh, man,” Joe said. “I’ll guess the hunter didn’t even know what was going on.”
“No shit,” Butch said. “The poor guy.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah, but it took a while.”
“You know,” Joe said, “for a while there I was wondering if McLanahan was really up there with you. But now I know he is because nobody else would be that much of a moron.”
Butch snorted a laugh and said, “I’ll tell him you said that.”
“Please do,” Joe said.
There was a beat of silence. Joe hoped Batista wouldn’t feel compelled to fill it. But he did.
“Butch, there’s really no reason to keep running. We can bring your wife and daughter up here and you can see them before we take you into custody. .”
“Stay away from them!” Butch yelled. “Don’t bring them into this again or I’m punching off and I start shooting.”
Joe closed his eyes and sighed. The rapport he’d been establishing with Butch Roberson had been blown up. Joe glanced up at Underwood and Underwood rolled his eyes in reaction.
Through the earpiece, Joe heard a gunshot. Instinctively, he pulled down the phone and closed his eyes to find out if he could hear it echo through the mountains. Silence, meaning they were a long distance away. When he raised the handset, he heard:
“That was Farkus,” Butch said. “I got him right between the eyes. Will you shut up and listen now, Batista?”
Joe couldn’t believe it. Butch had killed Farkus in cold blood.
Joe knew Farkus, and had run into him several times over the years. The guy was a loser but had an uncanny ability to find himself in the middle of things through no fault-or ambition-of his own. It had seemed strangely unsurprising to hear he’d been with McLanahan when Butch Roberson captured them. Farkus sold a few flies to the fly shops, fancied himself a guide, and lived off disability checks, even though he didn’t seem disabled in any way. Still. .
“I’ve got three demands,” Butch said to Batista. “You meet them and McLanahan can go on living. If you screw me around, the sheriff gets popped just like Farkus. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Batista said, his voice hushed this time as if he, too, were stunned by the sudden turn in developments.
“Joe,” Butch said, “I’m trusting you to make sure they follow through. You’ve always been straight with me. Don’t let them fuck me over again, okay?”
“I hear you,” Joe said, feeling a knife of shame being thrust into his heart.
“First,” Butch said, “I want a helicopter sent for me. I’ll give you the coordinates for where it can land. It won’t be around where I am now because the terrain’s too steep and I don’t want to sit here like a target waiting for you to find me. And I don’t want anyone on that helicopter except the pilot and Joe Pickett. I’m going to bring Joe and McLanahan with me for a while. Got that?”
“I’ve got it,” Batista said. “Where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere where you people don’t exist,” Butch said. “I’ll tell the pilot, but not you. Joe, are you okay with that?”
Joe glanced up to see Underwood nodding.
“I’m okay with it,” Joe said.
“Don’t worry-if they screw me, McLanahan will get it first.”
“That’s a relief,” Joe said, deadpan.
Batista said, “It’ll take time to locate a helicopter and send it up there. .”
“Bullshit on that,” Butch said angrily. “If you can send a drone up here, you can send a helicopter. And make sure the pilot knows what he’s doing, because it’ll be a night landing. I won’t wait until the morning.”
“What’s next?” Batista said, his voice dead.
“I want a public apology for what you did to me,” Butch said. “I want you to stand in front of a national press conference and apologize for what you and your agency did to me and my family. People out there have to know what you’re capable of.”
Joe waited for a response from Batista, and each second that went by ratcheted up the tension. He’d lie and say he was working on sending a helicopter, but he wouldn’t lie and agree to a public apology?
“He’ll do it,” Joe said.
“You’ll make sure he does?” Butch asked.
“Yup.”
“So what’s the other demand?” Batista said, his tone still cold.
“Leave my family alone,” Butch said. “Call off your dogs. Don’t harass them anymore. No more fines or sending goons up here. Just leave my wife and daughter alone. If nothing else, they can build Pam’s dream home with my life insurance payment.”
Joe closed his eyes again. Butch had all but admitted that he saw the inevitability of what would happen to him.
“Repeat them back to me,” Butch said to Batista.
Batista sighed, and said, “A helicopter, a public apology, and a dismissal of the compliance order.”
“Good,” Butch said. “You heard that, right, Joe?”
“I heard it.”
“And you’ll swear to me you’ll make sure they do those things?”
“I’ll do my best,” Joe said, feeling the knife twist.
Butch said, “Okay, then. I’ll call with the location of the landing area.”
Batista said with too much force, “Keep your phone on, Mr. Roberson. That way I can keep you updated on the status of the helicopter.”
There was a beat of silence, no response, and Butch
’s phone signed off.
But Batista was still on, and he said to Joe, “How dare you say I’ll make a public apology,” he seethed.
“You should,” Joe said. “Do one thing right in this whole mess.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Batista said, dismissing the idea.
Joe said to him, “I guess being a federal bureaucrat means never having to say you’re sorry, huh?”
Batista’s voice rose to a shout. Something about two dead special agents.
“I’m done talking to him,” Joe said to Underwood, handing the phone back. Batista was still shouting.
Underwood held the phone out away from him without raising it to his ear. Joe turned Toby away and walked him into the standing dead trees as if trying to erect a wall between him and Underwood.
After a few moments, Joe watched Underwood raise the handset and say stonily, “So, boss, what’s the plan?”
Underwood listened and nodded, grunting several assents before punching off.
After clipping the phone to his belt, he turned to his team and nodded toward the top of the summit and said, “Let’s get moving.”
“What about the helicopter?” Joe said. “Shouldn’t I head down to the FOB to meet it?”
Underwood scoffed, “What do you think?”
Joe let that sink in.
“How long does Butch have?” Joe asked Underwood.
“Not long,” Underwood said, casting an inadvertent but telling look toward the sky.
“What is it with Batista?” Joe asked.
Underwood shrugged and turned away.
21
“Joe Pickett said to tell you he thinks you’re A moron,” Butch Roberson said to McLanahan.
McLanahan grunted, “Fuck him,” but Farkus couldn’t actually hear it. A few minutes earlier, when he saw Roberson’s finger tighten on the trigger, he’d closed his eyes and hadn’t seen the muzzle of the rifle swing to the right a foot from his forehead. The shot was like a punch in the air followed by extreme silence, and it took a moment for Farkus to realize he wasn’t dead. The hearing was gone in his right ear, though, and he’d pissed himself. When he opened his eyes, Butch had said into the handset, “That was Farkus”; Farkus had to lip-read to understand.