by C. J. Box
Nate caught a glimpse of Haley as she bailed out of the Tahoe with her rifle. He was proud of her, and his blood was up. He loped across the grass, found Nemecek’s .45 in the tall grass, and tossed it away behind him. He reached down and grasped Nemecek’s collar and pulled him away from the trailer so he was prevented from rolling under it, then dropped both of his knees on Nemecek’s chest and shoved the muzzle of his revolver under his old commander’s chin.
“Before you die,” Nate seethed, bending down so his eyes were six inches from Nemecek’s, “I need some answers.”
JOE HAD SEEN it all, and was stunned by the speed and violence of what had taken place in front of him. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing in the shallow river as Hinkle shoved him across, running now, but maintaining contact with the two weapons as they splashed across.
The woman who’d emerged from the Tahoe, the woman who’d run over the man in desert camo and scattered the others, stood with her back to them, cradling a carbine, looking at Nate hunched over Nemecek near the trailer. She was young but clearly capable, and she looked over her shoulder as Hinkle cleared one of the Glocks and aimed it over Joe’s shoulder at her—the gun inches from Joe’s ear—and shouted, “Hey!”
She hesitated when she saw the two red uniform shirts, didn’t raise her rifle, and Hinkle’s Glock snapped three concussive shots and she went down. Joe instantly lost hearing in his right ear, and it was replaced by a dull roar.
At the sound of the shout and the shots, Nate looked up from where he’d pinned Nemecek to the ground. His eyes darted to the woman on the ground and then up to Joe and Hinkle. Joe had never seen such a murderous look in any man’s face in his life.
“Get off of him!” Hinkle shouted to Nate. “I’ve got your buddy here.”
Nate didn’t move. His expression was ferocious and fixed on Joe.
No, Joe thought. Not at him. But at Hinkle behind him, who peered out at Nate over Joe’s right shoulder. Hinkle aimed the Glock at Nate down his extended right arm, which rested on Joe’s shoulder. The other weapon was still in the small of Joe’s back.
Joe found himself straining hard against the cuffs, as if trying to pull them apart. Because Hinkle hadn’t closed them hard, there was some play. The cuff on his right hand had slipped free almost to mid-thumb, and the steel bit hard. But he didn’t know how he could possibly shed one without breaking bones in his hand. The pain was searing.
Joe willed Nate to look at him, to look into his eyes. …
NATE SHIFTED his glare from the shooter holding Joe—the man who’d shot Haley—to Joe. His friend’s face was white with pain. Had he been hit?
Then he saw Joe relax slightly. He was trying to get his attention and tell him something without speaking. There was blood on his right ear.
Joe deliberately looked down at the top of his boots. Then slowly back up again.
Nate understood. Joe was going down.
JOE SAW the look of recognition in Nate’s face and suddenly buckled his knees. As he dived forward, he bent his head down and set his shoulders for the fall.
There were three nearly simultaneous explosions, and Joe hit the ground so hard he was able to use the force of his body weight to wrench his hands apart.
Behind him, Hinkle’s body was thrown into the river from the impact of a .50 caliber round plowing through his chest and out his back. But his last reaction was to fire both pistols. The one aimed at Joe had hit somewhere in the mud. Nate was hit, and it rolled him off Nemecek.
JOE WRITHED in the grass and dirt. White spangles exploded in front of his eyes from pain. Although he’d been trying to free his right hand, it was his left that had somehow been wrenched through the steel claw of the cuffs from the fall, breaking bones along the way. The pain in his left hand was sharp and awful and made him gasp for air. His injured hand felt like a boiling needle-filled balloon on the end of his arm.
He wasn’t sure if he blacked out for a moment, but when he opened his eyes he could see, at ground level, John Nemecek crawling through the grass, using his left hand and right leg. Nemecek’s face was a mask of anger and pain.
Joe raised his head slightly. Nemecek was going for the semiautomatic rifle dropped by the man in all black before Nate killed him.
Behind Nemecek, Nate lay on his side, his eyes open. He looked conscious.
Joe grunted and rolled to his hands and knees. His left hand was white and strangely elongated. The slightest pressure on it hurt like nothing Joe could recall. He looked around for a weapon. Hinkle had dropped two somewhere.
But when he looked over his shoulder, Nemecek was a few feet away from the rifle.
With his good ear, Joe heard Nemecek say, “Five shots, Romanowski. I counted.”
There was a dull black glint in the grass, and Joe closed his right hand around the grip of one of the Glocks. He rose up on his knees, swung around, and aimed it at Nemecek as he crawled.
Joe was a notoriously bad shot with a handgun. He qualified annually by the grace of God and a forgiving firearms instructor. He wished he had his shotgun, but he didn’t, and he croaked, “Freeze where you are, Nemecek.” His own voice sounded hollow and tinny to him.
Nemecek paused and looked up with contempt. His shoulder and leg were a bloody mess, and his face was pale and white. He was bleeding out and knew it. And Joe apparently didn’t scare him.
Like a wounded animal, Nemecek grimaced and crawled toward the rifle. As he reached for it, Joe started firing. Every third or fourth shot, it seemed, hit home. The impact rolled Nemecek to the side and when he tried to scramble back to his knees, he’d go down again. Joe didn’t stop squeezing the trigger until the slide kicked back and locked. Fourteen rounds. He’d emptied the magazine. Spent shells littered the ground near his knees.
As Joe lowered the Glock, he saw, to his terror and amazement, that Nemecek was crawling again toward the rifle.
Joe heard someone speak but couldn’t make out the words. He looked over to see Nate standing, bracing himself against the trailer. He was shaky. His empty revolver hung down along his thigh. Joe could see blood on the side of Nate’s coat.
“I said, He’s wearing a vest.”
In response, Joe held up his empty handgun.
The two exchanged looks for a second. Neither, it seemed, was capable of stopping Nemecek before he grasped the rifle.
Then Joe remembered. He tossed the Glock aside and reached down into the front pocket of his Wranglers with his good hand. His fingers closed around the heavy .500 round Nate had left in his mailbox.
“Nate,” Joe said, and tossed the cartridge through the air. Nate reached up and speared it.
Nemecek had made it to the rifle now, and was pulling it toward him with his left hand. He gripped it and swung the muzzle up.
Joe watched as Nate ejected a spent cartridge, fed the fresh one into the wheel, and slammed the cylinder home.
With a single movement and a sweep of Alisha’s black hair, Nate swung the weapon up.
Although the concussion was probably loud, Joe only heard a muffled pop.
Nemecek’s head snapped back, and the rifle fell away.
37
THE SNOW CAME unexpectedly, as it did in the mountains, but the pale blue behind the storm clouds indicated it wouldn’t sock in, wouldn’t last all day. Large, soft flakes filtered down through the sky, clumping like cotton in the high grass. The snow muted the chirping of the squirrels and threw a hush over the river valley and Camp Five, but Joe didn’t know it. He could barely hear anything.
They sat near the cold fire pit. Nate had carried Haley’s body over to be with them, as if to separate her from the other bodies that littered the campsite. Her head was on his lap, eyes closed, and Nate stroked her hair.
Joe held his left hand by the wrist with his right as if it were a foreign object. It was swelling and looked like he was wearing a heavy glove. He’d drifted in and out of shock and consciousness for the hour since it had ended.
Finally,
Nate said, “You should have flown away.”
Joe shrugged. He could not yet wrap his mind around what had happened in the camp. Every time he glanced over at one of the bodies—Hinkle, the two operatives, or Nemecek—he half expected them to come back from the dead and attack. Snow fell on Nemecek’s face and turned pink beneath his head in the pool of black blood.
Nate stroked Haley’s hair and said, “Everybody. Everybody.”
Joe didn’t ask him to explain.
Nate looked up. “Except you.”
“Dumb luck,” Joe said.
“WHY DIDN’T you just kill him outright?” Joe asked after a few minutes. “It would have saved us a lot of trouble.”
Nate continued to run his fingers through Haley’s hair. He quit and gently touched her cheek with the back of his hand.
“I wanted some answers,” Nate said. “Why he did what he did. I wanted to know if he was operating alone or for somebody else. I wanted to know if he felt any guilt, like I have.”
“Did you expect him to confess?”
“I don’t know what I expected. But now I’ll never know. He’ll be a complete enigma to me forever, just like he’s always been.”
JOE DIDN’T hear the sound of a motor but noted that Nate had. He looked at Nate expectantly.
“They’re coming,” Nate said.
“Helicopter or convoy?”
“Chopper,” Nate said.
The snow had stopped, and the storm clouds had moved to the west. The sky was clear and blue, and the sun lit up the remaining snow that had gathered in the pine branches.
Joe said, “You’re staying around for them?”
“Are you going to stop me if I go?”
Joe thought about it and shook his head.
Nate rubbed his eyes. He said, “I’m tired, Joe. And I’m hit. I can’t just walk away into the mountains.”
“You could take one of those vehicles,” Joe said, nodding toward Nemecek’s crossover and the two white SUVs. “I can’t drive you out of here in my pickup because it’s stuck on top of the mountain.”
Nate smiled at that.
“So what are you going to do?” Joe asked.
Nate took a long intake of breath and expelled it with his eyes closed.
“You’re in a lot of pain,” Joe said, thinking of the shoulder wound in addition to the gunshot.
“Yes,” Nate said. “She was something, wasn’t she?”
Joe felt a lump in his throat when he said, “She was.”
Nate gently moved her head from his lap and struggled to stand up.
“I think I’m going to take her home,” Nate said. “She’s got a dad who would probably like to see her one last time.”
“Go, then,” Joe said.
AS THEY loaded her body into the back of the white Tahoe they’d arrived in, Nate turned to Joe and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Joe …”
“Just go. Get out of the camp before they see you.”
Nate gestured as if to say One more thing. Then he walked stiffly and slowly to each of the falcon platforms, untied their hoods and jesses, and released them to the sky.
He turned back to Joe. “It might be a while before I come back.”
“Get to a doctor to get that gunshot fixed up.”
Nate waved the advice away. He said, “It’s been a wild ride.”
Joe heard the helicopter now. He said, “Better get out of here.”
AFTERWORD
THREE DAYS LATER, Joe Pickett stood in the lobby of the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport, waiting for the passengers of the incoming flight to disembark. In his breast pocket were his ID and boarding pass; Saddlestring to Denver, Denver to LAX, departing at 11:14 a.m.
The surly gate agent had not been as surly this time. Apparently she, like everyone else in the county and the state, had heard and read about what had happened at Camp Five on the South Fork. When she checked him in, she said, “I’ll bet you can’t wait to get out of this place right now.”
He’d grunted a non-response response.
“Going to meet up with your wife and kids?”
“Yup. The hotel is booked for three more days.”
“That doesn’t give you much time at Disneyland.”
“Fine with me.”
“What happened to your hand?” she asked, nodding at the thick white club of a cast on the end of his right arm. The tips of his fingers and thumb poked out, but all the joints were encased and his hand was useless.
“Broke it,” he said.
“Security is going to want a close look at that,” she warned.
Joe sighed.
THE INTERVIEWS, affidavits, and debriefings had begun before he had even been released from the hospital. Marybeth had said she was coming back with the girls, but Joe told her to stay until he got there because there wasn’t anything she could do.
FBI Special Agent Chuck Coon was leading the inquiry, assisted by County Attorney Dulcie Schalk. Joe told his version of the events and the firefight at least four times. He left out nothing. Coon winced when Joe said he’d watched Nate Romanowski drive away, but there was no hint at charges to be filed against Joe.
Speculation was rampant concerning the motivations of John Nemecek and his team. Forensics tied Nemecek to the murders of Pam Kelly, Bad Bob Whiteplume, and Luke Brueggemann. Law enforcement in Colorado and Idaho were in contact with Coon to try and fill in the whole story and clear up the multiple homicides in both states. The Teton County Sheriff’s Department had a liaison on site, and he reported that the tortured man in the hospital refused to talk.
Even Agent Coon was wondering about the reason for the arrival of a three-man team being sent out from the Department of Defense in Washington.
As per Wyoming Game and Fish Department procedure, Joe had been placed on paid administrative leave because he’d discharged his firearm during the course of his duty. Another problem was his pickup, which was still stuck on top of the mountain. So far, two winch-trucks had failed to make it to the top to pull it out. Joe hoped he’d see it before the heavy winter snows buried it until spring.
Joe welcomed the respite, although in the back of his mind he hated the fact that no one was patrolling his district during the height of hunting season. The agency had been roiled by the death of one of its most promising trainees.
THE SHERIFF’S election was two days away. Mike Reed had been upgraded from critical condition but was still in the hospital. Joe had seen him while they were both there, but Reed wasn’t conscious. A nurse at the duty station said Reed would likely live, but whether he would walk again was uncertain. It all depended, she said, on future surgery that may or may not repair what she called an “incomplete spinal injury” due to damages caused by a bullet to the neck.
Joe couldn’t guess what the voters would decide. McLanahan was spinning the events at the South Fork as solving the crimes once and for all, and he modestly took credit for the raid and the outcome. An interview given to the Saddlestring Roundup by Agent Coon indicated otherwise. The stories ran side by side in the newspaper—the only edition between weekly publication and the election. The official investigation and report by County Attorney Dulcie Schalk would not be completed for weeks.
Voters were being asked either to reelect Sheriff Kyle McLanahan, hero of South Fork, or a possibly paraplegic challenger who couldn’t yet speak for himself.
But he’d cast an absentee ballot for Mike Reed.
HE’D HEARD nothing from Nate, and hadn’t expected he would.
A DOZEN PEOPLE emerged from the twin-prop and made their way down the aluminum staircase. Joe recognized most of them, but one in particular made his jaw drop. A dangling thread in the case would now be tied up.
Alice Thunder was in no hurry to enter the airport. She paused on the tarmac walkway and let the other passengers go around her. Joe watched as she closed her eyes, breathed in and out deeply several times, and nodded.
He met her at the door.
> “You’re okay,” he said, relieved.
“Of course I’m okay,” she said, slightly offended. Then: “It’s nice to breathe clean mountain air again. I’ve had my fill of Texas and humidity for a while. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it.”
She stopped when she realized he wanted to say more, and then looked at him with her unique stoic lack of expression.
He said, “Do you have any idea what’s happened here since you left?”
“No.”
Joe filled her in. She listened quietly, and her only reaction was to shake her head when she heard about Bad Bob.
“Nobody knew where you were,” Joe said.
“Nate did,” she said. “I told him I wanted to go see the bats. I saw them every night except one.” Then: “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re okay,” Joe said.
“Of course I am.”
HE HELPED HER pull her big duffel bag off the single clattering luggage carousel.
“I can take it from here,” she said. “You better go get on that plane.”
He nodded and turned. The other passengers were lining up at security, and the TSA agents, who outnumbered them, were shooting their cuffs so they could pull on blue latex gloves.
“Joe,” she called out.
He turned.
“What about Nate?” she asked.
Joe said, “I’m not sure.”
“He’ll be back,” she said simply. “This is his place.”
“We’ll see,” Joe said. “He’s got a lot to sort out.” He thought, And a lot to answer for.
She nodded. He couldn’t tell if she agreed with him or was simply ending the conversation.
“Go see your family,” she said, and headed for the outside doors.
Joe took off his boots, removed his belt, wristwatch, jacket, and hat, fished out his phone and a ballpoint pen, and emptied his pockets of loose change and a Leatherman tool with a knife blade accessory that would soon be confiscated by one of the TSA agents.