by C. J. Box
“I know we’ve had our differences, Joe,” she said, “but for the sake of my daughter and your children-my grandchildren-you’ve got to help me.”
Before he could answer, she rolled the window back up.
“That’s enough,” Sollis said. “Step aside. We’re taking her in.”
With shaky hands, Joe fished his cell out and opened it. He texted a message to Marybeth.
PREPARE OUR GIRLS.
IT LOOKS REAL BAD.
Joe closed the phone and folded his arms and leaned back against the grille of his pickup. He wondered what Nate Romanowski would have made of all this, if he’d been around to hear about it. Nate had never liked Missy, either, but he’d always had a special connection with Marybeth. For the fiftieth time in eleven months, Joe wondered where Nate was now and what he was doing. And if they were enemies now or still friends, or something in-between.
As if there could be an in-between with Nate Romanowski.
7
Nate Romanowski woke up worried, and the feeling persisted through the cool August morning. Even his three birds, the peregrine, the red-tailed hawk, and the golden eagle, seemed edgy and bitchy in their mews as he fed them chunks of bloody rabbit for breakfast.
Dawn came two hours late in Hole in the Wall Canyon, as it always did. The sheer walls prevented sunlight from pouring over the rims until mid-morning, but when it did there was a special intensity of light and heat because of the lack of wind to cushion it. As he returned to the cave, he scanned the canyon wall opposite where the trail wound down. The trail was a tan scar against the scrub and brush that switchbacked down from the top and he could see nearly all of it from where he stood. That was one primary reason he’d chosen the location four years before, because it was a natural phenomenon practically designed for hiding out. He could clearly view the only approach into the canyon, but from the trail it was all but impossible to locate his cave without intimate familiarity. On the rare occasions when people appeared-and they were usually fishermen making their way to the Middle Fork of the Powder River down below-he’d never been discovered. That was the way he wanted it.
Because of the fishermen who’d recently come to the area, he’d dismantled the fatal booby traps on the lower half of the trail and replaced them with sensors, motion detectors, and a pair of game cameras that could broadcast an image to his laptop. He’d observed the few people who’d come down into the canyon recently and they had no idea their progress down to the water had been viewed through the crosshairs of a scope.
But he saw nothing out of order. It was quiet and calm, and the early-morning chill in the air was an ally because of how it carried sound. There were no unfamiliar sounds.
He returned to his cave in the rocks and quietly gathered his fly rod, flies, and wide-brimmed hat. Alisha Whiteplume, his lover, was there for the weekend. She was still sleeping in the mass of quilts, and he paused for a moment to admire her face in repose: dark silken hair fanned across the pillow, the smooth high cheekbones of the native Shoshone, long lashes, sweet lips turned down on the ends, as if she were worried, too.
She liked trout for breakfast and he wanted to catch her a couple.
Because of that feeling he had which he couldn’t explain, he slipped his leather shoulder holster over his arms and fitted it snugly over his sweatshirt. The butt of his powerful.454 Casull five-shot revolver faced out above his left hip, so he could draw it out with his right hand in less than a second and fire. The handgun was scoped and Nate was an accurate shot within several hundred yards.
He paused for a moment and looked at himself in the mirror he’d slung from a root on the cave wall. Nate was a few inches over six feet tall and had broad shoulders. His long blond hair was tied into a ponytail with a leather falconry jess, and his eyes, even to him, looked sharp and cruel and haunted. His nose was thin and sharp, his jaw prominent. He always wondered if by simply spending so much of his life with falcons-he was a master falconer-that he’d taken on the characteristics of his birds, like a fat man and his pet bulldog or the society fashion doyenne and her poodle.
He slipped back outside. Again, he scanned the canyon wall across from him and slowly studied every foot of the trail. He watched as well as listened, because the natural sounds-birds, the high-pitched whistle of fat marmots in the rocks, the off-chord caws of two chickensized ravens cruising the rims-told him as much about the situation as anything he could see. There was no concern expressed in their talking. Worse would have been complete silence, and complete silence meant an intruder had come.
Despite the blue-black cloud of doom that lingered in his consciousness, he discerned nothing out of order.
Still, as he picked his way down to the river between boulders the size of trucks, and the natural music of the creatures was replaced with the burbling and tinkling sound of the river, he knew he wouldn’t be long for this place.
He returned an hour later with three twelve-inch rainbow trout, to find Alisha up and dressed and brewing coffee on his camp kitchen. She’d tied back the heavy covers that hung across the opening to facilitate fresh air and morning sunlight, and she’d made the bed. Their clothes, which had been discarded the night before as if they were on fire, had been folded into his and hers. The coffee smelled good.
“I’ll fillet these,” he said, laying out the fish on the cutting board like three shiny shards of glistening steel.
“Wonderful,” she said, smiling. “When did you learn to fish so well? Was it Joe?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “But anyone could catch these fish. They were easy and hungry and they came right for the fly.”
She nodded and he could feel her trying to read his face. She had recently started asking about Joe Pickett, and he always deflected the inquiry.
“You haven’t talked much about him recently,” she said.
“No, I haven’t.”
Alisha Whiteplume was a schoolteacher on the Wind River Indian Reservation. Since her return from the outside world, where she’d been a married electrical engineer, she’d plunged into reservation life. She was practical and charismatic and, in addition to being named to the tribal council, was also in charge of a club that encouraged teenage Shoshone and Northern Arapahoe to start up and manage small businesses. She had nothing but disdain for U.S. government paternalism and handouts that, she felt, had held her people back for generations. She was the mentor for a half-dozen young entrepreneurs who had started businesses that included a small local newspaper, the crafts shops, a video rental store, and a sub sandwich franchise. She was also the guardian of a five-year-old girl who stayed with Alisha’s mother while she sneaked away to visit Nate. He not only loved Alisha, he admired her strength, stamina, optimism, and loyalty. He felt guilty they couldn’t get married because of his problem with the Feds. She was too good a woman to have to sneak around the way she did in order for them to be together, as if they were both cheating.
She said, “So you and Joe-you’re still working things out?”
“You’re going to keep hammering away, huh?”
“I don’t hammer. I just keep asking politely until I get an answer.”
He sighed as he cut the fillets. He’d put a dollop of shortening into a cast-iron skillet and it had dissolved and had begun to smoke. After dipping the trout fillets into buttermilk, he’d dredge them in cornmeal and lay them in the skillet.
“Joe’s the one who needs to work things out,” Nate said. “I’m clear where I’m at.”
The year before, in the Sierra Madres of southern Wyoming, Nate and Joe had encountered a set of violent twin brothers who wanted to be left alone. Joe had special orders to go after them and he’d done so, relentlessly, even when the circumstances for their isolation were revealed. Nate wanted to ride away. In Nate’s mind, it was a disagreement about what the law said and what was right. Joe chose the law.
“I never thought I’d say this,” she said in her musical voice, “but I think maybe you need to make the effort.”
“You never liked it when we got together for a case,” Nate said. “What changed your mind?”
“He seems like a good man,” she said. “And a good friend to you.”
Nate grunted.
“You can’t just dismiss him as a government man. You know better, and you two have been through a lot. Do you still keep in touch with his daughter? Is she still your falconry apprentice?”
Nate nodded. Sheridan should have gone to college by now, and he knew nothing of her choice of school. He didn’t know where she was, which was troubling to him.
“You shouldn’t punish her,” Alisha said. “It’s not her fault.”
“I know.” He was getting annoyed because she was right.
“Marybeth knows I’m still here,” Nate said. “She called a while back to check on me. I even got a call from her mother.”
“The pretty dragon?”
“Yes, her.”
“But not Joe?” she asked.
“Not Joe.”
“Phones work two ways, you know,” she said.
“Hmmmmph.”
“Well?”
“Well, maybe I’ll give him a call one of these days.”
“No,” she said, “Go see him. You two don’t talk well on the phone. I’ve heard you. You’re like two apes grunting. You don’t say anything.”
Nate turned the fillets. He liked how angrily they sizzled. When he looked up, she was staring at him, waiting.
“Okay,” he said, with a little edge. “But first I have to get the hell out of this canyon. I told you why last night.”
She made a face. It had to do with his time working for a branch of Special Forces, a rogue branch. He didn’t tell her the name of the organization or what he’d done while he was there. He never would, because she’d be outraged. Even Joe didn’t want to know, even though Nate had offered to tell him.
There were things he’d done-that his team had done-that were coming back to haunt him. Because Nate had left abruptly, without clearance, an exit interview, or his pension, there were men who were concerned about exposure. He’d never threatened to reveal them or talk about their work, but they were paranoid by nature. Several of his old team had come to the Rockies at different times to try to take him out. Each had failed, and they no longer walked the earth. But the rotten core of the team-four men and a woman-still survived, and several had moved up in the government within the Department of Homeland Security. He called them The Five.
According to a contact he still trusted in the agency, The Five were alarmed about Nate’s work and growing underground reputation. There was no doubt they’d breathe easier if Nate didn’t breathe at all.
From what he understood from his contact in Virginia, The Five had not yet deployed. He wondered if telling her about them the night before had caused his uneasy feeling when he woke up that morning, or if it was something else. If The Five deployed, he didn’t want Alisha anywhere close to him.
Another source of tension was the increasing numbers in the underground resistance. They looked to him for help and protection. What had originally been a few dozen people who had dropped out of contemporary America because they loathed the direction the country seemed to be headed in had swelled to hundreds and perhaps more. They were located in remote pockets throughout the mountain west. The woman Joe and he had saved a year ago-for what turned out to be different reasons-had been the catalyst for their disagreement. She was now in the Snake River country of Idaho, among her kind. He had no idea what would happen when the movement was either publicized or challenged. But he knew there would be a good chance of violence.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he said, after the fillets were cooked golden brown. He removed them and put them on a towel to drain and cool. He gestured toward the mews. “Plus, that damned eagle still won’t fly even though it’s fully healed and capable of flight.”
“Maybe it’s a symbol,” she said.
“Maybe. Let’s eat.”
“Please remove your weapon,” she said. “Civilized people don’t eat breakfast wearing guns.”
“First time you called me civilized.”
“You aren’t there yet. It’s something to aspire to.” She looked up and smiled coyly. “Maybe when you don’t feel the need to live in a cave.”
As they finished breakfast, he thought of something. He said, “You didn’t mention seeing Large Merle last night.”
Large Merle was a fellow falconer and member of the underground resistance. He was a huge man who had known Nate in the old days but had moved west and had gone to fat. He wore a full beard and stained clothing from his job as a cook in the restaurant in Kaycee. Large Merle rented a ramshackle home up on the south rim of the canyon. The only established road to get to Nate’s stretch of the Hole in the Wall passed through Large Merle’s property, and his friend would clear or shoo away visitors. Either way, Large Merle would call Nate on his satellite phone and let him know who had been there at his place and who might show up in the canyon. Since Nate had been expecting Alisha, he hadn’t realized until now there had been no call.
Alisha took her last bite of the trout and closed her eyes as she chewed it. She loved the fresh fish, and he loved watching her eat it. She said, “Merle wasn’t home.”
“Maybe he was cooking,” Nate said, unsure.
“The restaurant wasn’t open when I drove by,” she said. “I was thinking of stopping in for a cup of coffee.”
Nate sat up. “Large Merle has never left without letting me know,” he said.
She shrugged. “Maybe it was an emergency. Doesn’t he have a sick dad somewhere?”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
“He’d let me know if he drove to Casper. He always does.” Then, pushing quickly away from the table: “Alisha, I can’t explain it, but something’s wrong. Let’s pack up.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Are we coming back?”
“No.”
8
Nothing spells trouble like two drunk cowboys with a rocket launcher.
That’s what Laurie Talich was thinking as she drove them down the rough two-track toward Hole in the Wall Canyon.
Not that they were real cowboys, sure enough. They wore the requisite Wranglers, big Montana Silversmith buckles, long-sleeved Cinch shirts, and cowboy hats. Johnny Cook was a silent strapping blond from upstate New York near Albany, and Drennen O’Melia, chunky and chatty and charmingly insincere, was a Delaware boy. But they were young, strong, dim, handsome, and eager to please. Not to mention currently unemployed since that incident on the dude ranch from which they had recently been let go.
The AT4 shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, still in the packing crate in her rented pickup, was as real as it came, though.
The night before, Laurie Talich had found Johnny and Drennen playing pool for drinks in the back of the Stockman’s Bar in Saddlestring. The bar was dark, cool, long, narrow, and iconic in a comfortably kitschy Western kind of way. She’d been advised this would be the place to find the right kind of men for the job, and her adviser had been exactly right. She’d sat alone on her stool at the bar for three straight nights, long enough to learn the name of the bartender-Buck Timberman. She was coy and hadn’t revealed hers. He’d called her “little lady,” as in “What can I get you, little lady?”
“Another one of these, please.” Meaning Crown Royal and Coke, even though her husband used to chide her and say she was ruining two good drinks with that combo.
She’d paid in cash so there would be no electronic receipts, sipped her second drink of the night, and shot furtive glances at the two dude ranch cowboys. They chalked their sticks, called the pockets, mowed down all comers-tourists, mainly-and collected their drinks. They noticed her: slim, jet-black short hair with bangs, and light blue eyes the color of a high-noon sky. She dressed the part in form-fitting Cruel Girl jeans, a jeweled cowgirl belt, and a white sleevele
ss top. Her legs were crossed one over the other, but when she rotated the stool and looked at them, the dagger-like toe of her right boot would twirl in a small tight circle, like a tongue licking open lips. Oh, they noticed, all right.
The more she watched them, hearing snatches of braggadocio and bullshit, knowing they were being observed and playing it up as much as possible, the more she began to believe she’d found the right boys. They’d be perfect for the job. They were role players, too: rent-a-cowboys for the summer. The guest and dude ranches throughout the Bighorns as well as most of Wyoming and Montana were swarming with them. The ranch owners needed seasonal help who looked and acted the part, because their clients expected it, and boys like Johnny and Drennen were perfect for the kind of job she had in mind. Young, handsome (at least Johnny was), Caucasian, nonthreatening to the permanent staff, unambitious in terms of running the guest ranch operation, willing to work the short three- to four-month seasons between snows, and without two nickels to rub together. For the ranch managers, it helped if they knew something about horses, and it was even better if they could play a guitar and sing a cowboy song. Mostly, though, they were required to look and act the part. No backwards baseball caps, street piercings, baggy pants, or shirts two sizes too big. These types would never replace the real wranglers and hands on the ranches, but they’d serve as pleasant enough fantasy eye candy for the wives and daughters, and they’d provide strong arms and backs for menial chores around the ranch.
Unless, of course, they lured the two teenage daughters of a wealthy Massachusetts union boss away from their family cabin while the parents participated in Square Dance Thursday and got the girls drunk on Keystone Light beer and were caught in the horse barn in the act of ripping the tops off the foil-wrapped condoms with their teeth-well, then they’d be fired, like Johnny and Drennen had been.