Winterkill jp-3

by C. J. Box

  Joe had taken a step toward McLanahan again, but Barnum had flung his arm out to stop him. Joe couldn’t believe what the deputy had just done.

  “You people have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourselves into,” Romanowski warned, his voice barely perceptible.

  “Neither do you,” Melinda Strickland said, her face hard.

  “Hit the son-of-a-bitch again,” she ordered. And despite Joe’s shout to stop it, McLanahan did.

  Eight

  Joe was pleased to see that the plow had come down Bighorn Road that day as he drove home. It had cut a single lane through the drifts, and massive flagstone-sized plates of wind-hardened snow had been flung onto both sides of the cut, making the edges look jagged and incomplete. He smiled slightly to himself, thinking how disappointed the girls would be that they would have to go to church after all.

  But, he thought, I need to go to church, even if they don’t. He needed to leave the blood, gore, and violence of the last few days behind him. The Christmas Eve service wouldn’t wash him clean, but it might, at the very least, change the subject to something better and more hopeful. The apprehending of Nate Romanowski left a sour taste in his mouth. Although from the outside, it might look like a highly successful investigation and arrest—hell, they identified the killer and captured him all in the same day, and in miserable conditions—to Joe things seemed tainted. His mind melded the death of Melinda Strickland’s little dog with the rifle-butt beating of Nate Romanowski. He couldn’t get the image of Romanowski’s face pulled tight with confusion out of his mind. Given the eyewitness testimony and the discovery of what appeared to be the murder weapon, there was no reason to think that Romanowski wasn’t the killer—except that something in Romanowski’s face bothered Joe. It was as if the man had expected to be arrested, but for something else. Or, Joe thought, as if Romanowski thought he had a perfect alibi but no one was biting. Something . . .

  Joe wanted a sense of massive relief that this was over, that the murder investigation was complete, that the thing he had started had finally ended. But he didn’t feel that way.

  Maybe I’m asking for too much, he thought. Maybe these things just weren’t as neat and clean as he hoped they would be. His experience pointed in that direction, after all. Maybe this was a hangover of success, and tomorrow he would see it all in a different light.

  He needed to put it out of his mind, at least for a while. And he needed to go to church.

  While they dressed, Joe told Marybeth about what had happened during the day. She listened intently.

  Moments before, Marybeth had entered the living room where the girls were playing, clapped her hands sharply and announced, “Ladies, we are going to church.”

  Sheridan was silent, but glared at her mother. April had moaned. Lucy had begun to chatter about what she would wear.

  “So we might have wrapped this thing up,” he said now. “Like a Christmas present to Saddlestring.”

  Marybeth paused a beat. “Why don’t you sound convinced?”

  He saw his own bitter smile in the mirror.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I need to sort it out in my mind, I guess.”

  She nodded, but kept her eyes on him. He had tried to sound upbeat, but she always read him correctly. He could see her reflection watching his.

  “That poor little dog,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Yup.”

  “Do you think it was deliberate?” she asked.

  “That’s my suspicion. Either she wanted to punish the dog by making it run behind the Sno-Cats, or to leave it up there, or to set the stage for what happened. I just don’t know.”

  “She might have let that dog in the Sno-Cat if you or someone had said something,” Marybeth said. “Maybe out of shame, if nothing else.”

  Joe whistled. “I don’t know, darling. I don’t think anyone knew the dog was out. And she doesn’t seem the type who feels shame.”

  Marybeth shook her head. “At least now she’ll go back to wherever she came from.”

  “Let’s hope,” Joe said, admiring his wife in her dress. “You look like ten million bucks, you know.”

  In a tie and his unfashionable topcoat, Joe Pickett herded his children into the aged minivan after the Christmas Eve church service. Missy, dressed to the nines in black formal wear and pearls she had packed for Jackson Hole cocktail parties, joined her grandchildren in the backseat with a sigh. Marybeth slid into the passenger seat.

  The service had been good, Joe thought. Surrounded by his family while the songs and message washed over him, he felt partially cleansed of the scene of unnecessary savagery he had witnessed earlier in the afternoon. Lamar Gardiner or no Lamar Gardiner, there had been no reason for McLanahan and Barnum to beat Nate Romanowski. He said a prayer for Mrs. Gardiner, and a little prayer for the dead dog, but he felt self-conscious doing it.

  Sheridan was seated directly behind Joe in the van.

  “How about two presents, just in case the first one is clothes?” she asked.

  “Sheridan has a point,” April said from the back.

  Joe grunted as he started the motor. The influx of bodies into the car steamed all of the windows. The night was clear so far, although snow had once again been predicted, and the moon was framed by a secondary halo.

  If it came to a philosophical debate, he knew he would lose on passion points. He was inclined to let them open everything. Just as he was inclined to back Marybeth.

  “It’s tradition. One present on Christmas Eve,” Marybeth interjected, turning in her seat. “And besides, you need clothes.”

  “But I don’t want clothes,” Sheridan whined.

  “Me neither,” April added sourly.

  “I do,” Lucy squealed, cutely. Missy laughed.

  “We know!” Sheridan shouted. “And maybe you expect some pearls like Aunt Missy’s.”

  Joe said nothing. His mother-in-law liked to pretend she was not a grandmother, but an aunt. She suggested that the girls call her “Aunt Missy” in mixed company. Joe thought it was ridiculous. This was a sore point. Sheridan had obviously picked up on it.

  “Let’s all be kind to each other,” Marybeth said, in her most calming tone. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  It worked. Joe felt Sheridan give up her debating points and settle into her seat. Marybeth was amazing, Joe thought.

  They drove through Saddlestring with the heater on high and the defroster at full strength. The girls pointed out the good decorations and dissed the poor ones.

  After they had cleared the town limits, Joe sped up. They passed the feed store, the Saddlestring Burg-O-Pardner (the lighted outdoor sign beckoned: ROCKY MOUNTAIN OYSTERFEST FREE WITH PURCHASE OF SAME), and the Mini-Mart. But it was the unusual number of parked cars at the First Alpine Church of Saddlestring that made Joe slow down and look.

  “I’ve never seen so many cars at that church since we moved here,” Marybeth said.

  Neither had Joe, and he often passed the church on his way home from work. The number of parked vehicles—more than thirty—was unusual in itself, but it was the license plates that caught his attention. There were campers, vans, battered four-wheel-drives, and SUVs from Montana, Idaho, New Mexico, Nevada, Colorado, North Dakota, Georgia, Michigan, and Wyoming. The small parking lot was filled with them, and late arrivals had lined up bumper to bumper along the entrance road.

  “I’m pulling over,” Joe announced. He wanted to check this out, even if it wasn’t his business. As expected, his children responded with a collective moan.

  Marybeth gave him a look. “Joe, you can take the night off.”

  “Wait,” Sheridan suddenly said from the backseat. “It’s all of those cars we saw in front of the school.”

  Joe shot a glance in the rearview mirror at April, to gauge her reaction. Her eyes had suddenly grown very large. But she said nothing.

  “It’ll just be a minute,” he said.

  Marybeth started to say something—Joe knew it was going to
be a “be careful” admonition—but caught herself for the sake of the children and her mother.

  “Don’t be long,” she said instead, turning to comfort the children, and especially April.

  Joe left the van’s engine running and the heater on, and walked down the middle of the road that led to the church. It had started to snow, and the moon was now blocked by swift-moving storm clouds.

  The First Alpine Church of Saddlestring was a small structure made of logs with an adjoining double-wide trailer that served as living quarters for the “unconventional” Reverend B. J. Cobb and his wife, Eunice. The Reverend Cobb normally served a small congregation of Twelve Sleep County’s survivalists and the dispossessed. These were the people who had chosen Saddlestring because it was the end of the road—people who built bunkers, stockpiled weapons and food, and reported sightings of black helicopters to the sheriff’s department. Normally, even on Christmas or Easter, there were not more than a half-dozen cars at the church. The tiny congregation provided so little income that the Reverend Cobb supported himself and his wife by working full-time as a certified welder. Eunice was the Welcome Wagon lady, who met with new residents and gave them coupons to local retail stores.

  The footing was icy. Large flakes wafted through the air and settled into vague cotton-ball shapes on the ice. The three steps to the front door were slick, and Joe steadied himself on the handrail as he climbed them. The church was heated inside by a stove; the sweet smell of woodsmoke hung in the air.

  He stopped at the door, his fingers around the elk-antler handle. He could hear the Reverend Cobb finish a passage with a flourish. When Eunice began to play the electric piano—the church was too small and poor for an organ—he opened the door and stepped inside. A harsh mixture of woodstove heat, candlewax, and body odor assaulted him. Eunice was playing Silent Night. Most of the congregation sang in English, but a few were singing the words in poor German.

  Stille Nacht! Heil’ge Nacht!

  Alles schläft, einsam wacht . . .

  The rough-hewn pews were packed with visitors wearing big, weathered coats. Their backs were to him. He recognized no one except for the Cobbs, and two locals, Spud Cargill and Rope Latham, who co-owned a company called Bighorn Roofing. He had recognized their identical white Ford pickups outside—the ones with the company logo of winged roofing shingles on the doors. Joe suspected them of poaching, but had never caught them in the act.

  As the congregation began the second verse, Reverend Cobb noticed Joe standing in the back. Still singing, the minister skirted the row of pews and greeted Joe with a handshake.

  Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh’

  Schlafe in himmlisher Ruh’

  Reverend B. J. Cobb was a blocky ex-Marine who had served in Vietnam. He had short-cropped silver hair and a big jaw. His wife, Eunice, was just as short and just as blocky, with a mat of iron-gray curls on the top of her head. She had also been a Marine.

  “Can the Lord, or this humble servant help you, Mr. Pickett?”

  Joe surveyed the wall of turned backs and heavy coats.

  “Maybe both of you can,” Joe said. “Who are all these people?”

  The Reverend Cobb smiled, and shrugged happily. “They’re here to worship and celebrate Christmas. Who am I to question that?”

  Joe looked sharply at Cobb.

  “I don’t know them all yet,” Cobb confessed. “I was happily surprised when they showed up for services.”

  Joe felt a pair of eyes on him and looked over Cobb’s shoulder. A big, bearlike man had turned slightly in the back row. The man had a massive head with deep, soft eyes and fleshy lips. His expression was alert, but somehow calming. The man looked Joe over carefully, and Joe looked back. He must be the one Sheridan described as their leader, Joe thought. The man turned back to his hymnal.

  “They’ve established a camp in the forest on Battle Mountain,” Cobb said. “They all drove down tonight.”

  “You’re kidding,” Joe said, alarmed. “In the national forest?”

  “That’s what they told me. I haven’t visited it yet.”

  “That sounds like trouble in the making,” Joe mumbled.

  Cobb smiled sweetly. Despite Cobb’s unique take on things, Joe liked the man.

  “I might give you a call in a few days,” Joe said, thanking Cobb and shaking his hand good-bye. “Merry Christmas.”

  “And a merry Christmas to you, Joe Pickett,” the reverend said.

  Joe turned toward the door but paused before he opened it, feeling eyes on him again. He wondered if the big man had once again turned, to make sure Joe was leaving.

  Slowly, Joe looked over his shoulder. The big man still had his back turned, and was singing. Then Joe saw her.

  Because she was small, she couldn’t see him over the congregation, so she had to lean out into the aisle. Her face was thin and pinched, her eyes so hard and cold that Joe shuddered.

  The first time he had met Jeannie Keeley was at her husband Ote’s funeral. She had walked up to Joe, pulling April behind her like a rag doll, and said: “Aren’t you the mother-fucking prick who wanted to take my Otie’s outfitting license away?”

  And now she was back.

  After making three piles of Santa’s gifts for discovery in the morning, and after eating the cookie and drinking the milk left for Santa by Lucy (with plenty of telltale crumbs), Joe and Marybeth said good night to Missy. She acknowledged them by raising her pinkie finger above the rim of her just-filled wineglass. That annoyed Joe, who was still on edge from seeing Jeannie Keeley.

  Later, Joe joined Marybeth at the sink in their bathroom.

  “So it was her for sure?” Marybeth asked, while removing her makeup in the bathroom mirror.

  “Yup.”

  “How awful, Joe.”

  “I know.”

  “That poor little girl. I feel like she’s a target, and she doesn’t even know it.”

  When Marybeth had finished washing her face, she removed her clothes and slid her nightgown over her head. She walked to the bedroom, threw back the covers, and slid into bed.

  Joe climbed into bed, exhausted. He could hear Christmas music playing from the radio downstairs. He arose and firmly shut the door, something they had done ever since Missy had arrived. Usually, the door was open in case any of the girls needed anything. As he walked back, Marybeth spoke.

  “Joe, I know my mother gets to you, but you’re getting worse at disguising your feelings. You make this . . . face . . . like the one you just made a few minutes ago. I know she notices it.”

  “I make a face?”

  She nodded, and tried to imitate it.

  “I look that bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll work on it,” he said. “Marybeth, I seem to be annoying you quite a bit lately.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t mean to needle you. It’s this thing with Jeannie Keeley. I have a very bad feeling about it. I’m on edge.”

  “I understand.”

  “Merry Christmas,” she said. “And come to bed. Now.”

  Joe recognized her tone and was genuinely surprised. “What about that thing you have about not enjoying sex if your mother is under the same roof?”

  “I need to get over that,” Marybeth said, raising her eyebrows. “She might be here awhile.”

  “Aw . . .”

  “Joe, get in this bed.”

  He did.

  PART TWO

  Snow Blind

  Nine

  Christmas was pleasantly claustrophobic, and Joe and Marybeth realized that with their growing children—and the addition of just a single extra person—how small their home had become.

  Joe roasted wild pheasant and grouse, while Marybeth and her mother made wild-rice casserole, mashed potatoes, fresh bread, vegetables, and pecan pie. The girls had been up early, of course, and their gifts were opened, played with, tried on, and strewn about the living room. Because of their limited finances, Marybeth budgeted throughout the year to prov
ide a substantial Christmas for the children, and she and Joe economized on their own gift-giving. Marybeth gave Joe a new fly-fishing vest, and Joe reciprocated with two pairs of Canadian-made Watson riding gloves. Marybeth loved the gloves, which were suede, and lined with a thin layer of fleece. She said they were supple enough for reining her horses while riding, but tough enough to withstand stall-mucking and other stablework.

  Missy spent most of the afternoon on the telephone in Joe’s office with the door closed, talking with her husband, and came out wiping away tears. She might be staying awhile, she announced. Mr. Vankueren was being indicted, his assets had been frozen, and she was quite angry with him. Marybeth offered support, and the couch bed. Joe greeted the news with the false courage he hoped he would display one day when the doctor told him he had one month to live.

  On Christmas evening, after the melancholy period when the girls became quiet because the day was nearly over, Joe sat with Marybeth on the couch with his arm around her. They sipped red wine in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, enjoying a rare moment of quiet. The girls were down the hall getting ready for bed and Missy was napping.

  “Joe, are you still fretting about Lamar Gardiner and Nate Romanowski?” Marybeth asked.

  He started to protest, but realized she was right. “I guess,” he said. “It’s a hard one to just put away.”

  She nodded, and burrowed closer to him.

  “And to make things even more complicated,” Joe said, “we’ve got Jeannie Keeley back in town. And . . .”

  He stopped himself.

  “What?” she asked, then frowned. “Oh—my mother.”

  “Not that she’s as bad as . . .”

  “Hush, Joe.”

  He took a drink of wine, and wished he hadn’t started down that road. Luckily, she seemed willing to let it go.

  “I wish we could just stay snowed in,” Marybeth whispered. “With our family all together under our roof. Where no one, and nothing, can get us.” Her voiced trailed off.