Winterkill Page 23

  Munker’s face was red and he was practically snarling. “I’ve been there, fellows. I’ve been there when dildo Freemen wearing hoods patrolled their ranch for the cameras, making us look like a bunch of wussy assholes. I was there when info-babes showed up while the fire was still burning at Waco to ask us if the force we used was unreasonable.

  “This storm is supposed to last at least three days. It’s likely the airstrip will be closed and the roads will be closed. If film crews can’t get here, it means there isn’t any news. That’s how it works. So we have a short window of time to act. In the past, too many of these situations have degenerated into fucking situation comedies. We can’t let that happen here, gentlemen. And lady,” he said, deferring to Melinda Strickland.

  “Ladies!” Elle Broxton-Howard shouted, raising her hand next to Joe. There was a titter of laughter. Most of the men who turned to look at Broxton-Howard were still looking at her when Melinda Strickland spoke again.

  “When I came here, I said we were going to stand up to these antigovernment outlaws,” Strickland said, looking to Broxton-Howard to make sure the reporter had her pad out. “Some mocked me. Some doubted the seriousness of the situation. Now we know just how serious this situation is!”

  Robey Hersig’s assistant, an ancient clerk named Bud Lipsey, wearing a gray Stetson and horn-rimmed glasses, blew into the room. He raised a manila folder.

  “The search warrant has been signed by Judge Pennock,” Lipsey announced.

  Munker smiled. Joe saw it as a leer.

  “Let’s regroup at noon,” he said. “The sheriff, Ms. Strickland, and I will set our strategy and make assignments.”

  Joe leaned against the wall and rubbed his face with his hands. He couldn’t believe what was happening. Law-enforcement personnel filed out of the building charged with a sense of purpose. There was back-slapping and shoulder-punching. A small army had been assembled, to be led by Munker, Strickland, and Barnum against the Sovereign compound. It all felt horribly wrong. The room was too hot. Somebody needed to turn the thermostat down or open a window.

  When he opened his eyes, Elle Broxton-Howard was standing in front of him.

  “Did you get my fax?” she asked.

  Not now, he thought.

  “We don’t have any brown rice.”

  She smiled. “I can bring some. Or better yet, we don’t do the interview at your house. I just need some quotes on how you trapped that bad guy. And I want to know more about what Mr. Munker was saying about the steering wheel. Is that true?”

  Joe fought back an urge to shove her. “It’s true.”

  She was joined by Melinda Strickland. Strickland was obviously concerned, which, to Joe, looked as patently false as all of her public emotions. It looked like she’d said to herself, “Now put on your frowny face.”

  “Joe, we really have to talk.”

  Joe looked up. Elle Broxton-Howard stepped to the side. Munker and Barnum were still at the podium, but they were both looking toward Joe and Melinda Strickland, awaiting the outcome of what no doubt had been previously discussed among the three of them.

  “Joe, we all really appreciate what you did when you arrested Rope Latham, but there are some issues.”

  In his peripheral vision, he saw Broxton-Howard scribbling the sentence in her pad. So this was for her benefit, Joe realized.

  “What issues?” he asked. He hated words like “issues.”

  “It’s interesting that you didn’t get one of the liens or subpoenas like all of the rest of us did,” she said. “Or did you?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Joe, don’t you feel that maybe you’ve got too many personal issues in this situation? Like with that little girl and all? Like maybe, you know, maybe you’re a little too close to the Sovereigns up there, and that it would be best not to participate in the search and all?”

  He stared at her. Broxton-Howard wrote.

  “This whole sad affair started when, unfortunately, Lamar Gardiner escaped from you. The arrest of Rope Latham was good and all, but maybe you should sort of take a break and get some rest and leave it up to the professionals.”

  A hot surge began to crawl up Joe’s neck as he looked at Melinda Strickland, and beyond her at Munker. The flush spread through his chest, ran down his arms, and settled behind his eyes. He stared at them both with blinders on, his rage coursing through him.

  “I can see what’s happening here,” he said. His voice sounded strained, even to him. “It’s a case of target fixation, just like when Lamar Gardiner saw more elk than he had ever seen in one place before. Like when he was reloading with cigarettes so he could shoot and kill some more.”

  “Joe . . .”

  “You see a chance to crush people like you’ve always wanted to do. You’ve found a situation where you think you’re justified in doing it. You people hate so much you forget to think. There are big problems here. The first is that you’ve brought in a psychopath to run things.” He nodded toward Munker. “The second is that I have a child up there in that compound. As you know.”

  From the front of the room, Dick Munker scoffed. He had been listening all along. “From what I understand she’s not even yours.”

  Rage all but consumed him. He despised the fact that Munker and Strickland had discussed Joe and Marybeth’s situation with April as freely as they had. Although the matter was not private, given the circumstances, he thought it should be treated that way. When he closed his eyes, spangles of red cascaded like fireworks down the insides of his eyelids. He felt someone grip his arm—Hersig—and he ripped his arm away.

  It’s not about children as property, he shouted to himself, or who belongs to whom. It’s not about that. It’s about bringing up kids who become good human beings, so they won’t turn out like the people standing in front of me.

  “Joe?” Hersig asked. Joe hadn’t realized Robey was so close to him.

  Joe opened his eyes. Melinda Strickland had stepped back, as had Elle Broxton-Howard. They had inadvertently cleared a path across the room to Dick Munker, who lit a cigarette behind the podium.

  “Munker.” His voice was hoarse.

  Munker raised an eyebrow in response.

  “If you do anything that hurts April even further, I’m going to paint the trees with your blood.”

  “My God!” Melinda Strickland said, looking to Broxton-Howard with alarm so her reaction would be noted.

  “That goes for you, too,” Joe said, shooting his eyes to Melinda Strickland. “You wanted a war and now you’re going to get your wish.”

  “Joe, goddammit, go home,” Hersig hissed into his ear. “Go home before Munker swears out a warrant on you for that threat that we all heard.”

  The silence in the room was conspicuous.

  Joe let himself be led toward the door by Robey Hersig, who stepped outside with him.

  “You were way out of line in there,” Hersig said, shaking his head. “What are you doing, Joe?”

  Joe set his jaw to argue, but the red shroud of rage began to pull back from his eyes. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing, Robey.”

  “Go home. Keep out of this.”

  “April is up there.”

  “So is Spud Cargill.”

  “I don’t know that. I honestly don’t believe that. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Joe . . .”

  “We’re taking McLanahan’s word that he might have seen a guy who might have been Cargill driving past him yesterday afternoon. Based on that, all hell is breaking loose, to use your phrase.”

  “I know, I know,” Hersig said wearily.

  “Are we just going to let it happen?” Joe asked.

  Hersig started to speak, then stopped. “Maybe it won’t be so bad, Joe. That isn’t exactly the cream of all mankind up there.”

  Joe’s eyes flared. “Get the hell away from me, Robey.”

  Joe turned and stomped across the snow, knowing that if he didn’t leave now, things were going to get much
worse very quickly.

  Joe cleared Saddlestring toward the mountains en route to . . . where? He didn’t know. He felt as if he were under water. His thoughts and movements seemed sluggish. They were someone else’s thoughts.

  He pulled over. Huge white flakes lit on his windshield, turning instantly into beaded stars against the glass. It was snowing hard. He opened his window and stuck his head out. The snow descended on his face. It felt cool against his skin.

  He stared wide-eyed into the sky. Snowflakes swirled as far as he could see. A few stung his eyes. He tried not to blink.

  Twenty-six

  The snow was now falling at an overwhelming volume. As Joe drove toward Saddlestring with his defroster and windshield wipers on high, he fought a rising sense of desperation. The fresh snow crunched beneath his tires, and the tracks in the snow he had made on the way out of town were already filled in and covered over. Deer, passing shadows in the snowfall, silently climbed from the plains and draws into the timber of the foothills. Geese on the river found overhangs and brush. The looming, wide shoulders of the Bighorn Mountains that provided the constant, dependable horizon had vanished behind a curtain of deathly white. If it weren’t for the dark metal delineator posts that bordered the two-lane highway, he would not have been able to see where the road was located.

  He tried to think, tried to put things into perspective, tried to fight the bile that was rising in his throat. He had cooled down enough to feel ashamed of what he’d said at the Forest Service office. He had lost it, which was unusual for him. The weakness he had showed to Strickland and Munker, and things he had said could come back to haunt him. Strickland, Munker, or even Robey could file a complaint with his supervisors. They could have him arrested. Jeannie Keeley could use the outburst against him when Joe tried to make the case that April would be better off with him and Marybeth.

  Joe cursed, and thumped the dashboard with the heel of his hand.

  THINK. Calm down and think.

  Strickland and Munker were mounting an assault on the Sovereign Citizen compound because Spud Cargill was allegedly there. The judge had signed a search warrant based on probable cause. Joe couldn’t imagine a scenario where Wade Brockius and the other Sovereigns simply stood aside while the agents ransacked their “sovereign nation.” The Sovereigns would defend their compound and from there, it would likely get out of control.

  Spud Cargill was the key. If Joe could find him, arrest him, or somehow prove that he wasn’t in the compound—the assault could be delayed until Munker found another excuse. By then, possibly, enough time could pass to once again defuse the situation. Maybe by then the storm would let up. Exposing the situation to the light of day, with the possible help and/or interference of the media, could delay or spoil Munker’s immediate plans. Maybe the Sovereigns would pack up and move on, taking their problems and their decades of miserable, irrational, and violent emotional baggage with them. Then they would be someone else’s problem. The idea appealed to Joe, although he suffered a pang of guilt as well.

  But Spud Cargill was the key. The only way to keep April out of danger, to delay things long enough for the courts to work, was to find Spud Cargill.

  To do this, Joe would need help.

  He drove through one of the three red lights in Saddlestring without seeing it.

  The parking lot at the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Library was empty except for four cars already topped with eight inches of snow. Marybeth’s van was one of them.

  Joe pulled beside it and jumped out. He left his pickup running.

  The library was locked, and a hand-lettered sign had been taped to the double doors saying that they had closed for the day due to the weather. Joe pressed his face to the glass and knocked loudly on the door. The lights inside had already been dimmed. A woman inside, one of Marybeth’s co-workers, saw him and squinted. She started to shoo him away when Marybeth joined her, smiled, and approached the door with a set of keys.

  “The librarian is sending everyone home,” Marybeth said, letting him in. “They’ve released the kids from school, and I guess the roads and airport are already closed.”

  Joe entered after shaking snow from his coat and hat. He nodded hello to the other employees, who were gathering their coats and gloves to go home.

  “Marybeth, we need to talk.”

  Her face showed instant concern. There was a sadness in her eyes that quickly emerged. It was a sadness that had not been very far from the surface since April had been taken.

  Aware that the other library employees were hovering, Marybeth led Joe to a small, dark conference room. She told the others to go ahead and leave, and that she would lock up.

  When she closed the door, he told her what had happened at the meeting.

  “You said that? Joe!”

  “I know,” he said. “But I could smell blood in that room, Marybeth. It got to me.”

  Marybeth sighed and leaned back against a table, studying him, waiting for what would come next. He was taken by her profound sadness. It hurt him that she felt this way. Which meant he had to do something about it. It was his duty to fix it.

  “I’m here for your permission,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “To do what I think best.”

  “What? You don’t need my permission for that.”

  Joe shook his head. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. For the past month, it’s been eating at me.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “Marybeth, I’ve been a bad husband and father. I haven’t protected April, or you, or our family. I’ve let lawyers do it. I’ve asked Robey about it, hoping he would do something. I’ve gone the easy, legal route.”

  “But Joe . . .”

  “Nobody cares for April like we do. The judge doesn’t care, the lawyers don’t care. To them, it’s just more paperwork, another case. Robey tries to care, but he’s busy. Now there are things happening where lawyers aren’t going to help us.”

  Joe stepped forward and gently grasped Marybeth by her shoulders. “I’m not sure I can do any good, honey. But I can try.”

  Marybeth was silent for a moment. Then she spoke gently. “You haven’t been a bad father or husband, Joe.”

  He was pleased that she said it, but not sure he agreed with her. “The most important thing is that April is safe,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if she’s with us or that awful woman. Those things can be sorted out later. For now, we need to see that she’s safe.”

  Marybeth’s eyes softened. “I agree,” she whispered.

  “We can’t rely on the sheriff or the lawyers for this. We can’t rely on anybody.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he confessed. “But I know that the reason Melinda Strickland and her stormtroopers are going to confront the Sovereigns is because they think Spud Cargill is up there. If I can get to him first, or prove he isn’t really up there, there’s no reason for them to do it.”

  “I trust you,” she said. “I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever known. Do what you have to do.”

  “Are you sure? I’m not sure that I trust myself.”

  “Go, Joe.”

  He kissed her, and they left the library together. While she started her car, he brushed the snow off her windshield and made sure she had traction to pull away. He told her to keep her cell phone on and call him if she had any trouble getting home.

  As she started to leave the parking lot, he ran through the snow to stop her. She rolled the window down. He reached in and squeezed her hand.

  “Marybeth . . .” He had trouble finding the words.

  “Say it, Joe.”

  “Marybeth, I can’t promise I can save her.”

  Marybeth left the parking lot and turned onto the unplowed street, and Joe watched until the snowfall absorbed her taillights.

  He could never remember Saddlestring being as quiet as it was now. The only thing he could hear was the low burbling of the exhaust
pipe of his pickup.

  Residents had retreated to their houses and woodstoves. Stores, schools, and offices had closed. The snow absorbed all sound, and stilled all motion. There was no traffic.

  Joe fought back a horrendous feeling of inevitable doom.

  Then he climbed into his pickup and roared out of the parking lot.

  Twenty-seven

  THINK.

  Joe had no clear idea where he should go or how he should proceed. He drove through Saddlestring on streets that were becoming more impassable by the minute. It was the kind of once-every-fifty-years storm where sending the plows out was pointless until it was over.

  He drove by Bighorn Roofing to confirm that it was dark and locked. The same with Spud Cargill’s home. He knew he was treading old ground.

  He thought of interviewing Mrs. Gardiner again, just to see if she could provide anything new, but dismissed the idea as useless. He wasn’t sure she was still in town and not en route to Nebraska.

  Rope Latham might know something, he thought. Latham might reveal where his friend was likely to run. No doubt Barnum and Munker had asked Rope about his partner, but if he had said anything to them, it hadn’t resulted in anything. Now Latham was in jail, in the county building, guarded by sheriff’s deputies. Barnum’s crew might not let Joe in to see him, or might delay a meeting throughout the day. Joe didn’t think he had the time to waste right now. Also, Rope Latham wouldn’t exactly have special feelings for the man who had arrested him, and if he was going to talk, it probably wasn’t going to be to him.

  Using his cell phone, Joe made sure Marybeth had made it home. She was there, but said the county had closed the road in back of her. And her van was stuck in the driveway.

  On a chance, he tried another number.

  “County attorney’s office.”

  “Robey? You’re there.”

  “Ah, Joe . . .” he said it in a way that suggested he wished it was just about anybody else who was calling him.

  “Robey, you need to help me.”

  Silence.

  “Robey?”

  “I shouldn’t even be talking to you, Joe, after what you said this morning. How you treated me. I’ll just assume that you’re a little off your rocker right now. Can I assume that?”