Winterkill Page 24

  Joe nodded, even though Hersig couldn’t see it. “I guess you can assume that. I guess I get that way when I see a blood-bath coming.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Joe . . .”

  “Robey.”

  “What?”

  “Are Strickland and Munker still gathering the troops? Considering the weather, I mean?”

  “You are to stay away from that meeting, Joe. You’re likely to be arrested if you even show up.”

  “So that’s a yes.”

  “YES!”

  Joe slowed to a stop in the middle of the street. There was no traffic to impede. “How are they going to get up the mountain? I just talked with Marybeth, and she said Bighorn Road is already closed.”

  “I don’t know all the details, Joe. This isn’t exactly my department. But I heard Barnum put in a request for those Sno-Cats again. And the sheriff’s department has snowmobiles of their own. My understanding is that they’ll roll as soon as they can get enough vehicles.”

  THINK.

  The first place Joe had ever noticed Rope Latham and Spud Cargill together was during the Christmas Eve service at the First Alpine Church of Saddlestring. He’d been concerned with the presence of the Sovereigns at the time, and hadn’t given it much consideration until now.

  Two single men, business partners, had gone to church together. That was a bit unusual in itself. And although he didn’t know either man well, he couldn’t say that the roofers showed any outward signs of deep religiosity. One never knew for sure about such things, he thought, but neither seemed to approach business or life in a very God-fearing way. Unprovoked murder and assault for unpaid bills weren’t exactly Christian acts.

  But the First Alpine Church was more than just another denomination. It was “unconventional.” Joe had heard that the weekly sermons by the Reverend B. J. Cobb were equal parts Gospel and God Damn the Government. It was the latter part, he surmised, that had drawn Spud Cargill.

  Joe flipped a U-turn in the middle of the empty street and felt the back end of the truck fishtail in the snow. When it gripped, he gunned the truck eastward toward the edge of town.

  One of the advantages of the storm, Joe thought, was that it drove everyone home and indoors. In normal circumstances, a search for the Reverend B. J. Cobb would have consisted of visiting various work sites where his contract welding unit might be set up. But today, Cobb would likely be home like everybody else. Home was a double-wide trailer behind the church.

  Joe parked in front of the church and waded through the snow toward the double-wide. There were no fresh tracks of any kind around either structure. A snowmobile had been driven out from the garage and parked near the road, a wise precaution if an emergency came up.

  He banged on the metal door and waited.

  B. J. Cobb opened it wearing a ratty terrycloth bathrobe over a sweatshirt and stained white painter’s pants. He was unshaven. The odor of simmering chili wafted out of the door.

  “Hello, sir,” Cobb said, not unfriendly.

  Joe nodded and said he didn’t mean to bother him at home. “Can I ask you some questions?”

  Cobb smiled and looked up over Joe’s head at the falling snow. “It seems like today you should be home with your family, waiting this out, instead of standing in it.”

  “If you let me in, I wouldn’t be standing in it,” Joe said.

  Cobb looked down. He didn’t invite Joe inside, which annoyed Joe slightly.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “Spud Cargill. He was a member of your church. I saw him there Christmas Eve.”

  Cobb nodded, and pulled his bathrobe together across his chest.

  “B.J., would you please close that door?” Mrs. Eunice Cobb implored from somewhere inside the trailer. “You’re letting all the heat out!”

  “The game warden is here,” Cobb called over his shoulder. “He’s got questions about Spud.”

  That silenced Mrs. Cobb, and she did not reply. Cobb turned back.

  “Yes, Spud was a member of the congregation. He faithfully attended church about two times a year, three in good years. He wasn’t exactly a deacon in our church. You know, Mr. Pickett, I already answered these questions for the sheriff.”

  Joe nodded. “Did the sheriff ask you if you knew where Spud might hide out?”

  “Of course he did.”

  “And your answer was . . .”

  “My answer was that it was none of his damned business.”

  Joe grunted and looked away. What a storm, he thought.

  “You know that Spud murdered a man.”

  Cobb chuckled. “You mean Elmer Fedd?”

  “Lamar Gardiner,” Joe corrected, his voice flat.

  “So I’ve heard,” Cobb said, while finding the ties to his robe and making a loose knot. “Now, Mr. Pickett, I don’t mean to be obtuse. I admire your tenacity, and I’ve heard you are an honest man. That’s rare. But I have strong feelings about state interference in people’s lives. It’s not my obligation to help out the state. It’s the state’s obligation to provide services for me, the taxpayer and citizen. I object to the kind of power the federal agencies wield here.”

  “Still doesn’t mean Lamar Gardiner should have been murdered,” Joe said.

  Cobb considered that. “You’re probably right.”

  “And you know what?” Joe asked, shaking the snow off his coat. He raised his head and fixed his eyes on Cobb’s. “I’m not really here to debate this question with you, Mr. Cobb. I don’t really care all that much about Spud Cargill, either, if you want to know the truth. I’m here because I’ve got a little girl up there in that compound who might get hurt if the FBI and the Forest Service people have their way and raid it because they think he’s there. So if I can find out where Spud is—or isn’t—I might be able to help my little girl.”

  Cobb’s expression changed. There was now a hint of confusion, as if he were weighing a dilemma. He searched Joe’s face, then returned to his eyes.

  “I didn’t know that,” Cobb said softly.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Joe said. “We don’t think the same way, you and me. But in this case, I want to stop the Feds as much as you do. Just for a different reason.”

  Cobb seemed to be considering something.

  “Honey . . .” Mrs. Cobb said softly from inside. “I’m sorry, but I’m freezing.”

  Cobb started to speak, then stopped. Then he set his mouth hard and rubbed his buzz-cut hair with the palm of his hand.

  “Is he up there, Mr. Cobb?” Joe asked.

  Cobb stepped back and felt for the handle of the door. Is he going to shut it in my face? Joe wondered.

  “You are a man of God,” Joe said. “Convince Spud to turn himself in.”

  “I am and he won’t.”

  Joe tried to hide his elation. This meant that Cobb was—or had been—in contact with Spud Cargill. It also meant that Cobb could be arrested for assisting a fugitive. Both men knew that.

  “It’s called sanctuary, Mr. Pickett,” Cobb said. “Spud believes in it. So do I. And I can’t help you any further.”

  “So he’s here,” Joe said softly.

  Cobb shook his head. “He was here. But he’s not anymore.”

  Before Cobb closed the door and Joe heard a lock snap shut, Cobb raised his eyes and looked over Joe’s shoulder in the direction of the mountains.

  The road to Nate Romanowski’s cabin was almost impenetrable, even though Joe had put chains on his tires before trying it. Four times, he got stuck. What should have taken an hour had taken three. It was midafternoon, although he couldn’t tell that by the sun or the sky. It was just as dark, and the snow was coming down just as hard, as it had been all day.

  Joe had tried to call ahead but got a message that Nate’s phone was out of service. He remembered belatedly that the telephone had been damaged during the search of the cabin, that pieces of it had been scattered across the kitchen counter. He cursed while he dug under the front axle with a shovel to
clear the packed snow that had once again stopped him. He hated to waste the time it took to dig himself out. Every hour that went by was an hour closer to the assembling of Munker and Strickland’s assault team in town.

  Joe’s plan, formed as he left Cobb’s trailer, was to ask Nate if he would go up to the compound with him. Joe had learned through experience that backup in volatile situations was essential. Not having backup at Savage Run had nearly killed him, and it had resulted in the deaths of others. He had vowed never to approach a predicament like that again without help. And Nate and his big gun might provide help.

  Finally, Joe was able to rock the pickup and break through the snowbank and over the rise to the river.

  Nate’s cabin was dark and socked in, and his Jeep was gone. The complete absence of tracks suggested that Nate had been gone for at least a day.

  Joe cursed again and thumped the truck seat with his hand. Pulling the evidence notebook from his pocket, he wrote out a note to Nate and attached it to the front door with a rusty penknife he found in his glove box. He also pinned a business card with his cell and home telephone numbers on it.

  Nate:

  You offered help. I need it now.

  Joe Pickett

  “Thanks for everything, Nate,” he growled, turning the pickup around. He drove back out in his own tracks.

  Twenty-eight

  For Sheridan Pickett, there was usually nothing more invigorating, or liberating, than having school let out because of snow. The announcement over the intercom had been received with unabashed cheers and whistles, and was followed by a mad scramble of books and uneaten lunches being thrown into backpacks.

  Sheridan couldn’t share in the enthusiasm, though. A snow day meant nothing with her sister April gone.

  Outside, the small fleet of buses had been lined up on the street, their engines idling, great clouds of exhaust rising up to meet the heavy snow.

  Now she was home, safe and warm, curled up on the couch in her sweats reading an introductory book about falconry that had appeared in their mailbox the day before in an envelope addressed to her. Paper-clipped to the book jacket was a note written on the back of a beer coaster with foreign printing on it.

  Sheridan:

  People don’t choose the art of falconry like they choose a sport or a hobby. Falconry chooses them. After meeting you, I think you might be chosen. Please read this book carefully, and if you’re still interested I can teach you.

  Nate Romanowski

  She raised the coaster to her nose for the fourth time that afternoon and sniffed it. It still smelled faintly of beer. She tried to imagine where he’d gotten it. The printing on the coaster was in English and Arabic.

  She opened the battered old book and looked at the photo plates of falcons, hawks, and eagles. The birds captivated her.

  When the telephone rang, Missy appeared from the hallway and took it off the hook as Sheridan was reaching for it. Sheridan watched her grandmother with annoyance.

  Missy handed the telephone toward Sheridan. “It’s some little girl for you.”

  As Sheridan took the receiver, Missy bent down near her. “I’m expecting a call from Bud Longbrake, so don’t be long.”

  Sheridan made a face and turned away from Missy.

  “Sherry?”

  Sheridan felt a jolt shoot through her body. She immediately recognized the tiny, distant voice, where Missy had not.

  “April?”

  “Hi.”

  “I don’t know what to say!” Sheridan looked around the room. She remembered her mother had said something about going outside to take care of their horses. Lucy was in their room, putting on makeup in front of a mirror just for fun.

  “How are you guys doing?” April asked. “I miss you guys.”

  “We all miss you, too. Where are you?”

  “Up here. Up here in the snow. It’s really cold.”

  “Then come home!” Sheridan laughed nervously.

  April sighed. “I wish I could.” There was a beat of silence, and Sheridan could hear static growing. It was a poor connection.

  “I’m not supposed to use the phone. My mom will really get mad if she finds out I’m talking to you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Oh, everybody is at a meeting. Mom, Clem . . .”

  “Who’s Clem?”

  “A guy who lives with us. I don’t like him much, but he’s the only person who knows how to keep the heater running.”

  Sheridan noticed that April’s Southern accent was coming back. Sheridan had forgotten that April had had it when she first moved in with them.

  “I miss you guys a lot.” She sounded pathetic.

  “April, are you coming home?”

  April sighed. “I really do want to. I cry a lot. I like my mom and all, but . . .”

  “What’s it like there?” Sheridan asked. She was in the kitchen now, parting the curtains. The snow was coming down so hard that the corral and shelter were smudges in the snow. She couldn’t see her mother.

  “It’s cold up here. Really cold. I just stay inside all day. Last night, there were awful sounds outside that kept everybody awake. Clem said it was rabbits being skinned alive.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. How’s Lucy?”

  Sheridan tried to picture April as she talked. She pictured her in a corner, wearing rags. For some reason, Sheridan couldn’t see April’s face, just her tangled blond hair. The image of April without a face made Sheridan shiver.

  “Lucy’s fine. Goofy as always. She’s been dressing up with Grandmother Missy and going to town. Right now she’s in our room putting on makeup.”

  April laughed a little. “She’s our little girlie-girl, isn’t she?”

  Sheridan felt tears welling in her eyes. April seemed so close, but she wasn’t.

  “Do you want me to go get her? Do you want to talk to her?”

  Over the phone, Sheridan heard the sounds of adults talking in the background. Their voices were muffled.

  “Uh-oh, somebody’s coming,” April said frantically, her voice climbing in register. “ ’Bye, Sherry. Tell Lucy I miss her. TellMomandDadIlovethem . . .”

  The phone disconnected, and Sheridan stood there, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “Good-bye, April,” she said to the dead telephone.

  Sheridan heard the high whining sound of a snowmobile outside. She ran across the living room and saw out the window that her dad was home. His pickup was in the driveway, and he was driving his snow machine from the garage up a ramp into the bed of the truck.

  Without putting on her coat or boots, she stepped outside on the front porch in the deep snow. Even though she was wearing only socks, she couldn’t feel the cold.

  Her dad saw her and killed the engine of the machine. He stood up in the back of his truck, looking at her like she was crazy.

  “You need to get inside and close the door, Sheridan,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Dad, I just talked with April.”

  “You what?”

  “You’ve got to save her, Dad. You’ve got to.”

  Twenty-nine

  Joe Pickett moved silently through the trees in the dark. Although the moon was obscured by the storm clouds, there was enough ambient light that the virgin snow appeared a dark blue. The trunks of trees rose from it and the branches melded into the night sky. The snow had decreased in its fury, although it had not stopped. It sifted dust-like through the branches, so powdery that it sometimes hung suspended in the air. The temperature had dropped into the low teens, cold enough to evince an occasional pop or moan from freezing timber.

  He was on Battle Mountain, approaching the Sovereign Citizen compound on foot from the north. He was not yet close enough to see lights or hear voices. He was there to arrest Spud or save April, or both. He was not thinking clearly.

  Joe had been prevented from reaching the compound via Bighorn Road by two things. The first was the snow, which had literally ren
dered the road impassable. The second was the sheriff’s Blazer, belonging to Deputy McLanahan, parked at the beginning of the summit. They had relocated the roadblocks farther down the mountain, but they were roadblocks nevertheless. Joe wasn’t sure he could talk his way through it, or that he even wanted to try. It was obvious that the assault would be at least a day away, given the conditions. Even Munker wouldn’t be hot-blooded enough to confront the camp in the dark, Joe reasoned. The Sno-Cats they would use in the morning had been assembled, and were parked shoulder to shoulder near the Blazer. Joe had seen them through his binoculars, and had seen both Munker and Portenson checking out the Sno-Cats from the backs of borrowed Forest Service snowmobiles. Joe had driven away, hoping he hadn’t been seen, and had taken the other road.

  As it darkened, Joe had driven as far as he could up Timberline Road until the snow got so deep that he almost got stuck again. Rather than try to go any farther with the night coming on, he pulled out the ramps and backed his snowmobile out of the pickup. Then he mounted the snowmobile and roared into the black timber. He cut through the forest rather than go around it, through a huge, dark, wooded wilderness that had been declared officially closed by Lamar Gardiner’s Forest Service. The sledding had been a challenge. The snow was untracked, and so fresh and deep that at times the machine bogged down in it, the rear tracks digging down into the snow rather than hurling him over the top of it. The snout of the machine would raise and point to the sky as the snowmobile foundered in the powder. When this happened, Joe’s adrenaline rushed through him and he threw his weight forward or back with controlled violence, levering himself free and allowing the track to grip and hurl him forward. He knew that if he got stuck in snow this deep, in temperatures this low, he might never get out alive. No one knew where he was, and the Sovereigns certainly weren’t expecting him.

  If I get stuck, Joe said to himself in a mantra, I die.

  And he could not slow down, because when he did, sometimes involuntarily as a result of trying to pick his route through dark timber with the single headlight, he could feel the machine start to sink and settle into the four-foot-thick powder. The only way to keep moving and not get stuck was to keep the machine hurtling forward over the top. So he had run the engine much faster than he was comfortable with, keeping the headlight pointing south, sometimes clipping trees so closely that he was showered with bark and snow from their branches.