Winterkill Read online

  Cobb stepped out on the porch in his slippers. He wore the same bathrobe Joe had seen him in the day before. His hands were raised and his expression was calm, but tired. There was a hint of defeat in the way he slumped his shoulders.

  “I was wondering what happened to you yesterday after we talked,” Cobb said.

  “I went up to the compund,” Joe responded, a little defensively. “I was too late to find Spud. The Sovereigns had already refused him a place to hide out, and they sent him away.”

  Cobb nodded. “I figured they probably wouldn’t let him in. I was conflicted about telling you too much, though. I don’t approve of what he did. I don’t even like Spud much. But I have a real problem with the way the Feds are conducting themselves. We don’t need another Gestapo.”

  Joe repressed the urge to hit Cobb across the face with the butt of his shotgun.

  “Goddamn you, Cobb, just put that antigovernment crap away for a few minutes,” Joe hissed. “I know about all that, and I don’t care about any of it. All that matters to me right now is my little girl. You’ve just wasted twelve hours of my time when you had a pretty good idea he was coming back here.” Joe angrily racked his shotgun, and pressed the muzzle against Cobb’s ear.

  Cobb flinched away from the icy metal on his bare skin, and Joe saw his eyes bulge with fear. Joe didn’t mind that at all.

  “I’ve always liked you, B.J.,” Joe said, pressing the muzzle even harder. “I’m not sure why. But if you don’t start telling me the truth, and I mean every bit of it, things are going to get real Western real fast.”

  Cobb closed his eyes briefly and Joe heard a wracking breath. He pushed the shotgun forward, so that now the side of Cobb’s head was pinned against the opposite doorjamb and his closest ear was cupped around the muzzle and misshapen.

  “Okay, Joe,” Cobb said softly.

  Joe felt a rush of relief mixed with a whiff of shame for what he had just done to Cobb. He eased up on the pressure he had been using.

  “Is he inside?” Joe asked.

  Cobb shook his head, and rubbed his ear. “He was in the church for the past few days. But I haven’t seen him since he left.”

  “Then he . . .” Joe started to ask when Nate shouted from the back of the trailer.

  “Joe! There he is.”

  Turning, Joe looked through the heavy snowfall toward the church. A door was open, and a single shadowy form—Spud Cargill—was trying to run across an open field away from them. He had obviously been in the church when Joe and Nate arrived, huddling in the cold without a fire, and had just run out the back door behind the pulpit.

  “Yes, there he is,” Cobb said with resignation. “He must have known I wouldn’t let him into my home.”

  Joe looked back to Cobb. The Reverend was shaking his head sadly, still rubbing his ear, but slumping as if he had given up. There didn’t seem to be any fight in him. Joe made a quick decision that Cobb would stay put and wouldn’t be a threat, since he had, in effect, already given Spud’s location away.

  Joe lowered the shotgun and jumped off the porch, turning his back to Cobb.

  “Go inside and stay put,” Joe shouted over his shoulder. “You’ve got no part in this anymore.”

  “Don’t hurt him,” Cobb implored. “He’s an idiot, but there’s no reason to hurt him.”

  Joe said nothing. Nate met him in the yard between the trailer and the church, breathing hard from bulling his way through the deep snow. Joe crossed in front of Nate on his way to his pickup.

  As Joe threw down the ramps and fired up his snowmobile, he squinted through the storm. Spud Cargill was getting far enough away that with the hard-falling snow he was little more than a shadow in the field.

  “Spud Cargill, STOP!” Joe shouted. “Don’t make us come after you!”

  Joe shouted several more times as he backed the machine out of the truck. Cargill didn’t respond. He was struggling through the snow, high-stepping and stumbling. Several times, he pitched forward and vanished out of sight for an instant.

  Joe idled the snowmobile alongside Nate.

  “I can hit him from here,” Nate said, sliding his .454 out of his shoulder holster.

  “No!” Joe said. “I’m going to go get him.”

  “I could blow a leg off and shut him down.”

  “Nate!”

  Nate smiled slightly and shrugged. “I’ll cover you in case he’s crabby.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  As Joe roared by, he saw Nate out of the corner of his eye with his big pistol extended over a log, the sights, no doubt, on the back of Spud Cargill’s head.

  Joe quickly closed the gap between himself and Cargill. Joe drove one-handed, his right hand on the throttle and his left holding the shotgun. The snow was thigh-deep, and Spud Cargill was flushed and sweating. His eyes were wild. He didn’t have gloves or a hat. Joe couldn’t see if Spud had a weapon or not. Joe veered around him, cutting him off, then pointed the shotgun at Cargill’s chest.

  “That’s enough,” Joe said.

  Cargill stopped, wheezing, his breath billowing from his nostrils like dual exhausts. Slowly, Cargill bent forward and grasped his knees in an effort to catch his breath.

  “Turn around and head back.”

  Cargill’s hand came up with a tiny double-barreled Derringer in it. Joe flopped back flat on his seat as the little pistol cracked and the bullet missed. Still on his back but grasping the hand grip, Joe buried the throttle with his thumb and the snowmobile howled and pounced forward. The collision with Spud Cargill smashed the plastic windshield and cracked the fiberglass hood. Joe felt Cargill’s body thump beneath the tracks as the snowmobile passed over him.

  Once Joe was clear, he sat back up and circled back.

  A hand pushed its way out of the tracked snow, and then a knee. Joe drove up alongside and grabbed the hand. With tremendous effort, he pulled Spud Cargill from the snow. Cargill came up with his mouth, eyes, and ears packed with snow but his hands empty of little guns. The tracks of the snowmobile had shredded the front of his coat.

  It wasn’t until then that Joe realized how absolutely terrified he had been, and how instinctual and unplanned his reaction was.

  While Spud coughed and sputtered, Joe reached up and grabbed Cargill’s coat collar from the back. “Miranda rights!” Joe spat, not having the time, energy, or inclination to say more at the moment. Spud started to speak, but with a firm grasp of the coat, Joe gunned the snowmobile and rode it back to the church, dragging a flailing and screaming Spud Cargill alongside. As Joe rode back, he saw that Spud’s pickup was on the side of the church, obscured from the road and covered by a tarp that was now heavy with snow.

  Nate stepped away from the church as Joe rode up and let go of the coat. Cargill rolled twice in the snow, coming to rest facedown at Nate’s feet.

  “Damn nice work,” Nate said, smiling.

  “I thought you were going to cover me,” Joe snapped, his adrenaline still on high.

  “If I’d shot, I would have hit both of you,” Nate said sourly. “You were right in my line of fire.”

  Joe started to argue, then realized Nate was right.

  “Anyway . . . ,” Joe said.

  “You got him,” Nate said, finishing Joe’s sentence. Nate stepped forward, rolled Spud Cargill over with his boot then bent down and expertly searched Cargill from his coat to his shoes. He found a folded Buck knife in a trouser pocket and a thin thowing knife in a sheath in Spud’s boot. Nate put them both in his parka pocket.

  “No more weapons.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Joe said. Then, to Spud: “You have caused me and my family more pain and heartache than you can ever imagine. I’m just real happy to see you, Spud.”

  “The hell you talking about?” Spud mumbled, genuinely confused. “Never went after you . . . or any of the state agencies.”

  Joe didn’t have time to explain, and didn’t think Spud was owed an explanation.

  They were still in the church
parking lot. The three of them were wedged into the cab of Joe’s pickup with Spud in the middle between Joe and Nate.

  Spud Cargill was wet and ragged, and he complained to Joe that the handcuffs were too tight. Nate responded by elbowing Spud sharply in the mouth and snapping his head back.

  “Shut up,” Nate hissed. Cargill shut up. Joe glared at Nate, but said nothing.

  The motor was running and the heat was on, and Joe breathed easier as he unhooked his radio mike from the cradle and called for dispatch.

  There was now enough morning light to see . . . just about nothing. The snow was falling hard again, and the air was filled with nickel-sized flakes.

  “Dispatch.” It was Wendy, a longtime county employee and conspiracy buff.

  “This is Game Warden Joe Pickett,” he said. “Can you patch me through to Sheriff Barnum?”

  “No can do.”

  Joe waited for more. There wasn’t any.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No can do.”

  “Then patch me through to anybody. It doesn’t have to be Barnum.”

  “No can do.”

  “Wendy, damn you . . .”

  Another voice came on. Joe recognized it as Tony Portenson, Munker’s partner.

  “Call me back on a landline,” Portenson said.

  Furious, Joe left Cargill with Nate in the pickup.

  “Don’t leave me with him!” Cargill pleaded as Joe slammed the door.

  He knocked again on the trailer door and asked the Reverend Cobb if he could use his telephone.

  “I see you found Spud,” Cobb said, looking over Joe’s shoulder toward the pickup.

  “Yup.”

  Cobb stepped aside so Joe could enter. He was still obviously wary, and gave Joe a wider berth than necessary.

  “You scared me a little out there, Joe,” Cobb said, reaching again for his ear. Joe noted that the round imprint of the barrel could be seen on Cobb’s earlobe.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Joe said earnestly.

  Cobb shook his head, then nodded toward the window. “He tried to get the Sovereigns to shelter him, but they wouldn’t. I don’t blame them, but then I would have been rid of him.”

  “That’s what they told me,” Joe said. But something didn’t fit. He thought of the porch steps he had come up when he approached the trailer that morning. They were completely untracked. How could Spud have told Cobb about what had happened? Joe had the impression that Spud had entered the church in secret. “Did Spud tell you that?”

  Cobb shook his head.

  “So you’re in contact with the Sovereigns. How? By telephone?”

  Cobb sipped from a mug of coffee. He nodded toward a PC in a darkened corner of the trailer. The computer was on, a screen-saver undulating on its monitor. “E-mail,” Cobb said.

  “With who? Wade Brockius?”

  Cobb looked away. “Wade and I have corresponded for years. He’s a brilliant man and a good friend.”

  “Are you the one who suggested they come to Twelve Sleep County?”

  “Yes,” Cobb said. “I thought they would be safe here. Now I wish to God they had never come.”

  Joe sighed. “You’re not the only one.”

  Cobb handed Joe the telephone receiver and shuffled away in the direction of the computer to give Joe some privacy. Joe walked into the darkened kitchen, as far as the cord would allow him to go. He dialed the sheriff’s office.

  “Portenson.”

  “Joe Pickett. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Portenson’s voice sounded tired. “All law-enforcement personnel in Twelve Sleep County are under orders to maintain radio silence.”

  Joe had never heard of this happening before. “Why?”

  Portenson hesitated. “The assault team left this morning in the Sno-Cats. Agent Munker was afraid the Sovereigns had scanners up there and that they would overhear the chatter and know they were coming.”

  Joe felt his skin crawl. “They’ve already left?”

  “They assembled at four this morning and rolled at five.”

  Joe did a quick calculation. The Sno-Cats, he determined, would be at the Sovereign compound within the hour.

  “Portenson, can you reach them?”

  “I told you, their radios are off.”

  Joe held the telephone away from his ear for a moment and looked at it. Then he jerked it back. “I’VE GOT SPUD CARGILL!” Joe shouted. “I arrested him at a church fifteen minutes ago. He’s NOT at that compound.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Oh, shit is right,” Joe said. “How can we reach them to call off the raid? Think!”

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Portenson repeated, his sense of alarm coming through the receiver.

  “Hold it,” Joe said suddenly. “Why aren’t you with them?”

  “I couldn’t go.”

  “What do you mean.”

  “I mean I fucking couldn’t make myself go!” Portenson cried. “I quit! I think this whole operation is a cluster-fuck in the making, just like Ruby Ridge and Waco. I insisted that we wait for approval from the director before moving on the compound, but the director’s overseas and won’t be back till Monday. Munker and Melinda Strickland refused to wait even three days because they’re afraid the press will be here by then!”

  Joe listened silently. Rage and desperation began to fill him again.

  “Melinda Strickland, that nut, wouldn’t even compromise with me and go on Saturday, you know why?”

  Joe said nothing.

  “Because she said she doesn’t want to work on the weekend! Can you fucking believe it? She only kills people when she’s on the clock! You should have seen her this morning, it was unbelievable. She was sitting in the backseat of the Sno-Cat all bundled in blankets like she was going on a fucking sleigh ride. And she had that damned dog with her. She’s crazy, and so is Munker. I hate this operation. I hate this town. I HATE THIS GODDAMNED SNOW!”

  Joe hung up on Portenson in mid-rant.

  While he had raced down Timberline Road just a few hours before, the small convoy of Sno-Cats and snowmobiles had been rumbling up the mountain on Bighorn Road toward the compound. He had not only missed Cargill coming down, he had missed the assault team going up. He slammed the counter with the heel of his hand and made the coffeemaker dance.

  Joe opened the front door and stood on the porch. Nate saw him through the windshield and lowered his window.

  “They’ve already left for the compound,” Joe said flatly.

  If Nate registered any alarm, Joe couldn’t see it in his face.

  “Nate, will you please check to see if Spud has his wallet? I’m going to need his identification to prove to Munker and Strickland that we’ve actually got him in custody.”

  Nate nodded. “Are we going to try to head them off?”

  “I’m going to try,” Joe said. “You have even less credibility with those folks than I do. I need you to take Cargill to the county building and make sure he gets booked into jail. Just ask for Tony Portenson. I just talked with him; he’s at the building.”

  Suddenly, there was a flurry inside the cab of the truck as Spud Cargill tried to cold-cock Nate while he was talking to Joe. Joe saw Nate’s head jerk from a blow. But instead of panicking, Nate signaled to Joe that everything was okay and closed the window. Nate turned his attention to Spud Cargill.

  Joe was amazed.

  “Warden?” It was B. J. Cobb from inside the trailer.

  Joe turned, assuming Cobb was going to ask him to close the door.

  “You need to come see this.” Cobb’s voice was deadly cold.

  Joe stepped back in and walked with Cobb across the cluttered living room. Cobb sat down in front of his computer.

  On the monitor, an e-mail program was fired up. In the “In-box” was a message from W. Brockius to B. J. Cobb.

  The subject line of the e-mail was:

  THEY’RE HERE.

  The body of the message was short:
r />   THEY’VE ESTABLISHED A PERIMETER. HELP US, MY LOVE.

  Joe was just about to ask Cobb why the e-mail said “MY LOVE” when he heard a scream outside that set his teeth on edge.

  Joe left the trailer and shut the door, looking for the source of the scream. Nate Romanowski was now outside the pickup, rubbing his bare hands with snow.

  “What was that?” Joe asked.

  Nate gestured toward Joe’s truck. Inside the cab, Spud Cargill was holding his hands to the sides of his head, his eyes white and wild, his mouth wide open. He looked like the painting by Edvard Munch. He screamed again.

  “I got his wallet, but I didn’t think that would be enough,” Nate said. “Munker would just think you found his wallet in his house or workplace.”

  Oh no . . . , Joe thought. “Nate . . .”

  Romanowski held his palm out. “So I got you his ear.”

  Thirty-two

  Joe seethed as he attached his shotgun to the back of the snowmobile with bungee cords in the parking lot of the church. He could not believe that the assault team had launched in the bad weather, and he was furious that he had wasted so many hours chasing Spud up the mountain, down the mountain, and back to where he’d started in the first place.

  Nate Romanowski declared that he should go to the compound as well. “You might need me,” he said.

  Still reeling from pocketing Spud’s severed ear, Joe snarled at Nate.

  “You cut off his ear!”

  “Hey, once you think about it you’ll agree with me that it was a good idea. Hell, you took the ear, didn’t you?” Nate said. “The little bastard deserved it. Think about everything he set in motion in this valley.”

  Joe breathed deeply and collected himself. Nate was right, but the whole episode—his own behavior and Nate’s—still disturbed him. Joe pulled on his thick snowmobile suit and started zipping the sleeves and pant legs tight.

  “Nate, I need you to take Spud to jail so we know where to find him. I can’t spare the time it would take to book him in.”

  Nate began to protest, but Joe cut him off.

  “Just sit Portenson down and tell him the whole story. Maybe he can figure out a way to intervene. Maybe he can contact his director, or talk some sense into Melinda Strickland or Munker.”