Breaking Point jp-13

by C. J. Box

  Farkus tuned out. He’d never enjoyed the weaponry talk so many men loved, and it was Greek to him. If the conversation was about dry flies, streamers, or nymphs, Farkus was all over that. But gun porn? It made him tired.

  Nevertheless, Farkus tried not to think of Butch Roberson at the other end of that Zeiss Conquest scope. And he thought about his stray black cat, cut in half, eviscerated, bleeding out in the sand.

  The smell of horses and leather combined with the pine dust and dried mulch from the forest floor as McLanahan, Jimmy Sollis, and Farkus rode from where they’d parked the horse trailer at the trailhead into the trees. McLanahan led, trailing a packhorse with bulging panniers, with Farkus in the middle and Jimmy Sollis last. Sollis also trailed a horse, but the horse wasn’t laden with anything other than an empty saddle and several coils of rope. McLanahan had explained to Farkus that the horse was for bringing Butch Roberson down from the mountain, either in the saddle or his body lashed across it.

  Farkus hadn’t been much help when it came to saddling the horses or gearing up, and both McLanahan and Sollis gave him a few dirty looks. Farkus had explained he was no horseman, and the time he’d spent in the saddle had been among the worst time in his life. Besides, he said, he was there to help guide them, not to be a wrangler. For revenge, he thought, they gave him a sleek black gelding with crazy eyes that looked like the devil himself. His name was Dreadnaught. And when he climbed onto Dreadnaught’s saddle and the mount crow-hopped and nearly dumped him before looking back with what seemed like an evil leer, Farkus knew it was a matter of time before something bad happened.

  Before departing, McLanahan had packed the panniers with food, camping gear, electronics, and dozens of items-radios, body armor, gear bags-stenciled with TSCSD, or Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department. Things he’d “borrowed” when he cleared out, Farkus guessed. The ex-sheriff told Farkus to leave his old hunting rifle behind and instead gave him a Bushmaster semiautomatic rifle chambered for.223 with a thirty-round magazine. When he noted the TSCSD tag on the rear stock, McLanahan waggled his eyebrows as if to say, Yes, so what?

  Jimmy Sollis fitted his long-distance rifle into a padded scabbard and lashed it to his saddle. He’d clipped a cartridge belt around his waist and hung heavy-barreled binoculars around his thick neck.

  “A quarter to one,” McLanahan declared, checking his wristwatch as they rode into the trees. “We made good time. I’ll bet the Feds on the other side of the mountain aren’t even organized yet.”

  Farkus said nothing, and of course Sollis kept quiet.

  As the canopy of trees closed in above them, Farkus noted how cool and dark it was. Memories from several years before came rushing back of another horse pack trip into another set of mountains for other fugitives, as well as the previous fall with Butch Roberson in these same mountains. Butch loved the mountains as much as life itself, he’d told Farkus.

  McLanahan asked, “Dave, how far until we make the elk camp?”

  Farkus strained around in his saddle, looking out ahead of them-trees-and to the sides-trees. All he knew was that they were high enough into the timber where he could no longer look back and see the pickup and trailer.

  “Three or four hours,” Farkus said, trying to guess.

  “Time to go dark, gentlemen,” McLanahan said to Farkus and Sollis. “If you’ve got cell phones, shut them off. We can’t have a phone start ringing as we’re closing in on Butch. And if Wheelchair Dick finds out we’re up here, he’ll try to order us back. In this case, ignorance is bliss, buckaroos. We’re on a mission.”

  Both Farkus and Sollis dug their phones out and switched them off.

  Farkus asked, “What if the Feds see us and start shooting? You said they don’t know we’re up here, either.”

  McLanahan twitched his mustache-Farkus guessed it was a grin-and said, “There’s a big difference between three men on horseback and one lonely and desperate guy on foot. Even those yahoos should be able to tell the difference.

  “Plus,” he continued, “we should be in place long before those yahoos even start their push. We should have Butch one way or other long before they even know we’re here.”

  An hour into their ride into the mountains, Farkus nudged Dreadnaught to the side of the trail and waited for Jimmy Sollis to catch up. As he approached, Sollis looked at Farkus with a hostile, deadeye stare that Farkus felt all deep in his gut.

  When Sollis caught up, Farkus nudged his horse so they rode side by side.

  “So what’s the deal with you?” Farkus asked. “Are you going into this for the money, like me?”

  “Hardly.”

  Farkus waited a beat, but Sollis didn’t offer more. Ahead, trees were narrowing on both sides of the trail, and he knew they wouldn’t be able to ride abreast much longer.

  “Do you have a beef with Butch Roberson?” Farkus asked.

  “Never met the man.”

  “So what is it, then? You and the ex-sheriff are tight?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  The trees started to pinch in. Farkus could feel Dreadnaught start to gather beneath him, as if preparing to bolt.

  “I get it,” Farkus said, irritated. “You’re a man of few words. Well, I’m not. And if I’m going to risk my ass going up into these mountains, I need to know what kind of company I’m keeping.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not kidding,” Farkus said, feeling his neck flush with anger.

  Sollis didn’t look at him when he said, “I tried to sign up for the military, but I had a record, so they wouldn’t take me. All I wanted to do was serve my country, and they wouldn’t have me. I wanted to go to Iraq or Afghanistan.”

  At the last second, before Dreadnaught bolted or crowded Sollis’s horse into the trees, Farkus clicked his tongue and moved his mount back in front. Over his shoulder, he said, “So you just want to shoot somebody with that rifle of yours.”

  “Damned right,” Sollis said coldly.

  As they rode, Farkus heard a high whining sound become more pronounced. At first he thought it was an insect near his ear, and he swatted at it clumsily before realizing the sound came from somewhere above the canopy of trees.

  “What’s that?” he asked McLanahan.

  The ex-sheriff shrugged. “Sounds too high-pitched to be an airplane, but maybe the Feds are sending a spotter over the mountains to look for Butch.”

  The high whine passed overhead and began to recede in volume.

  “Whatever it is,” McLanahan said, “it’s not going to see much through these trees.”

  “My tax dollars at work,” Farkus said, and sighed.

  “If you paid any,” McLanahan said.

  13

  After dropping Lisa Greene-Dempsey at the Holiday Inn with a paper sack of fruits and vegetables, and shock on her face that had been imprinted there since the takedown of Bryce Pendergast, Joe spotted Marybeth’s van parked on the street outside the Saddlestring Hotel and pulled behind it. Matt Donnell’s Lexus was also on the street.

  Joe wanted to let Marybeth know what was going on-that he’d been called out to Big Stream Ranch to join the search for Butch Roberson and that his first meeting with his new boss. . had not gone well.

  He stepped through a gap in the orange plastic fencing on the sidewalk that indicated there was construction in progress, and entered through the magnificent old front doors. As he did, a heated conversation between Marybeth and Donnell stopped him cold.

  Matt Donnell stood on one side of the old lobby with a loosened tie and his hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers. He was paunchy and balding; his face was flushed. Joe could see beads of perspiration on his scalp through his thinning hair.

  Marybeth stood across from him, hands on hips, bent slightly forward toward Donnell, in her coveralls, her hair tied back with a red bandanna. Even though both had stopped talking, Joe knew the look on Marybeth’s face, and he knew that Donnell was in trouble. Joe had been on the receiving end of that
look many times in their marriage.

  To Donnell, Joe said: “Just say three words: ‘You’re right, dear.’ Trust me on this.”

  Joe expected a smile, but Donnell looked straight down at the tops of his shoes. Obviously, whatever they had been arguing about was worse than Joe had thought, and he turned to his wife.

  “Everything all right?”

  She softened when she looked over at Joe, though, and said, “Honey, what happened to the side of your face?”

  “I met my boss and got in a fight,” Joe said. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “You got in a fight with your boss?”

  “No-with Bryce Pendergast. We arrested him for cooking meth and shooting an antelope.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Peachy. So what’s going on here? It doesn’t look good.”

  “It isn’t,” she said, biting off the words. “Maybe you should ask Matt.”

  Joe said, “Matt?”

  “I’m just the messenger,” Donnell said softly, then looked up at Joe with pleading eyes. “Don’t let her kill the messenger.”

  “Tell him, Matt,” Marybeth said.

  “Tell me what?”

  Donnell said, “I met with the agencies and departments we needed to talk to so we could get our financing for the next stage of construction. We’ve got big problems.”

  Joe shook his head, not understanding.

  Donnell said, “I knew the old state fire marshal, and he was a reasonable guy, but he retired. The new one is some kind of fire Nazi. He said we need to install a sprinkler system throughout the building, even though it’s historic. We kind of figured on that, and I’d priced it in,” he said, looking to Marybeth for confirmation. She nodded.

  “But he threw me a curve,” he said.

  Marybeth cut in, still angry. “So in order for us to install the sprinkler system we have to make sure none of the old paint contains any lead, which means we have to hire special testing crews to take samples and analyze the old paint before we can do anything.”

  “What a pain,” Joe said. “But weren’t you going to repaint anyway?”

  “Of course,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter that we weren’t going to keep any of the old paint. And it doesn’t matter that in eighty years of people using this building, nobody ate any paint chips and got sick from it.”

  Donnell rolled his eyes and said, “They’re worried flakes of the paint will come off when we strip it and kids will eat them, I guess. So we have to hire guys in hazmat suits and with special certification to strip the walls.”

  Before Joe could speak, Donnell said, “And that’s not the worst of it.”

  “Tell him the worst of it, Matt,” Marybeth said.

  “He’s worried about asbestos in these old buildings. The wallboards and the insulation might have asbestos in them. The shingles, too. And all of the wiring needs to be replaced.”

  Joe said, “So they want you to gut the entire building?”

  “Worse,” Donnell said. “We have to hire a specially certified asbestos-removal company to gut the entire structure down to the bricks and framing. Then we can’t proceed until the fire marshal sends up his own personal inspector from Cheyenne to give us a permit.”

  Joe understood the look of panic in Marybeth’s eyes now.

  “And we can’t do any of the work ourselves,” Marybeth said, “because we don’t have certified training or licenses.” Then, to Matt: “Tell him about these certified asbestos-removal companies.”

  Matt sighed and looked away. “There aren’t any.”

  Joe said, “What?”

  “The closest one is in Salt Lake City,” Donnell said. “They’re backed up for eighteen months. And the cost of getting them up here to all but demolish the hotel. .”

  “. . is more than Matt paid for it,” Marybeth finished for her partner. “All these new costs are way beyond what we budgeted to rebuild the hotel.”

  “Oh, man,” Joe said, rubbing his face. He’d forgotten about the gunshot burn on the side of his head, and it stung when he touched it.

  Donnell said, “No bank is going to even talk to us until we have all the permits and sign-offs.”

  He stepped back and raised both of his hands, palms up, toward the old vaulted ceilings.

  Donnell said, “I’ve been buying and selling real estate in this valley for twenty-five years. There have been up and down years, but it was based on free market. It’s just the way it is, and I never bitched about the bad years because the good years made up for them, and I always knew that if I worked hard and didn’t screw anyone, I’d succeed-and I have, up to now.”

  Joe interrupted and asked, “What’s it going to cost, Matt?”

  Donnell made a pained face and said, “If I were to guess, I’d say rebuilding this hotel like we wanted it will cost us four times more than we thought and take three times as long.”

  Joe narrowed his eyes. Marybeth looked stricken. He wanted to knock Matt Donnell’s head off. He said, “You’re supposed to be the expert here. You’re supposed to know this stuff. Marybeth trusted you.”

  “I know,” Donnell said, lowering his arms and listing his head slightly to the side as if defeated already. “This wasn’t my first rodeo. But it’s the first time I ever tried to rebuild a historic building. I thought the bureaucrats would want to help us. I honestly thought-and I remember telling your wife this-that removing the blight from the middle of a small town and building a business incubator in its place would be cheered on. I had no idea they’d throw every possible regulation and roadblock in our way.”

  Joe still wanted to punch him.

  “Look,” Donnell said, “thousands of people passed through this hotel over the years. They ate and slept here, and nobody got sick or died. But all of a sudden, when we want to fix it up so people can use it again, it’s considered a goddamned death trap. It’s like it’s painted with poison and infested with toxic waste. Knowing what we do now, who in their right mind would want to build anything, or fix anything, anymore?”

  Donnell’s face was bright red, and he looked to Joe like he might break down. Joe and Marybeth exchanged worried glances.

  Then Marybeth said softly, “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

  Donnell looked up, took a breath, and said, “I think we should give up on this project. I’ll take my losses while I still can. It’s not worth it trying to push back because they hold all the cards. They’ve got paid lawyers and regulators with no personal financial stake in this building like we do. They can sit at their desks and tell us what we can and can’t do, and they can drag this out for years or until we’re both bankrupt.”

  “You’re saying we should just walk away from our deal?” Marybeth said, and Joe noticed the welling in her eyes.

  Donnell nodded. “Yes. I’ll put the hotel back on the market and sell it for whatever we can get, even if we’re just selling the lot itself. A corner lot on Main Street in the middle of town has to be worth something. I’ll do what I can to return some of the money we’ve already sunk into it, I swear. I’m sorry I got you two involved.”

  Joe took a deep breath.

  Marybeth said to Donnell, “I’m sorry you’re going to take a loss, and I appreciate the opportunity you gave me.” She looked at Joe. “I’m sorry.”

  He knew how much it meant to her. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  And it was a hurdle removed from not taking the job in Cheyenne, he thought but didn’t say.

  Then he looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Call me,” Marybeth said to his back.

  14

  As Joe drove up Bighorn road with Toby once again in the horse trailer, the immediate anger he’d felt in the lobby of the Saddlestring Hotel subsided and was replaced by frustration. He thought about the look of utter defeat on Marybeth’s face, something he’d rarely seen before. He didn’t like seeing his wife so disappointed.

  He wanted to fix it someh
ow but didn’t know where to start. He wondered what she’d think about the job offer from LGD, and anticipated her response. Which is why he hadn’t told her about it.

  As he drove, changing channels from one problem to another, Joe tried to imagine what Butch felt like up there in the mountains, away from his wife and daughter, sleeping on the ground and listening for the sounds of approaching pursuers. Unlike Butch, Joe and Marybeth had dodged a bullet. If they’d made the hotel deal they’d have been ruined instead of disappointed.

  Butch had to know, Joe thought, that his life wasn’t worth anything anymore. His construction company would go bankrupt and his family would be affected in ways he could never have imagined.

  Butch would know that if he turned himself in he’d be locked away for years. Did he regret what he’d done, or did he feel justified for having done it?

  Joe sighed, knowing the question was academic. Butch Roberson was the only suspect in a double homicide-it didn’t matter what he felt.

  He was surprised to see a jam of vehicles in front of the gate to the Big Stream Ranch. Pickups with horse trailers, SUVs trailing pods of ATVs, law enforcement panel vans, and a dozen other vehicles were massed on the shoulder of the highway and in the right- hand lane itself-a convoy that had been made to stop. Several uniformed deputies were standing on the blacktop, directing traffic.

  Joe slowed and powered his window down as he approached Deputy Justin Woods.

  “What’s going on?” Joe asked. “I thought they were going to set up their command post up at the forest boundary.”

  “That was the idea,” Woods said, “but they can’t get access to cross the ranch.”

  “What?”

  “Frank Zeller won’t let them through,” Woods said, trying to stifle a smirk.

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Julio Batista and his toady,” Woods said.

  Joe thanked him and eased off the blacktop into the ditch and drove toward the front of the line. He could see Batista and Heinz Underwood shouting at someone through the poles of the gate, which was locked up with a heavy chain. Joe couldn’t recall seeing the gate closed before. He pulled parallel with Sheriff Reed’s handicapped van, shut off the engine, and swung out.