Breaking Point jp-13

by C. J. Box

  “That’s it,” Sollis said.

  “So where’s our man? I don’t see anyone.”

  Without binoculars of his own, Farkus saw absolutely no one, and not even the cross-pole. But the valley floor looked familiar from when he’d been hunting with Butch. In fact, Butch had passed up a shot at a five-point bull that was grazing near the bank of the creek because it wasn’t big enough. Farkus remembered being frustrated by that because he was ready to go home and his back ached from sleeping in the tent.

  “O-kay,” McLanahan whispered. “I see the camp, but I don’t see anyone in it.”

  “He left,” Sollis declared after a full minute of silence. “He walked back into the trees and I lost him.”

  “Where the hell did he go?” McLanahan asked, obviously frustrated.

  “Find some firewood, take a shit,” Sollis speculated. “How would I know?”

  “So you think he’s coming back?”

  “I can’t promise anything. But he didn’t look like he was on a mission to get out of there for good. He just walked from the camp into the trees real slow-like.”

  “He sauntered,” McLanahan said.

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “Did he look our way? Did it seem like he saw us or heard us?”

  “No. We’re too far away.”

  McLanahan expelled a long sigh through his nose, then said, “So we wait.”

  Farkus settled into the crack well beyond Sollis’s feet and sat down with his back to the sheer rock. It was cold and penetrated his clothing. He hoped Butch Roberson just kept on walking.

  While they waited, McLanahan turned to Farkus and said, “I love it when a plan works. We figured out where he was likely to show up, and he did.”

  “Can I see?” Farkus asked, reaching out for the binoculars.

  “Not now. They’re perfectly focused for my eyes. I don’t want you messing them up if he shows again. But you’re sure this is the canyon, right? This is where you camped with Butch?”

  “This is it.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “I’m looking at it from a different angle, but yes, where those two little creeks come together. That’s where we camped.”

  McLanahan nodded, satisfied.

  Farkus sighed and sat back. His right shoulder throbbed from the fall he’d taken. Being outside in the mountains always made him hungry, though. He thought he could use a big glass of bourbon and a steak. Some fries.

  He relaxed and closed his eyes in time to hear Sollis say, “He’s back.”

  Farkus contented himself with not watching, but he listened as Sollis and McLanahan exchanged comments. They sounded more like they were hunting elk than a man named Butch.

  “Eighteen hundred yards is a hell of a long shot,” Sollis said. “I’ve made it in perfect conditions, but I’ve missed it, too.”

  “How far are we from perfect conditions?” McLanahan said, taking the glasses away from his eyes long enough to look around at their position.

  “In perfect conditions, I’ve got a spotter and I can take a practice shot or two. That way, the spotter can tell me to adjust my aim a mil or two to get dead-on.”

  “No practice shots,” McLanahan said, annoyed.

  “I know. The first one has to be the one. Luckily, we don’t have any wind, so I don’t have to adjust much. But it gets dicey figuring the drop on the bullet when we’re shooting at a downward angle. But the windage is good right now. I’m glad I brought my hot loads.”

  Farkus had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, and didn’t care enough to ask.

  McLanahan said, “We might be able to get closer if we work our way south along the ridge. My fear is he might see us moving, or we might not find such an ideal location to set up.”

  “I agree.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s bent over. I think he might be building a fire.”

  “Could you hit him?”

  “I wouldn’t want to try. When he’s bent over like that, he’s a small target. I wouldn’t even dream of touching one off unless he was standing up, offering a full profile. Even then. .”

  “Shit,” McLanahan said, shifting his weight against the rock so he could brace his binoculars against the wall. “I lost him while we were talking.”

  “He’s still there,” Sollis said calmly. “He’s just hard to see because he’s wearing camo and bent over in the grass. I think he’s blowing into the fire, trying to get it started. Yes-I can see a little bit of smoke now.”

  “Camo,” McLanahan said. “That’s what he’s supposed to be wearing, all right.”

  Sollis grunted.

  Uncomfortable with the way things were playing out, Farkus swallowed and said, “Sheriff?”

  “What, Farkus?”

  “Don’t you think we ought to consider talking to him? Maybe giving him a chance to give himself up?”

  McLanahan snorted his answer.

  Farkus tried another tack. “It’ll be a lot easier getting him back to the truck if he’s upright. I’m just sayin’. .”

  McLanahan said wearily, “Here’s some wisdom that comes from being sheriff for six years: the thing about armed men is they can shoot back. So it’s best to take them down before they know we’re coming. Got that?”

  “What if you just wound him? What happens if you wing him and then he takes off running?”

  “We follow the blood trail until we find the body,” McLanahan said. “Just like hunting.”

  “I’m just thinking about the money, you understand. I don’t want my reward money running away from us through the trees,” Farkus lied.

  Sollis said to Farkus, “I don’t shoot to wound, you dweeb. I won’t take the shot unless it’s dead-on perfect.”

  Farkus sighed, and Sollis turned back to his scope.

  That’s when Farkus heard it: the high-pitched whine of an engine again. Like the one they’d heard earlier.

  He could see everything from their vantage point, and without binoculars: the small white drone appearing over the horizon and flying just above the treetops toward the elk camp. Sun glinted from its wings and tail. The whine increased in volume as it flew closer.

  “Jesus Christ,” McLanahan said with irritation, “they’ve got an eye in the sky. Those bastards sent an unmanned drone to look for him.”

  Farkus had never seen one before, and it was moving so quickly in the distance he couldn’t get a good look at it now. The front of the drone was egg-shaped, and there were no windows. It was tough to tell how big it was, although it stood out against the dark sea of trees.

  “If the drone sees him,” McLanahan said, “we’ve lost our advantage. He’ll take to the trees again, and we might never see him again. Plus, the Feds will know where to look.”

  “He’s got to hear it, too,” Farkus observed.

  “What a bad fucking break,” McLanahan said, angry enough that his West Virginian drawl came through.

  “He’s standing up,” Sollis said quietly. “Nobody talk or breathe. I may get a shot.”

  Farkus thought, Run, you hardheaded son of a bitch. Don’t let them see you. And don’t come our direction. .

  For a brief moment, Farkus assumed the popping noises were coming from the drone itself. They were measured but rapid, one after the other.

  Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Before he could open his mouth and ask what it was, the drone shivered, dropped in altitude, tilted to its left, then readjusted severely back the other way, and the right wing tip caught the top of a pine tree and exploded through it with a burst of needles and branches.

  “Wow,” McLanahan said.

  The drone cart wheeled through the sky on the other side of the canyon and dropped into the timber with the violent sound of sheet metal buckling and tree trunks snapping. It was swallowed by the dark forest as if it had never been there at all.

  And suddenly there was silence.

  “He shot it down,” McLanahan said with
awe. “Our boy shot that bastard out of the sky.”

  Farkus barely heard Sollis whisper: “Shut up, please,” then BOOM, his 6.5x284 rifle rocked and sounded even louder in the narrow confines of the wall crack.

  Through ringing ears, Farkus heard Sollis say with triumph: “He’s down.”

  16

  Joe saddled Toby away from the chaos of a command center of sorts that was slowly morphing from too many disparate vehicles and law enforcement officials. Two large canvas tents were being erected by members of the sheriff’s department-they’d borrowed them from local elk outfitters-next to two high-tech portable tent structures marked EPA on the sidewalls. The location for the FOB was on a bench less than two hundred yards from the Forest Service boundary fence. Within the scrum of tents and vehicles moved EPA special agents, sheriff’s department deputies, Forest Service rangers and special agents, BLM employees, and other men and women Joe couldn’t identify and didn’t want to meet.

  He could feel the tension and excitement from the FOB as he cinched the saddle tight and Toby glared back at him in faux discomfort. Voices were pronounced and high and talking over one another, laughter was barked, and flare-ups of anger punctuated the hum. It was the same combination of anticipation and bloodlust he’d witnessed at elk hunting camps or from within the vehicles of hunting parties setting out on opening day of the season.

  Joe kept his eye on a group of four men in the temporary corral set up on the edge of the FOB. They were black-clad and sober, unlike the others, and going about their business with quiet gravitas. They seemed to have no interest interacting with the others in the camp. The men stood in a knot, intently listening to a local wrangler who had brought the horses as he outlined the personalities and problems with each mount. It was obvious they were unfamiliar with horses, Joe thought. As they climbed into their saddles, the wrangler adjusted stirrups and walked each horse away from the corral to await the others. Heinz Underwood shadowed the wrangler, muttering things into his ear and to his team. When all the agents were mounted, the wrangler helped Underwood stuff gear into the panniers of a set of packhorses. It looked like too much gear to Joe, who kept his distance even as Underwood spotted him and walked his horse over.

  Joe watched him come with bemusement. Underwood obviously didn’t know his way around horses, and the agent didn’t want to show it. But by the way he held the reins too tight and overcorrected his direction with aggressive yanks, it was obvious.

  “First time on a horse?” Joe asked, as Underwood rode up.

  “I’ve been on horses before.”

  “Fine,” Joe said. “You’re just lucky it’s a brain-dead trail horse, or he might get feisty, the way you’re jerking on his mouth.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Underwood eased up on the reins.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “My men are getting impatient.”

  Joe nodded and said, “What’s the plan? You’ve got enough equipment there to last a few weeks, it looks like.”

  Underwood ignored the question. “You’re going to lead us to where you last saw Butch Roberson, and we’re going to try to determine where he went from there. At that point, you might be released from service.”

  “Fine by me,” Joe said, but he had immediate reservations about agreeing so quickly. The team of special agents was armed with semiautomatic weapons, sidearms, shotguns, and communications equipment. They looked, he thought, like they might shoot first and ask questions later, although he was sure Underwood wouldn’t admit it. If he were along, Joe thought, there would be a better chance of bringing Butch back alive. Underwood seemed to sense his concern.

  “We’re the advance team,” Underwood continued. “If we find his track-or locate him-we’ll call back and get orders and backup before we proceed.”

  “I’ll bet,” Joe said sourly.

  Underwood surprised Joe by grinning.

  Joe swung into the saddle at the same moment a murmur rippled through the men and women at the FOB. He looked up to see most heads turned toward the road that led to the FOB through the hay meadows. Joe followed their gaze to see a huge black new-model Suburban tearing their way, sending a fat cloud of dust into the air behind it.

  Before he could see the license plate or the man behind the wheel, he knew who it was. Only one man drove a new car that recklessly over bad roads.

  “Do you know who that is?” Underwood asked Joe.

  “Yup,” Joe said. “My governor.”

  The black suburban hurtled at the FOB as if the driver’s intention was to plow right through it, Joe thought, and he saw a few of the special agents within the tents start to sidle away. The big vehicle braked short of the parking area and skidded to a stop. Governor Spencer Rulon flew out the driver’s-side door and left it open while he bellowed, “I’m the governor of this state, and I want to know who the hell is in charge here!”

  A few beats after the governor, Joe saw Lisa Greene-Dempsey tentatively open the passenger door and step out. She appeared to have no intention of following her boss into the crowd.

  Joe and Underwood exchanged glances, then both urged their horses forward toward the Suburban. Joe watched Rulon stride through the crowd of law enforcement-which parted to let him through-straight toward Julio Batista, who had come out of the EPA tent with a cell phone in his hand and a quizzical expression on his face. LGD trailed the governor. She saw Joe and nodded. She looked worried about what was going to happen next, he thought.

  Underwood said quietly, “I’ve heard your guy is a nutjob.”

  Joe had seen the governor in a rage before-too many times, in fact-and fought an urge to say to Underwood, This is gonna be good.

  Batista introduced himself and held out his free hand, palm up, to ward off the approach of Rulon, and turned away to end his call. Rulon stopped short of the outstretched palm but stood hands on hips, glaring at the EPA administrator with his upper body pointed forward and his eyes enlarged.

  When Batista closed his phone and extended his hand in greeting, Rulon didn’t move. He shouted, “What’s this I hear about sending unmanned drones into my airspace without permission and without notifying my office?”

  “We’re in the middle of an operation-” Batista began calmly, when Rulon cut him off by talking over him.

  “I don’t care what you’re in the middle of, you’ll order those things back where they came from or I’ll order the Wyoming National Guard to fly up here and blast them the hell out of the sky!”

  Joe frowned. He’d seen the National Guard air fleet before and couldn’t recall a single fighter plane among the helicopters and C-130 cargo planes. But maybe Batista didn’t know that. .

  “It’ll be shoot to kill!” Rulon thundered. “I don’t care if I start a damned war between Wyoming and the EPA, because I’ve been threatening to start one for years.”

  “Look,” Batista said, his eyes shooting around for support from his special agents and the others, “I know we started out on the wrong foot a few years ago. But right now we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and. .”

  Rulon jabbed his finger an inch from the EPA administrator’s nose: “There are right ways to do things and wrong ways to do things in my state. When I got a call that two of your people were gunned down in Twelve Sleep County, I pledged support. We want this guy caught as much as you do. But I should have known not to trust any of you bastards, that you’d turn out to be the jackbooted thugs I always knew you were.”

  Joe smiled to himself and shook his head. He almost missed his boss approaching Rulon and grabbing gently at his arm, urging him to calm down.

  Rulon said, “Now I hear you’ve not only offered a reward for the capture or execution of one of my constituents, you’ve also ordered a goddamned drone from Nebraska, where you spy on cattle feedlot operations, to fly over my airspace and spy on my land and my people. Just who in the hell gave you the authority to bypass the elected government of the state of Wyoming and trample over our citizens?”

  R
ulon’s face was red, and when he paused for a breath, Batista said quickly, “First, we’ve retracted the reward offer. Second, I’ve got the authority to administrate my region.”

  “Governor,” Greene-Dempsey pleaded, pulling him back, “Please. .”

  Then Rulon waved his arms at the assembled and astonished crowd, and said to Batista, “Get them all the hell out of here! Take down your stupid tents and go the hell away! The only agency who should be here right now is the sheriff of Twelve Sleep County. The rest of you,” he said, glaring at the special agents and rangers one by one, “beat it!”

  Batista shook his head and said, “I doubt you’d talk this way to me if I looked more like you.”

  “What?” Rulon sputtered, confused.

  “You heard me,” Batista said, crossing his arms over his chest and daring the governor to say more.

  “You’re accusing me. . of what?” Rulon said. “Because you’re. .”

  “A Hispanic American,” Batista said, raising his chin.

  Rulon shook his head, as if momentarily stunned. Then he said, “Well, I’m a Governor American, and I want your ass out of my state. We’ll find your shooter, and he’ll get justice. We don’t want you or your thugs involved.” Joe noted the governor’s tone had softened, despite the words.

  “And now we know why,” Batista said, still smug.

  Joe shook his head. In that brief exchange, Rulon seemed to have lost his momentum. And the crowd seemed to agree.

  Greene-Dempsey managed to pull Rulon away again, and when he turned, Joe saw a look of spent rage crossed with befuddled realization in his face. He’d never seen the look before, and he wondered if Rulon had truly lost it after all. Rulon seemed to have the same thought, and he threw his shoulders back and gathered himself, then looked down at his feet for a moment.

  Batista turned to the group of officers and said, “The show is over. It’s time to get back to work.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Underwood said, and whistled. “Your governor is a nutjob.”

  Joe said, “He might be. But he’s not a racist.”