Force of Nature

by C. J. Box

  He nodded toward the bodies. “Or they were, anyway. What doesn’t work for me is how the three of them got hooked up. The Mad Archer was too nuts to keep any friends, and the Kellys stayed completely to themselves.”

  Two of McLanahan’s deputies bookended him. Both were young, muscle-bound, and menacing, and both wore large campaign buttons that read reelect our sheriff. Deputy Sollis smirked at Joe through heavy-lidded eyes. Sollis wore a uniform shirt that was a size too small, to show off his biceps and pectorals, and a black mock turtleneck underneath that didn’t fully hide the acne rash on his neck from steroid use. Behind the sheriff and his men was Deputy Mike Reed, McLanahan’s opponent in the election, who was older, rounder, and balding. Joe liked Reed, and tipped his hat brim to say hello. Reed nodded back.

  The sheriff hadn’t gotten rid of Reed, which had surprised Joe before he learned the strategy behind it. Keeping him in the department showcased the sheriff’s good-guy credentials, but the idea had actually come after McLanahan watched The Godfather II and heard Michael Corleone say, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Although Reed was the senior investigator, McLanahan steadily undermined him in the eyes of voters and observers by assigning him to the most menial tasks, such as supervising random DUI roadblocks, overseeing county road cleanup crews, and in one case sending his deputy on a meth-house raid to the wrong address.

  Joe asked the sheriff, “They were all in the same boat?”

  “Literally,” McLanahan guffawed.

  Joe shook his head. “Did they get into a tussle and start blasting at each other?”

  Deputy Reed said, “We can’t say for sure, but we doubt it.”

  The sheriff acted as if Reed hadn’t spoken.

  Dulcie Schalk parted her fingers to talk. She was clearly nauseated by the scene in front of her, and likely the enormity of the crime itself. When she spoke, she bit off her words in a tight-mouthed way, as if trying to avoid breathing the fetid air. “Coroner Will Speer is on his way here to take them for autopsies, Joe, but from what we can tell they were all shot to death at the same time. It appears each was killed by a single fatal gunshot. From what the sheriff told me, the firearm used was … huge.”

  She attempted to continue but had to look away. Joe had an odd impulse to go over and hug her, but he knew she’d be embarrassed by the gesture in front of the sheriff and his men.

  Sollis said, “Huge as in fucking massive. There’s entry wounds as big as most exit wounds. And the exit wounds, well, look at that Connelly guy. Half his head is just gone.” He said it with what sounded like twisted admiration, Joe thought. He refused to look closely at Ron Connelly’s wound, despite Sollis’s prompting. Joe didn’t think he could take it.

  “Which means,” McLanahan said, “we may not recover the slugs because they passed right through. Even Stumpy there with a full body shot. It looks like the slug went in under one arm and out under the other.”

  Schalk said through her fingers, “That’s why I asked Sheriff McLanahan to call DCI and bring the FBI in. He may not think we need their expertise, but we do need their resources.”

  Joe looked over to the sheriff. McLanahan’s gunfighter mustache was trimmed, but it still obscured his mouth. He wore a battered cowboy hat and suspenders over his uniform shirt. He’d traded his departmental Glock for a low-slung Colt .45. McLanahan was from West Virginia but chose to look, dress, and talk like a frontier rube. Some were fooled. Joe wasn’t. The sheriff’s response to Dulcie Schalk’s suggestion was to roll his eyes.

  Joe knew the sheriff well enough to know he hadn’t been called there simply to identify the bodies.

  McLanahan rocked back on his boot heels and stabbed his thumbs through his belt loops. To Joe, he said, “Who do we know that is rumored to live upriver from time to time and carry a great big gun?”

  Joe was thinking the same thing, but he didn’t reply.

  “Tell me,” McLanahan said, “when is the last time you saw your buddy Nate Romanowski? The fugitive?”

  Nate was still being sought by the Feds because Joe had arranged a temporary release the year before and Nate had never turned himself back in. Instead, his friend had gone to ground and had managed to elude them. Which is why Joe saw very little of his friend these days and rarely communicated with him. It was protection for the both of them.

  Joe felt Schalk’s eyes on him as the sheriff talked.

  “It’s been a while,” Joe said.

  “What’s a while?” McLanahan asked. “I mean, being that you’re sworn to uphold the law and all? It’s hard to believe you know the location of a wanted man but you don’t find it within yourself to turn him in or arrest him.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Joe said. He knew he was flushing. And he knew McLanahan had a point and was making it so the county attorney would hear it.

  “Rumor is,” Sollis said, cutting in, “your buddy Nate has a history of violence. Some even say he had something to do with the disappearance of our former sheriff, although we could never get enough evidence to make that case. You wouldn’t know anything about any of this, would you?”

  “Not really,” Joe said, grateful the sheriff hadn’t asked him about things he did know about, like Nate’s habit of ripping ears off suspects. In regard to the end of former Sheriff Bud Barnum, Joe had a suspicion about Nate’s involvement, but he’d never voiced it with anyone except Marybeth.

  “So,” McLanahan said to Joe, shooting a glance at Dulcie Schalk to make sure she was fully engaged in the implication, “you probably wouldn’t want to go with us in a few minutes when we drive upriver to check out Nate Romanowski’s alleged place of residence? To see if he knows anything about these yahoos that lay before us?”

  Joe avoided Schalk’s eyes. He said, “I’ll go.”

  McLanahan feigned surprise. “You don’t need to put yourself out. Besides, you’ll probably get in the way. You always do.”

  “I said I’m going.”

  Behind Joe, he heard a sudden retching sound. He turned to see Luke Brueggemann covering his mouth. His eyes were bulging and wet. He turned and threw up on the concrete floor.

  “For Christ’s sake,” McLanahan said to Sollis, “call maintenance and get them to clean that up.” To Joe he said, “Can’t you control your people?”

  JOE PUT his hand under Brueggemann’s arm and led him outside. “It’s okay,” he told his trainee. “It happens.”

  “Has it happened to you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Those guys aren’t going to let me forget about this, are they?”

  Joe said, “No, they won’t.”

  Brueggemann wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I’ve seen plenty of dead things before. You know, deer and elk. And I’m not squeamish when it comes to things like that.”

  Joe nodded, walking them toward a strip of grass on the edge of the parking area in case Brueggemann had to get sick again.

  “I did a full head mount of an antelope once, and an eight-point buck,” Brueggemann continued, “and I like my venison bloody.”

  “You can stop,” Joe said, wondering what it was his trainee had just said that struck an odd note. But before he could follow it up, Deputy Mike Reed called his name.

  “Stay here,” Joe said to Brueggemann. He met Reed in the middle of the parking lot.

  Reed spoke in low tones that likely couldn’t be overheard by his colleagues inside. “You know what’s going on here, don’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  Reed said, “The sheriff needs a big win right now. He thinks he’s slipping with the voters. Bagging a guy like Romanowski and solving a triple murder would put him back on top.”

  Joe nodded and looked closely at Reed. “Is this the candidate talking?”

  Reed looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

  Joe said, “You know how I get along with the sheriff, but this is a triple homicide. He’s got to do everything he can to close it fast. I understand that.” />
  “Yeah,” Reed said, looking down at his boots. “I guess you’re right. But with this guy,” he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the open garage, “there’s always an angle. We both know him well enough to know that.”

  “What’s the angle?” Joe asked.

  “You mean besides making you look bad in front of the county attorney?” Reed asked.

  Joe sighed and conceded the point.

  “All I’m saying,” Reed whispered, “is watch your back.”

  Joe thanked him and said, “You, too.”

  Reed smiled bitterly. “For me, it’s a twenty-four/seven operation.”

  Joe nodded and left Brueggemann and went back inside the county garage.

  _______

  WHILE THE SHERIFF gathered his deputies around him and issued orders for arming up for the raid, Dulcie Schalk gestured for Joe to follow her outside. Once they were clear of the garage and the odors inside, she said, “Tell me what he was saying isn’t true. Tell me you don’t know about a fugitive who might be a cop killer.”

  Joe looked over his shoulder to make sure Brueggemann and Reed were out of earshot. Reed was back inside the garage. He saw the trainee over by his truck, leaning his head against the front bumper. Joe said to Dulcie, “Like I said. It’s complicated.”

  Her eyes flared. “I’m riding out there with you, and you’re going to explain everything to me. And if I’m not satisfied, Joe, there will be hell to pay.”

  He nodded and held her eyes. He said, “I’ll tell you the truth. But I want to give you some advice. It’s something Marybeth and I agreed to a long time ago when it comes to Nate Romanowski.”

  “And that is?” she asked, skeptical.

  “Don’t ask me things you may not want to know. Just think real hard about that before we talk.”

  She looked at him quizzically. She whispered, “You aren’t threatening me, are you, Joe?”

  He shook his head quickly. “Not at all, not at all. It’s just that sometimes it doesn’t help to know everything there is to know about someone else. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Marybeth knows Romanowski?” she asked.

  “Oh, she does,” Joe said. “She does.”

  DULCIE SCHALK went to get fitted for body armor, and Joe used the opportunity to speed-dial Marybeth on his cell phone. His wife worked from nine to three at the Twelve Sleep County Library, and he knew she’d likely just dropped off April and Lucy at school and was settling into her desk. Marybeth was blond with green eyes, and she was slim and attractive. Joe was always surprised he’d landed her. So was his mother-in-law.

  “I’m surprised you’re calling,” she said when she picked up. “I didn’t think you’d have a signal up there.”

  “I’m not in the mountains,” he said, and quickly recapped the morning. He heard her gasp when he told her the sheriff was preparing to storm Nate’s home.

  “Should I warn him?”

  Joe closed his eyes. Nate had a satellite phone, and he’d given them both the private number. He’d asked them not to call him unless it was a dire emergency.

  “No,” Joe said after a few beats. “You shouldn’t. I don’t want you to get involved in this. Who knows if the sheriff or the Feds can trace back a call? It’s possible, you know. And if Nate’s involved in this, you could go to jail for tipping him off.”

  “I don’t mind taking that chance,” she said defiantly. “After what he’s done for us …”

  “Marybeth, we can’t risk it. You can’t risk it. Besides, Nate is smart. If he’s involved, he’ll expect the sheriff to show up, and he’ll take precautions. And if he wasn’t involved, he has ways of knowing that we’re on the way.”

  “This feels rotten, Joe.”

  “It has to be this way.”

  “I don’t have to like it, and I’m not making any promises.”

  “I don’t like it, either,” he said. He said he’d call her as soon as he could to let her know what happened.

  “Joe,” she said, “don’t let any of McLanahan’s goons get trigger-happy. I could see one of them going over the top.”

  He agreed. After they’d disconnected, he made sure the coast was clear in all directions—Brueggemann was still recovering, and Schalk wasn’t back with her vest—before he stepped behind his pickup and called Nate’s number.

  There was no answer.

  4

  “THIS REMINDS ME a lot of the first time I ever met Nate Romanowski,” Joe said to Dulcie as they sped down the state highway in the midst of the sheriff’s department caravan of SUVs. “Nine years ago, different sheriff, similar situation.”

  Joe recounted how Nate had been arrested for murder, beaten, and jailed. The former sheriff considered it a slam-dunk case, but Joe was able to prove Nate’s innocence, and the outlaw falconer had pledged to protect Joe and his family.

  “Over the years,” Joe said, “we’ve been through a lot and he’s never broken his word. We’ve had our disagreements, and I don’t want to get into all the details, but he’s been there for us. So I hope you understand that it isn’t an easy thing to turn him over to the Feds. That’s where he comes from, and we’re not sure he’d make it out alive.”

  Dulcie recoiled. “What do you mean, he might not make it out alive? This is our government you’re talking about, Joe.”

  He nodded. Luke Brueggemann was in the caravan as well, his pickup hovering in Joe’s rearview mirror.

  Joe recalled other incidents over the years, things he’d stored in his memory drawer but never reopened. When they’d first met Nate he mentioned he’d just come from Montana. Because of Nate’s sudden violent appearance and the way he’d said it, Marybeth was curious and did some research on the library computers, and keyed on a headline from the Great Falls Tribune that read “Two Dead in U.S. 87 Rollover.” The story said that a damaged vehicle with out-of-state plates had been called in to the Montana Highway Patrol twenty-one miles north of town near Fort Benton. The identities of the occupants were unknown at the time, but authorities were investigating.

  On the next page, a smaller story identified the victims of a multiple-rollover accident as two men, aged thirty-two and thirty-seven, from Arlington, Virginia, and Washington, D.C., respectively. Both were killed on impact. The highway patrol suggested that judging by the skid marks, it was possible that the engine to the late-model SUV had lost power or died as the vehicle approached a sharp grade with several turns, and that the driver was unable to negotiate the sharpest of the turns and blew through a guardrail and rolled to the bottom of the canyon, flipping at least seven times. The passenger was thrown from the vehicle, and the driver was crushed behind the wheel.

  “Witness Sought in Rollover Investigation,” the third, and smallest, headline read. In the story, the highway patrol reported that they were seeking a potential witness to the rollover on U.S. 87 that killed two men from out of state. Specifically, they were looking for the driver of an older-model Jeep with Montana plates that was seen passing a speed checkpoint near Great Falls. The authorities estimated that the Jeep may have been in the vicinity of the rollover near the time it occurred, and that the driver could have seen the accident happen.

  Joe later learned that Nate drove a Jeep, and that his preferred weapon at the time, a five-shot .454 Casull manufactured by Freedom Arms, in Freedom, Wyoming, was the only handgun designated a “car killer” by the U.S. Secret Service because the bullets had the power to penetrate the engine block of a vehicle and render it useless.

  Several years later, a man named Randan Bello arrived in Saddlestring from Virginia and started asking around about Nate Romanowski. He found a source in the former sheriff, Bud Barnum, and the two became fast friends. One particular fall morning, a housekeeping employee at the Holiday Inn observed Barnum arriving at the hotel and waiting for Bello to join him in his SUV. The two left together and didn’t come back. The sheriff’s vehicle was never located, although two years later a couple of elk hunters reported that th
ey’d seen wreckage deep in the bottom of Savage Run Canyon. Joe had investigated, but their directions were poor and he’d never spotted anything.

  He remembered Large Merle, a restaurant owner who lived on the road that led to Outlaw Canyon, where Nate had relocated after federal warrants were issued for him, asking Joe, “Did Nate ever tell you about that time in Haiti? When the four drugged-out rebels jumped him?”

  “No.”

  Merle shook his head and chuckled, the fat jiggling under his arms and under his chin. “Quite a story,” Merle said. “Especially the part about guts strung through the trees like popcorn strings. Ask him about that one sometime!”

  Joe never did. But he’d heard that Merle was missing as well. He’d simply not shown up to open his little restaurant in Kaycee one morning a month before.

  JOE SAID, “I’ve never gotten the whole story from Nate, and I’ve never wanted to hear it. He’s tried to tell me a few times, but I shut him down because I don’t want to know. But it involves something he did in Special Forces. It’s one of the reasons he moved out here—to get away.”

  Dulcie asked about Nate’s age and background.

  “Late thirties, early forties,” Joe said. “I don’t know his birthday or where he grew up, but I’ve always been under the impression he was familiar with Wyoming and Montana from his youth because he seems to know his way around. He’s also familiar with Idaho.” Joe let that just hang there and hoped she wouldn’t ask about Idaho in

  particular.

  She didn’t, but she asked how Nate supported himself. “From what you say, he seems to have no problem getting weapons and equipment.”

  Joe shrugged. “I don’t think it’s criminal, but I wouldn’t swear to it. All I know is he’s never seemed to be hurting for money. He’s tried to tell me some things, but I wouldn’t listen.”