“I can’t speak to specifics. I have heard that, in certain instances, pressure points were determined and taken advantage of in order to ensure full cooperation. They have to make absolutely sure that everyone will sign the NDA and cooperate fully. They can’t risk anything short of that. If a witness hesitates, there has to be backup. Some of this behavior is despicable, and I apologize for that. I’ve expressed my displeasure at some of the tactics used.”
“My wife? My children?” Walt suddenly saw Gail’s intrusion differently.
“What about them?”
“Never mind.”
“Tell me. Please.”
“It’s unrelated.”
“It may not be, Walt,” she said. “Please, tell me.”
He briefly explained Gail’s claiming the girls for herself-this after leaving the marriage because she felt overwhelmed by motherhood. It hadn’t added up until just this moment.
“I’m wondering if she didn’t get an anonymous phone call implying some kind of failure on my part. I’m wondering if there wasn’t some behind-the-scenes look at my divorce papers.”
“Walt, I would never condone such a thing. I want you to know that. The president and I are briefed regularly about the situation out there but certainly haven’t heard all the details. Nothing about what you claim happened to Danny Cutter, and most definitely nothing to do with you. I can, and will, make some calls.”
“A thing like this,” Walt said, “the sabotage, it can’t be contained. Not once it’s in the water. You know that, right?”
“Do you mean the news of the event or the contamination itself?”
“Both.”
“As to the contamination, it was minimal. There’s a tremendous volume of water we’re dealing with. Levels are well off of where they were two and three weeks ago. Another two weeks, we’re told, and we’re in the clear.” She pursed her lips as her attention was drawn offscreen. “As to the spread of information, we believe it can be contained, has to be contained. We need your cooperation, your assistance, in seeing that happens.”
“I signed the NDA, Liz. I’m not going to risk a stay in Leavenworth. I won’t say anything.”
“It’s more than that. It’s Mark Aker. We need to extract him before he’s forced to publish something that could be damaging.”
“Publish?”
“Maybe Roger didn’t tell you everything. What the Samakinn seek most is notoriety. Credibility. They believe credibility comes through verification, confirmation the sabotage was effective.”
“Scientific proof,” Walt said. “Like a veterinarian’s report on the sheep.”
“The sabotage is under investigation. The Samakinn must have had inside help. Roger’s people have been working twenty-four/seven with the Bureau, attempting to turn up the mole. Our information is that the Bureau has surveillance in place. They are ready to strike. We both know what happens to Mark Aker if he’s anywhere near them when that strike occurs.”
“I need whatever intel’s available,” Walt said, sitting forward in the chair.
“I’m not privy to the details. It’s too far out of my area of operations.”
“But you said yourself, Mark has to be extracted.”
“There’s a genuine fear of Ruby Ridge here, Walt. It’s one of the things holding the Bureau back. If they make this into a standoff, the Samakinn win the press coverage they so desperately seek. It’s a no-win for us. And that’s got all of us looking at alternatives. But if Mark Aker’s out of the equation, there’s a lot more leeway. There’s still time for you to help us fix this.”
“I have nothing,” Walt said. “I can’t do anything without something to work with.”
“Work with Roger. Cooperate with him, Walt. He’s not the enemy. That’s the purpose of this call: to try to bring you two closer together. His people have their suspicions, suspects. Maybe between the two of you…”
Walt had focused on Hillabrand as a suspect for too long to now reverse himself and make him an ally. Just the suggestion of working with him turned Walt’s stomach: the man had pursued Fiona, possibly in order to monitor Walt; he’d denied knowledge of Randy Aker’s death, which seemed unlikely.
Worming inside him was the realization of how misplaced his suspicions had been, how biased he’d been against Hillabrand’s big money, how eagerly he’d labeled Semper the corporate villain, the ranchers as easily compromised accomplices. Senator Peavy had tried to steer him toward Washington, had repeatedly said how he was trying to help Walt, and Walt had reacted negatively, immediately distrusting the man. Perhaps the plan had been for Shaler to seek him out in person and explain the events. It all played out so differently now.
“Listen,” Liz Shaler said, “I’ve got to go. But I want you to think about everything I’ve said. Follow your instincts on this, Walt. I’ve always trusted your instincts.”
“Thank you.” But he was questioning his instincts, and her praise only drove home that point.
“We need to pool our resources, find this group, and extract Mark Aker. Nothing short of that is acceptable.”
“Agreed.”
Even over a webcam, there was a look to Liz Shaler’s eyes that would haunt him. A fierce determination that flirted too close to fear. A take-no-prisoners defiance that mixed with the terror that any mention of radioactivity brought. She seemed to be telling him, without words, that if Mark had to be sacrificed for the “greater good,” then that was what was going to happen.
51
ROY COATS LIVED WITH THE PAIN. THE DOC HAD STOLEN all the serious meds; aspirin hardly helped. He felt his best when sitting quietly by the woodstove, the brand name of which was reversed on his cheek in angry blisters. The wound in his leg left him a cripple; it was a caked, spongy mass of scab and infection. His armpit wound was less of a concern. It hurt far less. But if he tried to venture outside into the biting cold, his face lit up in pain. He waited-impatient, hurting badly, and foul of mood-ready to tear the head off the next thing that came through the door.
The required knock on the cabin door won his attention.
He grunted loudly, admitting whoever it was. The burn’s infection kept him from speaking much. He could move his lips enough to get a few words out, but that was it.
The doorknob turned, and Newbs poked his head through, then stepped inside cautiously.
“’Bout time,” Coats said.
Donny Newbury was twenty-three but looked thirty due to the width of his round face and the thick scrub of a beard that he wore. He ducked his head, coming through the door, and filled the cabin with his wide shoulders and barrel chest.
“I brought Shilo,” Newbury said. He eyed Coats warily and stayed close to the door. “A collar and the radio gear. Fresh batteries, like you said. If you’d told me in time, I coulda brought something for… your face and all.”
Coats grunted. He took everything that had happened to him as a test. “What about Lakely?”
“Not happening,” Newbury said, tensing, in case it provoked something unexpected from Coats. “He went to the Mel-O-Dee, like you said. To meet that scientist girl for you. To make the deal and get the drum of waste and all. But it was fucked-up, Roy. I kept watch, like you said. From my pickup. He was in there too long, you know? He was going to drop the stuff and get her keys, or whatever, and make the switch. But it was fucked-up. The thing is, he shoulda checked the makes in the parking lot. Doesn’t take a fucking genius to spot the SUVs. At the Mel-O-Dee? Are you kidding me? Pickups and maybe an old Caddie or two. But spanking brand-new SUVs?”
“Get to the point,” Coats said painfully.
“Feds. I could see the flashes in the window. Fucking serious firefight. Couldn’t have lasted that long unless Lakely had gotten himself hunkered down. He put up a good fight. When it was over, the ambulance arrived. Only one ambulance there in Arco, so two of the body bags went in the back of a pickup. Three in all. Lakely, one of ’em, because he never walked out or nothing. But shit, Roy, he gave ’
em hell, I’ll tell you that. And there was plenty of wounded on top of the other three.”
For Coats, the room wouldn’t stop spinning. Blood thumped at his temples and rang in his ears, and he thought his head might explode.
“The drum,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
A fifty-five-gallon drum of contaminated waste. Enough for a dirty bomb. His dirty bomb. Enough to make the world take notice. He’d have had the front page of every newspaper in the world. The Samakinn would have been heard.
But now he’d lost the drum. He’d lost Lakely.
“The girl?”
Newbury shook his head.
He’d lost the girl.
“But just because I didn’t see her come out don’t mean nothing.”
The feds had the girl. How much did she know about him? How much had he revealed in his lame-ass attempts at conversation? Most important of all, had she seen his truck? Did she know about his truck? If she’d seen his plates, he was done. Gone. They’d be on him like flies on shit.
It was all down to the doc. Again. They had to find him.
“You and Gearbox split up. Gearbox’ll take Shilo. You take the old road. We need the doc.”
They both heard the approach of the snowmobile. A moment later came the knock on the door.
“Huh!” Coats grunted.
Gearbox entered, looking half frozen.
“Newbs’ll fill you in,” Coats said. “You find the doc and you bring him back here. He’s gonna write that letter. We can still pull this off.”
He glanced down at his swollen leg. Maybe the doc could help with the leg. He could hardly move the thing without the scab cracking open. He needed some stitches.
If the doc hadn’t stabbed him, it would have been him in the body bag instead of Lakely. Everything happens for a reason.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he managed to say. “Find the doc and bring him back here.”
Then he caught sight of himself in the window’s reflection and understood why Newbs had been staring so intently: the blisters had torn open, spewing a yellow fluid down his cheek. It looked as if his face was melting off.
52
WALT WENT THROUGH THE JAIL’S PERIMETER DOOR SHOULDER first, following the shiny spot beneath the comb-over belonging to his deputy, Jimmy Magna, who everyone called “Magnum.” The forty-five-year-old county jail suffered from poor design. Its security doors were like hatches on a submarine. At twenty-eight inches wide, they were so narrow that the stretcher carrying Taylor Crabtree had to be angled to fit through. The young man was missing a couple of front teeth, and his dislocated right shoulder was in a sling. Otherwise, he’d been lucky. Inmates didn’t look kindly on those accused of molesting girls young enough to be their daughters.
“You okay?” Walt asked Crabtree as the stretcher was maneuvered through a second doorway. He’d have done anything to reverse the beating the boy had taken. He’d warned his jailers that Crabtree was at risk and was pissed at the obvious neglect that had occurred.
“I want out of here,” Crabtree said through a swollen cheek.
“We’ll figure something out. We’re going to get you to the hospital first. Maybe a dentist.” Walt was eager to question the boy further, to look for a possible link to Sean Lunn and a way to pressure Hillabrand, but the injuries came first. He had to hold himself back from in any way delaying Crabtree’s medical care.
“I’m not going back in there,” the boy said.
“It’s not how it works,” Walt said. “We’ll get you isolated somehow.”
“Please,” the boy said. It was more than a word; it was an apology, a confession, something he hadn’t spoken to anyone in years.
The plea revealed a contrite Taylor Crabtree. Walt had hoped remorse existed somewhere inside the boy. He understood the importance of the moment. If Walt delayed the medical care, and Crabtree later filed a grievance, Walt would face review. But he sensed an opportunity.
“When we get him out,” Walt instructed his deputies, “unstrap him. Let’s get him into the Sit room and put some ice on that lip. Have the ambulance stand by.”
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Crabtree complained.
“Procedures,” Walt explained. “You’re in the system now. There are ways we have to do this.”
“Fuck the system.”
“That’s how you got in here,” Walt said, “but it’s not how you get out.”
THE SITUATION ROOM smelled of sweat, coffee, and doughnuts. Just as an athlete recognized the particular smell of locker rooms, any cop could identify the combination.
Crabtree sat nursing his mouth with a baggie of ice.
“This is not supposed to happen in my jail,” Walt said.
“What if I change my mind and decide to talk to you?”
“I could tell you it would make a difference, depending on what you had to say, but, honestly, Taylor, I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t know what, if anything, will help your situation right now. You’ve built a long sheet. A judge is going to review all that. You’ll be seen as one of those kids that can’t turn the corner and get your act together.”
“But I can. Ask Elbie.”
“I believe you. And I’ll be happy to speak on your behalf, but the system is fairly unforgiving. If we could get you back into the Alternative School and if you stayed there. No more stupid stuff. Maybe a judge would be more lenient.”
“Can you ask Mr. Levy if I can try again?”
“If he takes you back at the school, what’s to say you’ll toe the line?”
“Ask Elbie. I’m reliable. I’m never late. I don’t cheat on lunchtime or anything.”
“I’ll speak to Barge.”
Crabtree nodded, holding the ice gingerly. “I lied about Kira.” He threw it out there.
“Before you dig yourself in any deeper,” Walt said, “let me tell you a couple things I know. First, you didn’t pick up Kira Tulivich on the side of the road. Second, I know she was in your car and that you dropped her at the hospital, as you’ve said. Third, that bruising on your face-it’s still faintly there-wasn’t Kira’s doing and it wasn’t a snow-boarding accident. There are no indications she resisted.”
Crabtree’s eyes widened with surprise. Or maybe it was concern that he had little to offer Walt now.
“We have no evidence connecting Kira to your trailer. We found no drugs in your trailer. It seems unlikely you’re the one who doped her. So what happened to her and where it happened remain a mystery to me, but I now know why it happened, and I think there’s a possibility I know at least one of the parties involved. So whatever you do, Taylor, don’t lie to me, because I’ll likely know you’re lying and that’s not going to help anything.” He paused, giving the boy a few seconds. “And if you don’t say anything, that’s okay too. Better to not say anything than to try to slip something past me. You get that?”
The boy nodded.
“So should I call the ambulance guys in?”
He shook his head.
“You’re afraid.” Walt could see it on the boy’s face. “Of what, retaliation? By who?”
Only Crabtree’s eyes moved. A quick, surgical strike, locking onto Walt.
“Who?”
Crabtree didn’t answer.
“It’s natural for a young man in your situation to gravitate toward a group. A gang? Are you in with the Mexicans?”
He coughed up a laugh. “Oh, sure.”
Walt said the next thing that came into his head. “The Samakinn.”
Crabtree’s face froze.
“I want you to think very carefully, Crab,” Walt said, feeling a rapport developing. “Association with the Samakinn is not, in itself, a crime. Participating in certain activities may be, but if you get in front-”
“You don’t fucking get it, do you?”
“I’m afraid not. Help me out, Crab. I want to get it.”
“Shit.”
“The bruises. The ones you already had when I saw you a
t Elbie’s. Did Kira give you that face?”
“I did not do anything to Kira.”
“And you did not get those bruises snowboarding.”
“I rescued her.” His eyes, unflinching and bloodshot, glared at him. “You’ve got it backwards, Sheriff. I’m the one that saved her.”
“Okay? From?”
“Them. Coats and the other guy.” He broke the eye contact. “He lives up there, you know? Triumph. Coats does. He and his dogs. Fucking dogs never stop barking. But is anybody going to complain about it? No way…”
“Roy Coats,” Walt said. Coats was one of the last true mountain men left in the area. A tracker. Some said illegal tracker. He’d been accused more than once of using collared dogs to track down mountain lions for anonymous clients. Walt rolled around the rumors surrounding Randy Aker and poaching. Coats? Fish and Game had tried to bring charges against Coats several years back. He hadn’t heard the name since then.
“I saw him take Kira out of a dog crate. Back of his pickup. This was really late at night. Snowing bad, and he’s got her in a dog crate.”
Walt looked around. He longed for a tape recorder and yet didn’t want to put Crabtree off his statement. Pulling a notepad from his shirt pocket, he said, “I’m going to write some of this down.”
Crabtree nodded. “He dragged her inside.”
“How close is his place to yours?”
Walt’s nephew, Kevin, had taught him well about when a teen shifted into avoidance mode. Crabtree’s eyes went to a cigarette burn on the edge of the table. His shoulders folded forward. Walt’s impatience and his lack of sleep almost got the better of him. He nearly marched around the conference table and took Crabtree by the shirt and shook some sense into him. But he’d learned self-control a long time ago, had learned to make these interrogations-confrontations-less personal. Crabtree wanted to improve both his current situation and his future. Walt could play the catalyst, if he could get his own frustration out of the way.
“Can you see his house from your mobile home?” Walt asked, his voice calm and collected.
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