Winterkill jp-3

by C. J. Box

  Twenty-nine

  Joe Pickett moved silently through the trees in the dark. Although the moon was obscured by the storm clouds, there was enough ambient light that the virgin snow appeared a dark blue. The trunks of trees rose from it and the branches melded into the night sky. The snow had decreased in its fury, although it had not stopped. It sifted dust-like through the branches, so powdery that it sometimes hung suspended in the air. The temperature had dropped into the low teens, cold enough to evince an occasional pop or moan from freezing timber.

  He was on Battle Mountain, approaching the Sovereign Citizen compound on foot from the north. He was not yet close enough to see lights or hear voices. He was there to arrest Spud or save April, or both. He was not thinking clearly.

  Joe had been prevented from reaching the compound via Bighorn Road by two things. The first was the snow, which had literally rendered the road impassable. The second was the sheriff’s Blazer, belonging to Deputy McLanahan, parked at the beginning of the summit. They had relocated the roadblocks farther down the mountain, but they were roadblocks nevertheless. Joe wasn’t sure he could talk his way through it, or that he even wanted to try. It was obvious that the assault would be at least a day away, given the conditions. Even Munker wouldn’t be hot-blooded enough to confront the camp in the dark, Joe reasoned. The Sno-Cats they would use in the morning had been assembled, and were parked shoulder to shoulder near the Blazer. Joe had seen them through his binoculars, and had seen both Munker and Portenson checking out the Sno-Cats from the backs of borrowed Forest Service snowmobiles. Joe had driven away, hoping he hadn’t been seen, and had taken the other road.

  As it darkened, Joe had driven as far as he could up Timberline Road until the snow got so deep that he almost got stuck again. Rather than try to go any farther with the night coming on, he pulled out the ramps and backed his snowmobile out of the pickup. Then he mounted the snowmobile and roared into the black timber. He cut through the forest rather than go around it, through a huge, dark, wooded wilderness that had been declared officially closed by Lamar Gardiner’s Forest Service. The sledding had been a challenge. The snow was untracked, and so fresh and deep that at times the machine bogged down in it, the rear tracks digging down into the snow rather than hurling him over the top of it. The snout of the machine would raise and point to the sky as the snowmobile foundered in the powder. When this happened, Joe’s adrenaline rushed through him and he threw his weight forward or back with controlled violence, levering himself free and allowing the track to grip and hurl him forward. He knew that if he got stuck in snow this deep, in temperatures this low, he might never get out alive. No one knew where he was, and the Sovereigns certainly weren’t expecting him.

  If I get stuck, Joe said to himself in a mantra, I die.

  And he could not slow down, because when he did, sometimes involuntarily as a result of trying to pick his route through dark timber with the single headlight, he could feel the machine start to sink and settle into the four-foot-thick powder. The only way to keep moving and not get stuck was to keep the machine hurtling forward over the top. So he had run the engine much faster than he was comfortable with, keeping the headlight pointing south, sometimes clipping trees so closely that he was showered with bark and snow from their branches.

  Miraculously, he had made it through the timber and out the other side. The machine’s engine was loud, however, and he didn’t want the Sovereigns to hear him coming, so he had shut it down near the top of the mountain beneath a granite outcropping that had shielded the ground from much of the snowfall. Before leaving it, he had filled the tank with gasoline from a can he’d strapped on the back of the machine earlier. Buckling on oval snowshoes, he had left the snowmobile and its loud engine and worked his way south in silence.

  A thin sheen of sweat served as the first layer between his skin and his polypropylene underwear. Walking on snowshoes in deep powder snow was hard work. He tried to control his temperature by zipping and unzipping his parka as he walked. The cold wasn’t a problem as long as he was moving but once he stopped, it might be.

  He felt more than saw a dark presence in front of him in the trees, and he froze. He thought immediately about his weapon, which was secured and zipped up under his parka. It would be hard to get at. His eyes strained in the quarter-light and he saw movement and heard a footfall. His scalp crawled under his hat. Then the huge cow moose turned broadside across his field of vision, daintily high-stepping through the snow with her long legs that were perfect for these conditions.

  He exhaled, and unclenched. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

  His intention was to get close enough to the compound to discern whether or not Spud Cargill was there. He even considered knocking on Wade Brockius’s trailer door and asking outright. He struggled with what he should and shouldn’t tell the Sovereigns about the impending raid, or if he should tell them anything at all. Joe knew that if he tipped the Sovereigns off about the raid and Cargill escaped, Munker would undoubtedly see to it that Joe went to prison. Maybe I would deserve to, Joe thought.

  Damn that Nate Romanowski, he cursed. THIS is the kind of thing I could have used some help with!

  He thought about the telephone call Sheridan had received from April. It had broken his heart to see Sheridan’s face. For his daughter to tell him “You’ve got to save her, Dad,” tore him up inside. Sheridan, like Marybeth, trusted him completely. But Marybeth was more realistic about her expectations. Sheridan was his daughter, and they had a special bond. She was confident that he could save April. After all, he was her dad. He winced, and sighed. He had always tried to live up to her expectations but this time, he wasn’t sure he could.

  Ahead of him there was a low muffled voice, and Joe sunk to his haunches in the deep snow. He was suddenly alert. He stayed still until his heart slowed and his breath evened out from the exertion. As gently as he could, he eased the zipper of his parka down and reached into his jacket for his service-issue .40 Beretta, unsnapped it from his holster, and withdrew it. Using his clothing to mute the sounds, he jacked a cartridge into the chamber and eased the hammer back down. He slipped the Beretta into his front parka pocket, where it would be easier to get at than in the holster under his coat, and stood back up. He stuffed his mittens into his other pocket, leaving only his thin liner gloves on his hands. If the Sovereigns knew what a poor pistol shot he was, he thought wryly, they would know they had nothing at all to worry about.

  His breath billowed as he approached the compound. He could now make out squares of yellow light from windows through the trees. The light wasn’t bright, though, like electric lights would be. They must be using lanterns and propane, he thought. Then he remembered that Munker had cut off their electricity.

  As he got closer to the compound, he could hear the hiss of propane from two dozen metal tanks. He found a thick spruce with a jutting V-shaped branch that he could hide behind near the compound. Normally, the branch would have been too high for Joe to see over. But with the three feet of snow as a step stool, he rested his chest against the trunk and peered through the notch.

  Joe couldn’t see anyone outside their trailers and RVs. He noted the series of tramped-down paths that connected the units through the snow, and led to other facilities throughout the camp. He estimated that the paths were at least three feet in depth, although they could be deeper. A courtyard of sorts in the center of the compound where propane tanks were located had been crudely plowed. Only after studying the units within the camp for a while did Joe realize that there was at least one snowmobile, and sometimes two, parked near the entrance of each dwelling. Many of the snowmobiles were protected (or hidden) with blankets or tarps, which in turn were covered with at least a foot of fresh snowfall. So the Sovereigns could get away if they had to, he thought, even in these conditions. Interesting.

  The metallic sound of a trailer door being opened carried across the camp. He heard it shut, then heard the crunch of snow beneath boots.
The figure of a man moved across the squares of light, and he could see the profile of someone with a beard and broken nose. It wasn’t Spud Cargill. The man walked through the center of camp toward a set of outdoor Forest Service toilets. After a few minutes, the man came back outside and returned to his trailer.

  Okay, Joe thought. That’s where everybody needs to go at some point tonight.

  Two hours went by and the cold settled in. Despite his heavy Sorel pak boots and two pairs of socks, his feet were starting to get cold. He worked his toes to keep the circulation going.

  Twelve people, most of them men, had exited trailers or campers and trudged to the toilets. In the stillness, he heard them cough, hack, and make disgusting sounds in the toilets. None of them was Spud Cargill. None of them was Wade Brockius. None of them was April.

  Then she was there. Joe had almost fallen asleep despite the cold and his awkward stance. But when he saw the small woman, Jeannie Keeley, emerge from a trailer with a small blond girl, he knew it was April.

  He watched and listened. Their footfalls weren’t as percussive in the frozen snow as the men’s had been. When they passed the nearest window, he ignored Jeannie and saw April’s frail profile against the light. The glimpse didn’t reveal much. He couldn’t have seen bruises, if they were there, or pain on her face. She just seemed vacant, glassy-eyed. Her snowboots shuffled. Jeannie led her by the hand to the outdoor toilet.

  April went inside and shut the door. Jeannie stood outside and waited, smoking a cigarette.

  When April was through, Jeannie took her hand and they walked back together. April raised her face, which caught some light from a window, and said something to Jeannie. Jeannie laughed, and bent her head down to April and said something back, which caused April to laugh. The girl had a husky laugh, a belly laugh that Joe loved to hear. But the sound of it now filled him with violently mixed emotions.

  They entered the trailer and shut the door, and April was gone.

  Joe blinked.

  If he wouldn’t have known who they were, or what the circumstances were, he would have described the scene as heartwarming. The mother, Jeannie, obviously cared enough about the welfare of her daughter to walk her to and from the outhouse. They held hands, and April reached up for Jeannie’s hand when she exited. The joke, whatever it was, was appreciated by her mother. And her mother bent down to share something that made both of them giggle.

  Joe wasn’t sure this is what he had wanted to see. He had envisioned a scenario where April, in tears, was dragged through the camp. If he’d seen that, he could also see himself running into the camp, throwing Jeannie aside, and rescuing April. He would carry her through the snow to the snowmobile and roar down the mountain. But that hadn’t happened. Not at all.

  He couldn’t believe that April was in a better place. That was inconceivable. But unless he literally stormed into the trailer and took her—kidnapped her—there was little he could do.

  He was freezing, and conflicted. There was nothing he could do here, and Joe shook snow from his parka and prepared to go back to his snowmobile.

  When “Danke Schoen” started up, Joe turned in surprise and dropped a glove in the snow. He had not been four feet from the tree he had been hiding in when the song blasted through the night and scared him. He stood and listened, stunned. Where was it coming from? Then he remembered the speakers he had seen when he last visited the compound.

  From inside trailers, he heard shouted curses. Someone threw something heavy into a wall. If the intention of the song was to drive the Sovereigns crazy, Joe thought, it appeared to be working.

  A door flew open and a man Joe didn’t recognize stood framed in the light of his propane lamp. He swung an automatic rifle up across his body and leaned into it. A furious burst of fire lit up the night. Although the man was shooting at the speakers—and hitting them, judging by the sharp pings of metal—and not toward Joe, Joe sunk to his haunches and dug for his Beretta.

  Another burst shredded the speakers with holes, but did little to stop the sound.

  The song ended and, after a brief pause, started up again. Only this time it was louder.

  Joe heard a sudden rustle close behind him, but he was too slow, and too cold, to react. He felt a heavy blow above his ear that sent him sprawling clumsily forward, snow filling his nose and mouth.

  He never actually lost consciousness, but the orange flashes that burst across his eyes and the thundering pulses of pain in his head prevented him from fighting back as he was dragged from his place in the trees into the compound.

  Two men wearing oversized white fatigues and carrying scoped SKS rifles wrapped in white tape pulled him by his arms. Snow and ice jammed into his collar and into the top of his pants. One of them had taken his pistol.

  Sliding easier now over the packed snow of the compound, Joe tried to twist away. They immediately let go of him, and kicked him in the ribs with their heavy winter boots.

  The first kick was true, knocking the air out of him and leaving him writhing in the snow. He was suprisingly lucid, he realized. He knew what was going on around him as if he were watching it from somewhere else—he just couldn’t do much about it. It wouldn’t be that much of a surprise to him if someone pressed the cold muzzle of a shotgun to his neck and fired. Oddly, he didn’t fear it. That just seemed like part of the deal.

  “Stop, I think I know him.” It was Wade Brockius. His voice was unmistakable.

  Joe heard the crunching of snow from across the compound.

  One of the men kicked him again, although not as effectively this time. Joe partially blocked it, and absorbed most of the blow in his forearms. “Asshole,” the man spat.

  Joe rolled and blinked as Brockius shined a flashlight in his eyes.

  “Yeah, I know him. He’s that game warden.”

  “We caught him at the edge of camp, bobbing and weaving when Clem shot at that speaker.”

  Joe suddenly realized that the music was still playing, and even louder. Still “Danke Schoen.” But here was a hideous screaming along with it.

  Joe started to sit up, but the pain in his head roared back and he sank down onto an elbow, waiting for his sudden nausea to recede. He kept his free arm up, wary of more kicks. Brockius knelt and wrapped a large arm around Joe and helped him to sit upright, to Joe’s relief. Joe’s mouth was full of hot blood and melting snow. He spit a dark stream out between his knees.

  “Don’t go anywhere quite yet, boys,” Brockius said to the two men.

  “Do you have to listen to that every night?” Joe asked, testing his voice. It sounded shaky.

  “Since last night,” Brockius said. “I think we’re going to be serenaded by Wayne Newton every night now.”

  “Clem shot the hell out of those speakers,” one of the men in white said. “But it didn’t do any good.”

  “We’ll cut the fucking wires,” the other said.

  Brockius nodded absently, but his eyes stayed on Joe.

  “Mind if I come in?” Joe asked. “It’s pretty cold out here.”

  Brockius considered it, then shook his head.

  “You’re the second person today who wouldn’t invite me in,” Joe said absently. “I don’t know what to think about that.”

  Brockius showed a slight smile. “There are some things in my trailer I really don’t want anyone to see.”

  Joe thought: weapons. The ATF had conducted raids for less. Either that, or Brockius’s fax machine was loaded to broadcast more subpoenas and liens. Or both.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” Brockius asked.

  Joe thought carefully before he spoke. The two men in white continued to crowd him. They blocked out the light where he sat.

  “I wanted to see for myself if April was here and in good health.”

  “She is. I already told you that.”

  Joe looked up. “And I wanted to see if Spud Cargill was up here.”

  Brockius cursed, and shook his head. “Why does everybody think that
man is up here, goddammit!”

  “Because there was a report that he was,” Joe said. “And because if he is up here, there will be . . . trouble.”

  “Trouble we can handle,” one of the men in white said.

  The other one chuckled at that.

  “Look,” Brockius said, his voice commanding as he leaned close to Joe. Joe could smell onions on his breath. “I’m going to tell you the truth, because I don’t ever want you up here again. You could have gotten yourself killed real easily.”

  “That’s right,” the more obnoxious of the two men in white agreed. Again, the other chuckled.

  “Spud. Cargill. Is. Not. Here.”

  Joe studied Brockius’s face, looking into his soulful eyes.

  “That man tried to join us last night. He did come here. I spoke with him, and I turned him away.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the Feds that?”

  Brockius rolled his eyes and roared, “I DID TELL THEM HE WASN’T HERE.”

  “They just didn’t believe you,” Joe said softly.

  “How unlike them,” Brockius spat.

  “Where did Spud go when you told him to leave?”

  Brockius shrugged. “To wherever he came from, I guess.”

  Joe felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He was no closer to finding Spud now than he had been when he started. The pain in his head had reduced to a steady thump in his right temple. Joe reached up with a bare hand and cleaned packed snow out of his ear.

  “Did you hear me?” Brockius asked.

  “Yes. And I believe you,” Joe said.

  “Jackbooted thugs,” Obnoxious White growled. “People that hide behind their regulations and their badges while they’re skinning a rabbit on a tape.”

  Yes, Joe realized. That was the horrible squealing sound he heard with “Danke Schoen.”

  There was a long minute where no one spoke. The screaming of the rabbit was like icy metal rubbing along Joe’s spine. Finally, it stopped.