Long Range

by Box, C. J.

  Youngberg found the number and punched it up. Someone answered on the third ring, and Youngberg could hear highway noise and wind rushing. The connection was poor.

  “Is this Nate Romanowski?”

  “Yes, it is. Who is this?”

  Youngberg identified himself and said he’d seen the post on the website.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m at a place called the Flying Saucer Motel in Roswell, New Mexico. I just rented a room to a fiftyish Mexican national named Orlando Panfile. With him was a very attractive dark-skinned woman in her early thirties and a little baby. She got my attention when she called the baby Kestrel, like the hawk.”

  There was silence on the other end. Either the call had been dropped or Nate was forming his thoughts.

  “I’m an hour away,” Nate said to Youngberg. “I’ll call when I get there.”

  “They’re staying in unit number seven,” Youngberg said. “It has two bedrooms.”

  “Good. Call me if they go somewhere.”

  “Will do.”

  “What is the man driving?”

  “A white Toyota Land Cruiser with Texas plates.”

  “Thank you. I know you didn’t have to do this.”

  “We watch out for our own,” Youngberg said. “Someone has to.”

  *

  AN HOUR LATER, Orlando Panfile sat primly on the edge of the mushy bed in his bedroom and kept a close eye on the closed bathroom door. There was a Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver in his lap. Despite the wind outside rattling the windows and the shower sounds from the bathroom, baby Kestrel slept soundly in her car seat near the headboard. When Kestrel sighed in her sleep, Panfile smiled. She was a good baby, he thought.

  The trip south had taken longer than necessary because he’d made several detours onto the obscure county roads and even deliberately gone hundreds of miles out of his way to the east and west on the journey. No one, he was sure, could have followed them. The killer of Abriella was still in jail as far as he knew, although he expected him to be released soon as a result of Orlando’s statement to the lawyer.

  Panfile had kept Liv under control by separating her from her baby whenever they stopped for gas, restrooms, or food. As long as he had Kestrel next to him, he knew, she wouldn’t make a break for it or say anything to strangers they encountered. He hadn’t made an explicit threat, but he didn’t need to.

  When they crossed the border into Juárez, he wanted Liv Romanowski to look fresh, clean, and unharmed, because there would be photos taken and posted. He’d texted his colleagues to make sure they were ready for them. They were.

  He’d come to like her very much, as well as the baby. Liv was a good mother, and she was very clever. Liv had engaged him and suggested ways he could let her and Kestrel go with no repercussions. Her husband wouldn’t seek revenge, she’d assured him. She’d make sure of it, she’d said. She didn’t cry, didn’t plead, didn’t offer herself in a deal to be set free. She seemed to realize it was simply a business transaction and that he was doing what he was doing for that reason. He didn’t tell her that his people wanted Nate Romanowski to come for her so they could make a very public example of him. Still, though, she was at times very persuasive, he thought.

  More than once she reminded Panfile of Abriella: beautiful, curious, resourceful, and possessing a ruthless streak. He had no doubt that if he’d given her an opportunity, she would have slit his throat and fled with her baby. He admired her, and he’d told her he would protect her and Kestrel from some of his more brutal colleagues.

  He heard the shower stop, and a moment later the bathroom door opened with a puff of steam. Liv had a white towel on her head and another wrapped around her body. She didn’t even look at him. She checked on Kestrel sleeping in her car seat.

  “She’s fine,” Panfile said.

  Liv nodded. “Knock on the door if she wakes up. I don’t want you holding her. No offense.”

  “I’ve got five kids of my own,” Panfile said, wounded. “I’ve held them all. I’ve changed their diapers. I know what to do.”

  Liv turned her gaze on him and the effect was surprisingly chilling. It was as if she had the gun.

  “Hurry, please,” he said to her. “We’ll leave as soon as you’re dressed.”

  *

  LIV LOOKED AT her reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’d let her fill a bag at a local Walgreens with makeup and other items while he waited for her out in the car with Kestrel. While inside, she’d eyed other customers who were in their own worlds and none of them paid much attention to her. Not that she would have told them her baby was outside next to a cartel killer, but she wished she could have communicated something. That she couldn’t made her feel complicit in her own kidnapping.

  Liv knew they were close to the border. Once they got there, she had no idea what would happen. But she couldn’t think of any way to distract him, grab Kestrel, and run away without risking the life of her baby and herself. Orlando was careful and calm. He had no vices to exploit.

  Liv opened the latch and shoved up on the bathroom window frame. For a second, she envisioned a scenario where she would claim that she needed to change Kestrel’s diaper out of his view, then she’d slip through the window with her baby and run.

  Unfortunately, the window opened only three inches before it hit a barrier.

  She leaned down and looked out. Dust from the sill blew in her eyes from the wind. But she’d caught a glimpse of something she hoped was real and not wish fulfillment, like her previous scenario.

  Then she saw it again: a battered Jeep looking much like Nate’s passing through the opening between two motel units.

  Liv held her breath and stood motionless. She didn’t hear a car door slam.

  A moment later, there he was. He moved from unit to unit with his elbow bent and his pistol pointed up near the side of his face. She didn’t dare shout, but she implored him with her eyes to look her way.

  He did. Their eyes locked. He didn’t seem anxious in the least.

  Nate mimed a knocking gesture with his free hand and followed it by holding his arm straight out, palm down, and lowering it to the ground.

  She understood and she nodded that she did.

  Liv quickly closed the window, threw her clothes on, and opened the bathroom door.

  *

  PANFILE WATCHED HER come out. She was naturally beautiful, but he was a little disappointed she hadn’t made herself up into something more glamorous since he’d intentionally given her the time and opportunity.

  She smiled nervously at him and went straight toward Kestrel on the bed. The baby’s head had listed to the side while she slept and Liv gently tucked in her blankets and set her right.

  The knock on the outside door was firm and insistent.

  “Housekeeping.”

  Panfile recognized the voice of the motel desk clerk. He quickly checked to confirm that the bolt and the door chain were in place, that the hotel staffer couldn’t just walk in on them. “We’re fine,” he called. “We don’t require anything now.”

  The knock again. “Housekeeping.”

  As he stood up, Panfile saw that Liv had gone around the foot of the bed and was still tending to Kestrel in her car seat. He approached the door.

  “We don’t need anything,” he said.

  Another series of sharp raps. “Housekeeping.”

  Could the man not hear? Panfile asked himself.

  *

  ON THE THRESHOLD of unit number seven, Nate stood to the side and thumbed back the hammer of his .454. He intently watched the peephole.

  To Youngberg, whom Nate had asked to come from the lobby with him, he chinned toward the office and mouthed, “Go.” Youngberg scrambled away. There was no need to talk further, he thought. No reason for a dramatic confrontation. He had no interest in Orlando Panfile or in why, how, or what could have happened. All he cared about was that his wife and daughter were inside. His plan driving south had been simple: to go to Sinaloa and pile u
p bodies until the cartel released Liv and Kestrel. Youngberg’s call had made it even simpler.

  When the peephole darkened, Nate raised his revolver and fitted the entire muzzle around it with one motion and squeezed the trigger.

  BOOM.

  Nate squared himself in front of the door and kicked it open. The doorjamb gave way and the chain snapped, but the door would only open a foot because Panfile’s body blocked it. Nate put his shoulder to the door and shoved and the body slid along the cheap linoleum flooring leaving a swath of blood.

  The wall opposite the doorway was spattered with blood and brain matter. Nate glanced down as he stepped over the body to make sure his job was complete. It was. Orlando Panfile had no head from the nose up.

  Liv looked up from where she’d gone to ground behind the bed. Her grateful smile beamed. Kestrel was in her arms wailing from the sound of the shot.

  “Don’t look,” Nate warned her. “And don’t let Kestrel see anything.”

  He had an irrational fear that his baby would retain the image of the gore in the room for the rest of her life. In response, Liv draped Kestrel’s blanket over the baby’s head.

  “Are you okay?” he asked Liv.

  “We’re fine,” she replied. “He was a surprisingly kind man, actually. But we’re ready to go home.”

  “Let’s go now.”

  He stood to the side to let Liv and Kestrel step over the body of Orlando Panfile and pass through the door into the gritty wind.

  “Don’t forget the car seat,” Liv called to him over her shoulder.

  THIRTY

  TWO WEEKS LATER, JOE AWOKE FROM A NAP IN HIS HOSPITAL at Billings General to a commotion outside in the hallway. The matronly nurse he’d come to dislike said, “Sir, our visiting hours are over.”

  She was strict about enforcing the rules. She was strict about everything. Joe got the distinct impression that she felt she could really run an efficient hospital wing if it weren’t for all the patients and visitors in it.

  “We’ll only be a minute,” a male voice said. It was Nate. Joe smiled in anticipation.

  Nate entered his room first, followed by Liv holding the baby and Marybeth behind her.

  “Don’t get up,” Nate said to Joe.

  “Very funny.”

  *

  THE .338 LAPUA round Arthur had fired had hit Joe on the inside of his left thigh and exited out the back. It missed his thighbone, but it had nicked his femoral artery on the way through.

  Although he was unconscious at the time, he learned later that Martin and Smith had performed field first aid on him by elevating the leg and applying a tourniquet above the wound so he wouldn’t bleed out. Dr. Arthur had not been so fortunate. He’d been hit eight times by Martin and Smith and he’d likely died before he hit the ground.

  Joe had been taken to Billings by a Life Flight helicopter straight into surgery and then the intensive care unit. He learned that despite his fellow game wardens’ care, he’d lost so much blood that he’d been minutes away from death. For the first week, he and Marybeth had been warned by the doctors that he might lose his leg.

  He was recovering, though, and ahead of schedule. A year of physical therapy lay ahead of him, he’d been told, and maybe more.

  Marybeth had been with him every day. He felt embarrassed to be so weak and useless. When he was awake, she kept him abreast of developments in Twelve Sleep County via Facebook, the online Saddlestring Roundup, and texts from friends and library patrons.

  An arrest warrant had been issued for Nate Romanowski by the sheriff’s department for assaulting a peace officer, escaping from jail, and several other charges for good measure.

  Deputies Woods and Steck had been reactivated, but when they’d refused to apprehend Nate, they’d both been suspended from duty again.

  Sheriff Kapelow, who had cruelly been dubbed “Sheriff Van Gogh” because of his missing ear, castigated by the community for pursuing the wrong shooter and suspending his men, had quietly packed up his house and vanished.

  Judge Hewitt had announced that he was retiring from the bench to found and administrate a Sue Hewitt Foundation to provide grants and mental health assistance to the families of violent crimes.

  Wyoming governor Colter Allen had announced his intention to give commendation letters to game wardens Mike Martin, Eddie Smith, and Joe Pickett for their actions in apprehending the killer. He’d also had his office send a bill to the Game and Fish Department for the cost of the bodywork on Joe’s pickup due to high caliber bullet holes.

  Missy had slipped away back to Jackson with her illicit medication and she’d called Marybeth to say that Marcus Hand seemed to be recovering.

  Candy Croswell was participating in a true-crime podcast about unscrupulous doctors who defrauded both patients and loved ones.

  Martin and Smith had both been placed on administrative leave by the Game and Fish Department pending an investigation because of their roles in the officer-involved shooting of Dr. Arthur. They’d spent at least some of their leisure time telling others about Joe’s foolhardy but effective horseback run at the cabin that was now dubbed “Pickett’s Charge.”

  Loren Hill had turned herself in to authorities and admitted her role in the scheme in order to protect herself after her brother was found hanging by the neck from a bridge in South Dakota, left there by his cartel-associated captors.

  Marybeth had been elected chair of a new search committee to find a legitimate doctor willing to move to Twelve Sleep County and take over at the clinic.

  *

  JOE HAD BEEN deeply touched when he’d awakened during the first week to find April and Lucy in his room. They’d carpooled from Wyoming when they heard the news and had waited at his bedside. Seeing them and grasping their hands brought tears to his eyes.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he’d said to them. “I just feel very emotional right now. It’s got something to do with getting hurt.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Lucy said, tearing up herself. “It’s okay.” She’d always been the most open with her feelings.

  “Just don’t get shot anymore,” April said with faux-ferocity. She’d always been the most intense.

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Try harder,” April said. And for a second, her mask slipped.

  He asked them about how things were going at their respective colleges and if they had plans to come home for Thanksgiving.

  “Will you be home by then?” Lucy asked.

  “Yes. But I won’t be hopping around yet.”

  *

  NATE AND LIV approached Joe, and Liv handed Kestrel to him. Joe cradled the baby and nuzzled her head with his chin.

  Nate said, “You probably heard. I’m going back off the grid for a while.”

  “We’re going back off the grid,” Liv corrected.

  Joe nodded. “I’ll do what I can to get the charges dropped when I’m up and around. Maybe Rulon can help.”

  “Just concentrate on getting up and around,” Nate said. “Right now, there isn’t a sheriff’s office to arrest me.”

  “I heard what happened in New Mexico,” Joe said. “I hope that ends it.”

  “I do, too,” Nate said. “But I’m staying vigilant in case they decide to come after us again. I’m better when I’m vigilant.”

  Joe had to concede the point. He could tell by Nate’s nervous movements that his friend had something more he wanted to say. Joe waited.

  Nate said, “Liv and I need to keep the company going while we’re out of sight for the time being.”

  “Yes?”

  “So there needs to be a new public face for Yarak Inc. for a while.”

  “Okay.”

  “And here she is,” Nate said, stepping aside and nodding to Marybeth, who in turn nodded toward someone out in the hall. Liv gently retrieved Kestrel.

  Sheridan entered with a sheepish grin and walked over to Joe. She looked radiant and mature, he thought. His twenty-three-year-old daugh
ter and Nate’s apprentice in falconry was back for the time being, and he was both grateful and concerned.

  “You’re okay with this?” he asked her.

  “I’m excited. I really didn’t want to go to grad school right now anyway.”

  “Learn everything you can about falcons,” Joe said, “and nothing about twisting people’s ears off.”

  “She’s going to live with us for a while until she can find a place of her own,” Marybeth said. “I assume that’s okay with you.”

  Joe nodded. “Of course. I was getting too used to having my own bathroom.”

  April and Lucy came into the now-crowded room from the hallway. Joe realized it had been a setup all along to break the news to him. His three daughters gathered around his bed.

  “Maybe you’ll all come back,” he said.

  “Maybe we never left,” Lucy responded. Marybeth cried happily near the door.

  April rolled her eyes at the sentiment and said again, “You need to quit getting shot.”

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank the people who provided help, expertise, and information for this novel.

  Landon Michaels and the staff and engineers at Gunwerks in Cody, Wyoming, who gave up their time and vast knowledge on the manufacture and ballistics of long-range rifles and shooting.

  Brad Hovinga, regional wildlife supervisor for the Wyoming Game and Fish Department in Jackson, provided background information and technical details on recent actual grizzly bear–human fatalities he investigated.

  Special kudos to my first readers, Laurie Box, Molly Box, Becky Reif, and Roxanne Woods.

  A tip of the hat to Molly Box and Prairie Sage Creative for cjbox.net and social media assistance.

  It’s a sincere pleasure to work with the professionals at Putnam, including the legendary Neil Nyren, Mark Tavani, Ivan Held, Alexis Welby, Ashley McClay, and Katie Grinch.

  And thanks once again to my terrific agent and friend, Ann Rittenberg.

  About the Author

  C. J. BOX is the winner of the Anthony Award, Prix Calibre .38 (France), the Macavity Award, the Gumshoe Award, the Barry Award, and the Edgar Award. He is also a New York Times bestseller. He lives in Wyoming.