“No.”
“He called here a few minutes ago. When I told him you weren’t here, he didn’t sound very happy.”
“I can imagine,” Joe said.
“He said he’s been trying to reach you all day.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“When he asked me where you were, I couldn’t lie to him,” Marybeth said. “I mean, he’s your boss. And he is the governor.”
Joe considered telling her it was better to apologize, but thought better of it and said, “I understand.”
“He asked what you were driving and which route you were taking.”
Joe frowned. “He did?”
“That’s not all,” she said. “He told me this thing is blowing up all of a sudden and he needed to find you. Then he hung up. You know how he is.”
The cutoff toward Rawlins was ahead, and Joe tapped the brake to release the cruise control so he could swing into the turn. “Yup,” Joe said, “I know how he is.”
He closed his phone and dropped it to the seat. They topped a rise before dropping down into Rawlins. When they crested the hill, Joe saw the blue and red wigwag lights, the phalanx of state trooper vehicles, and the long row of eighteen-wheelers directly ahead, all waiting to pass through the roadblock.
“Oh, no,” Nate said, sitting up straight.
Joe looked over and saw his friend strip off his shoulder holster and cram it beneath the bench seat like a high-schooler hiding his open container.
“I’m not going back to Cheyenne,” Nate said softly.
Joe considered braking and turning around, but he was on a one-way exit and the ditches on either side of the road were too steep for him to pull the horse trailer through without high-centering the rig.
“I’ve got to keep going,” Joe said, “unless you have any ideas.”
“You could let me out here,” Nate said. “Let me run for it.”
Joe looked ahead. He counted four highway patrol cars and a Carbon County sheriff SUV.
“They’ll run you down in two minutes,” Joe said.
“Not if I take them out,” Nate said. Joe knew the .454 rounds were capable of penetrating the engine block of a vehicle, and he’d seen Nate do exactly that.
“If you take them out, we’re both going to prison,” Joe said, easing on his brakes so he wouldn’t rear-end a Walmart eighteen-wheeler. At that moment, both of his side mirrors filled up with the grinning chrome grille of another semitruck.
“We’re hemmed in,” Joe said.
Ahead of them, uniformed troopers walked along the shoulder of the road from car to car.
Nate sat back, his eyes glassy. He read aloud the words painted on the back of the rig ahead of them.
He sneered, “Always Low Prices. Always.”
24
TWO STATE TROOPERS APPROACHED JOE’S PICKUP, ONE ON each side of the road. The trooper on the left was tall and stoop-shouldered and had a brushy mustache and hangdog jowls. The trooper on the right was short and wide and his hard, round belly strained at the buttons on his uniform shirt. When he looked up and saw Joe, his eyes narrowed and he put his right hand on the grip of his weapon. Joe couldn’t hear him speak to the other trooper, but he read his lips: It’s him.
The tall trooper put his hand on his gun as well, and as they walked up Joe lowered the driver’s and passenger-side windows.
“You Joe Pickett?” the tall trooper asked. His name badge read BOB GARRARD.
“Yes, sir.”
The other trooper couldn’t take his eyes off Nate, looking at him with practiced and wary cop eyes that came from approaching hundreds of pulled-over vehicles on the highway. He stayed a few feet away from the vehicle so, if necessary, he could draw cleanly and fire.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Nate said to him. Even though his gun was under the seat, Nate sounded as deadly as he looked, Joe thought.
“Governor Rulon is looking for you,” Garrard said to Joe. “Our orders are to take you to him.”
“To Cheyenne?” Joe said. “That’s three hours away.”
“What, are you on a schedule?” Garrard asked, with a hint of a sneer.
“Sort of,” Joe said.
“Naw, not to Cheyenne,” the trooper said. “He’s at the airport. He flew in about an hour ago and he’s waiting for you.”
Garrard looked in the back of Joe’s pickup. “What’s in the box?”
“My dad,” Joe said. “I don’t know where to spread his ashes.”
Garrard did a double take. “So you’re just driving him around the state? Like taking him on a vacation?”
Joe nodded.
The squat trooper on the other side of the truck said to Nate, “We were supposed to be looking for one guy. Pickett. Who might you be? Do you have some ID on you?”
“No.” Nate’s voice was soft but firm. Joe knew it was the way he spoke just before he tore someone’s ear off.
Joe said with false but distracting cheer, “Lead the way, men, and I’ll follow. The governor’s waiting, remember?”
He was grateful that both troopers decided to drop their line of inquiry and depart with both ears attached.
TWO HIGHWAY PATROL CARS led the way to the small airport, and another trooper car followed Joe’s truck and horse trailer. The patrolmen kept their wigwag lights flashing, and citizens on the road pulled to the side to let the caravan pass.
“This is ridiculous,” Nate grumbled. “I didn’t realize he had his own private police force.”
“Well,” Joe said, “he does.”
Harvey Field had several prop Cessna aircraft belonging to France Flying Service. A small Cessna jet was parked on the runway near a cinderblock building that served as the private terminal. On the tail of the airplane was a Wyoming bucking horse silhouette.
“There’s Rulon One,” Joe said. “He’s here, all right.”
RULON WAS A BIG MAN, with a round face and silver-flecked brown hair that always looked barely combed. He had a ruddy complexion that could quickly turn fire-engine red, and the movements of his arms and hands were dartlike. He stood at the head of a small table in the conference room of the terminal wearing an open-collared shirt and a dark blue windbreaker with the name GOV SPENCE embroidered over the breast. Jeans and lizard-skin cowboy boots completed the picture. Special Agent Chuck Coon of the FBI sat slumped at the table to Rulon’s right and the governor’s new chief of staff, a trim retired military man named Carson, sat at Rulon’s left. Both looked uncomfortable.
“You,” Rulon said, pointing at Joe, “need to answer your damned phone.”
“I get that,” Joe said, looking from the governor to Coon, who recognized Nate with palpable alarm.
“And look who’s with him,” Coon said. “The infamous Nate Romanowski.”
Nate kept quiet.
“None of that here,” Rulon said to Coon.
“But he’s a fugitive,” Coon said to Rulon. “For crying out loud, I can’t just look the other way.”
“Yes, you can, for now,” Rulon said. “Or I’ll have you arrested. Don’t forget, I’ve got my troopers outside.”
“On what charge?” Coon said.
Rulon shrugged. “I don’t know. Interfering with the governor, maybe.”
“That’s not a law,” Coon said, a little unsure of himself.
“Sure it is,” Rulon said. “Right, Carson? And if it isn’t a law, it should be. Write that down, Carson. We need a new law next session about gubernatorial interference.”
Carson blanched and looked away.
“Anyway,” Rulon said, slapping the top of the table, “that’s not why we’re here.”
Joe said, “Why are we here?”
Rulon paused and his face reddened. Joe awaited an explosion, but Rulon pointed his finger at Coon and said, “Because the feds are dumping murderous miscreants into my state and not telling me about it.”
“It’s not like that,” Coon said heatedly.
Joe shook his head, confused.
&nbs
p; “Got a minute?” Rulon said to him, then answered his own question: “Why, of course you do. Have a seat, both of you.”
“JOE,” GOVERNOR RULON SAID, “I’m not one to believe in government conspiracies, and the longer I’m in the government the more I’m convinced they cannot exist. Do you know why?”
Joe knew that just as before, Rulon wasn’t really asking him, so he said nothing.
Said Rulon, “It’s because government, by nature, is damned sloppy and incompetent. And the bigger it gets, the worse it becomes in those subject areas. There’s just too many people involved with too many agendas for a secret—any secret—to be kept very long. Someone always leaks, or gets drunk and brags, or tries to impress someone else by telling what they know. That’s why I don’t do secrets. Not because I wouldn’t like to, right, Carson?”
Carson didn’t answer, either.
Rulon continued, “It’s because secrets can’t be kept. I’m not being noble. Secrets just won’t work in government, and they shouldn’t. And when you get to the federal level,” again, he pointed at Coon, “it gets even harder. There are hundreds of thousands of employees with hundreds of thousands of partisan and personal agendas. The only conspiracy that exists is the conspiracy of incompetence.”
Rulon paused, pleased with his phrasing. He said, “Conspiracy of incompetence—I like that. Write that down, Carson. I can use it in a speech.”
This time, Carson dutifully wrote it down on a yellow legal pad, obviously grateful for something to do.
“So,” Rulon said, “conspiracies don’t exist in government for long. But a couple of things are timeless, especially in Washington: greed and corruption. Especially with the very long-term political class. And by that, I mean certain senators and congressmen of both political parties, the ones who’ve been there so long they’ve forgotten what it’s like back here in the real world. It gets to the point where it’s all about them. These are the power brokers, the old lions who traffic in influence, favors, and pork. The ones surrounded by staff and sycophants telling them day after day how great and powerful and eloquent and statesmanlike they are.”
Joe sat down, but Nate remained standing. Joe looked out the window at the runway. Beyond the governor’s plane several tumbleweeds rolled across the pavement. In between the two runways, pronghorn antelope grazed.
“Am I boring you, Joe?” Rulon asked suddenly.
Joe looked up. “With all due respect, governor, I was hoping you would get to the point.”
Rulon froze, his face turning crimson. Instead of yelling or firing Joe on the spot, a slow grin formed. He held his hands out, palms up.
“Why can’t I be surrounded by sycophants who tell me how great I am?” Rulon said. “Instead, I get guys like you, Joe.”
Joe shrugged. “Sorry, sir.”
“Maybe I should run for Senate. Carson, write that down.”
“Please, sir,” Carson said, his voice begging.
“Okay,” Rulon said, winking at Joe, “I’ll cut to the chase. Have you ever heard of Senator Carl McKinty of Michigan? Thirty-year senator, he is. Democrat, of course—he’s from Michigan—but that hardly matters since I am, too, and we couldn’t be farther apart on just about everything. He’s chairman of the Natural Resources Committee. That’s where I’ve tangled with him. He’s on the Homeland Security Committee as well.”
Joe said, “I’ve heard his name.”
“Have you heard of a woman named Caryl Cline?”
Joe rubbed his jaw. “The name is familiar, but I’m not sure why.”
“Five years ago,” Rulon said, “she was all over television. She was a self-proclaimed activist for private property rights. She got that way because her Senator McKinty worked a sweetheart deal in the Upper Peninsula in Michigan for a huge tract of land she owned. He convinced the local government to condemn the land her family had owned for a hundred and fifty years in order to give it to a hotshot developer. The local government did it because the developer promised a higher tax base than from the little meat-processing company run by the family. And it was perfectly legal, because our brilliant Supreme Court in the Kelo versus City of New London decision said it was just fine for governments to do that.”
“Hold it,” Joe said. “Didn’t most of the states pass laws prohibiting local governments from doing that?”
Coon said, “Yes. But up until 2005 there were no laws to stop it in Michigan. So when it happened, it was okay all around. At the time in Michigan—and we’re seeing it more and more all over the country—the only way to stop it was civil disobedience with the hope that the local or state government would be ashamed and give up.”
“And that’s what she did,” Rulon said, taking over again. “She took her fight public. She did all she could to call out the senator and the local county commissioners who condemned her land. She and her three sons got their guns and said they’d fight for their property—that no government had the right to take private land or shut down a legitimate small business just so the tax revenue would be higher with the new owners.”
Joe said, “Okay, I remember her now. The media kind of made fun of her.”
“That’s right,” Rulon said. “Because she looked and talked like what she was—a rural midwestern white woman. She had crooked teeth, glasses that were taped together in the middle, bad hair, and she wore these big print dresses. She looked like a stereotypical hillbilly. They called her ‘Ma Cline.’ They did their best to make her unsympathetic, but she became a symbol with a few political commentators and just plain folks and she struck fear into the hearts of certain politicians.”
Joe remembered the I’M WITH MA CLINE bumper stickers that were popular at the time. He still saw some around.
Rulon said, “Do you remember what happened to her?”
Before Joe could speak, Nate said, “She was murdered.”
For the first time, Rulon turned his full attention to Nate. The governor studied Nate as if sizing him up. Joe knew Rulon considered himself an excellent judge of character. He wondered what Rulon’s judgment was of his friend.
“ ‘Murder’ is not the right word,” Coon interjected. “She was killed, yes. But it happened in a firefight at the Cline compound in the UP. There is some dispute whether she was killed by law enforcement or by her own family.”
Nate said, “No, there isn’t.” He shook his head, said, “It always amuses me how a family home or small business suddenly becomes a ‘compound’ when you folks decide to attack it.”
Coon said, “Owning the language and getting it out there first is a way to assure the public will be with us. Cynical, but true.”
The news story came back to Joe. He remembered how it had been reported; the Cline Family was armed to the teeth and refused to leave their land. The local sheriff as well as federal law enforcement ATFE—and FBI—moved in on the Clines after arrest warrants had been issued for firearms violations, refusal to comply with the condemnation order, and dozens of other charges. Gunfire greeted them, and two members of the strike force were wounded before the tactical units unleashed holy hell on the “compound.” In the end, Caryl Cline, her husband, Darrell, and one of three sons were killed. Joe recalled the news reports showing unpainted bullet-riddled shacks deep in a shadowed forest. He also recalled the outrage of the more extreme elements and accusations of government malfeasance. But because the violence took place off-camera, the location was remote, and several other similar incidents happened around the same time, the particular story faded quickly. In fact, when he thought about it, he hadn’t heard anything about follow-up investigations, or reports suggesting that the situation was any different than originally portrayed: the inbred white trash family paid the price for firing on federal law enforcement officers doing their duty.
“I’m confused,” Joe said. “What does this have to do with us?”
Rulon said, “Up until yesterday, I would have asked the same thing. But at this point, I’ll ask Special Agent Chuck Coon to pick up the
story.”
25
JOE THOUGHT COON LOOKED AS IF HE WERE RACKED WITH turmoil, as if it would physically hurt him to talk. The FBI agent reached back and rubbed his own neck and seemed to be staring at something on the tabletop he found fascinating.
Rulon lowered his voice and looked kindly toward Coon. “Mr. Coon is one of the good guys in this whole situation. He came to me yesterday afternoon because his conscience was bothering him. I know how far out on a limb he is now, and how much courage it’s taken when he could have easily said nothing at all.”
Coon thanked the governor with his eyes, then turned to Joe and Nate.
“What the governor said about greed and corruption is all too true,” Coon said. “Especially these days. There’s just so much money sloshing around in the government that anything is possible. They can’t hire federal employees fast enough or throw billions at projects fast enough. They spend money like a pimp with a week to live. The only growth industry is us—the government. Luckily, we’re somewhat insulated from it out here in the field, but in D.C.—man.”
Joe shook his head and slipped a glance toward Nate to gauge his reaction. Nate looked back and waggled his eyebrows, as if to say nothing he would hear could surprise him. Joe was constantly amazed at the network of contacts Nate seemed to have across the country. He’d purposefully never asked Nate about the company he kept because he didn’t want to know.
Coon leveled his gaze at Joe, pointedly ignoring Nate. He said, “Some background is necessary. Senator McKinty is on the Homeland Security Committee, as mentioned. He knew the government was looking for land for a new counterterrorism effort, a training facility far removed from any population centers. He knew because his staff knows the federal budget inside out and they’re under orders to be on the lookout for opportunities to preempt senators with less seniority and stature to deliver the pork back home. As you know, Michigan has been in a one-state depression for years, so anything he can deliver keeps him popular and gets him reelected time after time. The Upper Peninsula is pretty hard hit, so he wanted to locate the facility there, but there wasn’t a big enough piece of state land that would meet all the specs. So he worked with the locals to identify several huge private holdings that provided the geographical diversity necessary for the facility. He worked with the developer to target the land. What no one knew was that he’d arranged for his son to be a major shareholder in the development as well. You see, McKinty’s largest campaign contributor is himself. This was a way of creating a permanent major donor. There are no laws preventing a senator from contributing to his own campaign.”