Latta assured Joe that Emily was a bad liar.
“So are my girls,” Joe said. “Two of ’em, anyway.”
“She can do it if I explain to her what’s going on. If she knows that if she gives up the game, they might kill me and hurt her. I’ll be honest with her.”
Joe was skeptical.
Latta said, “She’s gonna find out about what her father did one way or another. I’d rather it be from me, so she at least knows why I did it. She needs to know I made mistakes but now I’m making it right.”
Joe reluctantly agreed because he couldn’t see a better option. He didn’t want to try and make a stand at the cabin. Templeton’s men could fill it full of holes or burn them out. And it would put Emily in harm’s way. Also, if the three of them tried to get down the mountain and encountered the thugs, there could be a bloodbath. He jotted down the cell phone number for Chuck Coon on a napkin and slid it over to Latta.
“Call him and let him know what’s going on. Tell him where I’ll be, because I doubt I’ll have any cell service on the way down.”
Latta agreed.
Latta had located an ancient snow machine—a 1989 Polaris Indy Sport 340cc—in a shed next to the cabin. It was in bad shape, but they were able to get it started by spraying fuel directly into the carburetor. It was now fueled up and ready to go. Joe found a moth-eaten snowmobile suit and a pair of bulky boots that fit him hanging inside the shed.
“Let’s go outside,” Latta said with resignation, after taking a long pull of the bottle.
• • •
JOE SAID, “I can’t do it. You’re already bleeding like a stuck pig. You’re hurt bad enough to convince them, I think.”
Latta rolled his eyes and said with contempt, “Good. Don’t do it, Joe. Get me killed and Emily, too.”
Joe grunted and hit Latta hard in the chin with the butt of the shotgun. Latta went down to his knees holding his face in his hands. Streams of blood pulsed between his fingers and darkened the snow in front of him. He said something garbled that Joe translated as, “You busted my jaw.”
“Sorry, Jim,” Joe said through clenched teeth.
He heard Latta clearly when the man wailed, “Now go!”
• • •
THE OLD MACHINE started again with a cloud of blue smoke and sounded like an angry electric shaver. Joe roared out of the shed and didn’t look back. He found out a mile away from the cabin that the gauges and electronics were shot and the single headlamp flickered on and off. It was a clunky, wedge-shaped machine, and the brakes were bad and the windscreen was cracked down the middle. Mice had eaten away most of the seat down to bare metal.
It ran, though, and he picked his way through spruce trees parallel to the road. He didn’t want the distinctive snowmobile tracks to be seen easily by occupants of a vehicle coming up the mountain. Joe and Latta had decided that the assault scenario would also include Joe stealing the snow machine. Eventually, Templeton’s thugs would be in pursuit. If they didn’t see him on their way up, Joe could buy an hour or two of time.
That was the plan, anyway.
The suit was warm, but the cold air stung his face. His shotgun was secured to the front of the machine by bungee cords and the ATV saddlebags were strapped to the back. Daisy sprawled on her belly across what once had been the seat. He could see her hind end under his left arm and her head under his right. She looked out at the passing trees with a kind of stoic dumbness unique to Labradors, and he was grateful he owned a dog not bright enough to be frightened. Fine powdered snow covered her snout.
The snow was deep and soft in the trees, and he was scared to stop moving, in fear the machine would sink and he’d be stuck. Like a shark, he kept moving—even when he couldn’t see a clear path ahead and when the headlight flickered off. Eventually, he found the switch to the light and flipped it off—better to navigate by the light of the stars and moon than by the unreliable lamp.
If he were to bet on it, Joe thought, he’d wager the Polaris wouldn’t last the trip down the mountain and back to his pickup in the orchard. The engine seemed to be running especially hot, he thought, and who knew the last time it had been overhauled? Snowmobiles of that vintage, Joe knew, used to be equipped with extra fan belts, spark plugs, and tools for fixing the engine in the field when it stopped performing. Present-day over-the-snow machines were much more reliable. But the old Polaris was all he had, and it didn’t have any extra parts in the compartment beneath the seat where they should have been.
Joe prepared to simply leave it when it stopped and hike the rest of the way. Every mile it ran, though, was a mile he wouldn’t have to walk in deep snow.
He found himself praying and thinking of his daughters and Marybeth.
Joe would never forgive himself, he thought, if he got himself killed in such an inhospitable place.
• • •
HE’D BEEN GONE NEARLY AN HOUR when he noticed a splash of gold in the trees to his right where the road wound through the forest. Because he’d been running dark, his eyesight was especially tuned to any glimpse of artificial light, and he immediately reached down and killed the engine. He didn’t dare let himself be seen or heard from the road.
Once he stopped, the snow machine listed to the left and sank into the snow. He was grateful it wasn’t as deep as it had been at higher elevation, and hoped that if he could get the engine started again—a big if—he’d be able to continue.
Joe swung his leg over the seat and the dog and crouched behind the machine in the dark.
Daisy stared at him, confused.
“You too,” he whispered, and she clambered down next to him and sat on her haunches. The engine ticked manically in the cold. Joe rubbed the snow from her eyes.
There was another splash of yellow on the trunks of the trees near the road, then the sound of a pickup engine. Joe hugged Daisy to him so she wouldn’t bound toward the road to greet new friends. He hoped there wouldn’t be a turn in the road that would hit him with the headlights and whoever was at the wheel didn’t have a spotlight at the ready.
His muscles ached from the vibration of the machine, and his ears hummed from the high-pitched drone of the engine. The legs of his snowmobile suit were spattered with hot oil from somewhere beneath the faded plastic cowl.
Bill Critchfield’s pickup crawled up the road in four-wheel drive and was soon in plain sight through the trees. Joe could make out two people inside—Smith, too—as well as the barrels of two long rifles sticking up between them. They were looking ahead and not to the side, and they continued on. Joe waited until the taillights faded to pink and eventually blinked out. When he stood up, he could barely hear the pickup in the distance.
“Whew,” he said aloud.
But he was frightened for Latta and Emily when the pickup arrived at the cabin. Would Critchfield and Smith believe Latta’s story? Had Latta followed through making the call to Agent Coon? Thank God, he thought, the landline worked despite the fact that the rest of the power was out.
Joe mounted the machine and reached down for the key when he heard another low rumble from the road and looked over.
The light was amber this time, and low to the ground. It belonged to a Range Rover that crawled up the mountain minutes behind Critchfield’s pickup. The driver kept the headlights out and used only the running lights—probably so he wouldn’t be detected by the men up ahead.
Joe squinted and the profile behind the wheel was unmistakable as belonging to Whip, Robert Whipple, the snooty man with the bamboo fly rod he’d rousted on Sand Creek. Unlike Critchfield and Smith, though, Whip proceeded up the two-track as a hunter would. He drove slowly with his windows open so he could listen. It took a full minute for Whip to pass by. Joe’s heart was beating so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if Whip suddenly stopped and turned in his direction. But he didn’t.
So now, he thought, th
ere were three of them after him. Two mouth-breathing thugs and another one much more sinister.
He waited ten minutes—he didn’t want Whip to hear the snowmobile—before holding his breath and turning the key.
The engine caught.
“Let’s go, Daisy,” he said against the whine of the snow machine.
• • •
THE MACHINE LURCHED TO A STOP three miles from the orchard, and Joe climbed off and shed his oil-soaked suit. There was a burnt smell in the air from beneath the cowl of the machine and he didn’t even bother to look at what had caused it.
As he trudged in the snow with Daisy at his heels, he shot out his arm and checked his watch. He should make it to his pickup an hour or so before dawn, he guessed. He had to.
Once the sun was up, he could no longer elude the men who were after him. His tracks—first the tread from the machine on the snow and then his boot tracks—would expose his whereabouts the same way the elk and deer would be revealed to the hunters out there.
He drew out his cell phone. There was a faint signal and two text messages appeared that had been sent during the night.
One was from Chuck Coon and it simply read: It’s on. Is there room to land choppers at BFI?
Latta had come through. Joe paused and texted back: Hurry. Yes.
The second was from Sheridan. It said: Saw EY in the elevator. He’s creeping me out and I need your advice.
When he called, her phone was off—of course—and he left a message for her to call him back immediately.
Then he picked up his pace.
• • •
HE’D NEVER BEEN SO HAPPY to see his battered green Game and Fish pickup where he’d left it in the orchard.
Black Forest Inn
A half-hour before the first shafts of dawn sun would laser through the pine tops of the eastern hills, Joe watched the activity below through his spotting scope.
He’d taken the two-track road he’d discovered two nights before on the ATV and had parked his pickup in a heavy stand of snow-covered spruce overlooking the Black Forest Inn. From his perch, he was able to observe the structure lighting up window by window as hunters arose. Men eventually emerged, blowing clouds of condensation in the early-morning cold, and dozens of rigs sat idling as guns and gear were loaded inside. A haze of gasoline and diesel fumes hung over the lot. Occasionally, he could hear a shout or catcall from one of the hunters as they loaded up. The scene reminded him of a military deployment, but with dozens of private armies.
One by one, the hunters left the lot and went either north or south on the highway. Streams of taillights seemed to hang in the dark.
• • •
JOE COULD ONLY SIT AND WAIT in complete silence. He was shut off from the world. He’d turned off the radio and powered down his phone an hour before, after responding to the two messages he’d received. If the local sheriff’s department was in fact monitoring radio traffic, he couldn’t risk connecting with either dispatch or Chuck Coon. And if Medicine Wheel County law enforcement were on their game, they would have procedures in place to monitor any cell phone calls made in the area, and with the help of the phone company they could triangulate his location. Joe found it disconcerting to be on the other side of the law and its technical capabilities. But he’d never encountered a thoroughly corrupt department before. The thought made him angry.
He speculated on the progress—or lack of progress—of his plan. He’d set it in motion with Latta on one end and Agent Coon on the other, and things would play out right in front of him—or they wouldn’t. Everything was now out of his control. He shivered from both the cold and from outright fear of what might transpire. One thing he’d learned about plans was they rarely worked as envisioned.
While he waited and watched, he imagined Coon and his team charging north while trying to reach him and coordinate the raid. He imagined Sheridan trying to return his call. And he imagined Marybeth trying to touch base, only to find out he was off the grid. So many things could be happening out there, and so many things could be going wrong . . .
Although he was getting colder—thank goodness for Daisy’s warm head on his lap—he didn’t want to start up his pickup and run the heater. Someone could hear the motor or see the puffs from his exhaust pipe and know he was up there. Plus, the vibration of the engine made it impossible to sharpen the focus of his spotting scope.
He watched the highway in the distance for approaching vehicles and the sky for FBI helicopters. The only sounds were from heavy clumps of snow falling from the pine boughs to the forest floor. That startled him every time.
• • •
BILL CRITCHFIELD’S PICKUP appeared on the highway approaching from the north, followed by Jim Latta’s green Game and Fish truck. Joe raised his spotting scope and focused on both as they slowed at the entrance to the inn and turned in toward the parking lot.
Critchfield was alone and behind the wheel of his vehicle. Behind him, Gene Smith drove Latta’s rig. Latta himself was slumped against the passenger window as Emily, between the two, comforted her dad.
At least he was still alive, Joe thought. And Emily appeared unhurt. He guessed Smith was driving because Latta was too beaten up. Joe felt a sting of guilt and hoped Latta had held.
The two pickups drove around the inn and parked nose-to-tail along the outside wall of the processing facility. They faced Joe’s direction, although he doubted they could see him up in the shadowed forest over five hundred yards away.
Critchfield jumped out of his pickup. He held his cell phone to his head and stomped around in a tight circle while gesticulating wildly with his free hand. Joe guessed he was furious about something, and figured it was probably that Joe himself was still on the run.
He sat back from the spotting scope and surveyed the highway. He thought, Where are the others? Where were Sheriff Mead and his deputies? He doubted big shots like Judge Bartholomew or other county officials would show up, but he hoped the law enforcement types under Templeton’s control would arrive. Joe’s hope was that all of the armed conspirators would assemble in one place—the Black Forest Inn—when Coon and his team arrived. The Feds could corral them all at once. Once the locals were in custody, it would be easy to send a couple of agents to pick off the judge and others who weren’t present in their homes.
Most of all, Joe wondered why Whip wasn’t there. Where had he gone?
• • •
AS HE LEANED FORWARD into the lens of the spotting scope, he had a thought. Whip had shown his tactics as a hunter. Joe had spent hundreds of hours during his career doing what he did now: perching on high ground and patiently observing the landscape around him and noting the moving pieces, whether they were wildlife or hunters. And he realized Whip would likely be doing the same exact thing.
He scooted back on the seat and dislodged Daisy so he could have a better angle. He swung the scope up out of the lot into the heavy forest above it and directly across from him and readjusted the zoom to greater distance.
The terrain through the lens was a mirror of his own: dark, densely packed trees, shadowed hillside, pine boughs bent down as if offering their heavy payloads of snow for collection.
And there he was.
Partially hidden in a copse of spruce trees, Whip watched the activity in the parking lot far below him through a pair of long-barreled binoculars. The back end of the Range Rover was obscured from view by the forest as well as the front bumper, but there he was.
Joe knew that if he could see Whip, Whip could see him if he looked up. The realization shot through him, and he instinctively reached down for the key to start the truck and move it back out of view.
The second before he did, though, Joe caught a movement—a flash of color—on the other side of Whip’s vehicle. In a world of dark blue-green trees and pure white snow, that glimpse of light brown between two tree trunks was a
n anomaly.
He drew back his hand from the key and concentrated on Whip’s vehicle. Joe focused the scope beyond Whip, over his head, through the passenger window on the far side into the wall of trees where he’d seen the flash of color.
• • •
NATE ROMANOWSKI pushed himself through the pine boughs toward Whip, who was still scoping the valley floor through his binoculars. Nate looked to be dressed up for dinner, which was bizarre. He was wearing a sport jacket of some kind. Nate’s weapon was out, a hank of hair hanging from the long barrel alongside his thigh as he closed in on Whip. Then Nate threw open the passenger door and reached inside for something on the seat.
Whip had no chance. He’d lowered the glasses and turned toward the open door when Joe saw his head jerk back once, twice, three times. His grip on the binoculars gave way and they dropped to the snow outside. Whip slumped forward, his face resting on the steering wheel. As Whip slumped forward, it revealed Nate grinning his cruel grin and clutching a small pistol.
Barely discernible because of the distance, Joe heard a delayed pop-pop-pop.
Nate had apparently killed Whip with his own gun, because if Nate had used the .500, everybody would have heard it. Still, since Joe had heard the shots, he was afraid Critchfield had as well. Joe swung the scope back down to the parking lot. Critchfield was still pacing, still talking. If he’d heard anything, he didn’t react as if he had.
Joe was thrilled to see his old friend, even though he couldn’t put into context what he’d just observed. But no doubt Whip was now out of the picture.
Behind Critchfield, Alice Pulochova was assisting Latta around the building so he could go inside. Alice pushed Emily through the snow in her wheelchair. Gene Smith leaned back against the grille of Latta’s pickup with his arms crossed, waiting for marching orders from Critchfield—or whomever Critchfield was talking to on the phone.