Except for investigators and a very few journalists, there had been almost no visitors to the compound since it had erupted. For all practical purposes, it looked the same as it had on that day in January.
An internal Forest Service investigation had been launched immediately to determine whether or not policies had been breached and regulations followed. The FBI announced a similar investigation into the actions of Special Agent Dick Munker.
Robey Hersig had tentatively put out feelers to the attorney general in Cheyenne about an investigation on a statewide level. He was rebuffed on the basis that it was a federal matter.
Wade Brockius was among those found in the burned trailer. His body lay on top of Jeannie Keeley’s as if he had been trying to shield her, and April’s body was found beside her mother. Eunice Cobb’s body was also found and identified. She had been the victim who had run burning from the trailer. The Reverend B. J. Cobb announced that he intended to file a wrongful-death suit against the U.S. Forest Service and the FBI, and that he would start a legal expense fund based at his church. Cobb had been told to expect that the suit would take as long as five years to culminate in a trial, if it ever went that far.
Cobb had noisily objected to the “internal” nature of the investigations carried out by the federal agencies. He called for an independent investigation instead and proposed that the U.S. Justice Department should form a task force. His proposal gained no traction.
In the meantime, Melinda Strickland had remained in Saddlestring. She had been named interim district supervisor, and had taken over Lamar Gardiner’s office and desk. Two female employees had already filed a grievance, claiming that Strickland had hurled books at them in a rage.
Joe and Marybeth Pickett paid for the funerals of April and Jeannie Keeley with money they didn’t have. Although they still had legal bills from the lawyer they had hired to get April back, they went further into debt to pay for the plots and coffins in the Twelve Sleep County cemetery. The plots were located next to the grave of Ote Keeley, the murdered outfitter who had been buried in his pickup four years before. The fact that they paid for the funerals raised some eyebrows in Saddlestring, and it became a topic of conversation at the Burg-O-Pardner restaurant.
The “Shoot-out at Battle Mountain,” as it had been dubbed, faded quickly as a mainstream national news story, and didn’t linger much longer than that within the state and region, except within pockets of the suspicious and dispossessed. Robey Hersig explained to Joe that the reasons for this had been the inaccessibility of the compound, the lack of media buildup, more pressing war news, and the absence of television coverage. Without visuals, Hersig said, there was no news. He gave the late Dick Munker credit for that.
Therefore, what happened at Battle Mountain didn’t rank in the national conscience with Waco, Ruby Ridge, or the Montana Freeman standoff. Although the incident raged through Internet forums and simmered beneath the surface throughout the Mountain West, the lack of good information relegated the story to the back pages of newspapers. Robey told Joe that a few of the Sovereigns who had fled that day had contacted journalists in different parts of the country to offer their stories, but were generally deemed less than credible.
Melinda Strickland was hailed as a hero in a long-form feature in Rumour magazine written by Elle Broxton-Howard. Another feature in Us magazine—“Lady Ranger Bucks the System and Saves a Forest”—showed a photo of a shoeless Melinda Strickland on the couch in her home, with streaky blond hair, hugging her dog. A cable-television news crew came to Saddlestring and did a feel-good feature on Broxton-Howard and Melinda Strickland for a newsmagazine show.
As a result, Broxton-Howard’s U.S.-based publicist parlayed the segment, which showcased his client’s good looks, her on-screen presence, and an accent that seemed to have grown more refined and pronounced since she left Saddlestring, into a series of talk-show and twenty-four-hour cable-news bookings. Elle Broxton-Howard could now be seen on television several nights a week as a paid analyst specializing in gender and environmental issues.
Since January, Broxton-Howard had left three messages for Joe on his office answering machine. She still wanted to do his story, she said. She “smelled” a six-figure movie option. They could work out the details later, when they met, she said. Joe had yet to return her calls.
One night, while Marybeth was idly channel-surfing, Broxton-Howard’s face appeared on their television screen. Marybeth scowled at Joe and quickly changed the channel.
Bud Longbrake’s wife, the woman who had been Nate Romanowski’s secret lover and who had gone on a world cruise, sent divorce papers from somewhere in Nevada to her husband. He signed them. A week after that, Missy Vankueren moved to the Longbrake ranch.
Nate Romanowski had vanished. Joe was surprised to find out that Nate had not been identified by the assault team as the man who had fired on them. His bulky snowmobile suit and helmet had disguised him. They mistakenly assumed that the shooter had been a Sovereign who had somehow flanked them. Ballistics reports couldn’t positively identify the huge slugs that had disabled the Sno-Cats because the bullets were damaged beyond recognition. Joe realized that only two people could have positively identified Nate Romanowski as the shooter—Dick Munker and himself.
Joe told state and federal investigators everything he knew about the incident that day and the buildup to it, with the exceptions of Nate Romanowski’s identity and the conversation Joe had had with Romanowski as Dick Munker lay dying. He knew that his account was at odds with those of other witnesses, namely Melinda Strickland, Sheriff Barnum, Elle Broxton-Howard, and a half-dozen deputies. Joe was the only witness to claim that Munker’s “warning shot” damaged the propane pipe, or that Munker had manufactured the hostage situation on the fly when told that Spud Cargill was in custody. According to the others, the warning shot had been exactly that, as far as they knew. No one else claimed to have seen a severed copper gas line or heard escaping propane gas. Joe didn’t think the members of the assault team were lying—after all, they had been bundled up and wearing helmets that blocked sound, and none of them had been as close as Joe was on the road to the trailer and the severed pipe. The heat of the fire had damaged the pipe that Joe claimed was severed, literally melting it into the snow so Joe had no way to prove his allegations. Despite this, he hoped that his account would not be dismissed.
Several of the investigators asked Joe pointedly, and with obvious skepticism, if he wasn’t too far away to see with certainty what had happened when Munker fired. They also speculated aloud that perhaps his personal interest in the entire event—and his obvious animosity toward Dick Munker and Melinda Strickland—had colored his interpretation. The working theory reached by DCI and the FBI was that the trailer burned from the accidental or intentional ignition of materials within the trailer itself.
One of the FBI investigators, a small man named Wendt, told Joe in confidence that he believed him. He also told Joe that his account would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove. Wendt said he was afraid that the internal investigation would be written from the point of view that Munker was a hero who had died in the line of duty. However it went, he said, Joe would also be commended for his attempt to save Munker’s life.
Joe didn’t hold out much hope, but part of him wanted to believe that further investigation would somehow corroborate his version and justice would be done. He hoped that a deputy or other member of the assault team would confirm his account, or at least parts of it. Someone, he thought, must have heard the hissing of gas. Maybe time, and guilt, would make someone step forward. But he knew how unlikely that was, and he knew from experience how law-enforcement personnel stuck together and told the same story.
For Joe and Marybeth Pickett, the two months following the death of April went by in a kind of bitter, dreamy fog. Joe relived the two days leading up to the deaths over and over, picking apart his feverish moves and decisions. He deeply regretted not pressing Cobb further when he’d first gone to
his house, and not questioning Cobb’s reference to “sanctuary” that day. Cobb had misled him, but Joe had allowed himself to be misled. Because he hadn’t understood what Cobb was hinting at, he had gone on an errant trail and wasted almost sixteen hours when he could have intercepted Spud coming down the mountain. It gnawed at him.
Many nights, he didn’t sleep more than a few hours at a stretch. Several times, when he couldn’t sleep, he would wander downstairs to his office and rewrite his letter of resignation. He had once sealed it and stamped it—only to retrieve it from his OUT basket the next morning. He had also written—but not submitted—a request to be reassigned to another district. The thought of sharing Twelve Sleep Valley with Melinda Strickland was loathsome.
Marybeth was mercurial, her moods swinging from pure anger to a resigned depression that was new, and disturbing, to Joe. On the nights when Marybeth locked herself in the bedroom, Joe cooked dinner for his girls and told them that their mother wasn’t feeling well. Sheridan had stared him down on that one, and had known without asking that he was using illness as an excuse.
Once, late at night, as Joe printed out the latest version of his resignation letter, he heard sounds from down the hallway. Marybeth had led Sheridan and Lucy into Joe and Marybeth’s bedroom to sleep, and was shuffling things in the children’s bedroom with a vengeance. When Joe found her, she was in the process of removing every last sign of April. She had bagged all of April’s clothes, school papers, and toys, and was now stripping the bed. He watched with sadness as she scrubbed down the walls near April’s bed, as if to remove any physical evidence of April having been there.
“I haven’t cleaned her sheets since she left,” Marybeth told him, her eyes strangely alert. “I don’t know why I haven’t done that. But I need to wash them and put them away now.”
Joe had watched her, not knowing what to do. When Marybeth finally paused long enough to cry, he held her.
“I’ve never hated a woman as much as I hate her,” Marybeth said. Joe knew she meant Melinda Strickland.
Joe had never seen her so angry, or so bitter.
“She’ll go to jail. The investigation will prove that,” Joe assured Marybeth, stroking her hair and hoping that somehow he was right. “It won’t bring April back, but at least Melinda Strickland will pay.”
Marybeth leaned her head back and met his eyes. “She never even sent a note. Think about that, Joe. Think how cold her heart is.”
Joe just nodded, knowing there was nothing to say.
On the way home from the last basketball practice of the season, Sheridan sat quietly in the cab of the pickup, absently patting Maxine’s head. Joe, driving, cast wary glances at the sky that filled the top half of his windshield. Thunderheads were moving in. It looked like snow.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mom going to be okay?”
Joe paused. “She’s going to be all right. It takes a while.”
“I miss April, too.”
“So do I, honey.”
“I know we’re not going to get April back,” Sheridan said. “But I do want my mom back.”
Joe reached over and put his hand on Sheridan’s shoulder. Her hair was still damp from practice.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
Joe nodded.
“Are you and Mom mad at me for not watching April closer that day in school? For letting Jeannie Keeley take her away?”
Joe was hurt by the question, and pulled quickly to the side of the road so he could turn in his seat and face her.
“No, honey, of course we’re not angry with you,” he assured her. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But I was responsible for her,” Sheridan said, fighting tears that seemed to come, Joe thought, much more easily than they used to.
“That’s never even crossed our minds, Sheridan,” Joe said. “Never.”
As they pulled out into the road, Joe restrained a heavy sigh. He felt badly that he hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t thought to talk to Sheridan about this earlier. Of course she would feel this way, he thought. Despite her maturity, despite what she’s been through, she’s still a child, he thought. And she naturally wondered if the difficulties her parents were having were somehow her doing.
It had been rough on Sheridan and Lucy, Joe knew. They missed April, and they missed the way their mother used to be. Marybeth had seesawed between snapping at them and smothering them with physical affection. Lucy had complained to him that she didn’t know what to say to her mother because she never knew what reaction she would get.
Joe knew he was far from faultless as well. He felt distant, and uninterested in so many of the things that used to give him joy. His thoughts were still up there on the mountain, in the compound, in the snow. He sometimes forgot that the living members of his family were in front of him and needed his attention.
“Your mom will be all right,” Joe said. “She’s tough.”
Sheridan nodded.
“We’ve never really talked about what happened up there on the mountain, Dad,” she said. “It seems like the good guys turned out to be the bad guys, and the bad guys weren’t all that bad.”
Joe smiled. “That’s a pretty good way to put it.”
“I can’t really sort it out,” Sheridan confessed.
“Sheridan, it’s all about accountability,” he said after a pause. It was something he had thought a lot about recently.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that people should be accountable for their actions. They have to be accountable. There need to be consequences for thoughtless or cruel behavior,” Joe said, wondering if he’d said too much. He didn’t want her to think he was plotting revenge.
Sheridan sat silently for a few moments.
“Who is accountable for me losing a sister for no good reason?”
Joe frowned. “I am, to a certain degree . . .”
“No, you’re not!”
“Yes, honey, I am,” Joe said, looking straight ahead out the window. “I didn’t protect her as well as I should have. I didn’t get her back.”
“Dad!” Tears rolled down Sheridan’s face.
“Others are even more accountable,” he said.
That evening, after dinner, the telephone rang. It was Robey Hersig.
“Joe,” Hersig said.
Joe could tell that something was wrong. There was no greeting, no small talk, no mention of the coming storm.
“Yup.”
“We got an early look at the findings of the joint FBI and Forest Service investigation. Munker and Melinda Strickland were not only exonerated, they were commended for their actions. There will be a formal announcement tomorrow.”
Joe squeezed the receiver as if to crush it.
“How could this happen, Robey?”
“Joe, you’ve got to stay calm.”
“I’m calm.”
He looked up to see Marybeth staring at him from where she had turned near the sink. It was obvious she could tell what was happening by reading his face. Joe watched as her expression went cold and her fists clenched.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Hersig said. “We knew this was a possibility. You and I discussed it. With an internal investigation and all . . . well, they weren’t too likely to find that their own people screwed up. Remember, these are the Feds—the FBI. We knew that going in.”
Joe said nothing.
“Joe, promise me you’ll stay calm.”
Marybeth had run upstairs to the bedroom and closed the door after Joe told her what Hersig had reported. He needed to give her some time, he thought, before he went up there. He needed some time to figure out what to say that wasn’t angry and bitter. Grabbing his coat from the rack in the mud room, he went outside into the dark to try to clear his head.
It was cold, and there was humidity in the air. The stars were blocked out by clouds. After two months, there would be snow coming again. For some reason, he welcomed it. He zipped
his coat as he strode up the walk toward the picket fence.
Joe heard a muffled rustling of bird’s wings in the dark and stopped with one hand on the gate. He turned. Next to Joe’s pickup in the driveway, Nate Romanowski sat on the hood of an ancient Buick Riviera with Idaho license plates. His peregrine was perched on his fist.
“Have you ever considered just knocking on the door?” Joe asked.
“Thanks for keeping me out of it,” Nate said, ignoring Joe’s question.
“You were helping me,” Joe said, closing the gate behind him and approaching Nate and the Buick. “It was the least I could do.”
“I heard about the results of the investigation,” Nate said, shaking his head. “Their first rule of survival is that they protect their own.”
“How in the hell did you know about it? I just heard.”
“My contacts in Idaho,” Nate said. “The decision was a foregone conclusion six weeks ago. All the Feds knew about it. Office gossip. It just took them a while to write it up with the proper spin.”
Joe sat next to Nate on the hood of the Riviera. He sighed deeply, and fought an urge to hurl himself into something hard. He realized how much he had hoped for a miracle after the investigation, and how naïve that hope had been.
“It would be a good thing,” Nate said, “if Melinda Strickland went away.”
Joe turned and looked hard at Nate. This time, he didn’t argue. Joe thought about his family inside the house, and how rough the past two months had been for them all. This wouldn’t set things right, or take them back to where they were. But he thought about what he’d told Sheridan about accountability.
“I can take care of it,” Nate said.
“No,” Joe said hesitantly.
“You don’t know what you want, do you?”
“I want her out of this state,” Joe said. “I want her out of the Forest Service. I want her to pay something. And I don’t mean money. I mean her job at the very least.”