Breaking Point

22

It was always startling, Joe thought, how quickly the temperature dropped once the sun slipped behind the rocky peaks of the mountains as if a switch had been thrown and the thin, warm air that hung in the trees was sucked with a whoosh into invisible vents. As they ascended toward the looming summit, he reached back and dug a well-worn Filson vest from a saddlebag and shrugged it on.

“We don’t even have any goddamned coats,” one of the special agents complained from the back, obviously observing Joe. “No coats, no food, no sleeping bags, and no fucking plan.”

“That’ll be enough,” Underwood said wearily, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to locate the offending agent.

Joe kept his senses turned on high and tried to fight back mental threads that kept intruding from within, so he could concentrate on the situation before him. Although Underwood had no doubt been given coordinates for his handheld GPS of where the call from Butch had originated-and they certainly knew where the drone had gone down-Joe couldn’t simply relax and ride. Butch Roberson had sounded angry and desperate, and he’d shot Dave Farkus in cold blood, leaving a body count of three over three days in August. Butch was also on much more intimate terms with the terrain and secrets of the mountain they were on than he was.

Joe guessed that Butch had likely figured out that the first thing they’d do was ask Joe to lead them to where he last saw him. It was logical. Therefore, Butch probably guessed that Joe was with a contingent of law enforcement and not sitting around with Julio Batista. Joe thought Butch might traverse the summit and set up an ambush Joe would lead them right into.

After being told by Underwood that the agreement to provide a helicopter was a ruse and Joe wouldn’t be on it like Butch had demanded, Joe considered simply turning back. He would gladly leave the team of agents to their own devices, riding unfamiliar horses over unfamiliar terrain in an unfamiliar state. There would be consequences for Joe with Lisa Greene-Dempsey, of course. It could give her the excuse to withdraw the job offer and cut him loose. It would set an example to all the other game wardens in the field.

And if he lost his job at the same time they were recovering from the lost opportunity of the Saddlestring Hotel. .

There was the very life of Butch Roberson to consider. Joe thought Butch deserved the right to make his case before a court, even if the result was as inevitable. Butch should be allowed to shine some light on what drove him into such desperation, and when he was sent to prison or destined for the needle, he could perhaps attract enough attention and outrage that it couldn’t happen to anyone else again. If nothing else, Joe thought, Butch deserved that. And the only way he might get it, given the single-minded determination of Batista, was if Joe could be along to somehow circumvent Butch’s death on the mountain.

So he stayed. And with every mile, he felt more and more trapped by a career and a set of values and a mission he wasn’t sure he could believe in anymore.

As they rode through clearings, he checked his phone for a signal, but he didn’t get one. Joe wanted to let Marybeth know where he was and why, and see how she was doing. He hoped Sheriff Reed thought to call her. He hated not being in contact. Bad things often happened when they weren’t in contact.

When the trees thinned and Joe could sense the end of the tree line beneath the summit, he sidestepped Toby so Underwood would catch up and they could ride parallel. Underwood looked over at him with obvious suspicion.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Joe said.

“Depends.”

“We can ride up ahead if you want, so we’re out of earshot of your guys.”

Underwood’s eyes narrowed into a squint as he considered it, then he shrugged and turned in his saddle and said to his team, “Wait here for a few minutes. We’re going to scout a path over the top.”

The agents pulled up and were soon forty yards behind them. Not far enough, though, that Joe couldn’t hear them complain.

“I can’t say I blame them,” Underwood said to Joe. “This isn’t the kind of thing they’re trained for. Those guys are trained to storm into buildings and secure evidence of pollution and noncompliance and crap like that. They don’t get any instruction on riding horses or doing this cowboy Wild West bullshit in the middle of nowhere.”

Joe nodded. He was surprised at Underwood’s tone. It was soft and coconspiratorial, if not exactly friendly. As if they were all on the same stupid exercise together.

“Okay, what?” Underwood asked Joe. “I’ll listen to your questions, but don’t expect me to answer ’em. No offense, but you’re nothing to me. You’re just another redneck local from the sticks.”

“Gotcha,” Joe said. “I guess you missed those sensitivity meetings the Feds are always holding.”

“I didn’t miss ’em,” Underwood said. “I just don’t give a shit.”

Joe took a deep breath, trying to keep on track. He said, “I work for a state bureaucracy, and you work for the Feds. I’ve got a pretty good idea how slow things go for the most part. Getting government employees to take action isn’t usually the fastest thing in the world. It’s like trying to make an aircraft carrier make a sharp turn around.”

Underwood shrugged, as if the statement was so obvious it didn’t require any more response.

“So how is it,” Joe asked, “that two agents of the EPA out of Denver would jump in their car and drive four hundred miles north to jump a landowner the day he starts to move dirt? Nothing happens that fast.”

Underwood snorted but didn’t look over. He said, “It is a little. . unusual.”

Joe waited for more.

“I already told you I’m not going to answer every question.”

“That tells me something right there,” Joe said. Then: “How long have you worked for Julio Batista?”

“I don’t work for Julio Batista,” Underwood said. “I just go to work. He just happens to be the director of the regional division right now. There have been assholes before him, and there’ll be other assholes who come after.”

Underwood sighed. “When I transferred out of the Defense Department a few years ago I looked around for a soft landing-some place where I could take it easy until retirement. So I thought-the EPA. Denver. They’re harmless, I thought. I could just ride out my days. That’s before we got this new director.”

When Joe looked over, puzzled, Underwood said, “You want to know who I work for?”

“Sure.”

There was a slight smile on Underwood’s face when he said, “I work for my pension, and my insurance, and my accrued vacation and sick time. I work for me. I show up and do whatever I have to do to get through another day. I don’t give a shit what I have to do as long as those things are protected.”

Joe shook his head.

“What?” Underwood said, mocking Joe’s disbelief. “You expected me to say what? That I work for the American people? That I’m saving the goddamned environment? Is that what you expected? Look, I live in a great condo in LoDo with a view of Coors Field, where I’ve got season tickets for the Rockies. I have a time share in Boca. I’ve got a hot babe up the road in Evergreen and another babe in Florida who doesn’t know anything about the one in Evergreen. That’s what I work for. I could give a shit about everything else, including you or Julio Batista.

“Look,” Underwood said, “I grew up in a little podunk town in Colorado near Glenwood Springs. My parents had a florist shop-Underwood Flowers. I watched them get up every morning at six, go to work, and not get home until eight or later. Seven days a fucking week, because people need flowers for all kinds of things. They worked their asses off and never took vacations. They thought they were building the business for me-thinking I’d take it over when I graduated from college. But that was never in my plans, you know? Why would I want to bust my ass for the rest of my life like they did? I could see the writing on the wall, and I wanted to live my life for me. I didn’t want to be chained to some mom-and-pop store in the middle of nowhere.”

Underwood looked over his shoulder toward the distant team of special agents.

“I don’t know those guys very well,” he said, “but if you asked them the same question, I’d guess you’d get pretty much the same answer.”

Joe said, “You don’t think any of them or the people back in the FOB have any doubts about what we’re doing up here?”

“Why should they?”

“Because it’s over-the-top,” Joe said. “Why not let local law enforcement handle this? Sheriff Reed is competent, not like that idiot McLanahan, who used to be the sheriff and got himself caught by Butch. Reed has a different approach, and things might go a whole lot smoother if he was talking to Butch instead of Julio Batista.”

“Like we care,” Underwood snorted. “Grow up and look around you, Game Warden. Do you know how hard it is to find a job these days, much less a lifetime job with the government with no risk and all the security in the world?”

“You’re a bunch of lifers,” Joe said.

“And what a life it is,” Underwood said, warming to it. “I make good money, I have great benefits, and they’ll never fire me. I’m set, baby. I’ll retire making four times the money my father made the best year of his life. Tell me what’s not to like? You know how it is.”

“It’s not such a sweet deal on the state level,” Joe said.

“And it shouldn’t be,” Underwood said. “You people are jokes to most of us, out here getting your hands dirty for next to nothing. No offense.”

“Of course not,” Joe said, gritting his teeth. “So what you’re doing here-shoving aside the local sheriff and doing this paramilitary operation-that doesn’t bother you?”

Underwood said, “No, why should it? I’m doing my job. If I wasn’t here, somebody else would be. I’ve got nothing personal against the sheriff or that Roberson schmuck. He’s a killer, after all. I’ll get bonus pay for this since we’re way over forty hours this week, and if I’m lucky I’ll get ever so slightly injured so I can take some time off and get disability. I just don’t want to get killed, because I’ve got a vacation planned to Hawaii with the babe from Evergreen in November. Getting killed would really ruin my plans, so I’ll make sure I come out of this okay.”

Joe quickly changed tacks so he wouldn’t feel compelled to knock Underwood off his horse. He almost smiled when he thought how Nate Romanowski would have likely reacted to Underwood’s little speech. If Nate heard it, Joe thought, Underwood would be without an ear or even his head.

Joe said, “If they’re not sending a helicopter, what are they doing to find Butch Roberson? Another drone?”

“My lips are sealed,” Underwood said, but smirked to confirm Joe’s speculation.

“Why so heavy-handed?” Joe asked.

“I’m not the boss.”

Joe felt his neck get hot. Underwood was playing with him.

“So if it’s not you, and it’s obviously not,” Joe said, “who is driving this operation in such a frantic way?”

“Guess.”

“Julio Batista,” Joe said. “But why?”

Underwood scanned the trees on each side and the horizon in front of them, as if to see if there were agency spies lurking who might overhear him. Joe expected another nonanswer answer, but Underwood said, “The man has a bug up his ass. Actually, quite a few bugs. He’s vindictive as hell, and he really loves his power. Before him, I was used to military guys. They can be assholes, too, but there’s usually a sense of duty and tradition that keeps the really petty stuff out. This guy is different. It’s like he’s lived his entire life keeping a list of anyone who dissed him or disrespected him. He uses his position to get even. I’ve helped him do that, which is why I am where I am today.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“I’ll give you one example of many,” Underwood said, keeping his voice low so his agents couldn’t overhear. “When Batista got named director of Region Eight, his salary went up into the mid-six figures, so he wanted a new house in a ritzy neighborhood because he figured he deserved it. So he bought a McMansion in a gated horsey development named Summit Highlands out of Denver. Two-million-dollar home with five acres, or something like that. After he moved in, he hired a contractor to outfit the roof with solar panels. You know, to set an example of how people should exist. He’s big into that stuff-a true believer. Plus, he knows how to get tax credits and rebates for solar. That’s what the agency does, after all.”

Underwood grinned bitterly. “But Summit Highlands has a homeowners’ association and the bylaws say a house can’t be modified externally unless a majority of the owners agree. Apparently, those folks thought the solar panels were an eyesore. Batista fought them but couldn’t get the votes. He became obsessed with beating them.

“He called me into his office one day and asked about my background and wondered if I’d be interested in helping him out. He thought I looked intimidating, I guess.”

“Imagine that,” Joe said, deadpan. “Go on.”

“I got the message,” Underwood said. “So over the next several weeks I visited every one of the board members of the homeowners’ association. I asked them about the fertilizer they used on their lawns and on the golf course, and where the runoff flowed. I asked them how many lawn mowers and leaf blowers were being used and what the decibel level was. I mentioned possible violations of the Clean Water Act and the Clean Air Act, all innocent-like, and I took a lot of notes. See, the dirty little secret is, our agency oversees three things: air, water, and the earth itself. Think about it. That’s a pretty damned big area to cover, and it gives us a lot of options. I never threatened anyone or initiated any action, but they were smart folks and connected A to B.

“Next homeowners’ association meeting, the solar panels for Juan Julio Batista got approved by two votes. After that, I got bumped up to chief of the special agents.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Joe asked.

“Because the son of a bitch has gone too far this time. He told me a few minutes ago he used my name with some defense guys I used to work with to get something in motion.”

“What’s he done?” Joe asked, feeling a shiver roll down his back.

“You’ll see,” Underwood said. Joe noticed a vein in Underwood’s temple throbbing as he spoke. He was angry.

“Here’s another little tidbit,” Underwood said, leaning toward Joe and lowering his voice, “and if you ever repeat it to anybody I’ll figure out a way to make your life as crappy as we did that Roberson guy’s. Do you want to know my boss’s name before he changed it?”

“He changed it?”

“John Pate,” Underwood said, and laughed. “He grew up as a boring little white dude from Illinois named John Owen Pate. But after he left college, he changed it. His parents were whiter than white, but when they divorced, when he was in college, his mother married a dude named Batista. John Pate became Juan Julio Batista because he wanted to be more exotic, you know? He wanted a name that would stand out and get him noticed in the system those years. He’s naturally dark-haired and dark-eyed, so it worked out for him. And he took advantage of policies to promote people of color.”

“How do you know this?”

Underwood chuckled. “I’m an investigator, Game Warden. I investigated. I’ve got photocopies of his high school yearbook when he was John Pate, and I found his parents’ divorce record and his mother’s marriage announcement to Sergio Batista when John was twenty-one. He changed his name the year he left college. Isn’t that a kick in the pants?”

“So he lied to get the job,” Joe said.

“Nobody checks those things,” Underwood said. “You tick a box on your employment application and you get moved to a special pile. And even if it was exposed, I doubt he’d be thrown out.”

“Because he’s good at his job,” Joe said.

“That’s right. As we like to say in the agency, personnel is policy. Batista can get things done.”

“But not immediately,” Joe countered. “Not unless someone with real political juice knew how to turn that aircraft carrier around.”

“So we’re back to that, huh?” Underwood said, his face darkening. “Didn’t you hear me when I said I didn’t give a shit?”

“But I do,” Joe said.

Underwood sighed and said, “I don’t know who put him up to it. He didn’t involve me in this one.”

“Interesting. Is it possible he initiated the action himself?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Underwood said. “I doubt it, though. Batista is a political animal. He’s after big fish and headlines. Why would he waste his time on a couple of small-town losers?”

“That’s what I want to figure out,” Joe said.

Joe held his tongue and his outrage in check while they surveyed the treeless and tumbled scree that led to the summit ahead of them. Despite the season, there were still dirty strips of snow packed into broken shale where the sun couldn’t melt them. It was nearly full dark, and the glow from the last of the sun over the top of the mountain made their side dark, confusing, and unfocused. The stars hadn’t yet taken over the night sky enough to light up the slope.

Joe proposed a switchback route that zigged right, then left around a sharp outcropping, then right again across a flat snowfield.

“We can’t just go straight up and over?” Underwood asked.

“Not unless you want to cut up your horses’ legs,” Joe said. “Plus, your guys aren’t real riders. It’s always best to take the easiest route and let the horse pick his way.”

“So be it,” Underwood declared, and turned his horse to gather his team.

Joe stayed. He turned up the collar of his Filson vest against a slight icy breeze. When Underwood’s back had faded out of sight into the gloom below, Joe reached up and unzipped the vest and reached into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt.

And clicked off the digital micro-recorder he’d left in his pocket from that morning when he encountered Bryce Pendergast.