Force of Nature

31

Joe drove through Crazy Woman Campground, where he’d first encountered Luke Brueggemann. There were a few hard-side camper trailers in tucked-away campsites. As he passed one, several hunters were lashing camo packs onto the backs of ATVs with bungee cords. The hunters looked up, saw the green pickup with the game warden inside, and stopped what they were doing. One large man with a full beard and a coffee mug in his paw instinctively reached for his wallet to pull out his elk license and ID. Joe tipped the brim of his hat to them as he drove slowly by.

Catch you next time, he thought.

The morning sun had yet to soften or melt the snowfall from the night before in the deep timber. There were three to four inches of it covering the two-track that exited out the back of the campground. At least one ATV was ahead of him, marked by wide tracks and knobby impressions in the snow.

The road got rougher less than a half mile from the campground as it rose up into the trees. Joe reached down below the dashboard and clicked the toggle switch to four-wheel-high. The old road was overgrown and little used since the Forest Service had placed a moratorium on cattle grazing on federal leases high in the mountains, and it no longer appeared on topo maps of the area. But local hunters and poachers knew of it, as did Joe, because it was a back route along the side of the mountain that eventually emptied onto a plateau overlooking the South Fork of the Twelve Sleep River. Below the plateau was the location of the eleven outfitter camps. They were strung out along the river, each three to four miles from the next. The camps were accessed by the South Fork Trail, which loosely followed the bends and contours of the serpentine river.

The logging road Joe was on paralleled the South Fork Trail but on the other side of the mountain, and the two roads never crossed the water and intersected.

Joe thought of the conversation he’d had with Luke Brueggemann that first day when he showed the trainee the locations for the camps. Ten were occupied by familiar local outfitter names, he told Brueggemann. One was unfamiliar.

Because the permits for the camps were issued through the local office of the U.S. Forest Service and not Joe’s agency, there was no way for Joe to look up the names of the permittees. Although the USFS was supposed to forward the list of outfitters every year, a combination of bureaucracy, other priorities, and general malaise that formed between state and federal agencies usually delayed the arrival of the list until well after hunting season, when it did Joe no good. But he wished he could see the list now. Especially the new permittee who had obtained Camp Five.

Joe realized he’d misread Brueggemann’s reticent reaction to inspecting the camps that morning, assuming it had to do with riding horses up to them. But now Joe understood, or thought he did. Because it had to do with who had set up in Camp Five. Brueggemann, Joe guessed, was wary because he was taken by surprise by the plan and wanted to alert the occupant, but it would be difficult to do on horseback with Joe there, not to mention they’d be in and out of cell phone coverage. How relieved Brueggemann had been that morning when the ride got called off, Joe recalled. Now it made sense, and it had nothing to do with his horses.

The trees closed in on the old road the higher Joe climbed his pickup. Boughs heavy with snow dumped their loads on the cab of his pickup as he brushed under them. He picked his way slowly and cautiously up the road to avoid getting stuck or hitting a fallen tree obscured by the snow, but also to keep the engine whine of his pickup as low as possible.

He had no radio or cell phone reception so deep in the timber, and he checked both periodically. On top, he knew, he would break through the thick trees and emerge above the timberline, where he might catch a signal before plunging back down the other side.

He took a slow blind corner to the left through the trees and was surprised to see four massive bull elk barreling straight toward him down the road, their antlers catching glints of morning sun, their nostrils firing spouts of condensation, their eyes white and wild. He stomped on his brake pedal as one of the bulls nearly crashed into his grille but spun to the right at the last second and crashed headlong through the brush and timber on the side of the old road. The three others — a magnificent six-by-six, a five-by-five, and a young spike — all followed. Even with his windows closed to prevent snow from coming inside the cab, Joe could hear the sharp cracking of branches as the bulls barreled down the mountainside, kicking up pine needles and clumps of dark mulch in their wake.

Just as suddenly as the appearance of the elk, a red ATV — the vehicle that had gone up the road before him — and two hunters roared around a blind corner ahead in pursuit of the elk. The driver was bent over the handlebars and the passenger behind him had his rifle out and pointed forward as if his plan had been to shoot from the moving vehicle. When the driver looked up and saw the green pickup, his mouth dropped open, but he stopped quickly and started a long skid in the mud and snow that came to a halt a few feet from Joe’s front bumper.

For a moment, Joe glared through his windshield at the driver and the shooter. The driver, a thick and wide dark-haired man with a weeklong hunting beard, flushed red with anger and trepidation. The shooter, who looked to be a younger and hairier version of the driver, was simply peeved.

Because the trees on each side of the road were so thick and close, neither vehicle could proceed without the other getting out of the way.

Joe sighed and opened his door and climbed out. He clamped his Stetson tight on his head and indicated for the driver to kill his motor, which burbled loudly like a Harley-Davidson wannabe.

The driver reached down and turned the key, and suddenly the forest was still, except for the distant sound of branches snapping and breaking as the elk thundered farther and farther away down the hillside.

He could hear the shooter growl a colorful stream of curses.

“How’s it going, guys?” Joe asked.

“Just great,” the driver sighed, “until you showed up. We’ve been up here busting our ass looking for elk for seven days without seeing a goddamn one, and then last night it snows and we ride right into them.”

“Yup, I saw ’em,” Joe said, indicating the churned-up path in the snow where the elk bolted into the timber.

“Then you showed up and fucked it up,” the shooter said, sitting back and propping the rifle on his thigh, the barrel in the air.

Joe nodded. He’d found over the years that his silence often produced confessions and was more effective than talking.

After a few beats of Joe simply looking at them, the driver said, “I guess we were acting kind of stupid chasing them like that.”

Joe nodded.

“And I guess my son here shouldn’t be trying to pop them from the back of a four-wheeler.”

“Nope.”

“And I think we’re still in our hunting area,” the driver said, raising his palms in an exaggerated way. “At least I hope so. It’s harder than hell to tell sometimes. I mean, it ain’t like you guys mark where one area ends and the other one starts.”

The shooter got quiet when he finally realized they might be in trouble.

Joe said, “Chasing wildlife is a violation; so is hunting them from a moving vehicle. And if you think you’re still in Area Thirty-four, well, you left it about a mile back.”

The driver took a deep breath as if to challenge Joe, then thought better of it and said, “Well, we’re damned sorry if we fucked up.” He thought better of his language and said, “I mean, screwed up.”

Joe said, “Yup.”

The father sighed. “You gonna write us up?”

Joe didn’t answer directly. He asked, “How far did you two go up the road this morning?”

The father looked worried, as if he was trying to figure out if they’d committed additional violations that morning. Finally, he said, “Just a couple miles. That’s where we jumped the elk. They took off running down this road and we followed their tracks.”

Joe nodded. “You didn’t go up far enough to get to the top? To see over into the river valley on the other side of the mountain? Where the outfitter camps are located?”

“Not today,” the shooter said quickly.

Joe thought he said it in a way that implied there was more to the story. “But you’ve been up that far this week?”

The father and son exchanged glances.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Joe asked amiably.

After a beat, the father turned back around and said, “Up until yesterday, we was hunting with my brother-in-law Richie. He said he had to go back last night to do some stuff at home. Richie is kind of a pain in the ass, but he knows this country up here like nobody else.”

“Anyway …” Joe prompted.

“Richie likes to hunt alone,” the father said. “He knows of some old miner cabin up there, and he likes to go up there by it and sit and glass the meadows with binoculars to see elk. He sits for hours up there, just looking around. He usually gets a nice bull that way. But something happened the last time he went up there. When he came back down, he looked fucking spooked. We asked him what happened or what he saw, but he just made up some bullshit about having to get home. He just packed up his gear and left us up here. We never could get him to tell us what happened.”

Joe felt a twinge in his scalp. “When was this?” he asked.

“Yesterday afternoon,” the father said. “He left last night before it started to snow. I’d normally say he’ll be back up soon because of this snow, but the way he left, I kind of wonder. It was just weird. Richie’s an elk-hunting fool, and I’ve never seen him just want to up and leave like that.”

Joe withdrew the notebook from his breast pocket and asked the father for Richie’s full name, address, and contact numbers. Neither the father nor the son knew much more than Richie’s last name and the part of Powell, Wyoming, he lived in, but the driver said his wife had those details. Joe closed the notebook. He knew that, if necessary, it was enough information to find Richie in a state with as few people in it as Wyoming.

“You gonna call him?” the son asked Joe.

“Maybe.”

“Tell him he still owes me for that case and a half of Coors he drank up here.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Joe said, sliding the notebook back into his uniform shirt.

He left the father and son wondering what was going to happen next and went back to his pickup. No cell signal. No radio reception. Joe dug a card out of the holder in his glove box and walked back to the hunters and handed it to the father.

He said, “If you’ll promise me something, you can consider this your lucky day, because I don’t have time to write you up right now and you’re both in clear violation. Tonight, if you haven’t seen me come back down the mountain, call nine-one-one. Tell the dispatcher we met and which road we’re on. Let her take it from there.”

The father asked, “That’s it? Just that we met you?”

“Yup.”

Joe said, “Get your vehicle out of the road and take it back into your designated hunting area and make that call tonight, and for now I’ll look the other way.”

After thanking him profusely and reversing the ATV into the brush so Joe could get by, the driver looked at the card and said, “So you’re Joe Pickett?”

Joe nodded.

“I’ve always heard you wouldn’t give a guy a break.”

“Like I said, it’s your lucky day.”

As he left them, he glanced into his rearview mirror to see them talking excitedly to each other and gesturing toward where the elk had run. He had an inkling that once he was gone they’d ignore him and go after the elk and probably get stuck somewhere in pursuit.

He shook his head, vowed to look out for them and give them a ticket if he ran into them again, and ground up the road until they were out of view.

He hated not doing his job properly, even given the circumstances. But if they made the call to dispatch as they’d agreed, at least someone would know where he was last seen.

And he thought about something Nate had said.

Recruit local tribesmen.

Although he’d been to the top of this road only once many years ago, he thought he remembered where he could find the old miner’s cabin. What he didn’t know was what was up there that might spook a dedicated elk hunter off the mountain hours before the tracking snow had arrived.

32

“God, the mountains are beautiful,” Haley said as Nate drove the white Tahoe toward the Bighorns, which were lit up with a full blast of morning sun that contrasted the fresh snow on the meadows and peaks against miles of dark timber. She said it as she reloaded the magazine, one by one, with 6.8-millimeter cartridges for the Mini-14.

Nate grunted. He noted that now that the mask was off, she showed a confident proficiency with weapons that she’d kept under wraps before.

“So this is where you live?” she asked, meaning the general area.

“Most of the time,” Nate said. “When I’m not living in a cave.”

“Do you realize how pathetic that just sounded?” she asked with a shy smile.

“Yes.”

“Maybe after this you won’t have to run anymore.”

Nate let that hang for a moment, then turned toward her. “There’s a difference between running and dropping out.”

“Sorry.”

He wasn’t sure how he wanted to play it, but the more he thought it through and ran different scenarios through his mind, he kept coming back to his original inclination. It had worked with the two operatives on the mountain in Colorado, on the highway outside of Jackson, and countless times over the years on special operations.

Nate said, “We’re going to go right at him.”

“Pardon?” she said.

“There are lots of ways to do this,” he said. “We could find a position and observe him — make sure he’s there and try to figure out how many guys he has with him, then make a plan. Strike at night, flank him, that sort of thing.”

She nodded.

“For all we know, though,” he said, “Nemecek has set up his usual electronic perimeter. He’s likely got sensors, cameras, and motion detectors at all the key points around his camp. He’ll know if someone is moving in on him, and he’s a master at dealing with those kinds of situations. Hell, he taught me. And in the worst-case scenario, he just drives away and we never get a crack at him. In that case, this could go on forever.”

Haley shook her head. “I can’t imagine trying to live a normal life and knowing he’s out there,” she said.

“Welcome to my world,” Nate said.

“So how are you going to confront him?” she asked. “We don’t know how many we’re up against or who they are.”

“We have an advantage, though,” Nate said. “We know how he thinks. He trained us. We know that anybody we encounter could be one of his. The only man in this valley I can absolutely trust just flew away on an airplane. Everyone else is a potential threat.”

The gravity of what he said seemed to make her withdraw from him as she considered the possibilities.

“But the longer we wait and plan, the longer he has to devise a countermove,” Nate said. “I’m thinking right now he’s confused. He doesn’t know we’re out here and he doesn’t know what exactly happened to the two operatives in Idaho. He thinks they’re coming to meet up with him — that’s what I made that guy back there tell him — but he’s been out of cell or radio contact with them since then. No doubt Nemecek is waiting to hear from them when they arrive, and he’s probably trying to raise them over the phone.”

“Will he be suspicious?” Haley asked.

“He’s always suspicious,” Nate said. “He’s probably even figured I got the upper hand on his boys somehow. But what he can’t know is that you’re with me. So when he sees you, he’ll be confused, at least momentarily.”

“I see,” Haley said. “I’m bait.”

Nate smiled a cruel smile. “You can still get out,” he said. “It isn’t too late.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. “I just want to know what you’re thinking, so I can do my job right.”

He thought that over for a moment, then methodically laid out his plan of attack.

Yarak meant a condition of being hyperalert, he told her.

“Engage all your senses and push them out to their limits,” he said. “Don’t think—react. Don’t consider consequences or collateral damage. If you see me go down, don’t hesitate. If you hesitate, you’re dead.”

She shook her head, obviously doubting her ability to do it.

Then she asked, “And if I go down first?”

“I’ll miss the hell out of you,” Nate said. “But that’s after I’ve blown Nemecek’s head off.”

“God, you can be so romantic,” she said.

“Shut up, Haley,” he said sharply, shocking her. “Concentrate. Remember what I just told you about being hyperalert until this is over.”

“Why are you yelling at me?”

He gritted his teeth, and said, “I’m trying to keep you alive. I’m trying to show you, but I don’t think you’re listening. For example, what do you know about our situation right now that is different than a few minutes ago?”

She started to say something flippant by her gesture, but stopped herself. Instead, she looked around the Tahoe and out through all the windows at the lodgepole pines that zipped by on both sides.

“What?” she asked. “We’re in a forest?”

“No,” he said. “We’re being followed.”

33

Joe cleared the tree line of the summit in his pickup to find a barren field of blinding white punctuated by sharp blades of volcanic black scree. The sharp shards pierced upward through the thick scrim of snow, which was untracked and polished to a high-gloss sheen by wind and high-altitude sun. As he emerged from the trees, his radio came to life with a screech of static, and he checked his phone to find two messages: Chuck Coon and Sheriff Kyle McLanahan. Each had called within the past twenty minutes.

He slowed for a moment and reached for the mic, but as he did so he could feel the tires begin to sink into the snow. Since he couldn’t tell how deep it was and couldn’t risk getting stuck on top fully exposed, he grabbed the wheel again and goosed the accelerator. The snow was deeper than he would have guessed, but he knew if he maintained his forward momentum across the top of it he had a chance of getting across it to a windswept bank of gravel on the horizon of the mountain. If he made it to the other side, he could return the calls and call in his position.

Although he couldn’t see clearly through the snow-covered windshield, he searched ahead for knobs of rock to steer toward so his tires could grab them and propel him forward. He saw a rock and cranked the wheel toward it, but the back end swung around again and his progress stopped cold. He cursed as the pickup settled in, sinking a few more inches, snow crunching and the exhaust pipe suddenly burbling as it descended into the snow, and he knew he was stuck fast almost exactly in the center of the snowfield.

Joe sat back and gritted his teeth. Just a few more feet and he might have been able to gain purchase and maintain momentum enough to get to the gravel. But there was no point now but to reassess. It would take hours of digging to try and find the solid rock bottom of the snowfield. And even if he did, the only way he could safely get out was to reverse in his own tracks and end up back where he came from. He knew from being stuck many times and helping others that he needed a winch-truck to get the pickup out.

He cursed and slammed the top of the wheel with the heel of his hand. Wind buffeted the driver’s-side window. Out ahead of him, on the snowfield, small waves of gritty snow moved along the surface like sidewinder snakes.

The view was magnificent. As far as he could see ahead were the snowcapped ridges of wave upon wave of mountains. Stringy cirrus clouds unfurled like battered flags through the brilliant blue sky. There wasn’t an airplane or a power pole or a cell tower to be seen anywhere.

He felt incredibly lonely and frustrated, and when he caught a sharp whiff of carbon monoxide through his heating vents he reached down and killed the motor. The exhaust pipe was now buried deep in the snow and leaking back through the undercarriage. If he kept the pickup running, he risked asphyxiation.

Joe briefly closed his eyes and calmed himself, then checked his phone. He had a weak signal.

He called Chuck Coon first, and the agent came on after the second ring.

“We found her, this Maryland student,” Coon said. “Woke her up at her little off-campus apartment. After I swung by your daughter’s dormitory and woke her up. She’s fine, Joe.”

Joe felt a wave of relief. “Thank God.”

“But we have a problem,” Coon said, and Joe could hear the anger in his voice. “Or I should say you have a problem. In fact, a couple of them.”

“Yes?”

“This Maryland girl checks out, Joe. Her name is Jennifer Wellington — a blue-blood name if I ever heard one — and from what we can tell, she’s exactly who she says she is: an out-of-state student. Her record shows a straight line from high school to college. No gaps. No military service. Her parents check out, and right now they’re very angry with the FBI, and her old man threatened legal action unless we cut her loose, which we did.”

Joe said, “You let her go?”

“No reason to keep her, Joe. That’s what I’m telling you. She was upset and blubbering, and she had no idea why we were there. This whole trip over the mountain was a snafu of the highest order, thanks to you.”

“You’re sure?” Joe asked, feeling his stomach clench. “You’re absolutely positive she’s clean and her identity is solid?”

“As absolutely sure as I’ve ever been in my life,” Coon said, his voice rising. “You’ve wasted my time and used up your last favor.”

Joe sat back and looked at the phone in his hand. He was relieved his suspicions were incorrect and Sheridan was safe but disconcerted about how he’d been so wrong and so paranoid.

“Oh,” Coon said, “your daughter isn’t real happy with you right now, either. In fact, I’d call her, um, hopping mad.”

Joe could hear someone, another agent in Coon’s vehicle, laughing at that.

“Man, I’m sorry,” Joe said. “But it means there is someone still out there. Another female operator.”

“At this point,” Coon sighed, “it means this conversation is over.”

“Hold it,” Joe said, sitting forward again. “Did McLanahan request assistance from you? Is your team on the way?”

“Just a second,” Coon said, and Joe could envision Agent Coon covering the speaker while he asked somebody. When he came back, he said, “No word from your sheriff. Nothing. Nada.”

Joe let the words sink in.

“Where are you right now?” Coon asked. “The reception is terrible.”

Joe slumped to the side. It was getting colder inside the cab, and he could feel a tiny tongue of icy wind lick his earlobe from a gap in the doorframe.

“I’m stuck on top of a mountain with no backup and no plan,” Joe said sullenly. “And in the valley below is John Nemecek.”

34

Nate had caught two quick glimpses of a vehicle coming up the mountain behind them in his side mirrors. Each look was fleeting: a dark pickup rounding a switchback turn maybe a mile away, a glint of reflected sunlight on glass and chrome. But he’d seen enough to know the pursuing vehicle wasn’t just driving up the mountain — but flying.

“Who is it?” Haley asked, placing her hand on the rifle next to her on the seat.

“Don’t know.”

“Could it be just a local? A hunter or something like that?”

“Maybe,” Nate said, increasing the speed of the Tahoe. “But he’s in a hell of a hurry.”

“Do you think local law enforcement? Maybe that car dealer called on us?”

“I said I don’t know,” Nate said.

He made a switchback turn to the right that leaned into a quarter-mile straightaway climb. He roared up the stretch, noting that Haley was instinctively bracing herself by clutching the handhold above her shoulder in a white-knuckle grip. He appreciated that she wasn’t a backseat driver.

There was another switchback turn to the left, and he slowed to take it. He hoped he’d put a few more seconds of distance between them and the oncoming vehicle. He’d need them. There were a few old roads leading off the asphalt, but they were few and far between on the climb up the mountain. The campgrounds and logging roads didn’t appear until they crested the top.

Three-quarters of the way up the second straightaway, he said, “Is that an opening in the trees up ahead?”

“Looks like it, but I can’t tell what it is.”

“It’ll have to be good enough,” he said, slowing down.

As they passed it, he took its measure: it had been a road into the timber at one time, likely a Forest Service road, but a hundred feet in they’d used an earthmover to create a berm that would be impassable. It was one of the more annoying Forest Service tricks of the last few decades: blocking access roads to the public while purportedly serving the public. But it was good enough for what he was looking for.

“Hold on,” he said, hitting the brakes.

When the Tahoe was stopped, he quickly reversed and backed into the opening and kept going until his rear bumper rested against the berm. Ahead of them was a narrow opening slot through the trees where they could see fifty feet of the road and the rock wall beyond it.

He turned to her and said urgently, “If he sees our tracks, he might stop and block us in, but I’m hoping he’ll drive right by. Jump out with that rifle so you’re clear to fire if necessary. If he makes any moves that seem hinky, don’t overthink it. Just aim and fire.”

“Pumpkin on a post,” she said with a wink.

“Go,” he said, and bailed out the driver’s-side door.

He could hear the vehicle coming, tires sizzling through the slushy snow on the roadway. The vehicle was coming fast.

Nate looked through the Tahoe windows for Haley. She was leaning back on the SUV and raising the rifle. She had a calm and determined look on her face. That look made him want to run around the back of the Tahoe and kiss her.

Then he shook his head to clear it; thought, Yarak; and drew his heavy weapon from its shoulder holster.

The vehicle — a dark green pickup with an emblem on the door and a single occupant inside — flashed by the opening in the trees without slowing down. Nate listened as it sluiced up the mountain without slowing. The driver hadn’t so much as looked their way. His profile indicated he was leaning over the steering wheel, watching the road in front of him without a sideways glance, and very determined to get to where he was going.

“Whew,” Haley said, uncoiling. “False alarm, I guess.”

Nate squinted, a sour look on his face.

“What?” she said. “Did you know him?”

He shook his head. “I thought for a second it was my friend Joe, that he’d decided to stay. That would be like him: dumb and loyal. But it wasn’t him.”

“So who was it?”

Nate shrugged. “Game and Fish pickup, driver wearing a red uniform. But it wasn’t Joe. He’s the only game warden in this district, so I have no idea who it was.”

“I’m confused,” she said, climbing back into the Tahoe.

“You’re not the only one,” Nate said.

“Are you disappointed your friend didn’t stay to help you?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he snapped.

35

Joe’s hand was trembling when he returned McLanahan’s call. Even before the sheriff answered, he wished he could reach through his phone and throttle him.

“Yeah?” McLanahan answered.

Joe took a deep breath and tried to keep his anger in check. “Sheriff,” Joe said, “I just talked to the FBI. They said you haven’t called for their help.”

There was a beat of silence, then: “Dang it, that plumb slipped my mind.”

“How could it slip your mind? Tell me how it could slip your mind? Tell me how that could happen?”

“Whoa, there,” McLanahan said, annoyed. “Change your tone or I’m hanging up. I’m up to my ass in alligators right now and I don’t have time for your attitude.”

Joe closed his eyes.

“You heard the bad news, right?” McLanahan asked.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“What happened, sheriff?” Joe finally asked.

“We had an incident this morning.”

Joe’s left hand was balled up into a fist, and his nails were cutting into the palm of his hand just to keep from shouting.

“And what would that be?” Joe asked.

“I sent Mike Reed and Deputy Sollis over to roust your trainee, just like you asked. But the son-of-a-bitch came out shooting. Sollis was killed in the line of duty, and Reed’s in critical condition in the hospital. Doctors say it’s touch-and-go at this point.”

“What?”

“This Luke Brueggemann character — your trainee — got away. We issued an APB for him, and as soon as I get you off the phone I’m calling the Feds for help.”

“I told you to send a SWAT team,” Joe said, struck dumb by the turn of events. Mike Reed in critical condition?

“I don’t like being told what to do, pardner,” McLanahan said.

“Is Mike going to make it?”

“Shot in the neck and the shoulder, from what we know. Might have paralyzed him. But those doctors, they can do all kinds of miracles these days.”

“You are such an idiot,” Joe said. “You sent those men to their death.” Thinking: He sent his opponent.

“Whoa, there, buckaroo. There’s no call for that kind of talk.”

“I asked you to do three things,” Joe said, shouting into the phone, “Three things. You agreed. And you couldn’t even do the first thing right.”

“This call is over,” McLanahan said, feigning outrage, but it came across to Joe like naked fear.

“When I get down from here, you and I are going to have it out.”

McLanahan didn’t respond.

“Where was he last seen?” Joe shouted.

“Who?”

“Luke Brueggemann, you idiot!”

“Headed west in his pickup,” McLanahan said.

“Toward the mountains?” Joe asked, looking up through the windshield, remembering where he was again.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” McLanahan said. “But he should be easy to find in that Guts and Feathers rig you boys drive.” And with that he terminated the call.

Joe had to throw his shoulder against the driver’s-side door to open it against the snow. It took four tries before there was enough space for him to crawl out. Strong icy wind blew into the vacant cab.

In the equipment box in the bed of his pickup, he pulled out his cold-weather gear. It didn’t seem like it’d been that long since he’d packed it, he thought. He sat on the bed wall and kicked off his cowboy boots and pulled on thermal knee-high Bogs. His hooded Carhartt parka cut the chilling wind, and he was grateful he’d left a pair of gloves in the pockets.

He filled a daypack with binoculars, his spotting scope, the handheld radio, a GPS unit, digital camera, Maglite, coiled rope, a hunting knife, and boxes of ammunition. It was heavy when he cinched it down on his back and climbed down into the snow.

He checked the cartridges in his scoped .270 Winchester and slung it over his shoulder, and loaded his twelve-gauge with five three-inch shells: two magnum slugs on each end and three double-ought magnum buckshots in between. A handful of extra twelve-gauge shells went into his right coat pocket along with a crumpled bandanna to keep them from rattling when he walked.

It was tough getting the door shut because snow had drifted in, but when he heard the click he turned and started trudging for the gravel bank.

Joe was breathing hard by the time he reached it, and he wiped melted snow and perspiration from his face with his sleeve. The gravel bank was on the edge of the summit, and from where he stood he could look down into the steep timbered valley below. The pitch was such that he couldn’t quite see the valley floor or any of the camps established along the branch of the river.

Before picking his way through the loose scree on the other side of the mountain toward the timber below, he looked up and caught a tiny series of sun glints twenty-five miles in the distance. Saddlestring, he thought, where Sheriff Kyle McLanahan preened and made incompetent decisions and poor Mike Reed fought for his life.

The old miner’s cabin had been built into the mountain slope itself on a spit of level ground twenty yards from the start of the timber. Whoever built it had burrowed back into the rocky ground to hollow out a single room and had fashioned eaves and a corrugated tin roof, now discolored, that extended out of the mountainside. It looked out on the valley floor and Joe caught a glimpse of a bend of the river far below as he approached the cabin from above. He could see why Richie had chosen the shelter of the cabin to look for elk. It was protected from the wind that howled over the summit and afforded unimpeded views of several meadows where wildlife likely would graze.

As he approached the cabin from the back, Joe thumbed the safety off his shotgun and tucked the stock under his arm. He tried to stay quiet and not dislodge small rocks from the scree that might tumble downhill, clicking along with the sound of pool balls striking one another.

When he was close enough to see the entire side of the small structure, he dropped to his haunches and simply listened. There was no sign of life from the old log shelter, and two of the four small panes of glass from the side window were broken out. In the rocks near the closed front door were dozens of filtered cigarette butts. Richie, Joe thought, must be a smoker. But what had he seen from this perch that spooked him off the mountain?

“Hello!” Joe shouted. “Anybody home?”

Silence from the cabin. But below in the trees, squirrels chattered to one another in their unique form of telegraph-pole gossip. They’d soon all know he was there, he thought.

He called out again, louder. If someone was inside, perhaps he’d see an eye looking out from one of the broken panes. But there was no movement.

For the first time, he noted a rough trail that emerged from the line of timber to the front door of the cabin. The trail was scarred on top, meaning it had been used recently. Maybe Richie had seen someone coming up on it? But why would that scare him?

Joe stood and slipped along the side wall of the cabin until he was underneath the window. He pressed his ear against a rough log and closed his eyes, trying to detect sounds of any movement inside. It was still.

He popped up quickly to the window and then dropped back down. No reaction, and all he’d seen inside was a shaft of light from a hole in the roof cutting through the gloom, illuminating what looked like three stout black logs on the packed-dirt floor.

Stout black logs?

The heavy front door wasn’t bolted, and it moaned as it swung inward on old leather hinges. Joe stood to the side, shotgun ready, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Nothing moved in reaction to the wide-open door.

He stepped inside. It was still and musty, but he caught a whiff of a sour metallic smell. The odor seemed to hang just above the floor.

The logs weren’t logs at all but three dark green plastic bundles placed next to one another on the floor. Joe stepped closer and prodded the nearest one with the toe of his boot. There was something heavy inside, but there was a little give, like poking a sausage casing. A chill rolled down his back.

He bent over to look closely at a line of beige-colored print on the plastic. It read human remains pouch in military stencil font.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, as he dug the flashlight out of his daypack and snapped it on.

He stood quickly and took a deep breath of fresh cold air before bending back down to unzip the first body bag. Now he knew why Richie had run off. But he’d neglected to report what he’d found, the coward.

A middle-aged woman, her skin waxy, eyes open and dull, hair matted to the side. And a dark deep cut across her throat.

Joe felt his insides gurgle as he unzipped the second bag to find a familiar dark round fleshy face looking out. The body also had a deep slash around its neck, only partially hidden by a fold of fat.

The third body Joe didn’t recognize. It had been a young man with sharp cheekbones and a thin, long nose. Short spiky hair. Same wound.

Joe thought, The real Luke Brueggemann.

After heaving what little was in his stomach into the scree, Joe fished the radio out. No signal.

He tried his cell phone. Reception was faint; one bar lapsed into roaming and back again. He climbed back up the mountain to where the signal was stronger. He called Sheriff McLanahan.

“What now?” McLanahan asked, obviously agitated. “Is all forgiven?”

Joe ignored the question. He was shaking as he said, “I found the bodies of Pam Kelly, Bad Bob Whiteplume, and an unknown male. All murdered and stashed in an old cabin overlooking the South Fork. Here, I’ll give you the coordinates. …”

After telling McLanahan the name of the suspect and his possible location in Camp Five, Joe said, “I don’t know how many bad guys are down there, but I do know they’re armed and dangerous.”

Then, shouting into the phone: “Listen to me this time, Sheriff. Make that call to the FBI and tell them to send everybody they can up here. Now. And gather what’s left of your department and gear them up and storm Camp Five. I’ll try to get into position so I can be a spotter. Stay off the radio, and keep your phone on.”

The phone popped hard with static, and when it quieted back down Joe no longer had the connection. He wasn’t sure how much the sheriff had heard or understood.

He could only hope that enough got through that the vise was finally beginning to close on John Nemecek.

36

Haley drove the Tahoe through the thick lodgepole pine trees on South Fork Trail, and Nate craned forward in the passenger seat, looking ahead. The river, no more than cold crooked fingers of water probing around boulders, was on their left. He caught glimpses of it through the timber.

“There are tracks on the road ahead of us,” Nate said, “but nothing fresh from this morning.”

Haley didn’t respond. Her face was grim and her mouth set. She obviously didn’t understand the significance of his comment.

“That means that Game and Fish truck went somewhere else,” Nate said. “So maybe we can forget about it.”

“Okay,” she said.

She looked small behind the wheel, he thought. But determined.

Nate looked over as they passed by an outfitter camp tucked up into the trees on a shelf on their right. The camp had a large framed canvas tent, but there were no vehicles around and the door of the tent was tied up. A headless elk carcass hung from a cross-pole behind the tent.

“That’s the fourth camp,” she said.

Nate nodded and ducked down on the seat. Anyone observing the vehicle would see only the driver.

“Talk to me,” he said calmly. “Tell me what you see as you see it.”

In a moment, she said, “The trees are opening. I think we’re getting close to Camp Five.”

Over the last half hour, Joe had worked his way down the mountain carefully, avoiding loose rock and downed branches, and he’d set up behind a granite outcropping laced through the seams with army-green lichen. From the outcrop he could clearly see the layout of Camp Five two hundred feet below.

There were two hard-side trailers parked nose-to-tail in a flat on the other side of the river. The camp was remarkably clean: no debris, coolers, folding chairs, or other usual elk camp indicators. The fire pit, a ring of colorful round river rocks, looked cold and unused. There were no skinned elk or deer carcasses hanging from a cross-pole in clear view of the trailers.

There were two vehicles he could see parked on the other side of the trailers: a late-model white Tahoe with green-and-white Colorado plates behind the second trailer and a dark SUV crossover parked on the side of the first. The second trailer, Joe thought, was a curiosity. Antennae and small satellite dishes bristled from the roof. Then he noticed something blocky covered with a blue tarp on the front of that trailer; no doubt an electric generator. The generator operated so quietly he could barely hear it hum.

The second trailer was obviously the communications center.

He was grateful his handheld radio hadn’t worked earlier. No doubt, they were monitoring air traffic. He hoped McLanahan listened this time and stayed off the police bands.

A few feet from the tongue of the first trailer, Joe noted, were two five-foot pole-mounted platforms. On the top of each platform was a hooded falcon: a peregrine and a prairie.

Joe was pretty sure he’d found Nemecek.

He’d set up his spotting scope on the tripod and trained it on the white sheet-metal door of the first trailer. His shotgun was braced against the rock on his right, and next to it was his .270 Winchester.

The rock had sharp edges, and it was difficult to find a comfortable position to lie in wait. He shifted his weight from the left to the right and propped up on his daypack to see. When he heard the tick of a loose rock strike another, he assumed he’d rustled it loose with the toe of his boot.

Then he sensed a presence behind him, and before he could roll over he felt a cold nose of steel press into the flesh behind his right ear. He jumped with alarm and a palm pressed square into the middle of his back, keeping him prone.

“Put your arms out ahead of you, Joe, hands up. Don’t even think about reaching for your gun.” It was the voice of his trainee.

Joe did as told without saying a word, and felt his trainee pluck the Glock from his holster. His pepper spray was removed next. Then he heard the clatter of his shotgun and rifle as they were kicked off the outcropping into the brush below.

“Now slowly pull your arms down and place them behind your back.”

Joe said, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Just cooperate, Joe. You seem like a nice guy, and I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I guess you’ve figured some things out on your own.”

“Surprising, huh?” Joe said.

“Your hands,” his trainee said firmly.

Joe felt the handcuffs encircle both wrists. He balled his hands into fists and bent them inward toward his spine while the cuffs were snapped into place and ratcheted snug. It was a trick he’d learned from a poacher he’d once arrested. Now, when he relaxed his fists and straightened his wrists, the cuffs weren’t tight and didn’t bite into his flesh.

“Okay, now stand up. And don’t turn around or do any dumb shit.”

“That’s kind of a hard maneuver with my hands cuffed behind my back,” Joe said.

“Try,” his trainee said, stepping back.

Joe got his knees under him and rose clumsily. Despite what he’d been told, he turned a quarter of the way around. His trainee wore his red uniform shirt and held a.40 Glock in each hand — his and Joe’s. Both were pointed at Joe’s face.

“You’re a disgrace to the uniform,” Joe said.

“Stop talking.”

“I found Luke Brueggemann,” Joe said, noting a wince of confusion from his trainee in reaction.

“Up there,” Joe said, chinning toward the top of the mountain. “In an old miner’s cabin. You might have seen it on your way down.”

“I saw the cabin. Right after I found your truck stuck in the snow.”

“But you must not have looked inside,” Joe said. “The real Luke Brueggemann’s body is in it. Throat cut by a garrote. Same with Bad Bob and Pam Kelly. All of them dead, but I guess you know that.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” his trainee said.

“You know,” Joe said, “I’m getting pretty hacked off the way you people operate. This is a good place, and you’ve turned it upside down.”

His trainee simply shook his head, unbelieving.

“Did you kill them?” Joe asked. “Like you did Deputy Sollis this morning? Mike Reed might not make it, either, and you know he’s a friend of mine.”

“That was self-defense! That big one didn’t identify himself — he smashed through the door of my room.”

Joe didn’t know enough about the incident to argue. But knowing Sollis, he sensed a grain of truth in the explanation.

“You’re leaving bodies all over this county,” Joe said. “You need to stop. You’ve lost sight of your mission.”

“This is bullshit. There are no bodies. You’re just trying to get the drop on me.”

“I’m not that clever,” Joe said. And his trainee seemed to take that into consideration.

“So what’s your real name?” Joe asked.

“Hinkle,” he said. “Lieutenant Dan Hinkle when I was still in.”

The fact that he gave up his real name so easily, Joe thought, meant Hinkle had no intention of cutting him loose.

“Well, Lieutenant Dan Hinkle,” Joe said, “your boss is a killer. He’s gone rogue. And he’s taken a lot of you good men along with him and he’s murdered innocent people all over my county and terrorized my wife and family. Is that really what you signed up for?”

Hinkle’s confusion hardened into a kind of desperate anger. “Shut up, Joe. And turn around. We’re gonna march down there and see what my boss wants to do with you.”

“I’m not done,” Joe said. “The cavalry is coming. They’re on their way as we speak.”

“I said shut up with your lies.”

“I don’t lie,” Joe said. “You know that.”

“Turn around,” Hinkle barked.

And Joe did. But not simply because he’d been ordered. He wanted to see what was happening in the camp below, because he’d heard the sound of a vehicle coming, headed straight for Camp Five.

Haley said to Nate on the seat beside her, “There are two trailers and two vehicles.”

“Anybody outside?”

“No.”

“Keep going,” he said. “Drive up there with confidence like you were coming home after work. Like you just can’t wait to tell your boss some good news he’ll want to hear.”

He felt her reach down and touch his neck as if for reassurance.

“How far are they?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe five hundred feet?”

“You’re doing great,” he said.

“Oh, Jesus,” she said after a beat. “Someone’s coming outside.”

“Which trailer?”

“The second one. Now two men. Nate, one of them has a long rifle or a shotgun. They’re standing there looking our way.”

“Is he aiming the weapon?”

“Sorta.”

“Is he aiming it at you or not?”

“He’s kind of holding it at port arms,” she said, an edge of panic in her voice.

“Good,” Nate said. “Keep going. Don’t flinch. They recognize the vehicle. They think we’re on their team.”

“Oh my God,” she said, her voice tight. “There’s John Nemecek. He just came out of the first trailer.”

“Keep going,” Nate said. “Smile at them if you can.”

Joe and Dan Hinkle were twenty yards from the bank of the river. There was so little current this high up in the mountains it barely made a sound, just a muffled gurgle as it muscled around exposed river rocks.

The muzzles of both guns were pressed into him, one at the base of his skull and the other in the small of his back. Joe felt dead inside and his feet seemed to propel him forward of their own accord. He thought, There is no way they’ll let me go.

He thought about what he could do to get away. If he were in a movie, he’d spin and drop-kick the weapons away and head-butt Hinkle into submission. Or simply break and run, juking and jiving, while Hinkle fired and missed. But this was real and there were two guns pressed against him. He didn’t know how to drop-kick. And Hinkle was trained and skillful and wouldn’t miss.

Ahead of him, across the river, three men had emerged from the two trailers. All three were facing the oncoming white SUV and apparently hadn’t seen Joe and Hinkle yet. One of them, tall and fit and commanding in looks and presence, looked like the person Marybeth had described meeting in the library. Nemecek stood ramrod-straight, hands on hips, his head bowed slightly forward as if he was peering ahead from beneath his brow. The other two men, both young and hard, one in all-black clothing and the other wearing a desert camo vest over a Henley shirt, flanked Nemecek. The man in all black carried a semiautomatic rifle.

The three stood expectant, waiting for the arrival of the white SUV.

“They’re just standing there,” Haley said to Nate. “Nemecek turned and said something to the man with the gun and he lowered it. I think Nemecek recognizes me.”

“How close are they?”

“A hundred feet, maybe less.”

“He’s confused for a second,” Nate said. “He wasn’t expecting you.”

“Now he’s turning back around toward me, staring. Nate …” The fear in her voice was palpable.

Nate said, “Floor it.”

The SUV came fast, Joe thought. Too fast. But then the motor roared and the Tahoe rocked and accelerated and he heard Hinkle gasp behind him.

It happened in an instant. The man in black with the rifle shouted and leaped to the side, in Joe and Hinkle’s direction. Nemecek jumped back the other way and flattened himself against the first trailer. But the man in the desert camo was caught in the middle and hit solid and tossed over the hood and roof of the Tahoe with a sickening thump.

Hinkle said, “What the fuck just happened?”

“Got one!” Haley shouted, hitting the brakes before she crashed head-on into the front of the second trailer.

Before they’d completely stopped, Nate reached up for the passenger door handle and launched himself outside. He hit the turf hard on his injured shoulder, rolled, and staggered to his feet.

Yarak.

The man in black who’d dived away scrambled to his feet a few yards away, his face and hands muddy, the rifle in his grip. Nate shot him in the neck, practically decapitating the body before it hit the ground.

Nate wheeled on his heels, cocking the hammer back with his left thumb in the same movement, and finished off the injured operative in the grass.

Then he turned on Nemecek, who was still against his trailer but was reaching behind his back — likely for his .45 Colt semiauto. Nate could see the impression of body armor under Nemecek’s sweater, but it didn’t matter. The .500 exploded twice. The first shot shattered Nemecek’s right shoulder and painted the trailer behind him with a crazy starburst of blood, and the second bullet hit Nemecek square in his upper-left thigh, annihilating the bones and dropping him like a bag of sand.

Nate caught a glimpse of Haley as she bailed out of the Tahoe with her rifle. He was proud of her, and his blood was up. He loped across the grass, found Nemecek’s .45 in the tall grass, and tossed it away behind him. He reached down and grasped Nemecek’s collar and pulled him away from the trailer so he was prevented from rolling under it, then dropped both of his knees on Nemecek’s chest and shoved the muzzle of his revolver under his old commander’s chin.

“Before you die,” Nate seethed, bending down so his eyes were six inches from Nemecek’s, “I need some answers.”

Joe had seen it all, and was stunned by the speed and violence of what had taken place in front of him. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing in the shallow river as Hinkle shoved him across, running now, but maintaining contact with the two weapons as they splashed across.

The woman who’d emerged from the Tahoe, the woman who’d run over the man in desert camo and scattered the others, stood with her back to them, cradling a carbine, looking at Nate hunched over Nemecek near the trailer. She was young but clearly capable, and she looked over her shoulder as Hinkle cleared one of the Glocks and aimed it over Joe’s shoulder at her — the gun inches from Joe’s ear — and shouted, “Hey!”

She hesitated when she saw the two red uniform shirts, didn’t raise her rifle, and Hinkle’s Glock snapped three concussive shots and she went down. Joe instantly lost hearing in his right ear, and it was replaced by a dull roar.

At the sound of the shout and the shots, Nate looked up from where he’d pinned Nemecek to the ground. His eyes darted to the woman on the ground and then up to Joe and Hinkle. Joe had never seen such a murderous look in any man’s face in his life.

“Get off of him!” Hinkle shouted to Nate. “I’ve got your buddy here.”

Nate didn’t move. His expression was ferocious and fixed on Joe.

No, Joe thought. Not at him. But at Hinkle behind him, who peered out at Nate over Joe’s right shoulder. Hinkle aimed the Glock at Nate down his extended right arm, which rested on Joe’s shoulder. The other weapon was still in the small of Joe’s back.

Joe found himself straining hard against the cuffs, as if trying to pull them apart. Because Hinkle hadn’t closed them hard, there was some play. The cuff on his right hand had slipped free almost to mid-thumb, and the steel bit hard. But he didn’t know how he could possibly shed one without breaking bones in his hand. The pain was searing.

Joe willed Nate to look at him, to look into his eyes. …

Nate shifted his glare from the shooter holding Joe — the man who’d shot Haley — to Joe. His friend’s face was white with pain. Had he been hit?

Then he saw Joe relax slightly. He was trying to get his attention and tell him something without speaking. There was blood on his right ear.

Joe deliberately looked down at the top of his boots. Then slowly back up again.

Nate understood. Joe was going down.

Joe saw the look of recognition in Nate’s face and suddenly buckled his knees. As he dived forward, he bent his head down and set his shoulders for the fall.

There were three nearly simultaneous explosions, and Joe hit the ground so hard he was able to use the force of his body weight to wrench his hands apart.

Behind him, Hinkle’s body was thrown into the river from the impact of a .50 caliber round plowing through his chest and out his back. But his last reaction was to fire both pistols. The one aimed at Joe had hit somewhere in the mud. Nate was hit, and it rolled him off Nemecek.

Joe writhed in the grass and dirt. White spangles exploded in front of his eyes from pain. Although he’d been trying to free his right hand, it was his left that had somehow been wrenched through the steel claw of the cuffs from the fall, breaking bones along the way. The pain in his left hand was sharp and awful and made him gasp for air. His injured hand felt like a boiling needle-filled balloon on the end of his arm.

He wasn’t sure if he blacked out for a moment, but when he opened his eyes he could see, at ground level, John Nemecek crawling through the grass, using his left hand and right leg. Nemecek’s face was a mask of anger and pain.

Joe raised his head slightly. Nemecek was going for the semiautomatic rifle dropped by the man in all black before Nate killed him.

Behind Nemecek, Nate lay on his side, his eyes open. He looked conscious.

Joe grunted and rolled to his hands and knees. His left hand was white and strangely elongated. The slightest pressure on it hurt like nothing Joe could recall. He looked around for a weapon. Hinkle had dropped two somewhere.

But when he looked over his shoulder, Nemecek was a few feet away from the rifle.

With his good ear, Joe heard Nemecek say, “Five shots, Romanowski. I counted.”

There was a dull black glint in the grass, and Joe closed his right hand around the grip of one of the Glocks. He rose up on his knees, swung around, and aimed it at Nemecek as he crawled.

Joe was a notoriously bad shot with a handgun. He qualified annually by the grace of God and a forgiving firearms instructor. He wished he had his shotgun, but he didn’t, and he croaked, “Freeze where you are, Nemecek.” His own voice sounded hollow and tinny to him.

Nemecek paused and looked up with contempt. His shoulder and leg were a bloody mess, and his face was pale and white. He was bleeding out and knew it. And Joe apparently didn’t scare him.

Like a wounded animal, Nemecek grimaced and crawled toward the rifle. As he reached for it, Joe started firing. Every third or fourth shot, it seemed, hit home. The impact rolled Nemecek to the side and when he tried to scramble back to his knees, he’d go down again. Joe didn’t stop squeezing the trigger until the slide kicked back and locked. Fourteen rounds. He’d emptied the magazine. Spent shells littered the ground near his knees.

As Joe lowered the Glock, he saw, to his terror and amazement, that Nemecek was crawling again toward the rifle.

Joe heard someone speak but couldn’t make out the words. He looked over to see Nate standing, bracing himself against the trailer. He was shaky. His empty revolver hung down along his thigh. Joe could see blood on the side of Nate’s coat.

“I said, He’s wearing a vest.”

In response, Joe held up his empty handgun.

The two exchanged looks for a second. Neither, it seemed, was capable of stopping Nemecek before he grasped the rifle.

Then Joe remembered. He tossed the Glock aside and reached down into the front pocket of his Wranglers with his good hand. His fingers closed around the heavy .500 round Nate had left in his mailbox.

“Nate,” Joe said, and tossed the cartridge through the air. Nate reached up and speared it.

Nemecek had made it to the rifle now, and was pulling it toward him with his left hand. He gripped it and swung the muzzle up.

Joe watched as Nate ejected a spent cartridge, fed the fresh one into the wheel, and slammed the cylinder home.

With a single movement and a sweep of Alisha’s black hair, Nate swung the weapon up.

Although the concussion was probably loud, Joe only heard a muffled pop.

Nemecek’s head snapped back, and the rifle fell away.

37

The snow came unexpectedly, as it did in the mountains, but the pale blue behind the storm clouds indicated it wouldn’t sock in, wouldn’t last all day. Large, soft flakes filtered down through the sky, clumping like cotton in the high grass. The snow muted the chirping of the squirrels and threw a hush over the river valley and Camp Five, but Joe didn’t know it. He could barely hear anything.

They sat near the cold fire pit. Nate had carried Haley’s body over to be with them, as if to separate her from the other bodies that littered the campsite. Her head was on his lap, eyes closed, and Nate stroked her hair.

Joe held his left hand by the wrist with his right as if it were a foreign object. It was swelling and looked like he was wearing a heavy glove. He’d drifted in and out of shock and consciousness for the hour since it had ended.

Finally, Nate said, “You should have flown away.”

Joe shrugged. He could not yet wrap his mind around what had happened in the camp. Every time he glanced over at one of the bodies — Hinkle, the two operatives, or Nemecek — he half expected them to come back from the dead and attack. Snow fell on Nemecek’s face and turned pink beneath his head in the pool of black blood.

Nate stroked Haley’s hair and said, “Everybody. Everybody.”

Joe didn’t ask him to explain.

Nate looked up. “Except you.”

“Dumb luck,” Joe said.

“Why didn’t you just kill him outright?” Joe asked after a few minutes. “It would have saved us a lot of trouble.”

Nate continued to run his fingers through Haley’s hair. He quit and gently touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

“I wanted some answers,” Nate said. “Why he did what he did. I wanted to know if he was operating alone or for somebody else. I wanted to know if he felt any guilt, like I have.”

“Did you expect him to confess?”

“I don’t know what I expected. But now I’ll never know. He’ll be a complete enigma to me forever, just like he’s always been.”

Joe didn’t hear the sound of a motor but noted that Nate had. He looked at Nate expectantly.

“They’re coming,” Nate said.

“Helicopter or convoy?”

“Chopper,” Nate said.

The snow had stopped, and the storm clouds had moved to the west. The sky was clear and blue, and the sun lit up the remaining snow that had gathered in the pine branches.

Joe said, “You’re staying around for them?”

“Are you going to stop me if I go?”

Joe thought about it and shook his head.

Nate rubbed his eyes. He said, “I’m tired, Joe. And I’m hit. I can’t just walk away into the mountains.”

“You could take one of those vehicles,” Joe said, nodding toward Nemecek’s crossover and the two white SUVs. “I can’t drive you out of here in my pickup because it’s stuck on top of the mountain.”

Nate smiled at that.

“So what are you going to do?” Joe asked.

Nate took a long intake of breath and expelled it with his eyes closed.

“You’re in a lot of pain,” Joe said, thinking of the shoulder wound in addition to the gunshot.

“Yes,” Nate said. “She was something, wasn’t she?”

Joe felt a lump in his throat when he said, “She was.”

Nate gently moved her head from his lap and struggled to stand up.

“I think I’m going to take her home,” Nate said. “She’s got a dad who would probably like to see her one last time.”

“Go, then,” Joe said.

As they loaded her body into the back of the white Tahoe they’d arrived in, Nate turned to Joe and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Joe …”

“Just go. Get out of the camp before they see you.”

Nate gestured as if to say One more thing. Then he walked stiffly and slowly to each of the falcon platforms, untied their hoods and jesses, and released them to the sky.

He turned back to Joe. “It might be a while before I come back.”

“Get to a doctor to get that gunshot fixed up.”

Nate waved the advice away. He said, “It’s been a wild ride.”

Joe heard the helicopter now. He said, “Better get out of here.”