Force of Nature

AFTERWORD

Three days later, Joe Pickett stood in the lobby of the Twelve Sleep County Municipal Airport, waiting for the passengers of the incoming flight to disembark. In his breast pocket were his ID and boarding pass; Saddlestring to Denver, Denver to LAX, departing at 11:14 a.m.

The surly gate agent had not been as surly this time. Apparently she, like everyone else in the county and the state, had heard and read about what had happened at Camp Five on the South Fork. When she checked him in, she said, “I’ll bet you can’t wait to get out of this place right now.”

He’d grunted a non-response response.

“Going to meet up with your wife and kids?”

“Yup. The hotel is booked for three more days.”

“That doesn’t give you much time at Disneyland.”

“Fine with me.”

“What happened to your hand?” she asked, nodding at the thick white club of a cast on the end of his right arm. The tips of his fingers and thumb poked out, but all the joints were encased and his hand was useless.

“Broke it,” he said.

“Security is going to want a close look at that,” she warned.

Joe sighed.

The interviews, affidavits, and debriefings had begun before he had even been released from the hospital. Marybeth had said she was coming back with the girls, but Joe told her to stay until he got there because there wasn’t anything she could do.

FBI Special Agent Chuck Coon was leading the inquiry, assisted by County Attorney Dulcie Schalk. Joe told his version of the events and the firefight at least four times. He left out nothing. Coon winced when Joe said he’d watched Nate Romanowski drive away, but there was no hint at charges to be filed against Joe.

Speculation was rampant concerning the motivations of John Nemecek and his team. Forensics tied Nemecek to the murders of Pam Kelly, Bad Bob Whiteplume, and Luke Brueggemann. Law enforcement in Colorado and Idaho were in contact with Coon to try and fill in the whole story and clear up the multiple homicides in both states. The Teton County Sheriff’s Department had a liaison on site, and he reported that the tortured man in the hospital refused to talk.

Even Agent Coon was wondering about the reason for the arrival of a three-man team being sent out from the Department of Defense in Washington.

As per Wyoming Game and Fish Department procedure, Joe had been placed on paid administrative leave because he’d discharged his firearm during the course of his duty. Another problem was his pickup, which was still stuck on top of the mountain. So far, two winch-trucks had failed to make it to the top to pull it out. Joe hoped he’d see it before the heavy winter snows buried it until spring.

Joe welcomed the respite, although in the back of his mind he hated the fact that no one was patrolling his district during the height of hunting season. The agency had been roiled by the death of one of its most promising trainees.

The sheriff’s election was two days away. Mike Reed had been upgraded from critical condition but was still in the hospital. Joe had seen him while they were both there, but Reed wasn’t conscious. A nurse at the duty station said Reed would likely live, but whether he would walk again was uncertain. It all depended, she said, on future surgery that may or may not repair what she called an “incomplete spinal injury” due to damages caused by a bullet to the neck.

Joe couldn’t guess what the voters would decide. McLanahan was spinning the events at the South Fork as solving the crimes once and for all, and he modestly took credit for the raid and the outcome. An interview given to the Saddlestring Roundup by Agent Coon indicated otherwise. The stories ran side by side in the newspaper — the only edition between weekly publication and the election. The official investigation and report by County Attorney Dulcie Schalk would not be completed for weeks.

Voters were being asked either to reelect Sheriff Kyle McLanahan, hero of South Fork, or a possibly paraplegic challenger who couldn’t yet speak for himself.

But he’d cast an absentee ballot for Mike Reed.

He’d heard nothing from Nate, and hadn’t expected he would.

A dozen people emerged from the twin-prop and made their way down the aluminum staircase. Joe recognized most of them, but one in particular made his jaw drop. A dangling thread in the case would now be tied up.

Alice Thunder was in no hurry to enter the airport. She paused on the tarmac walkway and let the other passengers go around her. Joe watched as she closed her eyes, breathed in and out deeply several times, and nodded.

He met her at the door.

“You’re okay,” he said, relieved.

“Of course I’m okay,” she said, slightly offended. Then: “It’s nice to breathe clean mountain air again. I’ve had my fill of Texas and humidity for a while. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it.”

She stopped when she realized he wanted to say more, and then looked at him with her unique stoic lack of expression.

He said, “Do you have any idea what’s happened here since you left?”

“No.”

Joe filled her in. She listened quietly, and her only reaction was to shake her head when she heard about Bad Bob.

“Nobody knew where you were,” Joe said.

“Nate did,” she said. “I told him I wanted to go see the bats. I saw them every night except one.” Then: “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re okay,” Joe said.

“Of course I am.”

He helped her pull her big duffel bag off the single clattering luggage carousel.

“I can take it from here,” she said. “You better go get on that plane.”

He nodded and turned. The other passengers were lining up at security, and the TSA agents, who outnumbered them, were shooting their cuffs so they could pull on blue latex gloves.

“Joe,” she called out.

He turned.

“What about Nate?” she asked.

Joe said, “I’m not sure.”

“He’ll be back,” she said simply. “This is his place.”

“We’ll see,” Joe said. “He’s got a lot to sort out.” He thought, And a lot to answer for.

She nodded. He couldn’t tell if she agreed with him or was simply ending the conversation.

“Go see your family,” she said, and headed for the outside doors.

Joe took off his boots, removed his belt, wristwatch, jacket, and hat, fished out his phone and a ballpoint pen, and emptied his pockets of loose change and a Leatherman tool with a knife blade accessory that would soon be confiscated by one of the TSA agents.

The line moved slowly. A sixty-seven-year-old retired high school teacher had been flagged for a pat-down and asked to step aside. Already, a ruddy-faced TSA agent was eyeing his cast.

A female TSA agent with tight white curls and steel-rimmed glasses rooted through his carry-on and handed two bottles of pain pills prescribed for his recovery to a supervisor to inspect.

She reached into his bag and pulled out a hardcover book. She looked at the cover and scrunched up her face.

“What’s this?”

“The Looming Tower,” Joe said.

“What’s it about?” she asked Joe.

“This,” he said.

She glared back at him, puzzled, as if trying to make up her mind whether to be angry at him.