Stone Cold

30

Past Douglas and somewhere over Laramie Peak in the Cessna Turbo 206H Stationair that belonged to Wolfgang Templeton, Joe said to Nate: “I didn’t know you were a pilot.”

“Officially, I’m not,” Nate said. “But I’ve spent a lot of time in small planes. Plus, I observe how birds fly.”

Joe put his head in his hands. He was grateful they’d be able to quickly cover the 320 miles to Laramie. Nate had reported they were traveling at 220 knots, which meant nothing to Joe. Arriving in less than an hour and a half meant everything.

“Can you land it when we get there?” Joe asked.

“We’ll see.”

There were three passengers in the plane. In addition to Joe and Nate was a woman named Liv Brannan who had been standing on the edge of the private airstrip in tears with a duffel bag and a suitcase. Joe hadn’t heard the conversation that went on between Brannan and Nate — he was on his phone with Sheridan — but he was surprised when Nate said they’d have company.

When the Federal Strike Force arrived at the Sand Creek Ranch earlier, Templeton’s Gulfstream jet with Missy inside was long gone. While Agent Coon and his agents swarmed the ranch headquarters and gathered the confused staff, Nate had commandeered a ranch ATV and driven Joe to the airstrip. The air had been heavy with smoke from the burning lodge, which added enough confusion to the raid that they were able to slip away.

As the Cessna gathered speed on the strip and ascended, Joe looked down. The massive old lodge was engulfed in flames. By the time the rural fire department arrived there would likely be nothing left. Templeton had covered his tracks. Nate asked Brannan what had happened with the four men inside. Joe didn’t pay any attention to the conversation. It could be sorted out later, he thought.

Over the radio, Joe could follow the progress of the FBI raids throughout Medicine Wheel County.

Judge Bartholomew was arrested in his home while he ate his morning oatmeal.

Sheriff Mead was stopped and arrested as he tried to escape in his personal Lincoln Continental.

Police Chief Dale Miller was in custody, but being flown to the Rapid City hospital due to massive blood loss.

All of them claimed they had no idea where Wolfgang Templeton had gone. In fact, they said they barely knew the man.

Before losing his cell signal, Joe had been able to learn from Sheridan that the university had been locked down and all dorm residents had been ordered to stay in their rooms. She had talked to the student who’d seen Erik Young in the stairwell and reported it to campus police. The student knew nothing about guns, but said the rifle “kind of looked like a toy.” Joe guessed from that description that Young had the stolen Bushmaster, because that semiautomatic rifle had plastic composite stocks. It also had a high-capacity magazine filled with .223 rounds.

The Laramie Police Department and campus police had been called. The rumor mill was up and running. There were posts on Facebook and Twitter about up to a dozen victims thus far, but Sheridan said she’d not personally heard any shots from the roof of her building, and her floor was close enough, she thought, that she should have.

From her dorm room window, she could see police setting up a perimeter and sealing off the streets to traffic. The rumor was that a SWAT team was being assembled to storm the dormitory, but she couldn’t see any signs of them yet.

Joe was proud of how calm Sheridan was, given the situation. He hoped he could hold it together as well as Sheridan had until they arrived.

But he wasn’t sure what he’d do when they got there.

“She just held her hand out and said, ‘I don’t think so,’” Liv Brannan said to Nate. “I was handing my bags up to Mr. T. on the steps of the plane when she said it. At first he seemed confused. But he didn’t argue with her. He just said, ‘Sorry, Liv,’ and handed my bags back.”

“Sounds like her,” Nate said. “Doesn’t it, Joe?”

Joe had half heard the conversation. He was thinking that instead of landing the plane at the airport west of town, they could buzz the dorm building itself. From their vantage point, they might be able to actually see Erik Young on top of the roof. He didn’t think the Laramie PD had any helicopters of their own to put into the air, and if they had to call one in it would have to be from Cheyenne or Fort Collins, Colorado. Nate would no doubt have the Cessna on the scene before the choppers could arrive.

“I said, sounds like Missy, eh, Joe?”

Liv recounted for Joe the scene where Missy kept Liv out of the Gulfstream after Templeton had destroyed all his records and ordered the lodge torched.

“It does,” Joe said. “I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that Missy was right there on the ranch. I’d hoped she was out of our lives forever.”

“You should have known better,” Nate said.

“I should have, but I can’t think about it right now.” To them both, he asked, “Where do you think Templeton is headed? I doubt he filed a flight plan.”

“You can count on that,” Nate said, rolling his eyes.

Liv said, “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. Mr. T. knows people all over the country and all over the world — wealthy people with private airstrips. I know because I’ve been with him for years and gone on plenty of trips with him. He’ll be able to get to wherever he’s going without getting close to any kind of commercial airport.”

Nate nodded. He said, “Templeton gave Whip and me a list of safe havens to go to if something went tits-up during an operation. We were supposed to stay there until the heat was off and he could come get us. The list is of Templeton’s contacts: former clients, mostly. It reads like the society column in the New York Times. With that list, the Feds should be able to close a lot of cases. And no doubt they’ll find Templeton.”

“So you do have something to bargain with,” Joe said.

“I do. I feel guilty about it, though. All those old operations were justified.”

Joe shook his head and didn’t comment.

Joe could see the wheels in Nate’s head were suddenly turning.

“Don’t do it, Nate,” Joe said. “Don’t even think about it. You gave your word and I gave mine. We shouldn’t even be in this airplane right now. If you’re thinking of skipping out after this…”

Nate shrugged.

Liv said, “What about Missy?”

Joe said, “What about her?”

After the longest hour of his life, Joe could see Laramie laid out before them like broken glass winking in the brown prairie. The snow-covered peaks of the Snowy Range rose to the west and the mountains of the massive Gangplank rose to the east, cradling the little college town between them. Nate lowered the altitude of the aircraft and aimed toward the small cluster of buildings on the eastern side of town. The University of Wyoming.

“That’s where we’re headed,” Nate told Liv. “The tallest building in Wyoming.”

“You’re kidding!” she said with a whoop.

“Please,” Joe said sharply.

There were no other aircraft in the sky.

“We’re going to be the first people to get a visual of the roof,” Joe said to Nate. “Let’s not buzz him too close on the first pass. Let’s see what we can see.”

“If the little bastard shoots at us, he’s history,” Nate said, leveling on the approach.

White Hall seemed to be rushing toward them now, filling the cockpit windshield.

“There he is,” Nate said, tilting the Cessna so Joe could see clearly through the pilot’s-side window over Nate.

Erik Young was wearing the long, dark coat Joe recognized from before, and he was stalking across the top of the gravel-covered roof with a long rifle. The top of the building was flat except for large utility boxes and a cinder-block structure in the corner with a door in it, where Young had obviously accessed the roof. Young was moving from box to box and peering around them as if looking for adversaries.

What he wasn’t doing was aiming at students below over the short wall abutment along the sides of the roof.

“What in the hell is he up to?” Nate asked.

“I don’t know,” Joe said, confused. “He looks like he’s hunting imaginary bad guys.”

“Does he even know we’re up here?” Brannan asked from her seat directly behind them.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Joe said.

“He better not raise that rifle,” Nate hissed.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” Joe said.

After they’d zoomed by the campus, Nate began a long, sweeping bank in the sky to return.

“Lower this time, right?” Nate asked.

“Yes,” Joe said. “If nothing else, we can help keep him distracted until the SWAT team is on the roof.”

The radio in the Cessna crackled with bits of dialogue. National Guard choppers were on the way from Cheyenne and would be there momentarily. The officer in charge on the ground asked the chopper pilots if the single-engine aircraft in the sky over Laramie was with them, and the pilots responded that it wasn’t.

“So who is flying that plane?” the officer asked.

“Air Romanowski!” Nate shouted in response. But he hadn’t used the radio.

Joe grabbed the mic.

“This is Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett in the single-engine aircraft.”

There was a long pause.

The officer asked, “What are you doing up there?”

Joe said, “My daughter is in the building,” and signed off.

“Do you have a visual on the suspect?”

“Yes.”

“What can you tell us?”

“I’m not sure what to say,” Joe said. “He looks… confused.”

As they approached the dormitory from the south, Nate pointed out the black-clad SWAT officers running into the ground-floor lobby from several white vans. The streets on all sides of the building were filled with police cars, sheriff’s department vehicles, and campus police with lights flashing.

“I’ve seen enough storm troopers today to last me awhile,” Nate grumbled.

They neared the roof again at lower elevation. Joe could see Young even more clearly than before. He was still moving from box to box, hunkering down, peering around corners. He seemed blithely unaware not only of the Cessna but also of the police presence twelve stories below.

There was no way, Joe thought, Young could not know about the dozens of SWAT officers thundering up the stairwell.

Young raised his rifle. Whatever he was aiming at was on the roof itself. And he wasn’t pointing toward the access door where SWAT would emerge but directly away from it.

What looked like confetti rose from the corner of the roof where Young had been aiming. Joe was momentarily confused, until he realized it wasn’t confetti but a big flock of pigeons.

“Oh no,” Joe said, his stomach clenching.

“What?” Nate asked.

Joe grabbed the mic: “Stand down, stand down! He’s not shooting at students. He’s hunting pigeons.”

“Oh shit,” Nate said, as the access door blew open and a swarm of officers emerged on the roof with their weapons raised. Young apparently heard them and swung around, his weapon up. A dozen orange stars burst from the muzzles of automatic weapons.

Joe saw Young’s long coat flutter up behind him as dozens of rounds passed through his body. Erik Young crumpled to the roof with his gun beside him.

The officer on the ground said, “Come again?”

“Too late,” Joe moaned, and slumped against the side window.