Winterkill (29 page)

Joe briefed Nate on the situation as he saw it, and went over the plan he had come up with. He told Nate that he needed him there for support and backup only. Nate nodded and smiled slyly, leaving Joe with a queasy feeling.

He didn’t go far into town. He turned off the road and into the parking lot of the First Alpine Church.

The church was sanctuary once again, Joe now knew, for Spud Cargill.

A
s Joe pulled
into the small parking area for the church and the Reverend B. J. Cobb’s trailer, he pointed out to Nate that there was no wood smoke coming from the tin stovepipe atop the church.

“It’s too cold,” Joe said, thinking aloud, “for someone to be inside the church without a morning fire. So if Spud is here, he’ll be in the double-wide.”

Nate grunted his agreement.

As they pulled to a stop in front of the trailer, something bothered Joe, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then he remembered.

“Yesterday when I was here,” Joe said, “there was a snowmobile parked out by the road. It’s not there now.”

“You think Spud took it?” Nate asked, zipping up his parka and preparing to open the truck door.

“We’ll find out, I guess,” Joe said, jumping out of the truck into the snow. He left his .40 Beretta in his holster and pulled the only weapon that he was comfortable with, his twelve-gauge Remington WingMaster shotgun, out from behind the bench seat. Turning toward the trailer, he spun it upside down in his gloves to make sure it was loaded. The bright brass of a double-aught shell winked at him.

While Joe approached the front door of Cobb’s trailer, Nate Romanowski pushed though the deep snow around the back where there was another door. Joe gave Nate a minute to get around before mounting the steps.

He knocked with enough force to send a line of icicles crashing from the eaves. Toward the back of the trailer, yellow light filled a curtained window. Joe assumed it was the bedroom. He stepped aside on the porch in case Cobb or Spud decided to fire through the door.

Joe heard heavy footfalls inside and watched the door handle turn. There was a kissing sound as it opened and broke through a thin seal of snow and ice. Joe raised the barrel of the shotgun, the butt firmly against his cheek, and aimed it at eye-level where he expected Cobb to stick his head out.

The door opened and the Reverend Cobb’s cinder-block head jutted out into the half-light of dawn, his eyes squinting against the falling snow. The muzzle of Joe’s shotgun was six inches away from Cobb’s ear.

“Throw down your weapon if you have one,” Joe said quietly, as Cobb’s eyes swiveled toward the black mouth of the shotgun.

A nine-millimeter handgun dropped with a thud on the porch, vanishing into the snow but leaving a distinct profile outline.

“That’s not necessary, Joe,” Cobb said, keeping his voice even.

“Step outside where I can see you,” Joe ordered. He did not trust Cobb not to have another weapon on him, or not to jump back and slam the door shut.

“You can’t enter a man’s house without probable cause, Joe,” Cobb cautioned.

“I’m not,” Joe said. “I’m asking you to come outside. And if you don’t do it, we’ve got a problem.”

Cobb gave a slight smile and briefly closed his eyes. His face was pink and warm from sleep, and snowflakes melted on his cheeks.

“Okay,” Cobb said opening his eyes. “My hands are up and I’m coming out. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“No promises,” Joe said, immensely relieved that Cobb was cooperating.

Cobb stepped out on the porch in his slippers. He wore the same bathrobe Joe had seen him in the day before. His hands were raised and his expression was calm, but tired. There was a hint of defeat in the way he slumped his shoulders.

“I was wondering what happened to you yesterday after we talked,” Cobb said.

“I went up to the compund,” Joe responded, a little defensively. “I was too late to find Spud. The Sovereigns had already refused him a place to hide out, and they sent him away.”

Cobb nodded. “I figured they probably wouldn’t let him in. I was conflicted about telling you too much, though. I don’t approve of what he did. I don’t even like Spud much. But I have a real problem with the way the Feds are conducting themselves. We don’t need another Gestapo.”

Joe repressed the urge to hit Cobb across the face with the butt of his shotgun.

“Goddamn you, Cobb, just put that antigovernment crap away for a few minutes,” Joe hissed. “I know about all that, and I don’t care about any of it. All that matters to me right now is my little girl. You’ve just wasted twelve hours of my time when you had a pretty good idea he was coming back here.” Joe angrily racked his shotgun, and pressed the muzzle against Cobb’s ear.

Cobb flinched away from the icy metal on his bare skin, and Joe saw his eyes bulge with fear. Joe didn’t mind that at all.

“I’ve always liked you, B.J.,” Joe said, pressing the muzzle even harder. “I’m not sure why. But if you don’t start telling me the truth, and I mean
every bit of it,
things are going to get real Western real fast.”

Cobb closed his eyes briefly and Joe heard a wracking breath. He pushed the shotgun forward, so that now the side of Cobb’s head was pinned against the opposite doorjamb and his closest ear was cupped around the muzzle and misshapen.

“Okay, Joe,” Cobb said softly.

Joe felt a rush of relief mixed with a whiff of shame for what he had just done to Cobb. He eased up on the pressure he had been using.

“Is he inside?” Joe asked.

Cobb shook his head, and rubbed his ear. “He was in the
church for the past few days. But I haven’t seen him since he left.”

“Then he . . .” Joe started to ask when Nate shouted from the back of the trailer.

“Joe! There he is.”

Turning, Joe looked through the heavy snowfall toward the church. A door was open, and a single shadowy form—Spud Cargill—was trying to run across an open field away from them. He had obviously been in the church when Joe and Nate arrived, huddling in the cold without a fire, and had just run out the back door behind the pulpit.

“Yes, there he is,” Cobb said with resignation. “He must have known I wouldn’t let him into my home.”

Joe looked back to Cobb. The Reverend was shaking his head sadly, still rubbing his ear, but slumping as if he had given up. There didn’t seem to be any fight in him. Joe made a quick decision that Cobb would stay put and wouldn’t be a threat, since he had, in effect, already given Spud’s location away.

Joe lowered the shotgun and jumped off the porch, turning his back to Cobb.

“Go inside and stay put,” Joe shouted over his shoulder. “You’ve got no part in this anymore.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Cobb implored. “He’s an idiot, but there’s no reason to hurt him.”

Joe said nothing. Nate met him in the yard between the trailer and the church, breathing hard from bulling his way through the deep snow. Joe crossed in front of Nate on his way to his pickup.

As Joe threw down the ramps and fired up his snowmobile, he squinted through the storm. Spud Cargill was getting far enough away that with the hard-falling snow he was little more than a shadow in the field.

“Spud Cargill, STOP!” Joe shouted. “Don’t make us come after you!”

Joe shouted several more times as he backed the machine out of the truck. Cargill didn’t respond. He was struggling through the snow, high-stepping and stumbling. Several times, he pitched forward and vanished out of sight for an instant.

Joe idled the snowmobile alongside Nate.

“I can hit him from here,” Nate said, sliding his .454 out of his shoulder holster.

“No!” Joe said. “I’m going to go get him.”

“I could blow a leg off and shut him down.”

“Nate!”

Nate smiled slightly and shrugged. “I’ll cover you in case he’s crabby.”

“That’s a deal.”

As Joe roared by, he saw Nate out of the corner of his eye with his big pistol extended over a log, the sights, no doubt, on the back of Spud Cargill’s head.

Joe quickly closed the gap between himself and Cargill. Joe drove one-handed, his right hand on the throttle and his left holding the shotgun. The snow was thigh-deep, and Spud Cargill was flushed and sweating. His eyes were wild. He didn’t have gloves or a hat. Joe couldn’t see if Spud had a weapon or not. Joe veered around him, cutting him off, then pointed the shotgun at Cargill’s chest.

“That’s enough,” Joe said.

Cargill stopped, wheezing, his breath billowing from his nostrils like dual exhausts. Slowly, Cargill bent forward and grasped his knees in an effort to catch his breath.

“Turn around and head back.”

Cargill’s hand came up with a tiny double-barreled Derringer in it. Joe flopped back flat on his seat as the little pistol cracked and the bullet missed. Still on his back but grasping the hand grip, Joe buried the throttle with his thumb and the snowmobile howled and pounced forward. The collision with Spud Cargill smashed the plastic windshield and cracked the fiberglass hood. Joe felt Cargill’s body thump beneath the tracks as the snowmobile passed over him.

Once Joe was clear, he sat back up and circled back.

A hand pushed its way out of the tracked snow, and then a knee. Joe drove up alongside and grabbed the hand. With tremendous effort, he pulled Spud Cargill from the snow. Cargill came up with his mouth, eyes, and ears packed with snow but his hands empty of little guns. The tracks of the snowmobile had shredded the front of his coat.

It wasn’t until then that Joe realized how absolutely
terrified he had been, and how instinctual and unplanned his reaction was.

While Spud coughed and sputtered, Joe reached up and grabbed Cargill’s coat collar from the back.
“Miranda rights!”
Joe spat, not having the time, energy, or inclination to say more at the moment. Spud started to speak, but with a firm grasp of the coat, Joe gunned the snowmobile and rode it back to the church, dragging a flailing and screaming Spud Cargill alongside. As Joe rode back, he saw that Spud’s pickup was on the side of the church, obscured from the road and covered by a tarp that was now heavy with snow.

Nate stepped away from the church as Joe rode up and let go of the coat. Cargill rolled twice in the snow, coming to rest facedown at Nate’s feet.

“Damn nice work,” Nate said, smiling.

“I thought you were going to cover me,” Joe snapped, his adrenaline still on high.

“If I’d shot, I would have hit both of you,” Nate said sourly. “You were right in my line of fire.”

Joe started to argue, then realized Nate was right.

“Anyway . . . ,” Joe said.

“You got him,” Nate said, finishing Joe’s sentence. Nate stepped forward, rolled Spud Cargill over with his boot then bent down and expertly searched Cargill from his coat to his shoes. He found a folded Buck knife in a trouser pocket and a thin thowing knife in a sheath in Spud’s boot. Nate put them both in his parka pocket.

“No more weapons.”

“He’s an idiot,” Joe said. Then, to Spud: “You have caused me and my family more pain and heartache than you can ever imagine. I’m just real happy to see you, Spud.”

“The hell you
talking
about?” Spud mumbled, genuinely confused. “Never went after you . . . or
any
of the state agencies.”

Joe didn’t have time to explain, and didn’t think Spud was owed an explanation.

T
hey
were still in the church parking lot. The three of them were wedged into the cab of Joe’s pickup with Spud in the middle between Joe and Nate.

Spud Cargill was wet and ragged, and he complained to Joe that the handcuffs were too tight. Nate responded by elbowing Spud sharply in the mouth and snapping his head back.

“Shut up,” Nate hissed. Cargill shut up. Joe glared at Nate, but said nothing.

The motor was running and the heat was on, and Joe breathed easier as he unhooked his radio mike from the cradle and called for dispatch.

There was now enough morning light to see . . . just about nothing. The snow was falling hard again, and the air was filled with nickel-sized flakes.

“Dispatch.” It was Wendy, a longtime county employee and conspiracy buff.

“This is Game Warden Joe Pickett,” he said. “Can you patch me through to Sheriff Barnum?”

“No can do.”

Joe waited for more. There wasn’t any.

“Excuse me?”

“No can do.”

“Then patch me through to anybody. It doesn’t have to be Barnum.”

“No can do.”

“Wendy, damn you . . .”

Another voice came on. Joe recognized it as Tony Portenson, Munker’s partner.

“Call me back on a landline,” Portenson said.

F
urious,
Joe left Cargill with Nate in the pickup.

“Don’t leave me with
him
!” Cargill pleaded as Joe slammed the door.

He knocked again on the trailer door and asked the Reverend Cobb if he could use his telephone.

“I see you found Spud,” Cobb said, looking over Joe’s shoulder toward the pickup.

“Yup.”

Cobb stepped aside so Joe could enter. He was still obviously wary, and gave Joe a wider berth than necessary.

“You scared me a little out there, Joe,” Cobb said, reaching again for his ear. Joe noted that the round imprint of the barrel could be seen on Cobb’s earlobe.