Judas Horse_ An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery - April Smith [52]
Did Stone kill him? We don’t know. Climbing through the forest, nothing would have given Steve a clue that things were far from right. The fern glen that exploded into a debris field, and later became a field of snow, must have been silent. Steve would have had every reason to believe he was alone, but in fact he was being set up for an ambush—exactly like FBI Special Agents Jack Coler and Ron Williams in the mid-seventies, ambushed while driving a dirt road on a South Dakota Indian reservation. The siege by Native Americans at Wounded Knee was over, the FBI humiliated by an unwinnable takeover from which they had to withdraw, but a month later the two agents on patrol were gunned down with semiautomatics, because they were symbols of the U.S. government.
“The danger is high,” says Donnato. “You understand that, right? If Stone makes you, he will escalate fast.”
“Like he escalated when he made Steve.”
That is the nasty irony: By placing an undercover in Dick Stone’s orbit, not only did we wake the beast but we armed him with righteous fury, too.
“I have to tell you, as your contact agent, that it’s your choice as the undercover to decide whether or not you feel comfortable with the level of safety we can provide.”
Donnato’s look is deeply still and troubling. Feeling seems to overflow his eyes.
My head clears. Despite the fatigue, I find myself in a manic state of bungee-jump excitement. I want to get back—to the suspects, the drama, my role in it—to the roller-coaster ride. This is rapture, and there is no way back.
“It’s a go.”
“Then nail it,” Donnato says. “The prisoners are being released. Make sure you go home with Dick Stone.”
It is 112 degrees in the tiny interrogation room. As we haul to our feet, Donnato surprises me with a daringly swift kiss on the mouth, leaving the sweet salt taste of apprehension and longing.
The ragged activists are standing in the blustery sunlight outside the facility that houses the county sheriff’s department and jail. All the prisoners have been released on bail except for Bill Fontana, who is still being held for questioning. We gather in groups, our hair matted and our clothes mud-stained, survivors trading stories.
Megan hugs me good-bye.
“This is not the end of it,” she vows. “We’ll be back.”
“You will,” I say forlornly. “I have no idea what I’ll be doing. Maybe living in a crapped-up town like this.”
The sandstone building that houses the jail blends into a residential area, the single part of town that does not appear to have been completely desolated by the closing of the mill. There is a brick library and a new high school, where male youth wearing baggy pants and sporting goatees linger along the fence, glued to their cell phones, like everywhere else.
“What do you mean?” Megan asks.
She doesn’t have to turn around to sense that Dick Stone is standing now beside her, backlit, every thread on the shoulder of his white Navajo jacket magnified by the cold light. She reaches for his hand and their fingers entwine.
“Ready to get out of here?” he asks.
“Just a sec. What are you going to do, Darcy?”
“I don’t know, Megan. I’m totally screwed. My landlord’s kicking me out. The cops impounded my car because it was parked overnight at the rest stop. It’ll cost a hundred and twenty-five bucks to get it back, and I don’t have a job right now; plus, I’ve been arrested again, so that’s on my record. And guys like Laumann get off scot-free.”
“Be at peace and know that things are unfolding exactly as they should,” Dick Stone says enigmatically. He ties a bandanna around his big head. His tanned skin looks vibrant, as if it belongs in the daylight of the high desert; like he’s going out for pancakes, not as if he might have killed a man last night.
Wind slices our faces,