Winterkill - C. J. Box [103]
Joe had tried to call ahead but got a message that Nate’s phone was out of service. He remembered belatedly that the telephone had been damaged during the search of the cabin, that pieces of it had been scattered across the kitchen counter. He cursed while he dug under the front axle with a shovel to clear the packed snow that had once again stopped him. He hated to waste the time it took to dig himself out. Every hour that went by was an hour closer to the assembling of Munker and Strickland’s assault team in town.
Joe’s plan, formed as he left Cobb’s trailer, was to ask Nate if he would go up to the compound with him. Joe had learned through experience that backup in volatile situations was essential. Not having backup at Savage Run had nearly killed him, and it had resulted in the deaths of others. He had vowed never to approach a predicament like that again without help. And Nate and his big gun might provide help.
Finally, Joe was able to rock the pickup and break through the snowbank and over the rise to the river.
Nate’s cabin was dark and socked in, and his Jeep was gone. The complete absence of tracks suggested that Nate had been gone for at least a day.
Joe cursed again and thumped the truck seat with his hand. Pulling the evidence notebook from his pocket, he wrote out a note to Nate and attached it to the front door with a rusty penknife he found in his glove box. He also pinned a business card with his cell and home telephone numbers on it.
Nate:
You offered help. I need it now.
Joe Pickett
“Thanks for everything, Nate,” he growled, turning the pickup around. He drove back out in his own tracks.
Twenty-eight
For Sheridan Pickett, there was usually nothing more invigorating, or liberating, than having school let out because of snow. The announcement over the intercom had been received with unabashed cheers and whistles, and was followed by a mad scramble of books and uneaten lunches being thrown into backpacks.
Sheridan couldn’t share in the enthusiasm, though. A snow day meant nothing with her sister April gone.
Outside, the small fleet of buses had been lined up on the street, their engines idling, great clouds of exhaust rising up to meet the heavy snow.
Now she was home, safe and warm, curled up on the couch in her sweats reading an introductory book about falconry that had appeared in their mailbox the day before in an envelope addressed to her. Paper-clipped to the book jacket was a note written on the back of a beer coaster with foreign printing on it.
Sheridan:
People don’t choose the art of falconry like they choose a sport or a hobby. Falconry chooses them. After meeting you, I think you might be chosen. Please read this book carefully, and if you’re still interested I can teach you.
Nate Romanowski
She raised the coaster to her nose for the fourth time that afternoon and sniffed it. It still smelled faintly of beer. She tried to imagine where he’d gotten it. The printing on the coaster was in English and Arabic.
She opened the battered old book and looked at the photo plates of falcons, hawks, and eagles. The birds captivated her.
When the telephone rang, Missy appeared from the hallway and took it off the hook as Sheridan was reaching for it. Sheridan watched her grandmother with annoyance.
Missy handed the telephone toward Sheridan. “It’s some little girl for you.”
As Sheridan took the receiver, Missy bent down near her. “I’m expecting a call from Bud Longbrake, so don’t be long.”
Sheridan made a face and turned away from Missy.
“Sherry?”
Sheridan felt a jolt shoot through her body. She immediately recognized the tiny, distant voice, where Missy had not.
“April?”
“Hi.”
“I don’t know what to say!” Sheridan looked around the room. She remembered her mother had said something about going outside