Winterkill - C. J. Box [111]
In his fatigue, the dark form of the snow-covered Jeep that was stuck in the snow almost didn’t register with him. It was only when he pulled alongside it and rolled down his window did he recognize the Jeep, and notice that it was running.
The plastic windows were steamed from the inside, and snow had accumulated on the top where there weren’t holes or rips. Steam, looking like smoke from a chimney, rose from the top and dissipated into the cold night air. Joe rolled down the passenger window and leaned across his seat.
“Nate?” he called from his window, but there was no response. After a moment, Joe laid on his horn.
A gloved hand cleared steam from the inside of a plastic window in the Jeep, and was followed by two wide eyes that sleepily settled on Joe.
“Joe!” said a voice from inside the vehicle. “I didn’t hear you. I was sleeping.”
The door opened and Nate Romanowski grinned. An inch of snow, looking like frosting, crowned his watch cap. He held Joe’s note in his big hand, and waved it at him.
“Got your note. I stopped at your house and your wife told me this is where you were. I was able to get this far before I got stuck. So,” he said, “do you need help after all?”
“I do.”
But Joe wasn’t sure what help he needed, exactly, or what Nate’s role should be. Whatever he was going to use Nate for, though, it would be better to have him in the truck with him.
“Why don’t you get in my truck, then?” Joe called. “I’ve got all four tires chained up and I’m pointed downhill. I think I can make it to town. We can come back up and dig out your Jeep later.”
Nate nodded once, then retrieved a daypack from his Jeep and waded through the thigh-high snow to climb into the cab.
“What in the hell happened to you?” Nate asked, looking Joe over.
“I got pounded on by a couple of the Sovereigns,” he said. “I deserved it.”
Joe slipped the pickup into gear and rolled forward to a dead stop in the deep snow.
“Uh-oh,” Nate growled.
Not responding, Joe shoved the pickup into reverse and gunned the engine, backtracking a few feet. Then he rammed it back into drive and hit the snow again with jarring force. The truck broke through, and Joe kept going.
“I’m not stopping again,” Joe said. “For anything.”
“Joe, I learned a lot about Melinda Strickland and Dick Munker in Idaho. None of it is good.”
“That’s where you went? Idaho?”
“I didn’t know you needed me here,” Nate said defensively. “You said as much. And yes, Idaho. Seventy percent of the state is federally owned and managed. If there’s any place where the locals know about specific federal land managers, it’s Idaho. I’ve got some friends there, and I was curious about Strickland and Munker.” He paused for a moment.
“Go on,” Joe said. He wanted to hear the story, but he also needed Nate to keep talking to help him stay awake and alert.
“I don’t want to scare you, Joe, but the fact is you’re going to need all the friends you’ve got against these two.”
Joe grunted. That wasn’t very encouraging.
“You want some hot coffee?” Nate asked, digging into his pack.
Joe nodded.
“Melinda Strickland is even worse than I thought,” Nate said while he poured the steaming coffee into Joe’s travel mug. “The people I talked to down there think she’s evil and insane. What they don’t know is if she started out evil and went insane, or started out insane so she doesn’t realize what she’s doing.”
Joe gulped the coffee, not caring that it was scalding his tongue. His body ached and his back was stiffening. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to tolerate the exertion it took him to keep the truck from bucking