Winterkill - C. J. Box [113]
“And now we’ve got her,” Joe said. His eyes burned with lack of sleep, and he felt a heightened sense of tension rising in his chest as they neared Saddlestring.
“They take a woman who hates people and put her in charge of a task force to go after rednecks who hate the government,” Nate said. “This is what I love about the Feds.”
Joe asked Nate to give him a minute and quickly called Marybeth on his cell phone. When she picked up, she sounded as if she had been up all night.
“I’m off the mountain and I’ve got Nate with me,” he said. “Yes, I’m fine,” he lied.
“Dick Munker, ” Joe said. “What’s his story?”
Nate whistled. “It would be a good thing,” he said, “If Dick Munker went away.”
“Meaning?”
“The guy is a bitter, sadistic asshole,” Nate said. “They knew this guy real well in Idaho, because he’s one of the FBI sharpshooters the state was trying to put in jail for Ruby Ridge. He was one of the triggermen. The first guy to shoot, it was alleged. Unfortunately, the case got dismissed because of jurisdictional problems. Munker did get demoted, and like Melinda Strickland he’s been bounced around the country in the hope that he’d retire so they wouldn’t have to take administrative action. The FBI hates to call attention to itself and its problem agents—especially these days—so they do everything they can to keep things quiet when they have a psycho on the payroll.”
Nate shook his head. “Melinda Strickland and Dick Munker are made for each other.”
Joe didn’t respond. The fear that had clenched his stomach for the past few hours was gripping harder. He held tight to the steering wheel and pushed on through the spinning snow, praying that he wasn’t already too late. He needed to come up with a plan and he didn’t have much time.
When they entered Saddlestring it was still dark, although there was now a gray morning glow in the eastern sky. The town was encased in snow and ice. The chains on the tires of Joe’s truck were singing because there was so much packed snow in the wheel wells. Joe was amazed they had made it without getting stuck.
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.
Thirty-one
As 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.