Winterkill - C. J. Box [116]
“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.
They 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.
Furious, 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.
“I’m sorry about that,” Joe said earnestly.
Cobb shook his head, then nodded toward the window. “He tried to get the Sovereigns to shelter him, but they wouldn’t. I don’t blame them, but then I would have been rid of him.”
“That’s what they told me,” Joe said. But something didn’t fit. He thought of the porch steps he had come up when he approached the trailer that morning. They were completely untracked. How could Spud have told Cobb about what had happened? Joe had the impression that Spud had entered the church in secret. “Did Spud tell you that?”
Cobb shook his head.
“So you’re in contact with the Sovereigns. How? By telephone?”
Cobb sipped from a mug of coffee. He nodded toward a PC in a darkened corner of the trailer. The computer was on, a screen-saver undulating on its monitor. “E-mail,” Cobb said.
“With who? Wade Brockius?”
Cobb looked away. “Wade and I have corresponded for years. He’s a brilliant man and a good friend.”
“Are you the one who suggested they come to Twelve Sleep County?”
“Yes,” Cobb said. “I thought they would be safe here. Now I wish to God they had never come.”
Joe sighed. “You’re not the only one.”
Cobb handed Joe the telephone receiver and shuffled away in the direction