Winterkill - C. J. Box [118]
On the monitor, an e-mail program was fired up. In the “In-box” was a message from W. Brockius to B. J. Cobb.
The subject line of the e-mail was:
THEY’RE HERE.
The body of the message was short:
THEY’VE ESTABLISHED A PERIMETER. HELP US, MY LOVE.
Joe was just about to ask Cobb why the e-mail said “MY LOVE” when he heard a scream outside that set his teeth on edge.
Joe left the trailer and shut the door, looking for the source of the scream. Nate Romanowski was now outside the pickup, rubbing his bare hands with snow.
“What was that?” Joe asked.
Nate gestured toward Joe’s truck. Inside the cab, Spud Cargill was holding his hands to the sides of his head, his eyes white and wild, his mouth wide open. He looked like the painting by Edvard Munch. He screamed again.
“I got his wallet, but I didn’t think that would be enough,” Nate said. “Munker would just think you found his wallet in his house or workplace.”
Oh no . . . , Joe thought. “Nate . . .”
Romanowski held his palm out. “So I got you his ear.”
Thirty-two
Joe seethed as he attached his shotgun to the back of the snowmobile with bungee cords in the parking lot of the church. He could not believe that the assault team had launched in the bad weather, and he was furious that he had wasted so many hours chasing Spud up the mountain, down the mountain, and back to where he’d started in the first place.
Nate Romanowski declared that he should go to the compound as well. “You might need me,” he said.
Still reeling from pocketing Spud’s severed ear, Joe snarled at Nate.
“You cut off his ear!”
“Hey, once you think about it you’ll agree with me that it was a good idea. Hell, you took the ear, didn’t you?” Nate said. “The little bastard deserved it. Think about everything he set in motion in this valley.”
Joe breathed deeply and collected himself. Nate was right, but the whole episode—his own behavior and Nate’s—still disturbed him. Joe pulled on his thick snowmobile suit and started zipping the sleeves and pant legs tight.
“Nate, I need you to take Spud to jail so we know where to find him. I can’t spare the time it would take to book him in.”
Nate began to protest, but Joe cut him off.
“Just sit Portenson down and tell him the whole story. Maybe he can figure out a way to intervene. Maybe he can contact his director, or talk some sense into Melinda Strickland or Munker.”
“I’m not sure you know what you’re dealing with here, Joe,” Nate said.
Joe had no response, but pulled his black helmet on.
“Don’t worry, Joe, I’ll take him to jail. And I’ll give Marybeth a call.”
“Good,” Joe said, turning the key in the ignition. “Thank you. You’ve been more than enough help already.”
Nate saluted, and grinned crookedly. Joe wondered whether or not Spud Cargill would make it to jail in one piece. Actually, he conceded to himself, he didn’t really care that much either way.
On the snowmobile, Joe Pickett rocketed through Saddlestring and out the other side on unplowed streets with no traffic. Despite the protection of his helmet and Plexiglas shield, his face stung from the cold wind and the pinpricks of snow. The windscreen had been smashed by Spud Cargill. The crack in the snowmobile’s hood concerned him, but there didn’t seem to be any indication of engine damage. The tank was full, and Joe thought that would be enough gasoline to get him to the compound. In his parka pocket was Spud Cargill’s wallet and driver’s license, as well as his ear.
The Sno-Cats had groomed a packed and smooth trail up the mountain road, and Joe increased his speed. Dark trees flashed by on both sides. He shot a look at his speedometer: seventy miles per hour. Even in the summer, the speed limit for Bighorn Road in the forest was forty-five.
Help me save her, he prayed.
Lord, he was tired.
The high, angry whine of the engine served as a soundtrack to his aching muscles, broken rib, and pounding head. He had not slept for twenty hours, and he rode right through spinning, improbable,