Winterkill - C. J. Box [131]
“Dad!” Tears rolled down Sheridan’s face.
“Others are even more accountable,” he said.
That evening, after dinner, the telephone rang. It was Robey Hersig.
“Joe,” Hersig said.
Joe could tell that something was wrong. There was no greeting, no small talk, no mention of the coming storm.
“Yup.”
“We got an early look at the findings of the joint FBI and Forest Service investigation. Munker and Melinda Strickland were not only exonerated, they were commended for their actions. There will be a formal announcement tomorrow.”
Joe squeezed the receiver as if to crush it.
“How could this happen, Robey?”
“Joe, you’ve got to stay calm.”
“I’m calm.”
He looked up to see Marybeth staring at him from where she had turned near the sink. It was obvious she could tell what was happening by reading his face. Joe watched as her expression went cold and her fists clenched.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Hersig said. “We knew this was a possibility. You and I discussed it. With an internal investigation and all . . . well, they weren’t too likely to find that their own people screwed up. Remember, these are the Feds—the FBI. We knew that going in.”
Joe said nothing.
“Joe, promise me you’ll stay calm.”
Marybeth had run upstairs to the bedroom and closed the door after Joe told her what Hersig had reported. He needed to give her some time, he thought, before he went up there. He needed some time to figure out what to say that wasn’t angry and bitter. Grabbing his coat from the rack in the mud room, he went outside into the dark to try to clear his head.
It was cold, and there was humidity in the air. The stars were blocked out by clouds. After two months, there would be snow coming again. For some reason, he welcomed it. He zipped his coat as he strode up the walk toward the picket fence.
Joe heard a muffled rustling of bird’s wings in the dark and stopped with one hand on the gate. He turned. Next to Joe’s pickup in the driveway, Nate Romanowski sat on the hood of an ancient Buick Riviera with Idaho license plates. His peregrine was perched on his fist.
“Have you ever considered just knocking on the door?” Joe asked.
“Thanks for keeping me out of it,” Nate said, ignoring Joe’s question.
“You were helping me,” Joe said, closing the gate behind him and approaching Nate and the Buick. “It was the least I could do.”
“I heard about the results of the investigation,” Nate said, shaking his head. “Their first rule of survival is that they protect their own.”
“How in the hell did you know about it? I just heard.”
“My contacts in Idaho,” Nate said. “The decision was a foregone conclusion six weeks ago. All the Feds knew about it. Office gossip. It just took them a while to write it up with the proper spin.”
Joe sat next to Nate on the hood of the Riviera. He sighed deeply, and fought an urge to hurl himself into something hard. He realized how much he had hoped for a miracle after the investigation, and how naïve that hope had been.
“It would be a good thing,” Nate said, “if Melinda Strickland went away.”
Joe turned and looked hard at Nate. This time, he didn’t argue. Joe thought about his family inside the house, and how rough the past two months had been for them all. This wouldn’t set things right, or take them back to where they were. But he thought about what he’d told Sheridan about accountability.
“I can take care of it,” Nate said.
“No,” Joe said hesitantly.
“You don’t know what you want, do you?”
“I want her out of this state,” Joe said. “I want her out of the Forest Service. I want her to pay something. And I don’t mean money. I mean her job at the very least.”
“She’s evil.” Nate frowned. “Leaving her on the street will result in somebody else getting hurt wherever she lands.”
Joe thought about it. “That’s as far as I’m willing to go, Nate.”
“You’re sure?” Nate asked.
Joe nodded. He was well aware of the fact that he was crossing a line. But, he thought, it was a line that needed to be crossed in these circumstances. If he was wrong, there would be a world of trouble for him. If he was right,