Winterkill - C. J. Box [133]
Peeved that he had entered her office uninvited, she strode around her desk and sat down facing him. “What?” she demanded.
He coolly looked around the room. The only things of a personal nature on the side wall were a framed cover of Rumour magazine and a photo of Bette.
“Joe, I . . .”
“Your actions killed my daughter,” Joe said simply, letting the words drop like stones.
She recoiled as if stung.
“You and I both know what happened up there on the mountain,” he said, holding her eyes until she looked away. “Your agency exonerated you. But we’re talking about the real world now. I was there. You caused her death, and the death of three other people.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spat. “You are a sick man.” She looked everywhere in the room except at Joe.
“You didn’t even send my wife a note.”
“Leave my office this instant, Warden Pickett.”
Joe leaned forward and cleared a spot on her desk for the manila folder he had brought with him. He placed it there but didn’t open it.
“There’s no way you can bring April back,” Joe said. “But there are a couple of things you can do to at least partially absolve your guilt.”
Her hands thumped on the desktop. “I’m guilty of nothing!”
“Of course, it’s not even close to enough . . . ,” Joe continued, opening the folder as if Strickland hadn’t spoken, “ . . . but it’s something. It will make my wife feel better. And it will make me feel better. It might even make you feel better.”
“Get out of my office!” Strickland screeched, her face contorted with rage. It was clear to Joe she wasn’t used to people ignoring her orders.
Joe went on, directing his attention again to the paper he was reading. “The first document here is a press release creating the April Keeley Foundation for Children,” he said. He glanced up and saw that she was listening, although her face was white and tense. “The initial twenty-five thousand dollars for the Foundation is to be donated by you from the trust fund your father set up for you. If you can give more than that, it would be even better.”
He searched the document so he could quote directly from it. “The purpose of the Foundation is to ‘advocate for better protection and legislation for children in foster care.’ You’ll be a hero again. Maybe there will be a story in a magazine about you not only saving a forest but also protecting foster children.”
“What is this?” she said. “Where did you get that?”
“I wrote it up last night,” he said, shrugging. “Press releases are not my specialty, but I think it’s okay.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Release it under your signature. Then call one of your press conferences and announce it.” An edge of sarcasm had crept into his voice, and a slight smile tugged at his mouth.
Strickland was clearly aghast. Joe hadn’t seen her face so contorted before.
“And something else,” he said, removing the other document from the folder. “Your resignation letter. You can sign it and announce it during your press conference. It will look like you’re quitting in order to do good work for children. Everybody likes that. The real reason will be our little secret.”
The resignation letter had been easy to write for Joe. He had simply used the one he had been working on, and changed the names.
“Sign these, and we can both go home,” Joe said, placing the documents in front of her.
“This is sick.”
“No, it’s not sick.”
“I should call the sheriff.”
“No, you should sign these documents. There’s a copy for you and one for me.”
Joe leaned forward in his chair, and any semblance of a smile left his face. “Look, call the sheriff if you want. Tell him I’m threatening you with two pieces of paper. Tell him why this is so upsetting to you, that I would want you to create a foundation for children. That should play pretty well with the media as well, don’t you think?”
Strickland erupted violently, lashing out with the back of her hand and sending a stack of