Winterkill - C. J. Box [22]
“So he grabbed your handcuffs and locked you to the steering wheel, huh?” Bob Brazille asked Joe from the back. Brazille was overdressed in a mammoth down parka, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Yup,” Joe answered over the engine noise. His voice was flat.
“That son-of-a-bitch, huh?” Brazille said.
“Turn here,” Joe told the driver.
“The Feds are hot about this, judging by the temperament of that Strickland woman,” Brazille continued, shouting over the roar of the engine. “Governor Budd got a call from some Washington mucky-muck. That’s probably why Strickland is here. They don’t like it when a federal employee gets whacked. The governor showed special interest in you, I was told. How does he know you?”
Joe felt a hot, embarrassed flush spread up his neck. “I arrested him a few years ago for fishing without a license.”
Brazille’s eyes widened, and he shook his head from side to side. “So you’re the one, huh? I heard about that.”
Joe nodded and looked away.
After a half-hour of silence, Brazille tapped Joe on his shoulder to get his attention.
“That info-babe with Strickland is a looker, eh?” Joe agreed, although he refused to admit that to Brazille. The journalist with Melinda Strickland was tall and thin and dressed in chic ski-wear: black tights, faux fur-lined boots, and a puffy yellow parka. She had short black hair, green eyes, very white skin, high cheekbones, and bee-stung red lips.
“What did you say her name was?” Joe asked.
“Elle Broxton-Howard,” Brazille said, using a mocking British accent. “She’s actually American, but she’s lived in London for fifteen years or so. Some stuffy Brit magazine has her writing a story on Melinda Strickland.”
“What’s so significant about Melinda Strickland that they’d do a story on her?” Joe asked.
“I asked Elle Broxton-Howard that,” Brazille answered, butchering the accent even worse than before. “She said Melinda Strickland heads up some task force on the increase of violence against federal land managers by local yay-hoos ‘out here in the American outback,’ as she put it. And Melinda’s a woman in a man’s world, so yada-yada-yada.”
Joe turned to ask Brazille what “increase of violence” he was referring to, but the driver downshifted and the racket within the cab was too loud to continue the conversation.
The Sno-Cat nosed over the rim, and the wooded bowl was spread out in front of them. The brilliance of the snow hurt Joe’s eyes. The snow had changed everything; the melded, muted greens, grays, and blues of the meadows and tree-covered folds of before were now portrayed in stark black and white, as if someone had adjusted the contrast of the picture to its most severe. The day had warmed up and the sunshine was lustrous. Pinpricks of reflected light flashed like sequins from the snow in the flats and meadows.
The next thing Joe observed was that something was wrong in the meadow where the elk had been killed. The area should have been undisturbed, but it was criss-crossed with tracks. Tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention, Joe asked the driver to stop, and swung outside the Sno-Cat. Standing on the running board, he raised his binoculars. Behind him, he heard the other two vehicles approach and stop, their motors idling.
It looked like a circus down there. He could see where the snow had been dug up and piled in places, and spots where the snow was discolored.
Joe reentered the cab and closed the door. He turned to Brazille. “When you boys are through with me I need to take my snowmobile down there and look around.”
“What’s the problem?” Brazille said.
“It looks like somebody found those elk,” Joe said.
“Who in their right mind would be up here?” Brazille asked. “Who would give a shit about dead elk in these conditions?”
Joe shook his head. He was wondering the same thing. He turned back toward the front. “Me,” he said,