Winterkill - C. J. Box [39]
Brockius turned and pointed to a pop-up camper at the south of the compound. Joe noted the Idaho FAMOUS POTATOES license plate. “Ruby Ridge,” Brockius said. “They were there when the FBI snipers shot the dog, the boy, and the woman as she stood at her door holding her baby. If you’ll recall, no one on the federal side was ever prosecuted for that. Only the survivors.” He pointed toward a camper on a pickup with Montana plates. “Jordan,” he said. “The last of the Montana Freemen, only recently released from prison. They lost their liberty, their land, their prospects, everything. No one on the federal side was prosecuted for that, either.”
Joe felt an icy shiver crawl up his spine as Brockius spoke. How can this be happening, right here, right now? he thought. Brockius could be putting him on. Joe hoped like hell he was.
“Waco,” Brockius intoned, motioning toward a fifth-wheel trailer with a Texas plate parked next to his. “They lost their two young sons in the fire. No arrests were made of the officers or politicians who were there.”
Brockius turned to Joe. His voice was still soft, but it suggested steel wrapped in velvet: “We see this place as our refuge, at least for a while. We pose no threat to anyone. We’re beaten down and unbelievably tired. We’ve been wronged, but we just want to be left alone, and we intend to leave others alone. We need this place to rest.”
Joe found himself staring back at Brockius. Oddly, he believed the man.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Pickett.” Brockius thrust his hand through the fence again. “I think I’ve talked too much. It’s a bad habit of mine.”
Joe reached out, but felt weak.
“One more question.”
Brockius sighed again. His expression was pained.
“Is a woman named Jeannie Keeley with you? And is she intending to contact the little girl she left in Saddlestring?”
“I understand it’s her daughter,” Brockius said.
“And mine,” Joe said, his voice hard and low. “My wife and I are her foster parents. Jeannie Keeley abandoned April when Jeannie cleared out of Saddlestring five years ago. My wife and I are attempting to adopt her.”
“Oh,” Brockius said. “This is personal, then. And complicated.”
“Not really.”
“Yes, it is.” Brockius looked apologetic. “I hope you understand that I have no control over the Sovereigns. They’re here on their own free will, and can come and go as they please. They have their own business and personal interests. And if one of them is involved in legal action for custody of her daughter, that is no concern of mine or any of the others.”
“Custody?” Joe repeated. His heart sank.
“She’s not in camp right now,” Brockius said, shaking his woolly head. “I’m not sure when she’ll be back. But I’ll tell her you were here.”
Joe thanked Wade Brockius and watched as the big man trudged back toward his trailer.
Joe heard his own heartbeat in his ears. He had been hit with two hard blows within a few minutes. The explanation of who these people were. And the news that Jeannie had come back for April.
Heading back down Bighorn Road, Joe was grateful for the walls of snow on either side of the road, because without them he’d be likely to drive right off it.
Was it really possible that the survivors, criminals, accessories, sympathizers, and victims of several of America’s worst events had grouped together and decided to set up a compound in his mountains? Or that one of them, Jeannie Keeley, was there to take April back?
It was too much, too fast. Then his cell phone rang.
“This is Nate Romanowski,” the voice said. Romanowski spoke with a kind of drawled sarcastic lilt. “I’ve got one phone call and I’m calling you, buddy. Can you meet with me?”
“Why aren’t you calling a lawyer?” Joe asked, stunned.
“Because I’m calling you,” Romanowski said, sounding annoyed. “Because I thought about it for two days and I’m calling you, mister.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“It sure is,” Romanowski agreed. Joe assumed Romanowski was referring to the case against him.