Winterkill - C. J. Box [76]
Herman Klein feigned surprise. He slowly looked around the room. “This doesn’t look like a mob to me,” he said. “This looks like a group of concerned local citizens who came out on a cold-ass night to participate in a public meeting.”
“Nailed her,” Hersig whispered. “He nailed her.”
Joe nodded.
“This,” Melinda Strickland said, her voice rising and her finger pointed at Herman Klein, “This is an example of the problem. I’ve had a district supervisor murdered and a hardworking BLM employee assaulted because of this kind of hateful attitude.”
“Me?” Klein asked, genuinely hurt. “What in the hell did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything, as far as I know,” she said. “But this kind of antigovernment attitude allows things like that to happen! It practically guarantees that things like that will happen!”
Hersig turned his head and he and Joe exchanged glances. The air had been sucked out of the room. Melinda Strickland had, within a minute, successfully shamed the crowd.
“What are you going to do about those Sovereigns?” someone asked.
Melinda Strickland jumped at the chance to change the subject, and compound her momentum.
“A plan is in place to evict the violators,” she said. “I’m not at liberty to explain the steps that are being taken, other than to say that a well-thought-out, strategic plan is in place that will end in the desired results.”
Several people in the crowd clapped with approval. While they did, Herman Klein quietly sat back down.
“Amazing,” Hersig whistled, as he gathered his coat to leave.
As the crowd filed out, Melinda Strickland strode toward Joe in the back of the room. She approached him as if she couldn’t wait to shake his hand. The two men in the back joined them. She introduced them to Joe as Dick Munker and Tony Portenson of the FBI.
“This is Joe Pickett,” she said to the two men. “He’s the game warden I was telling you about.”
The gray-haired, skeletal man with the deep voice was Dick Munker. Munker offered Joe a business card.
“Manager, Federal Bureau of Investigation Interagency Special Assignment Unit,” Joe read. “What does that mean?”
“We defuse volatile situations.” Munker smiled with his mouth, his eyes fixed on Joe. “We’re here by special request.”
“You two insulted my daughter, I believe,” Joe said. “She was the one who gave you directions to the Forest Service office.”
Munker looked quickly away, but Portenson stared back at Joe with what looked like anxiety. He seemed to Joe to be wishing that there was not a confrontation with Munker.
Melinda Strickland acted as if the exchange had not occurred. “They’re very familiar with quite a few of the Sovereigns,” she said. “That’s why I wanted them here. We want to prevent another Ruby Ridge, or Waco.”
Joe nodded.
“In Idaho they called it ‘Weaver Fever,’ ” Munker added, taking Strickland’s cue, his voice dropping an octave so he couldn’t possibly be overheard by the departing crowd. “It’s when the community and the press get whipped up into a fury by a standoff situation and things get ugly. We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“I thought it was the FBI who got ugly at Ruby Ridge.” Joe said.
Munker set his jaw and his eyes bored holes into Joe. “You thought wrong,” he said. He shot a look at Melinda Strickland. “Which side is he on, anyway?”
“Geez, I wished I could get away with wearing a hat like that,” Tony Portenson interjected, clearly attempting to change the direction of the conversation. He nodded toward Joe’s well-worn Stetson. “But I’m from Jersey, and everybody would know I was faking it.”
“I know who you are,” Munker said, stifling a smile. Portenson’s joke hadn’t diverted him. “You’re the one who had Lamar Gardiner in custody when he escaped. The game warden, right?”
Joe felt a pang of anger and embarrassment.
“Joe,” Strickland said, placing her hand on Joe’s shoulder, “Mr. Munker and Mr. Portenson are experts in the kind of situation we have here in Twelve Sleep County. They’re in demand all over the west. They’re here to advise us on how we should