Winterkill - C. J. Box [87]
“I don’t know how long he’s been out there,” Missy said, fretting. “Marybeth and Sheridan will have to pass right by him to get to the house.”
That’s right, Joe remembered. Marybeth’s picking Sheridan up from basketball practice.
“His name is Nate Romanowski,” Joe said.
Missy gasped and raised her hand to her mouth. “He’s the one who . . .”
“He didn’t do it,” Joe said bluntly.
Joe let go of the curtain and went to find his coat. Although the sun had warmed up the afternoon nicely, it would be much different when the sun dropped behind the mountains.
As he pulled his coat on, he noticed that Lucy had emerged from her bedroom and was standing next to Missy. It was a jarring sight, and he realized he’d done a double-take. Lucy was a miniature version of Missy Vankueren. The sweater, pants, pearls, and shoes she wore were identical to her grandmother’s, except that the sweater was cotton and the pearls were fake. Even her swept-up hairstyle was the same.
Joe looked up for an explanation, and found Missy beaming.
“Isn’t she adorable?” Missy gushed. “The outfit is a late Christmas present from me. We’re going out to dinner tonight, my little granddaughter and me.”
“Going out? Like that?” Joe asked, incredulous.
“Show him,” Missy commanded.
Lucy swung her little hips and did a slow turn with her arms raised above her head. She looked and moved so much like Missy that Joe cringed.
“What did you do that for?” he asked, refraining from saying what in the hell because of Lucy.
Missy looked back, hurt.
“Come on, honey,” she said, turning on her heel. “Your daddy doesn’t appreciate style.” Lucy turned as well, following Missy stride for stride toward the bathroom. Unlike Missy, though, Lucy looked over her shoulder as she entered the bathroom and winked at Joe. Lucy knew it was a joke, even if Missy didn’t.
Joe didn’t know whether to laugh or run from the house.
“I owe you,” Nate said, as Joe approached.
“No, you don’t.”
Nate fixed his sharp eyes on Joe. “I asked you for two things and you did both of them. I knew I could trust you.”
Joe stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked uncomfortably at the snow. “Forget it. I’m just real glad we found the guys.”
“Is Spud Cargill still out there?” Nate asked.
“As far as I know.”
Nate nodded and seemed to be thinking about that.
“Why? Do you know something?” Joe asked.
There was a hint of a smile. “I know just enough to be dangerous. I overheard a lot of things in that jail—snippets between Barnum and his deputies and between Melinda Strickland and Barnum. And I could tell what they were thinking by what they questioned me about. Things are in motion to get those Sovereigns out of here. The sheriff and Strickland were convinced I was one of them, you know. Dick Munker even tried to get me to admit I was a soldier for the militia types. That whole sick crowd is real disappointed to find out that all the Sovereigns are guilty of at this point is hating the federal government—which isn’t a crime—and staying too many nights in a campground. They’re trying like hell to pin something on those people up there.”
“Maybe now things will ease off,” Joe said, hopeful.
“Don’t count on it.”
“No,” Joe said sternly. “It needs to happen.”
A set of headlights appeared on Bighorn Road from the direction of town. Absently, Joe watched the car approach and the headlights pool wider on the freezing road. It was Marybeth, and Sheridan.
“My wife’s home,” Joe said. “Would you like to come in? It’s getting cold out here.”
Instead of answering, Nate studied Joe, his eyes narrowing.
“What?” he asked, annoyed.
“You really are a good guy, aren’t you?”
Joe’s shoulders slumped. “Knock it off.