Winterkill - C. J. Box [98]
“I can see what’s happening here,” he said. His voice sounded strained, even to him. “It’s a case of target fixation, just like when Lamar Gardiner saw more elk than he had ever seen in one place before. Like when he was reloading with cigarettes so he could shoot and kill some more.”
“Joe . . .”
“You see a chance to crush people like you’ve always wanted to do. You’ve found a situation where you think you’re justified in doing it. You people hate so much you forget to think. There are big problems here. The first is that you’ve brought in a psychopath to run things.” He nodded toward Munker. “The second is that I have a child up there in that compound. As you know.”
From the front of the room, Dick Munker scoffed. He had been listening all along. “From what I understand she’s not even yours.”
Rage all but consumed him. He despised the fact that Munker and Strickland had discussed Joe and Marybeth’s situation with April as freely as they had. Although the matter was not private, given the circumstances, he thought it should be treated that way. When he closed his eyes, spangles of red cascaded like fireworks down the insides of his eyelids. He felt someone grip his arm—Hersig—and he ripped his arm away.
It’s not about children as property, he shouted to himself, or who belongs to whom. It’s not about that. It’s about bringing up kids who become good human beings, so they won’t turn out like the people standing in front of me.
“Joe?” Hersig asked. Joe hadn’t realized Robey was so close to him.
Joe opened his eyes. Melinda Strickland had stepped back, as had Elle Broxton-Howard. They had inadvertently cleared a path across the room to Dick Munker, who lit a cigarette behind the podium.
“Munker.” His voice was hoarse.
Munker raised an eyebrow in response.
“If you do anything that hurts April even further, I’m going to paint the trees with your blood.”
“My God!” Melinda Strickland said, looking to Broxton-Howard with alarm so her reaction would be noted.
“That goes for you, too,” Joe said, shooting his eyes to Melinda Strickland. “You wanted a war and now you’re going to get your wish.”
“Joe, goddammit, go home,” Hersig hissed into his ear. “Go home before Munker swears out a warrant on you for that threat that we all heard.”
The silence in the room was conspicuous.
Joe let himself be led toward the door by Robey Hersig, who stepped outside with him.
“You were way out of line in there,” Hersig said, shaking his head. “What are you doing, Joe?”
Joe set his jaw to argue, but the red shroud of rage began to pull back from his eyes. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing, Robey.”
“Go home. Keep out of this.”
“April is up there.”
“So is Spud Cargill.”
“I don’t know that. I honestly don’t believe that. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Joe . . .”
“We’re taking McLanahan’s word that he might have seen a guy who might have been Cargill driving past him yesterday afternoon. Based on that, all hell is breaking loose, to use your phrase.”
“I know, I know,” Hersig said wearily.
“Are we just going to let it happen?” Joe asked.
Hersig started to speak, then stopped. “Maybe it won’t be so bad, Joe. That isn’t exactly the cream of all mankind up there.”
Joe’s eyes flared. “Get the hell away from me, Robey.”
Joe turned and stomped across the snow, knowing that if he didn’t leave now, things were going to get much worse very quickly.
Joe cleared Saddlestring toward the mountains en route to . . . where? He didn’t know. He felt as if he were under water. His thoughts and movements seemed sluggish. They were someone else’s thoughts.
He pulled over. Huge white flakes lit on his windshield, turning instantly into beaded stars against the glass. It was snowing hard. He opened his window and stuck his head out. The snow descended on his face. It felt cool against his skin.
He stared wide-eyed into the sky. Snowflakes swirled as far as he could see. A few stung his eyes. He tried not to blink.
Twenty-six
The snow was now falling at an overwhelming volume. As Joe drove toward Saddlestring with his defroster