Nowhere to Run (25 page)

Joe wasn’t sure. He looked to Brent’s face for clues but read only fury. Jenna wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Brent closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, obviously to calm himself. A full minute passed. Joe started wondering where his pepper spray was amidst the clutter. Just in case.

Finally, Brent said, “To accuse me of anything is beyond ridiculous. I love my Diane more than life itself.”

Joe felt ashamed. “Really, Mr. Shober, I didn’t mean to imply you were guilty of anything.”

Brent waved him off and continued. “Do you realize, Pickett, what a special girl she is? That she has the capability of representing her family and her country in the Olympics? Do you know how rare that is? Do you realize that in the life of a long-distance runner, you get maybe—
maybe
—two shots at the Games? That’s how short the window is. And if you miss your chance, you never get it back for the rest of your life. You grow old knowing you had your shot and you didn’t take it.”

Joe said, “Are we talking about Diane here?”

McCue was faster than he looked, and was able to throw himself in front of Brent Shober before the man could leap over the desk and throttle Joe.

McCue and Jenna managed to get Brent turned around, and McCue wrapped him up and guided him out the door. Brent yelled over his shoulder, “YOU’VE GOT TO HELP ME!
YOU’VE GOT TO HELP ME!
” even as McCue pushed him across Joe’s lawn toward the Expedition. Jenna followed, her head down.

As they reached the SUV, he turned and looked back at the house, as if sizing it up for demolition.

 

AFTER THEY DROVE AWAY, Joe moaned, collapsed on the couch, and put his head in his hands. He ached for Brent and Jenna Shober. What torment they’d gone through. Torment like that would likely turn him into someone like Brent, or worse. He didn’t have to like the man to feel sorry for him.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall the fourth person on the mountains, but her face became no clearer.

 

AFTER CLEARING away the breakfast dishes and noting that the girls
had
eaten the magic bacon but little else, Joe called the FBI field office in Cheyenne and asked for Special Agent Chuck Coon.

When the receptionist asked who was calling, Joe gave his name. When she came back, she said Agent Coon was in a meeting and would have to get back to him. So Joe called Coon’s private cell phone number.

“Hello?” Coon said.

“It’s me, Joe.”

“Damn, I didn’t recognize the number. If I knew it was you, I would have let it go to voice mail.”

“You gave me this number last year, remember?” Joe said. “You said to use it if I couldn’t get through to you.”

“That was last year,” Coon said.

When they were both working on the Stenko case, Coon wanted Joe to be in contact. Joe pictured the agent on the other end of the conversation. He had close-cropped brown hair, small features, and a boyish, alert face that didn’t jibe with his tightly wound manner. He had a young son and another child on the way. He’d worked for several years under Tony Portenson before Portenson got his wish and got reassigned. Joe assumed Coon and the entire FBI office had sighed a collective sigh of relief when Portenson walked out the door.

Joe asked about the baby on the way (she was due in a month) and Coon’s son (four and starting preschool), and he briefed the agent on his family and how things were going now that April was back with them. It all took two minutes. Then: silence.

Which said to Joe that Coon was being very cautious.

“You know why I’m calling,” Joe said.

After another pause, Coon said, “Why don’t you tell me just so, you know, I don’t start giving national counterterrorism secrets away or something like that?”

“The Grim Brothers,” Joe said.

“I was afraid that was what you’d say.”

“Tell me about them.”

“There’s nothing to be said.”

“Which means exactly what?”

“Joe,” Coon said with some finality, “the Grim Brothers don’t exist as such.”

Joe’s stomach hurt. “Please translate? As such?”

“Exactly that. They don’t exist.”

“Are you saying I made them up?”

“Not exactly. But I can’t go much further than what I already said. Let’s just leave it at this: it’s a matter we’re keeping our eye on. The bureau doesn’t comment on ongoing investigations. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Man, I’m confused.”

“So,” Coon said, “how is that dog of yours? Tube, wasn’t it?”

“Not so fast,” Joe said. “I need to get something straight. Are you saying they don’t exist because you can’t find them in your database? Or that you think I made them up?”

Coon sighed. “They’re not in the database, Joe. Caleb, Camish Grim, or G-R-I-M-M, or Grimmengruber, or any combination thereof. They gave you a false name, Joe.”

“Why would they do
that
?”

Coon exhaled, as if he were going to answer Joe, but he caught himself. “I’ve already said enough, I think.”

“But I’m investigating them, too. So’s the governor and DCI. I thought we shared information these days?”

Coon laughed, “When did you come up with that one? Nice try, though. Besides, at some point in this conversation, were you going to let me know you’re on administrative leave? Did you think I wouldn’t know that?”

Said Joe, “Chuck, what is going on here? Why are you guys so interested in what happened up there? From what I know, it’s purely a local or state matter on the surface unless you got asked to assist. I know the state didn’t ask you to come in on this, and I doubt Sheriff Baird would. So that means there’s some other reason. I don’t buy it you have nothing else to do and you’re bored.”

“As I said, the FBI doesn’t comment on ongoing . . .”

“Sheesh, I know, I know. But why is there federal interest?”

“I’m sorry, Joe. That’s the best I can do.”

Joe said, “You’ve done
nothing
.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Joe. My best to Marybeth and the girls. And don’t call me on my cell again.” With that, he punched off.

Joe closed his phone and stared out the window. Ed Nedney was back outside putting fertilizer on his lawn.

Despite what Coon withheld, he’d inadvertently confirmed a couple of things. There
was
an investigation going on, and it was obviously big enough he’d felt the need to play it coy. That the bureau hadn’t tipped off DCI or the governor of their investigation was suspicious. Even so, Joe was heartened they believed him and his story after all.

 

JOE SPENT THE AFTERNOON walking aimlessly though the house with his bucket of tools, but his mind was back up in the Sierra Madre. He tried scenario after scenario and came up with nothing plausible. When he tried to link up the Grim Brothers, the FBI, Terri Wade, the mystery woman, the UP . . . he got nowhere.

He realized he’d forgotten about dinner, and he looked at his watch. There was an hour before Marybeth and the girls got home. He’d told Marybeth he’d cook burgers on the grill, but he’d forgotten to get the meat out of the freezer and he hadn’t been to the store to buy buns or the other things on the list she’d left him. On the way to the kitchen to see what he could scramble up, the doorbell rang.

It was Jenna Shober. She was alone and crying.

“HOW MANY MORE OF THESE ARE THERE?” SMITH ASKED, gesturing toward the perfectly round lake in the bottom of the alpine cirque. Vertical rock walls rose sharply on three sides of the water, and the fourth side was sloped and grassy. A trout nosed the surface and concentric rings rippled out across the still water until it finally flattened again.

“There’s at least two more cirques,” Farkus said. “They kind of stair-step their way down the mountain. The cirques trap the snowmelt so it can’t flow anywhere. We used to fish these lakes.”

The sky had cleared and morning was warming up. They’d been riding for five hours on the western side of the mountains, rimming the series of spectacular cirques Farkus had surprised himself by knowing about. He’d fudged his knowledge a little, because he hadn’t visited the area since way back in high school with some friends who’d backpacked up from the valley floor to fish the mountain lakes. He’d been drunk approximately the whole time, so his recollections were vague and imprecise. He remembered falling off a rock into one of the lakes while drinking a half a bottle of sloe gin. The water was bone-chilling. His lone trip up here was years before the Forest Service had shut down access roads into the area, but at last he had an idea where he was. He knew that if they kept traveling in a westerly direction, they’d eventually hit the creek and trailhead where he’d originally met Joe Pickett.

Farkus had actually become useful to Parnell, Smith, and Campbell. Plus, his tales of the Wendigo had helped distract Smith and Campbell, he could tell. Of course, he’d just made up the part about Wendigos being able to see in the dark, but they’d never know that. Smith and Campbell now seemed jumpy. Farkus could tell Parnell had picked up on that, too, and he no doubt feared a loss of control over his team.

For the first time since they’d stopped him and forced him out of his truck two days before, Farkus felt he might just have a chance after all. Since he knew vaguely where he was now and his companions were becoming less vigilant by the hour, he might be able to escape.

Problem was, it was this area where the game warden was headed to investigate the stolen elk. Which meant this is where Joe Pickett had encountered the Grim Brothers.

Parnell’s tracking device chirped. He read the display and announced they were practically on top of their target.

“How close?” Smith asked.

“Half a mile, maybe. Over the next ridge, I’d guess. We’ve been closing the gap all morning.”

“Are they still going the other way?”

“No,” Parnell said. “He’s coming at us right now.”

Smith drew his AR-15 rifle out of his saddle scabbard and laid it across the pommel of his saddle. Campbell checked the loads of his rifle, even though Farkus had seen him do it at least twice before.

“So,” Farkus said to Parnell, “are you gonna finally tell me what this is all about?”

“No.”

FARKUS FELT a knot build in his stomach as they got close to the ridge. Whoever they were after, if Parnell’s equipment was reliable, was just over the other side. Parnell had veered from the established trail into a thick stand of gnarled pine trees. When they were in the cover, Parnell dismounted, and Smith and Campbell did the same. For a brief moment, Farkus considered kicking the horse and riding away while the three of them were down. But which direction? If he went back the way they’d come, he’d be in the open for a hundred yards and a well-placed shot could pick him off, borrowed body armor or not. And if he thundered over the rim, he might ride straight into the Grim Brothers.

He sighed and dismounted with the rest of them.

Parnell motioned for them to come close and listen. He whispered, “Let’s get our weapons ready and tie up the horses here so they can’t see them. When we’re locked and loaded, we’ll crawl through the trees to the edge of the ridge and scope it down. Remember, those boys have body armor, too. So go for headshots.”

Farkus said, “They do?”

“At least that’s what we were told.”

Then: “Smith, you ready?”

Smith nodded once.

“Campbell?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Farkus. “You stay here and don’t even think of trying to get away like you were a minute ago. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you so fast you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

Farkus swallowed and looked away.

“So,” Smith said to Parnell, “you’re thinking they’re down in this cirque?”

“That’s what I think,” Parnell whispered.

“Let’s not miss,” Smith said to the others. “The last thing we need is a wounded Cline brother coming after us.”

Farkus said, “Cline? I thought their name was Grim?”

“Shut up, Dave,” Parnell said, shooting Smith a punishing look.

 

FARKUS STOOD off to the side with the horses, thinking
Cline
? Where had he heard that name? Something about Michigan . . .

When Parnell’s tracker chirped again, he read it and appeared startled. His scalp twitched above his forehead even though his face was a mask.

“What?” Smith asked.

“He’s on top of us,” Parnell whispered. “He’s coming up the rim right at us. He’s
running
up the side of the cirque.”

Farkus quickly dropped down to his hands and knees, wishing he could make himself even less of a target.

Parnell and Smith raised the barrels of their AR-15s, pointing them through the trees toward the lip of the rim. Campbell quickly slung his scoped rifle over his shoulder, because his scoped weapon wasn’t useful at close range, pulled his Sig Sauer, and steadied it out in front of him with two hands.