Stone Cold (27 page)

He winced. “How much?”

“I'm thinking five hundred a night, two-night minimum—in advance.”

Joe said, “So a thousand.”

“That'll be good,” she whispered.

“I'll give it to you tonight,” Joe said.

“I think you'd better,” she said. Then: “Sure you don't want some clean towels?”

•   •   •

H
E QUICKLY
TEXTED
C
OON
to make the loan at least twelve hundred dollars and “no less.” Then he imagined the special agent blowing his top.

•   •   •

W
HEN HE
REACHED
M
ARYBETH,
he tried not to convey his growing sense of panic. There was no need worrying her when there was nothing she—or he—could do about it at the moment. She said it was snowing there, too, but it was supposed to clear up by late afternoon. The Twelve Sleep County Library and schools were closed due to the weather, but both would likely reopen the next day.

And, she said, Mrs. Young in California wouldn't pick up.

“I'm guessing she sees the 307 area code and just won't answer the phone,” she said. “I'm really frustrated.”

She said she was equally frustrated by the fact that she couldn't locate a Facebook page or blog she could tie to Erik. That alone made her uneasy, since she assumed he was on the Web—
he had to be
—under a false name.

When she asked what he'd been doing the previous night, Joe said he'd been out scouting and left it at that, and quickly changed the subject: “Have you heard anything from Sheridan?”

“The university's closed today, too,” Marybeth said. “I texted her and asked how things were going. She sent me an answer that everything was fine. That's all she said, and I didn't ask any more. I may call her later today, though, since she's likely just hanging out in her dorm room.”

“Let me know,” Joe said.

“I will.”

“So the girls are home with you today?”

“Yes, yes, they are,” Marybeth said. “Lucy got up, heard school was closed, and went back to bed. April's making breakfast.”

“How's
that
going?”

Joe heard the muffled sound of Marybeth covering the mic on the phone, and he waited until she was someplace—probably the hallway—where she felt free to talk. Her voice was a barely audible whisper.

“I don't know what's happened, but she's been an angel. The good April is back. She even smiled this morning when she heard there was no school.”

“What brought on the change in her outlook?”

“I'm not sure, but I'm not going to ask yet. I'm stuck in the house all day with her, after all.”

“That's good news,” Joe said. “Maybe she's kind of getting over this Dallas Cates thing.”

His wife snorted and said, “
That's
not likely. But I don't know—maybe he's getting a clue and not pressuring her to follow him on the rodeo circuit or something. Whatever it is, she's not sulking and slamming doors, which is all I ask.”

Joe nodded to himself. He said, “I'm hoping to be home in a couple of days at the most. I'm ready to get out of this place.”

“Yes,” she said, “it will be good to have you back.”

“Marybeth, I love you and the girls.” It just came out.

She paused and said, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Exactly what Sheridan said, and I'm not sure I completely believe either one of you. Now you've got me scared.”

“Don't be,” Joe said. “I can't tell you everything yet, but the FBI is manning up to get up here and take over. This should be done soon—or at least my part in it.”

“Good. Remember your promise.”

“I have,” Joe said.

“Joe,” she said, “did you try to call me last night? From a pay phone or something?”

“No,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I saw your text, but I thought it was too late to call back.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“Someone called my cell phone last night. I missed it because I was in the shower, but it had a Medicine Wheel County prefix. They didn't leave a message or anything, but I thought it was curious.”

Joe asked, “What time?”

“A few minutes after midnight.”

Joe thought back. He'd been on the ATV, retreating from the Sand Creek Ranch.

“It wasn't me,” Joe said. The second he said it, he had a possible explanation.

She beat him to it, and said, “Joe, I had this premonition. What if it was Nate?”

“He's here,” Joe said.

She paused and her voice rose. “And when were you going to tell me that little fact?”

“Soon.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No. But I think I found where he lives on the Sand Creek Ranch.”

“I hope he's not . . .” she began to say, but didn't finish the sentence.

“Me too,” Joe said.

“But if it was him, I wish I knew what he was calling about.”

Joe wondered the same thing, and was about to say something when he noticed Daisy had gone rigid and was staring at the door. Her growl came out as a low, cautionary rumble that ended with two heavy barks that shook the thin walls.

Joe said, “Gotta go.” Someone was outside in the hallway.

As he tossed the phone on the bed and reached for his shotgun, he heard the clumping of retreating boots.

He kept the shotgun aimed at the door for thirty seconds until Daisy calmed down and there was no more rustling outside. Then he went to his window and parted the moth-eaten curtains. They weren't made of lace after all.

“Oh no,” Joe said aloud.

There, out in the parking lot, was Jim Latta walking from the inn toward his pickup. His shoulders were bunched and hands jammed in his pockets against the falling snow. His vehicle was idling in the lot, exhaust billowing from the tailpipe. When Latta opened his door, Joe caught a glimpse of a passenger—a young girl. His daughter, no doubt.

What he didn't see was Latta opening his phone to call anyone.

Yet.

Black Hills, Wyoming

By the time Joe gathered his gear bag, unlocked the door, called Daisy, thundered down the stairs through the empty lobby—no sign of Alice, who was no doubt hiding after ratting him out—and swept ten inches of powder snow from the seat of his four-wheeler, Latta's pickup was gone.

He mounted the ATV and it roared to life, and he gunned it and turned 180 degrees to follow the fresh set of tire tracks in the snow of the parking lot. As he cleared the Black Forest Inn property, he tried not to think of the cold already seeping into his clothing or the sting of heavy flakes in his eyes. He had to head Latta off before the game warden blew his cover. What he didn't know was how he was going to do it.

The tracks were in the middle of the road, which said to Joe that
Latta was driving cautiously on the unplowed highway. There might be a chance to catch up with him—but then what? He couldn't—and wouldn't—try to force Latta off the road. Not with Emily inside.

•   •   •

W
ITHIN FIVE
MINUTES OF LEAVING,
Joe saw a faint pair of pink taillights through the heavy snowfall ahead. He knew it was Latta because there was no one else on the highway. Joe recognized where he was—on the flat stretch prior to the series of switchbacks that would climb the mountain on the way to Wedell. Now, for sure, there was no way to get ahead and ease Latta to the shoulder.

He maintained a cushion with the taillights in sight, hoping Latta wouldn't see him in his rearview mirror or get on his phone yet. Joe put himself in Latta's place and prayed the other game warden would wait to place his call when Emily couldn't overhear. Wedell was eight miles away.

Joe thought:
Use your tools and the terrain to your advantage.

Then he turned his head and called over his shoulder, “Hang on, Daisy,” and slowed the four-wheeler. He scoped out the timbered slope on his right for an opening in the trees, and when he found it, he turned the wheel. The path was little more than a game trail.

The front end of the ATV rose in his hands on the hill and he stood up from the seat and leaned into it. He could feel Daisy's warm bulk against his back as he downshifted into a lower gear for the climb. Plumes of snow shot out from the fat rear tires, along with clumps of soil and grass when the treads ate through the ground cover. He flattened a dozen small treelings, and his front wheels glanced off downed timber and rock outcroppings.

Halfway up the hill in the deep timber, the ATV began to stall, wheels spinning madly, before his right rear tire found purchase on an exposed knob of granite and shot him farther up the hillside. Since he couldn't risk spinning out again or even slowing down in the deep snow, Joe kept the throttle open and just tried to stay on, as if riding a runaway horse. Black wet tree trunks shot by him on both sides and he blasted through a low-hanging bough that dumped a foot of snow on him so he was temporarily blinded.

He slapped the snow from his face as he climbed, but his collar and cuffs were packed with it. He could feel small rivers of melted ice water course down his backbone into his Wranglers. His feet and hands were numb.

At the top of the hill, he burst through the brush in a white explosion and found himself straddling the untracked center of the highway. He sat for a moment, his heart pounding.

Daisy licked the snow off the back of his neck with a warm, wet tongue.

He squinted through the snowfall to his left and saw the yellow glow of headlights around the second switchback turn. Joe hoped Latta would be able to see
him
in the middle of the road.

•   •   •

L
ATTA'S TRUCK
DIDN'T STOP
until it was so close Joe could see the man's troubled face through the windshield. Even with the wipers sweeping the glass, he could see Emily mouthing,
Who is that, Dad?

Joe simply sat there on the ATV in the middle of the road with his engine idling, squinting against the snow.

Finally, Latta jammed the gearshift into park and opened his door. He left his pickup running so Emily wouldn't get cold, Joe guessed.
So he could hear better, Joe reached down and shut off the engine of his four-wheeler.

“Joe!” Latta called out. “What the hell?”

He was trying to sound naturally surprised, Joe thought. But he didn't perform very well.

“Where the hell is your truck? Why are you out on a day like this on top of an ATV? And why are you in the middle of the damned road?”

Joe said, “To stop you.”

Latta paused between the grille of his truck and Joe.

“I take it that's Emily with you.”

Emily had light brown hair parted in the middle and stylish black-framed glasses that showcased her large brown eyes. She looked guileless and quite sweet, and Joe couldn't detect her physical impairment by looking at her.

Latta said, “Yes. They canceled school this morning, so she's hanging out with me today.”

“I used to do that with my daughter Sheridan,” Joe said. “She used to ride along.”

Latta nodded, eyeing Joe carefully.

“Jim, I saw you in the sheriff's SUV last night when Smith and Critchfield put those explosives under my truck. I kept hoping you weren't involved with them up until that minute. But you're dirty, Jim, and we both know it. What I don't know is how dirty.”

Latta's face didn't flinch, but Joe could detect a quick slump of his shoulders, as if someone had let some air out of him.

“The FBI and DCI are on their way up here now,” Joe said. “They have a list of names and you're on it.”

“Jesus,” Latta said.

Then Latta reached up and unzipped his parka. He brushed the right front of his coat back so the fabric hooked behind the butt of his sidearm. His right hand hung there within inches of the Glock. Unlike Joe, who treated his handgun as an afterthought and rarely kept a round in the chamber, Latta likely adhered to protocol and would be able to draw it and fire fourteen rounds quickly without racking the slide.

Joe chinned toward Emily and said, “What are we going to do here? Have a Wild West shootout in the middle of the road? Neither one of us wants her to see this, Jim.”

Latta's expression was blank, his eyes flat. He said, “Everybody in the agency knows you can't hit shit with your weapon.”

“That's why I pack this,” Joe said, and nodded toward the exposed stock of his shotgun in the saddle scabbard. Latta's eyes followed Joe's gesture. Melted snow beaded on the varnished butt.

Joe let the silence between them take over. If Latta drew on him, he was prepared to lunge forward, pull the shotgun out, and fire while falling backward behind the ATV for cover. He wished the grille of Latta's pickup—and Emily's searching face—wasn't directly behind the game warden in case his aim was off. And he couldn't recall if he had racked a shell into the chamber previously or would have to pump in a round. He prayed silently Latta wouldn't make a desperate move.

Joe said, “She's wondering right now what's going on between us. I can see her face. You don't want to shoot at me in front of her and I don't want to have to shoot back. She's confused about what's going on.”

Latta said, “So am I, goddamnit. You might have destroyed my
life here. She thinks I'm a good man. What's going to happen to her if I end up in Rawlins? What will she think of me?”

“I understand,” Joe said. “Believe me. But you can use your head now. If you work with me, the Feds will likely take it easy on you. If you tell them what you know and cooperate, there might be a way for you and Emily to stay together. You know how these things can work.”

“Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don't.”

“It's your only chance, Jim.”

Latta said, “What you don't understand is what Templeton's men do to people they consider turncoats. Family isn't off-limits, and they'd go after Emily first.”

“Not if she's in protective custody,” Joe said. “Not if all of them are in cages.”

Latta paused and took a deep breath that shuddered out when he exhaled. He was making his decision.

Joe said, “How about I ditch the four-wheeler and you give Daisy and me a ride? We can work out terms along the way.”

“I don't want Emily knowing anything she doesn't have to,” Latta said. Then: “Jesus, I can't think of anything worse than to disappoint her. Life wouldn't be worth living if that happened.”

Joe rose from the ATV and retrieved his shotgun from the scabbard. He handled it casually so Latta wouldn't perceive a threat. Before propping it against the trunk of a tree on the side of the road, he glanced down at it. There
was
a shell in the receiver.

He turned to Latta and said, “Help me push this ATV off the road and we can get out of here.”

Latta stood for a moment, then zipped his coat and joined him.
They each placed their outside hand on the handgrips of the machine and leaned into it to roll it over the side of the switchback. It rolled quickly out of sight but made plenty of racket crashing through snow-laden trees until it came to a stop out of view.

“C'mon, Daisy,” Joe said. Then, to Latta as they walked to his pickup, “Good choice, Jim. For sure they'll check your house first. Do you have a place we can go to wait things out? A place where Critchfield and Smith and the others wouldn't think to look?”

Latta grunted. “There's a cabin on the other side of the mountain. Belongs to a guy who only lives here in the summer. I know where he keeps the keys.”

“That ought to do for now.”

Joe slung his bag into the bed of Latta's pickup, and it nestled in between the metal gear box and Emily's collapsed wheelchair.

•   •   •

I
N THE
CAB,
Latta immediately had to turn the interior fan on high to combat against the fogging windows. Joe's clothes were soaked and steaming. He fought against trembling until he warmed up. Emily sat between Latta and Joe, with Daisy crammed tight between Joe's knees on the floorboard.

After Latta said, “Emily, this is Joe Pickett. He's a game warden like me and a friend of mine,” most of Emily's attention was focused on Daisy, who licked her outstretched hand.

“Daisy is a sweet dog,” Emily said.

“She doesn't smell so good when she's wet, though,” Joe said.

“I don't mind.”

To her father, Emily asked, “Where are we going now?”

“A place I know of. We can hang out there for a while until the weather gets better.”

Emily considered the answer, then said, “Okay, I guess. I've got my homework with me. Will Daisy be with us?”

“Yeah,” Latta said.

“Okay, then.”

Joe felt relieved but cautious. He couldn't trust Latta yet, but he thought it unlikely the game warden would turn on him now with his daughter wedged between them. In a sense, Joe thought with dismay, Emily was a kind of hostage. He didn't like that at all.

•   •   •

L
ATTA ENGAGED
the four-wheel drive and turned his pickup off the highway onto a rough two-track that would take them over the mountain. Joe asked if he could borrow his phone.

Latta was suspicious but handed it over. Joe punched it on and scrolled through the record of activity, and as he did Latta understood what was going on and moaned.

“What's wrong, Dad?” Emily asked.

“Nothing,” Latta said, quickly resuming his game face.

Latta had been called by Critchfield six times the previous night—from nine p.m. until two a.m.—and four times that morning. In turn, Latta had called both Critchfield and Smith three times, and Sheriff Mead twice. Joe checked the time stamps of the activity. He was relieved Latta hadn't contacted any of them after finding Joe at the Black Forest Inn.

Joe removed the battery from the phone, pocketed it, and handed the phone back to Latta. They both knew what it meant, Joe thought.
Critchfield and Smith—or more likely the sheriff—couldn't track them using the internal GPS in the phone. And Joe couldn't trust Latta enough to run the risk of Latta placing a call.

Joe reached down and turned the power off on Latta's radio, then unscrewed the connection to the mic and let the cord dangle. No doubt if either of them tried to call dispatch, Sheriff Mead or one of his people would overhear.

“We need to go dark for a while,” Joe said. “Jim, do you have any other phones or radios on you?”

“No phones, but there's a couple of handhelds in the gear box in back.”

Joe nodded. He'd deal with them later. Then he thought of something else. The agency had recently equipped all game warden vehicles with a GPS tracking device mounted out of view under the driver's-side seat. The idea was if a warden was taken by gunpoint and forced to drive—or the truck itself was stolen—dispatch could locate the vehicle.