Winterkill (9 page)

Later, Joe joined Marybeth at the sink in their bathroom.

“So it was her for sure?” Marybeth asked, while removing her makeup in the bathroom mirror.

“Yup.”

“How awful, Joe.”

“I know.”

“That poor little girl. I feel like she’s a target, and she doesn’t even know it.”

When Marybeth had finished washing her face, she removed her clothes and slid her nightgown over her head. She walked to the bedroom, threw back the covers, and slid into bed.

Joe climbed into bed, exhausted. He could hear Christmas music playing from the radio downstairs. He arose and firmly shut the door, something they had done ever since Missy had arrived. Usually, the door was open in case any of the girls needed anything. As he walked back, Marybeth spoke.

“Joe, I know my mother gets to you, but you’re getting worse at disguising your feelings. You make this . . . face . . . like the one you just made a few minutes ago. I know she notices it.”

“I make a face?”

She nodded, and tried to imitate it.

“I look that bad?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll work on it,” he said. “Marybeth, I seem to be annoying you quite a bit lately.”

“I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t mean to needle you. It’s this thing with Jeannie Keeley. I have a very bad feeling about it. I’m on edge.”

“I understand.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said. “And come to bed. Now.”

Joe recognized her tone and was genuinely surprised. “What about that thing you have about not enjoying sex if your mother is under the same roof?”

“I need to get over that,” Marybeth said, raising her eyebrows. “She might be here awhile.”

“Aw . . .”

“Joe, get in this bed.”

He did.

C
hristmas was pleasantly
claustrophobic, and Joe and Marybeth realized that with their growing children—and the addition of just a single extra person—how small their home had become.

Joe roasted wild pheasant and grouse, while Marybeth and her mother made wild-rice casserole, mashed potatoes, fresh bread, vegetables, and pecan pie. The girls had been up early, of course, and their gifts were opened, played with, tried on, and strewn about the living room. Because of their limited finances, Marybeth budgeted throughout the year to provide a substantial Christmas for the children, and she and Joe economized on their own gift-giving. Marybeth gave Joe a new fly-fishing vest, and Joe reciprocated with two pairs of Canadian-made Watson riding gloves. Marybeth loved the gloves, which were suede, and lined with a thin layer of fleece. She said they were supple enough for reining her horses while riding, but tough enough to withstand stall-mucking and other stablework.

Missy spent most of the afternoon on the telephone in Joe’s office with the door closed, talking with her husband, and came out wiping away tears. She might be staying
awhile, she announced. Mr. Vankueren was being indicted, his assets had been frozen, and she was
quite angry
with him. Marybeth offered support, and the couch bed. Joe greeted the news with the false courage he hoped he would display one day when the doctor told him he had one month to live.

O
n
Christmas evening, after the melancholy period when the girls became quiet because the day was nearly over, Joe sat with Marybeth on the couch with his arm around her. They sipped red wine in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, enjoying a rare moment of quiet. The girls were down the hall getting ready for bed and Missy was napping.

“Joe, are you still fretting about Lamar Gardiner and Nate Romanowski?” Marybeth asked.

He started to protest, but realized she was right. “I guess,” he said. “It’s a hard one to just put away.”

She nodded, and burrowed closer to him.

“And to make things even more complicated,” Joe said, “we’ve got Jeannie Keeley back in town. And . . .”

He stopped himself.

“What?” she asked, then frowned. “Oh—my mother.”

“Not that she’s as bad as . . .”

“Hush, Joe.”

He took a drink of wine, and wished he hadn’t started down that road. Luckily, she seemed willing to let it go.

“I wish we could just stay snowed in,” Marybeth whispered. “With our family all together under our roof. Where no one, and nothing, can get us.” Her voiced trailed off.

They sat without speaking, surrounded by the soft sounds of Missy’s breathing and the internal popping of the woodstove. Joe drank the last of his wine as he thought about what Marybeth had said.

“We can’t control what’s happening,” he said softly. “All we can do is stay focused and be prepared. That means first things first: We need to find out what Jeannie Keeley’s intentions are.”

Marybeth looked up. “How?”

“I’ll ask her,” Joe said. “It may be that we’re worried over nothing.”

“God, I hope that’s the case. Did you see how happy April was today? She had a glow I’ve never seen before.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll just flat-out ask her,” he said, almost to himself. Which meant he needed to approach the ragtag group of men and women who had been at the First Alpine Church of Saddlestring on Christmas Eve.

“Are you guys okay?” It was Sheridan, standing in the doorway in her new flannel pajamas. Joe and Sheridan shared a special look. She had been through a lot, and seemed specially tuned to gauging the moods and concerns of her parents.
She’s getting older, more mature,
Joe thought. She was becoming formidable, like her mother.

“We’re fine,” Joe answered. “Go to bed, honey.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said, padding over to them for a hug and kiss.

“Merry Christmas, darling.”

T
he
next day, Joe pulled on his wool vest and parka over his red uniform shirt and drove toward the mountains. He intended to see if he could find out if Jeannie Keeley was at the camp on Battle Mountain.

Snow had been cut sharply on each side of the road, and he had the feeling of driving through a tunnel. The top reflectors of delineator posts nosed out just above the surface of the snow at the level of his pickup windows. Another storm like the last would bury the tops of the posts for the rest of the winter, and the snowplow driver would be without landmarks in finding the road to plow, and would give up on it until spring.

While his tire chains bit into the snowpacked road, and the sun beamed off of the icy glazed surface, he thought about the stories he had read in the
Roundup
over breakfast. It was the first day that the newspaper had been delivered since the storm of a week ago. The arrest of Nate Romanowski commanded the front page. A photo of Romanowski in handcuffs, his eyes fixed boldly and contemptuously on the photographer, appeared under a headline that stated
LOCAL MAN ARRESTED IN USFS SUPERVISOR MURDER
. An old photo of Lamar Gardiner, looking particularly chinless, was inserted within the text. There was also a photo of Melinda Strickland, and
she was quoted extensively throughout the article. Joe learned new information that Barnum had not passed along to him.

In addition to the compound bow found at Romanowski’s home near the river, the DCI investigators had found two Bonebuster-brand broadhead arrows in a quiver, as well as a credit-card receipt for the purchase of four. Also found in the stone house were copies of letters Romanowski had sent to Lamar Gardiner protesting the closure of specific Forest Service roads that Romanowski claimed he used for accessing falcon traps and for hunting. With the account by the rancher placing Romanowski near the scene, the apparent murder weapon, the specific arrows, and the letters providing a motive, Melinda Strickland had “strongly speculated” that justice had been served.

The additional evidence was incriminating, Joe thought, and furthered the case against Romanowski. In a way, it surprised him. The doubts that he’d had when he saw Romanowski up close still nagged at him. But Joe had thought more about it over the past few days, and a few explanations had arisen. One, Joe recognized a tendency in himself to assume morality and rationality in others because he aspired to those qualities himself. Joe knew that if he was guilty of a murder, he certainly wouldn’t be able to hide it. Hell, he’d confess to Marybeth so fast he’d leave skid marks. So Joe assumed others, even bad guys, would possess at least some of the same rationality and guilt, and that the guilt would be obvious in some way. But a person capable of the kind of cruelty that surrounded Lamar Gardiner’s murder might not be rational at all, or even feel guilt in a conventional sense. Murderers and molesters of children were beyond Joe’s comprehension, for example. And to assume that morality or guilt played a role in the mind of a molester was simply naïve. Maybe he was just as naïve about Nate Romanowski.

Two, Joe had followed his instincts before on occasions when it was later discovered that there was more to a crime than the obvious. This couldn’t be the case every time, he conceded. Years ago, Barnum had told Joe that sometimes things are exactly what they seem. In the case in question then, Barnum had turned out to be wrong. But there was truth in that statement and Joe knew he needed to recognize it.

Nate Romanowski was not an average citizen, after all. He was a loner with a mysterious past and present. He lived alone, trained hawks, and carried a huge pistol. He was feared and talked about, but no one could really say why, except for his manner. He was just someone who seemed suspect from the start.

“This is only the beginning,” Melinda Strickland was quoted near the end of the article. “The antigovernment movement that resulted in Lamar Gardiner’s tragic murder still exists. Mr. Romanowski was merely a soldier. Our investigation, and my task force, will continue.”

Joe had been troubled by that, just as he had been troubled when she first brought up the prospect to him. Unless he had been stubbornly oblivious—a possibility, he conceded—he could not see the “antigovernment” threat she seemed so sure of. Certainly, there were hunters, loggers, cattlemen, and now, apparently,
outlaw falconers,
who objected to some forest-service policies. But the opposition wasn’t violent, or even organized, as far as Joe Pickett could tell. He wondered if Melinda Strickland headed up a federal task force in search of a task. And he wondered how long she would remain in Twelve Sleep County.

T
he first thing
Joe saw as he approached the Battle Mountain campground were the strands of barbed wire strung through the timber and stapled into the trunks of trees. There were several signs, two of them nailed over the top of the ubiquitous dark-brown Forest Service signs identifying the campground. Hand-painted in crude block letters. They read:

THE NATION OF
THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN SOVEREIGN CITIZENS
.
ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED
.

The Sovereign Citizens, or “Sovereigns” as they called themselves, had literally taken over the old Forest Service campground. Their trailers, RVs, and pop-up campers occupied all of the camping spaces. Trails tramped down in the snow wound from unit to unit and clothing and equipment hung from ropes strung between trees. Crossbeams had been roped up to hang garbage, and possibly wild game, Joe surmised. In the center of the compound, tipi poles had been lashed together, but no canvas or hide had been attached yet. To Joe, the Sovereign Citizen Compound looked like a
twenty-first-century version of a Plains Indian winter camp. The road into the compound was blocked by a barbed-wire gate with orange ribbons tied to it for visibility.

Joe stopped in front of the gate, and stayed in his pickup while it idled. He decided not to enter unless invited in.

Two men wearing insulated coveralls who had been working on the tipi poles stopped what they were doing and stared at Joe. One of them raised a single-bladed axe and let it rest on his shoulder. The other walked to the nearest and biggest travel trailer and loudly knocked on the side of it with his knuckles.

There were only two Sovereigns visible, but Joe had no doubt that there were others watching him. Although the camp was cleared except for a few large trees, the forest walls on both sides were thick and dark, with trails from the compound leading into it.

Joe considered backing up and driving away, now that he had seen the camp. Judging by the lack of tire tracks in the snow, he was their first visitor since the plow had come through. His heart whumped in his chest. As usual, he had no backup, and Marybeth was the only person who knew where he was. But with the two men still staring, and his goal incomplete, he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and slowly opened his door. His boots squeaked as they hit the snow-packed road. Although the compound seemed deserted, Joe noted the hiss of propane tanks feeding the trailers and curls of steam and smoke rising from chimney pipes. And there was a cooking smell—of meat, but—something sweeter than roasting beef or chicken. Wild game was being prepared—pronghorn antelope, or elk.

Joe was about to ask the two men where the leader of the camp was, but the distinctive metal-on-metal sound of a slide being racked on a shotgun stopped him.

“You need some help, mister?”

Joe turned toward the sound and the voice. Someone stood behind a bulwark of downed green timber and piled snow. He saw the dull glint of metal between two evergreen branches, and guessed he was looking into the opening of a barrel. He could not see the man who spoke.

“Game Warden Joe Pickett,” he said. “Please put the weapon away.” His voice sounded steadier than he thought it would.

The barrel withdrew from the timber, but the man behind it said nothing.

Joe turned back toward the compound and watched as a door opened on the trailer the tipi worker had knocked on. The large man who emerged was the same one Joe had seen in the church—the man Sheridan had guessed was the leader.

Slowly, the man walked down the slope toward the gate, his outline bearlike, with wide, slumped shoulders, a massive head, and a fleshy mouth framed by pouchy jowls. Joe guessed his height at six-foot-five, his weight at least 290. Joe noted in his peripheral vision that a few curtains had been inched back and blinds raised in some of the campers. He tried not to think about how many weapons might be pointed at him. He knew that if the situation suddenly deteriorated and he was forced to fumble through his coat for his handgun—the shotgunner in the trees, and perhaps dozens of others, would have the time to fire.

Clamping on a floppy brown felt hat, the man approached the barbed-wire gate. He didn’t open it, or invite Joe in, but extended a gloved hand through the strands.

“Wade Brockius,” the man said. Brockius read Joe’s name badge. “How can I be of service, Mr. Pickett?” Joe shook Brockius’s hand, and tried to mask his own trepidation, although he guessed that he failed at that.

Wade Brockius had a profoundly deep gravel voice with a hint of a southern accent, and soft, soulful eyes.

“I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions,” Joe said. He could hear the
tick-tick-tick
of the radiator cooling from the grille of his pickup directly behind him.

Brockius smiled slightly. “Is it about the elk we found in the field?”

“That’s one of the questions.”

“We harvested them,” Brockius declared. “They provided enough food for our entire group for months to come. I don’t think we broke any laws doing it.”

“No, you didn’t.” Joe shook his head. “Actually, I’m glad
the meat didn’t go to waste out in the meadow.”

Brockius nodded, studying Joe and waiting for what would come next.

“How did you know about them?” Joe asked, watching Brockius carefully.

“Our advance team heard the shots,” Brockius answered easily, without hesitation. “Five of our party were up here holding the campground until we got there. They heard a bunch of shooting way up there on the mountain and after the rest of us had arrived, they took some snowmobiles out to see what had happened. That’s when they found the dead elk.”

Joe nodded. He saw no holes in that.

“Did your people see or hear anyone else up there in that meadow?”

Brockius shook his head. “It was the next morning when they went up there,” he said. “There’s no way they could have gone up that night in that storm.”

That was the first day I was snowed in,
Joe thought. The time line made sense. He changed the subject.

“You know, of course, that you’re in a national forest.”

“Yes, we’re aware of that.”

“So you know there’s a limit to the number of nights you can camp?”

Brockius’s eyes narrowed, and the softness Joe had noted earlier hardened. “Are you an agent of the Forest Service as well?”

“Nope,” Joe said quickly. “Not at all.”

“Good,” Brockius responded. “Because I really don’t want to have an argument about this with you. As far as we can tell, this is a
public
campground in a
national
forest. By definition, that means that the forest is owned by the citizens of the United States. We own this, as do all American citizens. So I’m pleased to hear that you’re not asking us to leave our forest.”

Joe tensed. “There are others . . . Forest Service officials . . . who may want to make an issue of it, though. Stringing that barbed wire is an invitation for trouble.”

Wade Brockius started to speak, then sighed deeply.

“The Forest Service are servants of the people, are they not?” Brockius didn’t so much ask as state it. “They work for
us. They are our employees, I believe.
I
didn’t elect them, did you? So who are they to tell me where I can set up a camp in a place owned and operated by the people?”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Joe said. In fact, he wasn’t sure he could make an argument with much effectiveness. “I just wanted to pass that along.”

“Noted,” Brockius said, his features softening once again.

“Do you know anything about the murder of Lamar Gardiner, the Forest Service supervisor here?” Joe asked suddenly, hoping to startle Brockius into revealing something.

“No, I do not,” Brockius answered with gravity. “I heard about it on Christmas Eve. It’s unfortunate. And I assume he was the man who shot all the elk in the meadow.”

“Yes he was. Do you know a man named Nate Romanowski?”

“Never heard of him,” Brockius said.

There was a beat of silence, and Joe heard the shotgunner shift his position behind the timber.

“Do you plan to stay here long?”

Brockius looked heavenward, then his deep eyes settled on Joe. “I honestly don’t know. We might, we might not. In many ways, this seems like a good place to settle in for a while. It feels like the end of the road, the end of our journey. You see, we’ve been traveling, and I’m very, very tired.”

Joe’s face obviously betrayed his confusion.

“There are about thirty of us,” Brockius said. “From all over the country. We’ve found each other, and are bound together through mutual tragedies and experiences. Nearly all of us are the last of our kind, the survivors of places and situations that are just incredibly sad.”

Brockius turned and pointed to a pop-up camper at the south of the compound. Joe noted the Idaho
FAMOUS POTATOES
license plate. “Ruby Ridge,” Brockius said. “They were there when the FBI snipers shot the dog, the boy, and the woman as she stood at her door holding her baby. If you’ll recall, no one on the federal side was ever prosecuted for that. Only the survivors.” He pointed toward a camper on a pickup with Montana plates. “Jordan,” he said. “The last of the Montana Freemen, only recently released from prison. They lost their liberty, their land, their prospects, everything. No one on
the federal side was prosecuted for that, either.”

Joe felt an icy shiver crawl up his spine as Brockius spoke.
How can this be happening, right here, right now?
he thought. Brockius could be putting him on. Joe hoped like hell he was.

“Waco,” Brockius intoned, motioning toward a fifth-wheel trailer with a Texas plate parked next to his. “They lost their two young sons in the fire. No arrests were made of the officers or politicians who were there.”

Brockius turned to Joe. His voice was still soft, but it suggested steel wrapped in velvet: “We see this place as our refuge, at least for a while. We pose no threat to anyone. We’re beaten down and unbelievably tired. We’ve been wronged, but we just want to be left alone, and we intend to leave others alone. We need this place to rest.”

Joe found himself staring back at Brockius. Oddly, he believed the man.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Pickett.” Brockius thrust his hand through the fence again. “I think I’ve talked too much. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

Joe reached out, but felt weak.

“One more question.”

Brockius sighed again. His expression was pained.

“Is a woman named Jeannie Keeley with you? And is she intending to contact the little girl she left in Saddlestring?”

“I understand it’s her daughter,” Brockius said.

“And mine,” Joe said, his voice hard and low. “My wife and I are her foster parents. Jeannie Keeley abandoned April when Jeannie cleared out of Saddlestring five years ago. My wife and I are attempting to adopt her.”

“Oh,” Brockius said. “This is personal, then. And complicated.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, it is.” Brockius looked apologetic. “I hope you understand that I have no control over the Sovereigns. They’re here on their own free will, and can come and go as they please. They have their own business and personal interests. And if one of them is involved in legal action for custody of her daughter, that is no concern of mine or any of the others.”

“Custody?” Joe repeated. His heart sank.

“She’s not in camp right now,” Brockius said, shaking his
woolly head. “I’m not sure when she’ll be back. But I’ll tell her you were here.”

Joe thanked Wade Brockius and watched as the big man trudged back toward his trailer.

Joe heard his own heartbeat in his ears. He had been hit with two hard blows within a few minutes. The explanation of who these people were. And the news that Jeannie had come back for April.

H
eading
back down Bighorn Road, Joe was grateful for the walls of snow on either side of the road, because without them he’d be likely to drive right off it.

Was it really possible that the survivors, criminals, accessories, sympathizers, and victims of several of America’s worst events had grouped together and decided to set up a compound in
his
mountains? Or that one of them, Jeannie Keeley, was there to take April back?

It was too much, too fast. Then his cell phone rang.

“This is Nate Romanowski,” the voice said. Romanowski spoke with a kind of drawled sarcastic lilt. “I’ve got one phone call and I’m calling you, buddy. Can you meet with me?”

“Why aren’t you calling a lawyer?” Joe asked, stunned.

“Because I’m calling you,” Romanowski said, sounding annoyed. “Because I thought about it for two days and
I’m calling you,
mister.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“It sure is,” Romanowski agreed. Joe assumed Romanowski was referring to the case against him. “I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Clear your . . .”

But Romanowski had hung up.

A
few minutes later, his phone rang again.