While Joe pulled on his uniform in the darkened bedroom, he fought the growing feeling of dread that seemed to fill his empty house. It was odd being there without Marybeth and the girls, and he questioned his decision to stay, although not the reason for it. But there were so many loose threads, so many possible scenarios…
He retrieved his weapons from his gun safe-two long rifles, his shotgun, and his holster-and went back outside to brush the snow off his green Ford Game and Fish Department pickup.
He swung out onto Bighorn Road-noting several sets of tire tracks already there-and did a mental inventory of his gear. Everything he might need was locked in the equipment boxes in the bed of his truck. Or at least he hoped so.
For the hundredth time that morning, he checked his cell phone for messages from Sheridan, Nate, Brueggemann, or Chuck Coon. Nothing.
He speed-dialed Coon, and after four rings the special agent picked up. “What now, Joe?” He sounded irritated.
“Is everything under way?” Joe asked.
“Yes, sir!” Coon said with sarcasm. “I’ve left urgent instructions in my office for them to start researching this Nemecek guy and rattling cages to find him, and I myself am in my comfortable government sedan just about to leave the city limits en route to Laramie to scare your daughter’s friend.”
“Great,” Joe said. “Thank you. Will you call me the minute you can?”
“Probably,” Coon said.
“There’s something else,” Joe said, ignoring the epic sigh from Coon’s end when he said it.
“Of course there is,” Coon said.
“I got more information last night after I talked to you. Something big is about to happen up here, I think-a major break in the case. I’ll know within a couple of hours if we’ve located the bad guy. So in the meanwhile, can you get a team together and have them ready to fly up here on your chopper? We’ll need lots of firepower.”
Coon moaned and said, “At least it’s just a small favor you’re asking.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Look,” Coon said, his voice rising, “I can’t put together a request for that kind of operation without probable cause, and you haven’t given me any. I need an official request for assistance from your sheriff or police chief. You know that, Joe. I can’t just send my jackbooted federales on raids all over the state of Wyoming.”
“I didn’t say send them,” Joe said. “I asked you to get them ready.”
“We need an official request, Joe. You know how this works.”
“Okay,” he said, frustrated. “I’ll work on that.”
The usual vehicles were parked outside in the lot of the Burg-O-Pardner, and Joe turned in beside them. This was the every-morning coffee gathering of the movers and shakers of the city and county. Discussions were off the record, and the public was never informed of what business was transacted. It had been going on since Joe first moved to the area, and he’d never been invited to coffee and wouldn’t have shown up if he was.
He strode past the line of vehicles-the chief of police’s SUV, the mayor’s Lincoln Town Car, the one-ton diesel pickup belonging to the county commissioner, and Sheriff Kyle McLanahan’s stupid old beater truck, which he tapped on as he walked past.
Inside, it was warm and close, and the small restaurant smelled of coffee, bacon, and burned toast. Five beefy faces all swung in his direction when he entered, and the conversation stopped. The sheriff had come with Deputy Sollis, who smirked at Joe with his piglike eyes.
Joe said to Sheriff McLanahan, “Got a minute?”
McLanahan looked tired and worn-out, despite the early-morning hour. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his skin seemed sallow and gray.
“I’m eating my breakfast,” McLanahan said. “Can’t you see that?”
Joe nodded. “Yup.”
“Hold your horses and I’ll be with you when I’m done,” McLanahan said, dismissing Joe and stabbing the point of a piece of toast into his egg yolk.
Joe asked no one in particular, “How many days until the election?”
McLanahan looked up, scowling. The others looked from Joe to the sheriff and back again.
After a beat, McLanahan made a show of tossing his toast down on his plate and pushing away from the table. Sollis pushed back from the table as well.
“Not you,” Joe said to him.
The deputy looked to McLanahan and was hurt when the sheriff nodded for him to sit back down.
“Just a few minutes of your valuable time,” Joe said, stepping aside so the sheriff could walk past him toward the door.
Outside, McLanahan turned around and put his hands on his hips and glared at Joe like a bull about to charge.
Joe said, “You know I support Mike Reed for your job, right?”
McLanahan nodded slightly.
“So you know it would be better for Mike if you continued to screw up all these investigations and nobody got caught or arrested, right?”
McLanahan’s face flushed and he looked like he was about to take a swing, but he growled, “Get to your point, Pickett.”
“Appreciated,” Joe said. “I need you to do three things this morning, and I mean this morning. If you do them all, we might just crack this thing and get the guy responsible for all the crimes around here. If you don’t, we can be pretty much assured of Sheriff Mike Reed and your unemployment.”
McLanahan didn’t move, but he didn’t object.
“First,” Joe said, “you need to assemble your SWAT team as fast as you can. Make sure Mike Reed is on it.”
McLanahan did a little head bob-not an overt agreement but more of an I-acknowledge-that-you-just-said-something-but-I’m-waiting-for-more gesture.
Joe said, “Do you want to get out your notebook and write these things down?”
“I think I can remember them, goddammit,” McLanahan spat.
“Okay, second, get the SWAT team over to the TeePee Motel, room 138. The target is my trainee Luke Brueggemann.”
The sheriff arched his eyebrows at the name.
“You remember him,” Joe said. “He was with me when you called me down to identify the murder victims.”
“I remember,” McLanahan said. “A young pup-a little wet behind the ears.”
“That’s him,” Joe said. “But he isn’t who he seems. You need to get him in custody and start sweating him. Find out who he’s working for. Confiscate his phone and turn it over to your best tech people to find out who he’s been calling and texting. But most important, get him behind bars for the rest of the day so he can’t warn anyone or muck anything up.”
McLanahan shook his head. “I can’t just arrest a guy and hold him without charges.”
“You forget who you’re talking to,” Joe said, and laughed. “You do it all the time. And besides, I’m sure I’ll be the one to press charges against him.”
The sheriff looked away for a moment, then back to Joe with a squint in his eyes.
“Why do we need a SWAT team to bring him in? He don’t look like much.”
“Because he’s not who he says he is, I told you that,” Joe said. “He’s got weapons and he may be highly trained. You don’t want anyone to get hurt, do you? Hit him fast and hard, and assume he’s dangerous.”
McLanahan shook his head as if he couldn’t believe how ridiculous Joe was acting.
“Plus,” Joe said, “you might need that assembled SWAT team later this morning. I think I know where our bad guy is located. Once it’s confirmed, I’ll give you the word.”
“Bullshit,” McLanahan said. “Tell me what you know.”
Joe shook his head. “Not until I’m sure.”
“Damn you, this is my county. You can’t be running your own deal here. I’ve got jurisdiction and you know it.”
Joe took a step toward McLanahan, which surprised the sheriff.
“What I know,” Joe said, nodding toward the restaurant where Sollis stood watching them from inside the window, “is you’ve surrounded yourself with thugs and idiots. That’s why I want your assurance that Reed will be on the team this morning, so there’s at least one competent officer. And make sure you tell them all to stay off the radio. Brueggemann and others are likely monitoring your frequency. He’ll know you’re coming, and we don’t want that.
“And if you send your goons out there before I pinpoint our bad guy, you could tip him off or get your goons killed. Or get my friend killed. Or get me killed.”
“Your friend?” McLanahan said, perking up. “Romanowski’s involved?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Joe said. “But if he is, I don’t want you risking his life.”
“You’re really pissing me off,” McLanahan said. “I don’t need to do anything if I don’t want to. This is my county and my investigation.”
“Understood,” Joe said. “But imagine what people will say about you if everything explodes today and you decided to sit it out. I can’t imagine that would help your reelection chances much.”
McLanahan glared at Joe and then surprised him with a long, slow grin.
“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he asked.
“Nope,” Joe said, “not at all. I just know that being sheriff is the only thing you know how to do because you’d get eaten up in the real world. You want to keep this job as if your life depended on it, which in some ways it probably does.”
The smile vanished.
“You said there were three things,” McLanahan said, his tone flat.
“That’s right. Call the FBI in Cheyenne and request assistance immediately. Tell them you might have a firefight up here and you need a federal strike team.”
McLanahan turned away and stomped his foot in the slush.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Joe said.
After a few smoldering moments, the sheriff said, “If this doesn’t all work out, I’m holding you personally responsible. You better understand that. I’ll hold a press conference and name names, and the governor and your director will hear from me.”
Joe shrugged. “If it does work out, you might have a chance of being sheriff again, as miserable as that will be for everybody.”
As McLanahan fumed, Joe walked back toward his pickup. “Keep your cell phone on and stay close to the radio,” Joe said over his shoulder. “I’ll call you as soon as I know if you need to send your goons in.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” McLanahan growled.
Joe said, “I just did.”
JOE CLICKED his radio over to the county frequency while he drove through town toward the mountains. He wanted to monitor traffic as well as he could, and hoped the arrest of Brueggemann would go down as smoothly and safely as possible. And that he wouldn’t hear a word about it until the arrest was made.
Then he called Mike Reed on his cell phone and woke Reed up.
“You’re supposed to be on a plane,” Reed said sleepily.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Joe said. “But in the meanwhile, I need to let you know what’s going on and apologize to you in advance.”
“Apologize for what?” Reed asked.
Joe sighed and told him the story. There was silence on the other end.
Finally, Reed said, “Don’t apologize, Joe. If we get the bad guys, it’s all worth it, whether I win or not. McLanahan’s still a fool, no matter what happens.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Well,” he said, “it sounds like I better get dressed and drag my butt into the office.”
HE SAW a few elk hunters road-hunting on his way up Bighorn Road. When they saw his green truck, they pulled over to be checked, but he waved and kept going.
His plan was under way, but he didn’t trust McLanahan not to figure out a way to screw it up.
He looked at his watch and guessed Marybeth and the girls would be able to see the tentlike architecture of Denver International out the window of their Beechcraft.
And he wondered where Nate Romanowski was, and hoped his friend would call. Immediately.
For the second time since he’d left the airport, he drove past his house. Unlike the last time, though, Joe noted a set of tire tracks that veered off the road in the snow near the mailbox, and large boot prints going to and from his box.
Since it was much too early for mail, Joe stopped, left his pickup running, and got out. The boot prints looked familiar, and a rush of excitement shot through him.
Joe opened the door of the mailbox and saw the glint of bronze inside. He reached in and grasped the thick, heavy cartridge between his fingers, and read the stamp on the back:. 500 wyoming express fa. The FA stood for Freedom Arms, where the revolver and the cartridge were manufactured.
He slid the cartridge in the front pocket of his Wranglers as he strode back to his pickup.
This is it, he thought.