35
Joe’s hand was trembling when he returned McLanahan’s call. Even before the sheriff answered, he wished he could reach through his phone and throttle him.
“Yeah?” McLanahan answered.
Joe took a deep breath and tried to keep his anger in check. “Sheriff,” Joe said, “I just talked to the FBI. They said you haven’t called for their help.”
There was a beat of silence, then: “Dang it, that plumb slipped my mind.”
“How could it slip your mind? Tell me how it could slip your mind? Tell me how that could happen?”
“Whoa, there,” McLanahan said, annoyed. “Change your tone or I’m hanging up. I’m up to my ass in alligators right now and I don’t have time for your attitude.”
Joe closed his eyes.
“You heard the bad news, right?” McLanahan asked.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“What happened, sheriff?” Joe finally asked.
“We had an incident this morning.”
Joe’s left hand was balled up into a fist, and his nails were cutting into the palm of his hand just to keep from shouting.
“And what would that be?” Joe asked.
“I sent Mike Reed and Deputy Sollis over to roust your trainee, just like you asked. But the son-of-a-bitch came out shooting. Sollis was killed in the line of duty, and Reed’s in critical condition in the hospital. Doctors say it’s touch-and-go at this point.”
“What?”
“This Luke Brueggemann character-your trainee-got away. We issued an APB for him, and as soon as I get you off the phone I’m calling the Feds for help.”
“I told you to send a SWAT team,” Joe said, struck dumb by the turn of events. Mike Reed in critical condition?
“I don’t like being told what to do, pardner,” McLanahan said.
“Is Mike going to make it?”
“Shot in the neck and the shoulder, from what we know. Might have paralyzed him. But those doctors, they can do all kinds of miracles these days.”
“You are such an idiot,” Joe said. “You sent those men to their death.” Thinking: He sent his opponent.
“Whoa, there, buckaroo. There’s no call for that kind of talk.”
“I asked you to do three things,” Joe said, shouting into the phone, “ Three things. You agreed. And you couldn’t even do the first thing right.”
“This call is over,” McLanahan said, feigning outrage, but it came across to Joe like naked fear.
“When I get down from here, you and I are going to have it out.”
McLanahan didn’t respond.
“Where was he last seen?” Joe shouted.
“Who?”
“Luke Brueggemann, you idiot!”
“Headed west in his pickup,” McLanahan said.
“Toward the mountains?” Joe asked, looking up through the windshield, remembering where he was again.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” McLanahan said. “But he should be easy to find in that Guts and Feathers rig you boys drive.” And with that he terminated the call.
Joe had to throw his shoulder against the driver’s-side door to open it against the snow. It took four tries before there was enough space for him to crawl out. Strong icy wind blew into the vacant cab.
In the equipment box in the bed of his pickup, he pulled out his cold-weather gear. It didn’t seem like it’d been that long since he’d packed it, he thought. He sat on the bed wall and kicked off his cowboy boots and pulled on thermal knee-high Bogs. His hooded Carhartt parka cut the chilling wind, and he was grateful he’d left a pair of gloves in the pockets.
He filled a daypack with binoculars, his spotting scope, the handheld radio, a GPS unit, digital camera, Maglite, coiled rope, a hunting knife, and boxes of ammunition. It was heavy when he cinched it down on his back and climbed down into the snow.
He checked the cartridges in his scoped. 270 Winchester and slung it over his shoulder, and loaded his twelve-gauge with five three-inch shells: two magnum slugs on each end and three double-ought magnum buckshots in between. A handful of extra twelve-gauge shells went into his right coat pocket along with a crumpled bandanna to keep them from rattling when he walked.
It was tough getting the door shut because snow had drifted in, but when he heard the click he turned and started trudging for the gravel bank.
Joe was breathing hard by the time he reached it, and he wiped melted snow and perspiration from his face with his sleeve. The gravel bank was on the edge of the summit, and from where he stood he could look down into the steep timbered valley below. The pitch was such that he couldn’t quite see the valley floor or any of the camps established along the branch of the river.
Before picking his way through the loose scree on the other side of the mountain toward the timber below, he looked up and caught a tiny series of sun glints twenty-five miles in the distance. Saddlestring, he thought, where Sheriff Kyle McLanahan preened and made incompetent decisions and poor Mike Reed fought for his life.
The old miner’s cabin had been built into the mountain slope itself on a spit of level ground twenty yards from the start of the timber. Whoever built it had burrowed back into the rocky ground to hollow out a single room and had fashioned eaves and a corrugated tin roof, now discolored, that extended out of the mountainside. It looked out on the valley floor and Joe caught a glimpse of a bend of the river far below as he approached the cabin from above. He could see why Richie had chosen the shelter of the cabin to look for elk. It was protected from the wind that howled over the summit and afforded unimpeded views of several meadows where wildlife likely would graze.
As he approached the cabin from the back, Joe thumbed the safety off his shotgun and tucked the stock under his arm. He tried to stay quiet and not dislodge small rocks from the scree that might tumble downhill, clicking along with the sound of pool balls striking one another.
When he was close enough to see the entire side of the small structure, he dropped to his haunches and simply listened. There was no sign of life from the old log shelter, and two of the four small panes of glass from the side window were broken out. In the rocks near the closed front door were dozens of filtered cigarette butts. Richie, Joe thought, must be a smoker. But what had he seen from this perch that spooked him off the mountain?
“Hello!” Joe shouted. “Anybody home?”
Silence from the cabin. But below in the trees, squirrels chattered to one another in their unique form of telegraph-pole gossip. They’d soon all know he was there, he thought.
He called out again, louder. If someone was inside, perhaps he’d see an eye looking out from one of the broken panes. But there was no movement.
For the first time, he noted a rough trail that emerged from the line of timber to the front door of the cabin. The trail was scarred on top, meaning it had been used recently. Maybe Richie had seen someone coming up on it? But why would that scare him?
Joe stood and slipped along the side wall of the cabin until he was underneath the window. He pressed his ear against a rough log and closed his eyes, trying to detect sounds of any movement inside. It was still.
He popped up quickly to the window and then dropped back down. No reaction, and all he’d seen inside was a shaft of light from a hole in the roof cutting through the gloom, illuminating what looked like three stout black logs on the packed-dirt floor.
Stout black logs?
The heavy front door wasn’t bolted, and it moaned as it swung inward on old leather hinges. Joe stood to the
