stuck on top of the mountain. So far, two winch-trucks had failed to make it to the top to pull it out. Joe hoped he’d see it before the heavy winter snows buried it until spring.
Joe welcomed the respite, although in the back of his mind he hated the fact that no one was patrolling his district during the height of hunting season. The agency had been roiled by the death of one of its most promising trainees.
The sheriff’s election was two days away. Mike Reed had been upgraded from critical condition but was still in the hospital. Joe had seen him while they were both there, but Reed wasn’t conscious. A nurse at the duty station said Reed would likely live, but whether he would walk again was uncertain. It all depended, she said, on future surgery that may or may not repair what she called an “incomplete spinal injury” due to damages caused by a bullet to the neck.
Joe couldn’t guess what the voters would decide. McLanahan was spinning the events at the South Fork as solving the crimes once and for all, and he modestly took credit for the raid and the outcome. An interview given to the Saddlestring Roundup by Agent Coon indicated otherwise. The stories ran side by side in the newspaper-the only edition between weekly publication and the election. The official investigation and report by County Attorney Dulcie Schalk would not be completed for weeks.
Voters were being asked either to reelect Sheriff Kyle McLanahan, hero of South Fork, or a possibly paraplegic challenger who couldn’t yet speak for himself.
But he’d cast an absentee ballot for Mike Reed.
He’d heard nothing from Nate, and hadn’t expected he would.
A dozen people emerged from the twin-prop and made their way down the aluminum staircase. Joe recognized most of them, but one in particular made his jaw drop. A dangling thread in the case would now be tied up.
Alice Thunder was in no hurry to enter the airport. She paused on the tarmac walkway and let the other passengers go around her. Joe watched as she closed her eyes, breathed in and out deeply several times, and nodded.
He met her at the door.
“You’re okay,” he said, relieved.
“Of course I’m okay,” she said, slightly offended. Then: “It’s nice to breathe clean mountain air again. I’ve had my fill of Texas and humidity for a while. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it.”
She stopped when she realized he wanted to say more, and then looked at him with her unique stoic lack of expression.
He said, “Do you have any idea what’s happened here since you left?”
“No.”
Joe filled her in. She listened quietly, and her only reaction was to shake her head when she heard about Bad Bob.
“Nobody knew where you were,” Joe said.
“Nate did,” she said. “I told him I wanted to go see the bats. I saw them every night except one.” Then: “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re okay,” Joe said.
“Of course I am.”
He helped her pull her big duffel bag off the single clattering luggage carousel.
“I can take it from here,” she said. “You better go get on that plane.”
He nodded and turned. The other passengers were lining up at security, and the TSA agents, who outnumbered them, were shooting their cuffs so they could pull on blue latex gloves.
“Joe,” she called out.
He turned.
“What about Nate?” she asked.
Joe said, “I’m not sure.”
“He’ll be back,” she said simply. “This is his place.”
“We’ll see,” Joe said. “He’s got a lot to sort out.” He thought, And a lot to answer for.
She nodded. He couldn’t tell if she agreed with him or was simply ending the conversation.
“Go see your family,” she said, and headed for the outside doors.
Joe took off his boots, removed his belt, wristwatch, jacket, and hat, fished out his phone and a ballpoint pen, and emptied his pockets of loose change and a Leatherman tool with a knife blade accessory that would soon be confiscated by one of the TSA agents.
The line moved slowly. A sixty-seven-year-old retired high school teacher had been flagged for a pat-down and asked to step aside. Already, a ruddy-faced TSA agent was eyeing his cast.
A female TSA agent with tight white curls and steel-rimmed glasses rooted through his carry-on and handed two bottles of pain pills prescribed for his recovery to a supervisor to inspect.
She reached into his bag and pulled out a hardcover book. She looked at the cover and scrunched up her face.
“What’s this?”
“The Looming Tower,” Joe said.
“What’s it about?” she asked Joe.
“This,” he said.
She glared back at him, puzzled, as if trying to make up her mind whether to be angry at him.
