Winterkill

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