“Joe?”
“I hear you.”
Twenty-four
At the same time on Battle Mountain, a convoy of vehicles had driven up the road outside the Sovereign compound. As they approached the fence, their engines rumbling, Jeannie, Clem, and April had pulled back the curtain and watched through the trailer window. Clem doused all the lights so they could see out but not be seen.
There were either six or seven vehicles out there. As they came up the road, they turned toward the fence as if they were going to drive through it. But then four of the trucks stopped abreast of each other, their headlights flooding the snow between the road and the compound. The trailing vehicles parked behind the first row. Framed by the rising, glowing clouds of exhaust, the front row of trucks looked like they had risen from a cauldron. Their drivers were silhouetted: Jeannie could see Sheriff Barnum behind the wheel of his Blazer. A woman sat next to him holding a little dog in her arms. A bullhorn squawked, and someone asked for Wade Brockius.
Brockius had been outside his trailer, and he ambled toward the headlights.
“Stop where you are.”
Spotlights from two of the vehicles came to life and bathed him in light.
Brockius stopped.
“This is Dick Munker of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have reason to believe that you’re harboring a dangerous fugitive by the name of Spud Cargill, who is a murder suspect in an ongoing investigation. We would like your permission to conduct a thorough search of the premises.”
Brockius raised his arm to block the spotlights from his eyes. His deep voice rumbled through the icy night. He didn’t need a bullhorn.
“Permission denied. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We can show up with a court order tomorrow.”
“That won’t do you any good, Mr. Munker. There’s nothing to be found. Mr. Cargill is not here. There are people here who would consider your forced intrusion to be an armed attack.”
Wade Brockius paused, and lowered his arm, attempting to see the man with the bullhorn. “We know what happened at Waco, Mr. Munker. I know you were there. I remember your name. You were one of the snipers, as I recall. You were also on Ruby Ridge. You should be in federal prison, Mr. Munker.”
Jeannie tried to look into the darkness around her, but her eyes were scalded by the headlights and spotlights. She knew there were armed Sovereigns behind trailers, in the brush, and in the trees. There were probably a half- dozen sets of crosshairs focused on the man with the bullhorn, and open sights trained on Sheriff Barnum.
Munker spoke through the bullhorn, although it wasn’t really necessary. “All of the entrances and exits to this compound have been sealed off by deputies of the Twelve Sleep County sheriff’s office and the FBI. You’re trapped here, and Cargill has nowhere to run. We had planned to keep the power and telephone lines available as long as you were communicating and cooperating with us. But that doesn’t appear to be what’s happening.”
Although Munker lowered his bullhorn to speak to someone else, his muffled voice could be heard saying “Turn off their lights, boys.”
At that moment, the electricity was cut to the compound. Lights blinked out. Heaters whirred to a stop. Refrigerators ticked to silence. Almost immediately, the cold began to seep into the trailers.
Jeannie knew that all of the trailers and campers had full propane tanks in addition to a large community tank in the middle of the compound. There were gas powered generators as well as wireless telephones and transmitters hidden under tarps in the woods. So the power outage was simply symbolic, a way of showing who held the cards.
“We’ve got some musical entertainment lined up for you later, Mr. Brockius. I made it myself and it’s one-of-a- kind. It’s also on a continuous loop.”
They had all seen the speakers above the trees, Jeannie knew, and they had expected something like this to happen eventually. Wade had prepared them.
“We have children here,” Brockius said.
“Then you might want to reconsider your position,” Munker had said. The contempt in his voice was palpable. “If you do reconsider, call me personally. That’s why we kept your telephone line up. Just dial nine-one-one and the dispatcher will track me down day or night. Otherwise, I’ll be back in the morning with the court order for Spud Cargill.”
“I told you he’s not here.”
One by one, the vehicles backed up from the line and began to leave. The last remaining car was a dark SUV containing Dick Munker and a driver.
Jeannie knew what was happening. The good people of Saddlestring, along with the Feds, were trying to kick them out. Just like they had kicked her out before. To do so, they were going to make things as miserable as possible.
Her mouth curled into a snarl.
After Munker and the trucks left, it took hours for April to calm down. She asked why they hadn’t given the men in the trucks what they wanted.
Clem told April to shut up, and Jeannie backhanded him across the mouth. Clem glared at Jeannie, then went outside for a while. When he came back, he was half-drunk and docile, and April was finally sleeping.
Late that night, from inside a heavy black box under the base of a tree near Battle Mountain, there was a dull click. The click was so faint that it could not have been heard beyond a few feet away. Through the snow, two amber lights now glowed, and a digital tape began to spin. Heavy, double-insulated electrical wires crawled up from the box through the snow and were stapled fast on the trunk of the tree. A hundred feet away and twenty-four feet in the air, the two speakers crackled to life. The mountain silence yielded to a swinging back beat, tinny horns, and a young Wayne Newton singing:
