Winterkill

“The game warden is here,” Cobb called over his shoulder. “He’s got questions about Spud.”

That silenced Mrs. Cobb, and she did not reply. Cobb turned back.

“Yes, Spud was a member of the congregation. He faithfully attended church about two times a year, three in good years. He wasn’t exactly a deacon in our church. You know, Mr. Pickett, I already answered these questions for the sheriff.”

Joe nodded. “Did the sheriff ask you if you knew where Spud might hide out?”

“Of course he did.”

“And your answer was . . .”

“My answer was that it was none of his damned business.”

Joe grunted and looked away. What a storm, he thought.

“You know that Spud murdered a man.”

Cobb chuckled. “You mean Elmer Fedd?”

“Lamar Gardiner,” Joe corrected, his voice flat.

“So I’ve heard,” Cobb said, while finding the ties to his robe and making a loose knot. “Now, Mr. Pickett, I don’t mean to be obtuse. I admire your tenacity, and I’ve heard you are an honest man. That’s rare. But I have strong feelings about state interference in people’s lives. It’s not my obligation to help out the state. It’s the state’s obligation to provide services for me, the taxpayer and citizen. I object to the kind of power the federal agencies wield here.”

“Still doesn’t mean Lamar Gardiner should have been murdered,” Joe said.

Cobb considered that. “You’re probably right.”

“And you know what?” Joe asked, shaking the snow off his coat. He raised his head and fixed his eyes on Cobb’s. “I’m not really here to debate this question with you, Mr. Cobb. I don’t really care all that much about Spud Cargill, either, if you want to know the truth. I’m here because I’ve got a little girl up there in that compound who might get hurt if the FBI and the Forest Service people have their way and raid it because they think he’s there. So if I can find out where Spud is—or isn’t—I might be able to help my little girl.”

Cobb’s expression changed. There was now a hint of confusion, as if he were weighing a dilemma. He searched Joe’s face, then returned to his eyes.

“I didn’t know that,” Cobb said softly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Joe said. “We don’t think the same way, you and me. But in this case, I want to stop the Feds as much as you do. Just for a different reason.”

Cobb seemed to be considering something.

“Honey . . .” Mrs. Cobb said softly from inside. “I’m sorry, but I’m freezing.”

Cobb started to speak, then stopped. Then he set his mouth hard and rubbed his buzz-cut hair with the palm of his hand.

“Is he up there, Mr. Cobb?” Joe asked.

Cobb stepped back and felt for the handle of the door. Is he going to shut it in my face? Joe wondered.

“You are a man of God,” Joe said. “Convince Spud to turn himself in.”

“I am and he won’t.”

Joe tried to hide his elation. This meant that Cobb was—or had been—in contact with Spud Cargill. It also meant that Cobb could be arrested for assisting a fugitive. Both men knew that.

“It’s called sanctuary, Mr. Pickett,” Cobb said. “Spud believes in it. So do I. And I can’t help you any further.”

“So he’s here,” Joe said softly.

Cobb shook his head. “He was here. But he’s not anymore.”

Before Cobb closed the door and Joe heard a lock snap shut, Cobb raised his eyes and looked over Joe’s shoulder in the direction of the mountains.

The road to Nate Romanowski’s cabin was almost impenetrable, even though Joe had put chains on his tires before trying it. Four times, he got stuck. What should have taken an hour had taken three. It was midafternoon, although he couldn’t tell that by the sun or the sky. It was just as dark, and the snow was coming down just as hard, as it had been all day.

Joe had tried to call ahead but got a message that Nate’s phone was out of service. He remembered belatedly that the telephone had been damaged during the search of the cabin, that pieces of it had been scattered across the kitchen counter. He cursed while he dug under the front axle with a shovel to clear the packed snow that had once again stopped him. He hated to waste the time it took to dig himself out. Every hour that went by was an hour closer to the assembling of Munker and Strickland’s assault team in town.

Joe’s plan, formed as he left Cobb’s trailer, was to ask Nate if he would go up to the compound with him. Joe had learned through experience that backup in volatile situations was essential. Not having backup at Savage Run had nearly killed him, and it had resulted in the deaths of others. He had vowed never to approach a predicament like that again without help. And Nate and his big gun might provide help.

Finally, Joe was able to rock the pickup and break through the snowbank and over the rise to the river.

Nate’s cabin was dark and socked in, and his Jeep was gone. The complete absence of tracks suggested that Nate had been gone for at least a day.

Joe cursed again and thumped the truck seat with his hand. Pulling the evidence notebook from his pocket, he