From inside trailers, he heard shouted curses. Someone threw something heavy into a wall. If the intention of the song was to drive the Sovereigns crazy, Joe thought, it appeared to be working.
A door flew open and a man Joe didn’t recognize stood framed in the light of his propane lamp. He swung an automatic rifle up across his body and leaned into it. A furious burst of fire lit up the night. Although the man was shooting at the speakers—and hitting them, judging by the sharp pings of metal—and not toward Joe, Joe sunk to his haunches and dug for his Beretta.
Another burst shredded the speakers with holes, but did little to stop the sound.
The song ended and, after a brief pause, started up again. Only this time it was louder.
Joe heard a sudden rustle close behind him, but he was too slow, and too cold, to react. He felt a heavy blow above his ear that sent him sprawling clumsily forward, snow filling his nose and mouth.
He never actually lost consciousness, but the orange flashes that burst across his eyes and the thundering pulses of pain in his head prevented him from fighting back as he was dragged from his place in the trees into the compound.
Two men wearing oversized white fatigues and carrying scoped SKS rifles wrapped in white tape pulled him by his arms. Snow and ice jammed into his collar and into the top of his pants. One of them had taken his pistol.
Sliding easier now over the packed snow of the compound, Joe tried to twist away. They immediately let go of him, and kicked him in the ribs with their heavy winter boots.
The first kick was true, knocking the air out of him and leaving him writhing in the snow. He was suprisingly lucid, he realized. He knew what was going on around him as if he were watching it from somewhere else—he just couldn’t do much about it. It wouldn’t be that much of a surprise to him if someone pressed the cold muzzle of a shotgun to his neck and fired. Oddly, he didn’t fear it. That just seemed like part of the deal.
“Stop, I think I know him.” It was Wade Brockius. His voice was unmistakable.
Joe heard the crunching of snow from across the compound.
One of the men kicked him again, although not as effectively this time. Joe partially blocked it, and absorbed most of the blow in his forearms. “Asshole,” the man spat.
Joe rolled and blinked as Brockius shined a flashlight in his eyes.
“Yeah, I know him. He’s that game warden.”
“We caught him at the edge of camp, bobbing and weaving when Clem shot at that speaker.”
Joe suddenly realized that the music was still playing, and even louder. Still “Danke Schoen.” But here was a hideous screaming along with it.
Joe started to sit up, but the pain in his head roared back and he sank down onto an elbow, waiting for his sudden nausea to recede. He kept his free arm up, wary of more kicks. Brockius knelt and wrapped a large arm around Joe and helped him to sit upright, to Joe’s relief. Joe’s mouth was full of hot blood and melting snow. He spit a dark stream out between his knees.
“Don’t go anywhere quite yet, boys,” Brockius said to the two men.
“Do you have to listen to that every night?” Joe asked, testing his voice. It sounded shaky.
“Since last night,” Brockius said. “I think we’re going to be serenaded by Wayne Newton every night now.”
“Clem shot the hell out of those speakers,” one of the men in white said. “But it didn’t do any good.”
“We’ll cut the fucking wires,” the other said.
Brockius nodded absently, but his eyes stayed on Joe.
“Mind if I come in?” Joe asked. “It’s pretty cold out here.”
Brockius considered it, then shook his head.
“You’re the second person today who wouldn’t invite me in,” Joe said absently. “I don’t know what to think about that.”
Brockius showed a slight smile. “There are some things in my trailer I really don’t want anyone to see.”
Joe thought:
“What in the hell are you doing here?” Brockius asked.
Joe thought carefully before he spoke. The two men in white continued to crowd him. They blocked out the light where he sat.
“I wanted to see for myself if April was here and in good health.”
“She is. I already told you that.”
Joe looked up. “And I wanted to see if Spud Cargill was up here.”
Brockius cursed, and shook his head. “Why does everybody think that man is up here, goddammit!”
“Because there was a report that he was,” Joe said. “And because if he is up here, there will be . . . trouble.”
“Trouble we can handle,” one of the men in white said.
The other one chuckled at that.
“Look,” Brockius said, his voice commanding as he leaned close to Joe. Joe could smell onions on his breath. “I’m going to tell you the truth, because I don’t ever want you up here again. You could have gotten yourself killed real easily.”
