“That’s not necessary, Joe,” Cobb said, keeping his voice even.
“Step outside where I can see you,” Joe ordered. He did not trust Cobb not to have another weapon on him, or not to jump back and slam the door shut.
“You can’t enter a man’s house without probable cause, Joe,” Cobb cautioned.
“I’m not,” Joe said. “I’m asking you to come outside. And if you don’t do it, we’ve got a problem.”
Cobb gave a slight smile and briefly closed his eyes. His face was pink and warm from sleep, and snowflakes melted on his cheeks.
“Okay,” Cobb said opening his eyes. “My hands are up and I’m coming out. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“No promises,” Joe said, immensely relieved that Cobb was cooperating.
Cobb stepped out on the porch in his slippers. He wore the same bathrobe Joe had seen him in the day before. His hands were raised and his expression was calm, but tired. There was a hint of defeat in the way he slumped his shoulders.
“I was wondering what happened to you yesterday after we talked,” Cobb said.
“I went up to the compund,” Joe responded, a little defensively. “I was too late to find Spud. The Sovereigns had already refused him a place to hide out, and they sent him away.”
Cobb nodded. “I figured they probably wouldn’t let him in. I was conflicted about telling you too much, though. I don’t approve of what he did. I don’t even like Spud much. But I have a real problem with the way the Feds are conducting themselves. We don’t need another Gestapo.”
Joe repressed the urge to hit Cobb across the face with the butt of his shotgun.
“Goddamn you, Cobb, just put that antigovernment crap away for a few minutes,” Joe hissed. “I know about all that, and I don’t care about any of it. All that matters to me right now is my little girl. You’ve just wasted twelve hours of my time when you had a pretty good idea he was coming back here.” Joe angrily racked his shotgun, and pressed the muzzle against Cobb’s ear.
Cobb flinched away from the icy metal on his bare skin, and Joe saw his eyes bulge with fear. Joe didn’t mind that at all.
“I’ve always liked you, B.J.,” Joe said, pressing the muzzle even harder. “I’m not sure why. But if you don’t start telling me the truth, and I mean
Cobb closed his eyes briefly and Joe heard a wracking breath. He pushed the shotgun forward, so that now the side of Cobb’s head was pinned against the opposite doorjamb and his closest ear was cupped around the muzzle and misshapen.
“Okay, Joe,” Cobb said softly.
Joe felt a rush of relief mixed with a whiff of shame for what he had just done to Cobb. He eased up on the pressure he had been using.
“Is he inside?” Joe asked.
Cobb shook his head, and rubbed his ear. “He was in the church for the past few days. But I haven’t seen him since he left.”
“Then he . . .” Joe started to ask when Nate shouted from the back of the trailer.
“Joe! There he is.”
Turning, Joe looked through the heavy snowfall toward the church. A door was open, and a single shadowy form—Spud Cargill—was trying to run across an open field away from them. He had obviously been in the church when Joe and Nate arrived, huddling in the cold without a fire, and had just run out the back door behind the pulpit.
“Yes, there he is,” Cobb said with resignation. “He must have known I wouldn’t let him into my home.”
Joe looked back to Cobb. The Reverend was shaking his head sadly, still rubbing his ear, but slumping as if he had given up. There didn’t seem to be any fight in him. Joe made a quick decision that Cobb would stay put and wouldn’t be a threat, since he had, in effect, already given Spud’s location away.
Joe lowered the shotgun and jumped off the porch, turning his back to Cobb.
“Go inside and stay put,” Joe shouted over his shoulder. “You’ve got no part in this anymore.”
“Don’t hurt him,” Cobb implored. “He’s an idiot, but there’s no reason to hurt him.”
Joe said nothing. Nate met him in the yard between the trailer and the church, breathing hard from bulling his way through the deep snow. Joe crossed in front of Nate on his way to his pickup.
As Joe threw down the ramps and fired up his snowmobile, he squinted through the storm. Spud Cargill was getting far enough away that with the hard-falling snow he was little more than a shadow in the field.
“Spud Cargill, STOP!” Joe shouted. “Don’t make us come after you!”
Joe shouted several more times as he backed the machine out of the truck. Cargill didn’t respond. He was struggling through the snow, high-stepping and stumbling. Several times, he pitched forward and vanished out of sight for an instant.
Joe idled the snowmobile alongside Nate.
“I can hit him from here,” Nate said, sliding his .454 out of his shoulder holster.
“No!” Joe said. “I’m going to go get him.”
“I could blow a leg off and shut him down.”
