Winterkill

“Nate!”

Nate smiled slightly and shrugged. “I’ll cover you in case he’s crabby.”

“That’s a deal.”

As Joe roared by, he saw Nate out of the corner of his eye with his big pistol extended over a log, the sights, no doubt, on the back of Spud Cargill’s head.

Joe quickly closed the gap between himself and Cargill. Joe drove one-handed, his right hand on the throttle and his left holding the shotgun. The snow was thigh-deep, and Spud Cargill was flushed and sweating. His eyes were wild. He didn’t have gloves or a hat. Joe couldn’t see if Spud had a weapon or not. Joe veered around him, cutting him off, then pointed the shotgun at Cargill’s chest.

“That’s enough,” Joe said.

Cargill stopped, wheezing, his breath billowing from his nostrils like dual exhausts. Slowly, Cargill bent forward and grasped his knees in an effort to catch his breath.

“Turn around and head back.”

Cargill’s hand came up with a tiny double-barreled Derringer in it. Joe flopped back flat on his seat as the little pistol cracked and the bullet missed. Still on his back but grasping the hand grip, Joe buried the throttle with his thumb and the snowmobile howled and pounced forward. The collision with Spud Cargill smashed the plastic windshield and cracked the fiberglass hood. Joe felt Cargill’s body thump beneath the tracks as the snowmobile passed over him.

Once Joe was clear, he sat back up and circled back.

A hand pushed its way out of the tracked snow, and then a knee. Joe drove up alongside and grabbed the hand. With tremendous effort, he pulled Spud Cargill from the snow. Cargill came up with his mouth, eyes, and ears packed with snow but his hands empty of little guns. The tracks of the snowmobile had shredded the front of his coat.

It wasn’t until then that Joe realized how absolutely terrified he had been, and how instinctual and unplanned his reaction was.

While Spud coughed and sputtered, Joe reached up and grabbed Cargill’s coat collar from the back. “Miranda rights!” Joe spat, not having the time, energy, or inclination to say more at the moment. Spud started to speak, but with a firm grasp of the coat, Joe gunned the snowmobile and rode it back to the church, dragging a flailing and screaming Spud Cargill alongside. As Joe rode back, he saw that Spud’s pickup was on the side of the church, obscured from the road and covered by a tarp that was now heavy with snow.

Nate stepped away from the church as Joe rode up and let go of the coat. Cargill rolled twice in the snow, coming to rest facedown at Nate’s feet.

“Damn nice work,” Nate said, smiling.

“I thought you were going to cover me,” Joe snapped, his adrenaline still on high.

“If I’d shot, I would have hit both of you,” Nate said sourly. “You were right in my line of fire.”

Joe started to argue, then realized Nate was right.

“Anyway . . . ,” Joe said.

“You got him,” Nate said, finishing Joe’s sentence. Nate stepped forward, rolled Spud Cargill over with his boot then bent down and expertly searched Cargill from his coat to his shoes. He found a folded Buck knife in a trouser pocket and a thin thowing knife in a sheath in Spud’s boot. Nate put them both in his parka pocket.

“No more weapons.”

“He’s an idiot,” Joe said. Then, to Spud: “You have caused me and my family more pain and heartache than you can ever imagine. I’m just real happy to see you, Spud.”

“The hell you talking about?” Spud mumbled, genuinely confused. “Never went after you . . . or any of the state agencies.”

Joe didn’t have time to explain, and didn’t think Spud was owed an explanation.

They were still in the church parking lot. The three of them were wedged into the cab of Joe’s pickup with Spud in the middle between Joe and Nate.

Spud Cargill was wet and ragged, and he complained to Joe that the handcuffs were too tight. Nate responded by elbowing Spud sharply in the mouth and snapping his head back.

“Shut up,” Nate hissed. Cargill shut up. Joe glared at Nate, but said nothing.

The motor was running and the heat was on, and Joe breathed easier as he unhooked his radio mike from the cradle and called for dispatch.

There was now enough morning light to see . . . just about nothing. The snow was falling hard again, and the air was filled with nickel-sized flakes.

“Dispatch.” It was Wendy, a longtime county employee and conspiracy buff.

“This is Game Warden Joe Pickett,” he said. “Can you patch me through to Sheriff Barnum?”

“No can do.”

Joe waited for more. There wasn’t any.

“Excuse me?”

“No can do.”

“Then patch me through to anybody. It doesn’t have to be Barnum.”

“No can do.”