flanked them. Ballistics reports couldn’t positively identify the huge slugs that had disabled the Sno-Cats because the bullets were damaged beyond recognition. Joe realized that only two people could have positively identified Nate Romanowski as the shooter—Dick Munker and himself.
Joe told state and federal investigators everything he knew about the incident that day and the buildup to it, with the exceptions of Nate Romanowski’s identity and the conversation Joe had had with Romanowski as Dick Munker lay dying. He knew that his account was at odds with those of other witnesses, namely Melinda Strickland, Sheriff Barnum, Elle Broxton- Howard, and a half-dozen deputies. Joe was the only witness to claim that Munker’s “warning shot” damaged the propane pipe, or that Munker had manufactured the hostage situation on the fly when told that Spud Cargill was in custody. According to the others, the warning shot had been exactly that, as far as they knew. No one else claimed to have seen a severed copper gas line or heard escaping propane gas. Joe didn’t think the members of the assault team were lying—after all, they had been bundled up and wearing helmets that blocked sound, and none of them had been as close as Joe was on the road to the trailer and the severed pipe. The heat of the fire had damaged the pipe that Joe claimed was severed, literally melting it into the snow so Joe had no way to prove his allegations. Despite this, he hoped that his account would not be dismissed.
Several of the investigators asked Joe pointedly, and with obvious skepticism, if he wasn’t too far away to see with certainty what had happened when Munker fired. They also speculated aloud that perhaps his personal interest in the entire event—and his obvious animosity toward Dick Munker and Melinda Strickland—had colored his interpretation. The working theory reached by DCI and the FBI was that the trailer burned from the accidental or intentional ignition of materials within the trailer itself.
One of the FBI investigators, a small man named Wendt, told Joe in confidence that he believed him. He also told Joe that his account would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove. Wendt said he was afraid that the internal investigation would be written from the point of view that Munker was a hero who had died in the line of duty. However it went, he said, Joe would also be commended for his attempt to save Munker’s life.
Joe didn’t hold out much hope, but part of him wanted to believe that further investigation would somehow corroborate his version and justice would be done. He hoped that a deputy or other member of the assault team would confirm his account, or at least parts of it. Someone, he thought,
For Joe and Marybeth Pickett, the two months following the death of April went by in a kind of bitter, dreamy fog. Joe relived the two days leading up to the deaths over and over, picking apart his feverish moves and decisions. He deeply regretted not pressing Cobb further when he’d first gone to his house, and not questioning Cobb’s reference to “sanctuary” that day. Cobb had misled him, but Joe had allowed himself to be misled. Because he hadn’t understood what Cobb was hinting at, he had gone on an errant trail and wasted almost sixteen hours when he could have intercepted Spud coming down the mountain. It gnawed at him.
Many nights, he didn’t sleep more than a few hours at a stretch. Several times, when he couldn’t sleep, he would wander downstairs to his office and rewrite his letter of resignation. He had once sealed it and stamped it— only to retrieve it from his OUT basket the next morning. He had also written—but not submitted—a request to be reassigned to another district. The thought of sharing Twelve Sleep Valley with Melinda Strickland was loathsome.
Marybeth was mercurial, her moods swinging from pure anger to a resigned depression that was new, and disturbing, to Joe. On the nights when Marybeth locked herself in the bedroom, Joe cooked dinner for his girls and told them that their mother wasn’t feeling well. Sheridan had stared him down on that one, and had known without asking that he was using illness as an excuse.
Once, late at night, as Joe printed out the latest version of his resignation letter, he heard sounds from down the hallway. Marybeth had led Sheridan and Lucy into Joe and Marybeth’s bedroom to sleep, and was shuffling things in the children’s bedroom with a vengeance. When Joe found her, she was in the process of removing every last sign of April. She had bagged all of April’s clothes, school papers, and toys, and was now stripping the bed. He watched with sadness as she scrubbed down the walls near April’s bed, as if to remove any physical evidence of April having been there.
“I haven’t cleaned her sheets since she left,” Marybeth told him, her eyes strangely alert. “I don’t know why I haven’t done that. But I need to wash them and put them away now.”
Joe had watched her, not knowing what to do. When Marybeth finally paused long enough to cry, he held her.
“I’ve never hated a woman as much as I hate her,” Marybeth said. Joe knew she meant Melinda Strickland.
Joe had never seen her so angry, or so bitter.
“She’ll go to jail. The investigation will prove that,” Joe assured Marybeth, stroking her hair and hoping that somehow he was right. “It won’t bring April back, but at least Melinda Strickland will pay.”
Marybeth leaned her head back and met his eyes. “She never even sent a note. Think about that, Joe. Think how cold her heart is.”
Joe just nodded, knowing there was nothing to say.
On the way home from the last basketball practice of the season, Sheridan sat quietly in the cab of the pickup, absently patting Maxine’s head. Joe, driving, cast wary glances at the sky that filled the top half of his windshield. Thunderheads were moving in. It looked like snow.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mom going to be okay?”
Joe paused. “She’s going to be all right. It takes a while.”
“I miss April, too.”
“So do I, honey.”
“I know we’re not going to get April back,” Sheridan said. “But I do want my mom back.”
Joe reached over and put his hand on Sheridan’s shoulder. Her hair was still damp from practice.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
Joe nodded.
“Are you and Mom mad at me for not watching April closer that day in school? For letting Jeannie Keeley take
