Winterkill Part 21

"You can't just keep a raptor like a pet and be a true falconer," Nate said. "Falconry requires hours of patience, training, and communicating with your bird. The birds must be exercised daily and kept in top condition-to hunt well, and in case they leave. You have to think like a falcon, like a predator, but at the same time you can't dominate the bird. If you do that, you break it. If it's broken, it's ruined forever. It'll fly off for sure, and its defenses will never again be as sharp. You're imposing a death sentence on a falcon if you break it. So if you respect the bird, you'll work to keep that wild, sharp edge the bird naturally has."

Then he nodded toward a thick glove in his falconry bag.

"You want me to put that on?" Sheridan asked.

"Don't you want to hold the bird?"

"Dad, is it okay?"

Joe wasn't sure what to say. Sheridan's eyes were glowing, and Romanowski continued to smile inscrutably.

"Sure," Joe finally said.

Nate took off the hood and leveled his fist near Sheridan's gloved hand, and slightly swiveled his wrist, urging the falcon to step forward. It did, gracefully, and Sheridan's arm dipped a little from the weight of the falcon on her fist. Nate helped her wrap the jesses through her fingers and pulled them tight near the heel of her hand. It was an oddly intimate moment that made Joe squirm a little. Nate was a big man, with a soothing veneer that was somehow calming as well as magnetic. Sheridan was only eleven years old. As Joe studied the falconer, he sensed the same kind of natural, violent wildness under the surface that Nate described in his birds. Nate is a raptor, Nate is a raptor, Joe thought. Joe thought. He's a hunter and a killer, and he lives closer to the earth than anyone I've ever known. He's a hunter and a killer, and he lives closer to the earth than anyone I've ever known. In a way, Nate was terrifying. He could also be, Joe thought, a h.e.l.l of an ally. In a way, Nate was terrifying. He could also be, Joe thought, a h.e.l.l of an ally.

To Joe's chagrin, Marybeth served meat loaf. It wasn't her fault that she had played to type this way and further entertained Nate's ideal fantasy of the Picketts-happily married, picket fence, loving family, Labrador, and now Joe's chagrin, Marybeth served meat loaf. It wasn't her fault that she had played to type this way and further entertained Nate's ideal fantasy of the Picketts-happily married, picket fence, loving family, Labrador, and now meat loaf meat loaf for dinner-but that's how it looked. for dinner-but that's how it looked.

Nate smiled happily and took a double portion. He moaned almost obscenely as he ate it, which caused Joe and Marybeth to stifle smiles of their own. No one had ever loved Marybeth's meat loaf quite so much, or so obviously. Sheridan picked at her food, spending most of her time either watching Nate or looking over her shoulder at the two birds on chairs in the living room.

The telephone rang and Marybeth left the table to answer it. After a beat, she handed it to Joe.

"Please hold for Melinda Strickland," Marybeth said, mocking what the secretary had told her.

Joe winced, and excused himself. He felt Nate's eyes on his back as he took the telephone into the living room.

After a moment, Strickland came on. "Joe!" She cried, "You got one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Good work, Joe!"

"Thank you," he mumbled. He knew that both Marybeth and Nate were quietly listening at the table.

"Too bad he didn't have an accident on the way into town, though."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, too bad the guy didn't try to escape or something."

He knew what she meant, but he wanted her to actually say it. But she was too good a bureaucrat to admit anything outright.

"Is there any news on Spud Cargill?" he asked.

What she told him froze him to his spot. He found himself still standing, still holding the telephone to his ear, long after she had said goodbye and hung up. The dull pain in his stomach that had been with him for days reappeared, and once again he felt the tightening jaws of the vise.

"What's wrong?" Marybeth asked as he sat back down on the table. wrong?" Marybeth asked as he sat back down on the table.

"Joe?"

He looked up. "They still haven't found Spud. Melinda Strickland said that someone thinks they saw him in a stolen truck on the way to Battle Mountain, and McLanahan said that a truck fitting that description ran his roadblock just a couple of hours ago."

"Didn't someone also say they saw him on the football field?" Marybeth asked skeptically.

"Yes."

"So why are you acting this way?"

Joe noted that Sheridan was watching him carefully.

Nate leaned back in his chair and he spoke in almost a whisper. "What this means is that Strickland and her FBI hit team can now go after the Sovereign compound. She can say that they're harboring a fugitive suspected of murdering a federal employee."

"I was thinking this thing was going to calm down," Joe said. "But Melinda Strickland is determined to prove there's a war on. And now she's got a much better reason to start it."

Marybeth instantly understood. "She wouldn't do that, would she?" Her eyes flashed. "April..."

Joe walked Nate Romanowski to his Jeep in the dark. The sky was clear and gauzy with stars. The melting snow had frozen into a slick cold skin on the sidewalk and road. walked Nate Romanowski to his Jeep in the dark. The sky was clear and gauzy with stars. The melting snow had frozen into a slick cold skin on the sidewalk and road.

Nate perched his falcons on the top of the backseat and secured the jesses to metal swivels he had installed on the framework for the purpose. Joe watched, his breath condensing into snaky wisps, his mind twenty miles away in the deep snow of Battle Mountain.

When he had secured the birds, Nate reached under his Jeep seat and pulled out a bundle that turned out to be a shoulder holster and his ma.s.sive revolver. He looped a strap over his head and buckled it below his sternum. Another strap fit around his midsection. The curved black grip of the stainless-steel.454 Casull now offered itself to Joe.

"Why do you carry a gun like that?" Joe asked.

Nate smiled slightly. "Because I know how to use it and it's all I need. It gives me the mobility of a handgun but with more firepower and velocity. It's a Freedom Arms Model 83 with a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. A hand cannon. I did my research and went to the factory in Freedom, Wyoming and paid twenty-five hundred for it. It shoots a 300-grain bullet and it can literally shoot through a car."

Joe whistled.

"Or I could fire into the trunk and hit the driver. If three bad guys were lined up, I could put a single slug through all of them. And I could do it from three hundred yards away."

Joe had been waiting for this moment. "I suppose you could even knock out the engine of an SUV driving down U.S. Highway 87 near Great Falls, Montana."

Nate turned and leaned against his Jeep, folding his arms across his chest. His uncommonly sharp eyes bored into Joe.

"Theoretically, yes," Nate said evenly. "That could happen. Now I really owe you."

"No, you don't, I told you that."

"Do you want me to get your little girl back?"

Joe paused, and thought. He was torn. The question wasn't unantic.i.p.ated. Nate was well aware of the empty chair at the table, as they all were.

"We've got a lawyer working on it," Joe said. "That's our only recourse right now."

Nate didn't scoff, but his silence said enough.

"I worry about her, Nate. She's been abandoned once already, then taken away from her school. If you go in and grab her, she might be even more messed up. We love her too much to put her through that right now. Plus the fact that we would be facing kidnapping charges. The law isn't on our side in this."

Nate nodded. "You've thought about it."

"For days."

"Something bad is going to happen up there in that compound. I think we both know that."

Joe rubbed his eyes and sighed, and said nothing.

"Maybe something could happen to Melinda Strickland," Nate said.

Joe looked up, shocked. Nate was deadly serious. He had also crossed a line by threatening Strickland in front of Joe, who had a duty and obligation to take some kind of action. Nate knew all of this.

"Don't ever say anything like that to me again, Nate," Joe said, his voice low and hard.

Nate didn't react.

"Joe, thank you for dinner and the very nice evening. Your wife and daughter are wonderful. Sheridan is something special. I think she would make a good falconer."

Joe nodded, half-hearing Nate. His head was swimming with situations and consequences.

"I'll be available if you need me," Nate said. "Do you hear me, Joe?"

It seemed to have gotten much colder in the past two minutes, Joe thought.

"Joe?"

"I hear you."

Twenty-four.

At the same time on Battle Mountain, a convoy of vehicles had driven up the road outside the Sovereign compound. As they approached the fence, their engines rumbling, Jeannie, Clem, and April had pulled back the curtain and watched through the trailer window. Clem doused all the lights so they could see out but not be seen. time on Battle Mountain, a convoy of vehicles had driven up the road outside the Sovereign compound. As they approached the fence, their engines rumbling, Jeannie, Clem, and April had pulled back the curtain and watched through the trailer window. Clem doused all the lights so they could see out but not be seen.

There were either six or seven vehicles out there. As they came up the road, they turned toward the fence as if they were going to drive through it. But then four of the trucks stopped abreast of each other, their headlights flooding the snow between the road and the compound. The trailing vehicles parked behind the first row. Framed by the rising, glowing clouds of exhaust, the front row of trucks looked like they had risen from a cauldron. Their drivers were silhouetted: Jeannie could see Sheriff Barnum behind the wheel of his Blazer. A woman sat next to him holding a little dog in her arms. A bullhorn squawked, and someone asked for Wade Brockius.

Brockius had been outside his trailer, and he ambled toward the headlights.

"Stop where you are."

Spotlights from two of the vehicles came to life and bathed him in light.

Brockius stopped.

"This is d.i.c.k Munker of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have reason to believe that you're harboring a dangerous fugitive by the name of Spud Cargill, who is a murder suspect in an ongoing investigation. We would like your permission to conduct a thorough search of the premises."

Brockius raised his arm to block the spotlights from his eyes. His deep voice rumbled through the icy night. He didn't need a bullhorn.

"Permission denied. I don't know what you're talking about."

"We can show up with a court order tomorrow."

"That won't do you any good, Mr. Munker. There's nothing to be found. Mr. Cargill is not here. There are people here who would consider your forced intrusion to be an armed attack."

Wade Brockius paused, and lowered his arm, attempting to see the man with the bullhorn. "We know what happened at Waco, Mr. Munker. I know you were there. I remember your name. You were one of the snipers, as I recall. You were also on Ruby Ridge. You should be in federal prison, Mr. Munker."

Jeannie tried to look into the darkness around her, but her eyes were scalded by the headlights and spotlights. She knew there were armed Sovereigns behind trailers, in the brush, and in the trees. There were probably a half-dozen sets of crosshairs focused on the man with the bullhorn, and open sights trained on Sheriff Barnum.

Munker spoke through the bullhorn, although it wasn't really necessary. "All of the entrances and exits to this compound have been sealed off by deputies of the Twelve Sleep County sheriff's office and the FBI. You're trapped here, and Cargill has nowhere to run. We had planned to keep the power and telephone lines available as long as you were communicating and cooperating with us. But that doesn't appear to be what's happening."

Although Munker lowered his bullhorn to speak to someone else, his m.u.f.fled voice could be heard saying "Turn off their lights, boys."

At that moment, the electricity was cut to the compound. Lights blinked out. Heaters whirred to a stop. Refrigerators ticked to silence. Almost immediately, the cold began to seep into the trailers.

Jeannie knew that all of the trailers and campers had full propane tanks in addition to a large community tank in the middle of the compound. There were gas powered generators as well as wireless telephones and transmitters hidden under tarps in the woods. So the power outage was simply symbolic, a way of showing who held the cards.

"We've got some musical entertainment lined up for you later, Mr. Brockius. I made it myself and it's one-of-a-kind. It's also on a continuous loop."

They had all seen the speakers above the trees, Jeannie knew, and they had expected something like this to happen eventually. Wade had prepared them.

"We have children here," Brockius said.

"Then you might want to reconsider your position," Munker had said. The contempt in his voice was palpable. "If you do reconsider, call me personally. That's why we kept your telephone line up. Just dial nine-one-one and the dispatcher will track me down day or night. Otherwise, I'll be back in the morning with the court order for Spud Cargill."

"I told you he's not here."

One by one, the vehicles backed up from the line and began to leave. The last remaining car was a dark SUV containing d.i.c.k Munker and a driver.

Jeannie knew what was happening. The good people of Saddlestring, along with the Feds, were trying to kick them out. Just like they had kicked her out before. To do so, they were going to make things as miserable as possible.

Her mouth curled into a snarl. f.u.c.k them, f.u.c.k them, she hissed. she hissed.

After Munker and the trucks left, it took hours for April to calm down. She asked why they hadn't given the men in the trucks what they wanted. Munker and the trucks left, it took hours for April to calm down. She asked why they hadn't given the men in the trucks what they wanted.

Clem told April to shut up, and Jeannie backhanded him across the mouth. Clem glared at Jeannie, then went outside for a while. When he came back, he was half-drunk and docile, and April was finally sleeping.

Late that night, from inside a heavy black box under the base of a tree near Battle Mountain, there was a dull click. The click was so faint that it could not have been heard beyond a few feet away. Through the snow, two amber lights now glowed, and a digital tape began to spin. Heavy, double-insulated electrical wires crawled up from the box through the snow and were stapled fast on the trunk of the tree. A hundred feet away and twenty-four feet in the air, the two speakers crackled to life. The mountain silence yielded to a swinging back beat, tinny horns, and a young Wayne Newton singing: that night, from inside a heavy black box under the base of a tree near Battle Mountain, there was a dull click. The click was so faint that it could not have been heard beyond a few feet away. Through the snow, two amber lights now glowed, and a digital tape began to spin. Heavy, double-insulated electrical wires crawled up from the box through the snow and were stapled fast on the trunk of the tree. A hundred feet away and twenty-four feet in the air, the two speakers crackled to life. The mountain silence yielded to a swinging back beat, tinny horns, and a young Wayne Newton singing: Danke schoen, darling,Danke schoen,Thank you for walks down Lover's Lane...

Inside one of the ice-encrusted trailers within the compound, Jeannie Keeley sat bolt upright in her bed. She listened, and realized that the song was not part of her dream. She looked through the gloom toward the rear of the trailer where April slept. April's bed was of a thin fold-down design made of plywood veneer. When the girl tossed or turned, the bed creaked. It was creaking now. one of the ice-encrusted trailers within the compound, Jeannie Keeley sat bolt upright in her bed. She listened, and realized that the song was not part of her dream. She looked through the gloom toward the rear of the trailer where April slept. April's bed was of a thin fold-down design made of plywood veneer. When the girl tossed or turned, the bed creaked. It was creaking now.

The song finally ended. Within a few seconds, it started up again. The same song, "Danke Schoen," by Wayne Newton. This time the song was slightly louder than before. Clem, sleeping next to Jeannie on the double bed that they built each night by fitting the tabletop between the trailer's two bench seats, had not stirred. As the music increased in volume, April began to cry.

Jeannie was enraged. This was the first night that April had gone to sleep without crying. Since April had been back with her, Jeannie thought, there were lots of signs that she'd turned back into a baby. She had obviously been coddled. The girl cried about everything. April seemed to think that life was supposed to be easy, not tough. Jeannie knew better. April would learn. She would toughen up. She would have to, or else.

Jeannie had just about had it with the girl. There'd been times in the last few days when she wanted to drive April back to the Picketts' house and toss her out the door. It annoyed Jeannie to no end that April referred to the Pickett girls, Sheridan and Lucy, as her "sisters." Jeannie had even rehea.r.s.ed a "Here, you can have her back" speech in her mind.

But when April slept, she was lovely. When April slept, Jeannie felt some of her motherly feelings come back. When April slept, the girl's face relaxed and gentled and looked like a photo Jeannie had seen of herself when she she was nine. Which reminded Jeannie that April was was nine. Which reminded Jeannie that April was hers hers. Now, though, there was this horrible music, music that was almost pleasant at first but that now was otherworldly, awful, and gruesomely out of place.

"Why do they keep playing that song over and over again?" April asked from her bed. Her voice was tiny and rough from crying.

"'Cause they're trying to get rid of us, honey," Jeannie answered.